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Updated: May 21, 2025
Putting all thought of Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer, out of her mind, Xanthippe went to the temple of Aphrodite, and was wed to Socrates.
I'm told that he netted over $500,000 last year; and of course he had to advertise to get it, and this Xanthippe woman goes out of her way to get in a nasty little fling at one of my mainstays for his matrimonial propensities." "Failing utterly to see," said I, "that, in marrying so many times, Henry really paid a compliment to her sex which is without parallel in royal circles."
"But you spoke contemptuously of the Sunday newspapers awhile ago, Mrs. Socrates," said I. "I know that," said Xanthippe, "but I've fixed that. I get out the Sunday edition on Saturdays." "Oh I see. And you like it?" I queried. "First rate," she replied. "I'm in love with the work. I almost wish poor old Bos had been sentenced for ten years.
It is a poor saying, that the world is to become void of spiritual sincerity, because Xanthippe has a turn for respectable theology. One or two words should perhaps be said in this place as to conformity to common religious belief in the education of children.
She had, it was asserted, given her husband no peace by day or by night till he had got over his scruples. In letters, fables, songs, dialogues without number, her powers of seduction and intimidation were malignantly extolled. She was Xanthippe pouring water on the head of Socrates. She was Dalilah shearing Samson. She was Eve forcing the forbidden fruit into Adam's mouth.
Xanthippe, you may take Ophelia and Madame Récamier, and ten other ladies, and, every morning before breakfast, swab the larboard deck. Cassandra, Tuesdays you will devote to polishing the brasses in the dining-room, and the balance of your time I wish you to expend in dusting the bric-a-brac. Dido, you always were strong at building fires. I'll make you chief stoker.
The world had not stood still since Socrates had requested some one to take Xanthippe home, lest he be burdened by her sympathy in his last moments. Pains were taken that the Roman girl of wealth should have special tutors. "Pompeius Saturninus recently read me some letters," writes Pliny to one of his correspondents, "which he insisted had been written by his wife.
"I don't wish to offend you," I said, "but I rather like to keep the two separate. Aren't you man enough yet to see the value of variety?" But there was no answer. The lady had gone. It was evident that she considered me unworthy of further attention. After my interview with Xanthippe, I hesitated to approach the type-writer for a week or two.
The sad fact remains that I could prepare a thousand delicacies for these pirates without fatal results." "You mean immediately fatal, do you not?" suggested Xanthippe. "I could myself prepare a cake which would in time reduce our captors to a state of absolute dependence, but of course the effect is not immediate."
Yet, what else could we expect of this man Xenophon? The only other thing he ever did was to conduct a retreat from a Persian battle-field. And now began the trials of Xanthippe, the wife of the literary man. Ay, it was not long ere the young wife discovered that, of all husbands in the world, the literary husband was the hardest to get along with.
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