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Authors: Steven Pressfield
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nurse’s walk. “What shall these maidens say when they reach the age of reason? ‘There go our daddy’s by-blows, aren’t they handsome?’ ”
I made some remark that sought to make light of it.
“Is there nothing you and your generation cannot find to mock?”
My aunt regarded me with resignation and rue.
“Perhaps your father named you more aptly than I gave him credit for. Tell the truth: you enjoy war. They are congenial to you, the stink of the cookfire and the tramp of comrades at your side. Your grandfather was like that. I admire it on you; it is manly. But war is a young man’s sport. And none, not even you, may maintain that state forever.”
She made the offering and served my plate.
“We must find you a bride.”
I laughed.
“You’ll catch something from those whores.”
At last her handsome face lit with a smile. I clasped her to me, this noble dame who had ever been my benefactor and champion. When my embrace at last released her, I beheld on her face no longer mirth but sorrow.
“What shall become of us, Pommo?”
This cry wrenched from her, heartsore, with my name unwontedly colloquialized.
“What has become of our family? What will become of you?”
My aunt began to weep.
“This war will be the end of all that was fair and gentle.”
Then turning as if in conformity to some impulse of heaven, she seized both my hands in hers and pressed them with a vigor remarkable in one so frail.
“You must survive it, my boy. Swear to me by Demeter and Kore. One among us must endure!”
From the street could be heard the rude cry of some ruffian, no longer that of one passing through as a drayman or teamster, but one who dwelt here, below, and called this once-noble lane his own.
“Pledge this, my child. Give me your oath!”
I swore it, the way you do to a dotty old lady, never thinking of this promise more.
VII
A SIGNIFICANT SILENCE
It was this lady Daphne
[Grandfather resumed his narration]
who arranged the marriage of her great-nephew Polemides to the maiden Phoebe.
You may find it queer, my grandson, when I relate that our client, throughout all recounting of the events of his life, not once made mention of his bride by name. In fact, save a solitary confession toward the terminus of his tale, he cited her existence only thrice, and that indirectly. Did this indicate a want of affection? On the contrary, I find this omission extremely significant, indicative in fact of precisely the opposite. Let me explain.
In those days, more so even than today, a man made reference to his spouse rarely. The greatest glory of a woman was modesty and reserve; the less said of her, for good or ill, the better. A wife’s place was within chambers, her role the rearing of children and the management of the household.
A boy raised in that period, particularly one as Polemides, schooled beneath the stern aegis of the Lacedaemonians, was taught primarily to endure. The virtues were those of men; beauty, men’s beauty. Remark the sculpture of that era. Only in recent seasons has the female form—and that only of goddesses—come to rival the male in currency of bronze and stone. A youth of that era was schooled to idealize the form of other men, not in a manner prurient or lascivious, but as a model of emulation. To behold in marble the peerless physiques of Achilles and Leonidas, to admire like perfection in one’s comrades or elders, fired the youth to forge his own flesh in the image of that ideal, to embody inwardly the virtues such perfection of externals implied.
The spell cast over his contemporaries by Alcibiades derived in no small part, in my opinion, from this impetus. His beauty was remarked, for those of noble mind, as an intimation of some loftier perfection inhering within. Why else would the gods have made him look like that? Another of our master’s disciples was the poet Aristocles, called Plato. His Theory of
I made some remark that sought to make light of it.
“Is there nothing you and your generation cannot find to mock?”
My aunt regarded me with resignation and rue.
“Perhaps your father named you more aptly than I gave him credit for. Tell the truth: you enjoy war. They are congenial to you, the stink of the cookfire and the tramp of comrades at your side. Your grandfather was like that. I admire it on you; it is manly. But war is a young man’s sport. And none, not even you, may maintain that state forever.”
She made the offering and served my plate.
“We must find you a bride.”
I laughed.
“You’ll catch something from those whores.”
At last her handsome face lit with a smile. I clasped her to me, this noble dame who had ever been my benefactor and champion. When my embrace at last released her, I beheld on her face no longer mirth but sorrow.
“What shall become of us, Pommo?”
This cry wrenched from her, heartsore, with my name unwontedly colloquialized.
“What has become of our family? What will become of you?”
My aunt began to weep.
“This war will be the end of all that was fair and gentle.”
Then turning as if in conformity to some impulse of heaven, she seized both my hands in hers and pressed them with a vigor remarkable in one so frail.
“You must survive it, my boy. Swear to me by Demeter and Kore. One among us must endure!”
From the street could be heard the rude cry of some ruffian, no longer that of one passing through as a drayman or teamster, but one who dwelt here, below, and called this once-noble lane his own.
“Pledge this, my child. Give me your oath!”
I swore it, the way you do to a dotty old lady, never thinking of this promise more.
VII
A SIGNIFICANT SILENCE
It was this lady Daphne
[Grandfather resumed his narration]
who arranged the marriage of her great-nephew Polemides to the maiden Phoebe.
You may find it queer, my grandson, when I relate that our client, throughout all recounting of the events of his life, not once made mention of his bride by name. In fact, save a solitary confession toward the terminus of his tale, he cited her existence only thrice, and that indirectly. Did this indicate a want of affection? On the contrary, I find this omission extremely significant, indicative in fact of precisely the opposite. Let me explain.
In those days, more so even than today, a man made reference to his spouse rarely. The greatest glory of a woman was modesty and reserve; the less said of her, for good or ill, the better. A wife’s place was within chambers, her role the rearing of children and the management of the household.
A boy raised in that period, particularly one as Polemides, schooled beneath the stern aegis of the Lacedaemonians, was taught primarily to endure. The virtues were those of men; beauty, men’s beauty. Remark the sculpture of that era. Only in recent seasons has the female form—and that only of goddesses—come to rival the male in currency of bronze and stone. A youth of that era was schooled to idealize the form of other men, not in a manner prurient or lascivious, but as a model of emulation. To behold in marble the peerless physiques of Achilles and Leonidas, to admire like perfection in one’s comrades or elders, fired the youth to forge his own flesh in the image of that ideal, to embody inwardly the virtues such perfection of externals implied.
The spell cast over his contemporaries by Alcibiades derived in no small part, in my opinion, from this impetus. His beauty was remarked, for those of noble mind, as an intimation of some loftier perfection inhering within. Why else would the gods have made him look like that? Another of our master’s disciples was the poet Aristocles, called Plato. His Theory of
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