DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD
I
Diogenes. Pollux
Diog. Pollux, I have a commission for you; next time you go up—and I
think it is your turn for earth to-morrow—if you come across Menippus
the Cynic—you will find him about the Craneum at Corinth, or in the
Lyceum, laughing at the philosophers' disputes—well, give him this
message:—Menippus, Diogenes advises you, if mortal subjects for
laughter begin to pall, to come down below, and find much richer
material; where you are now, there is always a dash of uncertainty in
it; the question will always intrude—who can be quite sure about the
hereafter? Here, you can have your laugh out in security, like me; it
is the best of sport to see millionaires, governors, despots, now mean
and insignificant; you can only tell them by their lamentations, and
the spiritless despondency which is the legacy of better days. Tell him
this, and mention that he had better stuff his wallet with plenty of
lupines, and any un-considered trifles he can snap up in the way of
pauper doles [Footnote: In the Greek, 'a Hecate's repast lying at a
street corner.' 'Rich men used to make offerings to Hecate on the 30th
of every month as Goddess of roads at street corners; and these
offerings were at once pounced upon by the poor, or, as here, the
Cynics.' Jacobitz.] or lustral eggs. [Footnote: 'Eggs were often used
as purificatory offerings and set out in front of the house purified.'
Id.]
Pol. I will tell him, Diogenes. But give me some idea of his
appearance.
Diog. Old, bald, with a cloak that allows him plenty of light and
ventilation, and is patched all colours of the rainbow; always
laughing, and usually gibing at pretentious philosophers.
Pol. Ah, I cannot mistake him now.
Diog. May I give you another message to those same philosophers?
Pol. Oh, I don't mind; go on.
Diog. Charge them generally to give up playing the fool, quarrelling
over metaphysics, tricking each other with horn and crocodile puzzles
[Footnote: See Puzzles in Notes.] and teaching people to waste wit on
such absurdities.
Pol. Oh, but if I say anything against their wisdom, they will call
me an ignorant blockhead.
Diog. Then tell them from me to go to the devil.
Pol. Very well; rely upon me.
Diog. And then, my most obliging of Polluxes, there is this for the
rich:—O vain fools, why hoard gold? why all these pains over interest
sums and the adding of hundred to hundred, when you must shortly come
to us with nothing beyond the dead-penny?
Pol. They shall have their message too.
Diog. Ah, and a word to the handsome and strong; Megillus of Corinth,
and Damoxenus the wrestler will do. Inform them that auburn locks, eyes
bright or black, rosy cheeks, are as little in fashion here as tense
muscles or mighty shoulders; man and man are as like as two peas, tell
them, when it comes to bare skull and no beauty.
Pol. That is to the handsome and strong; yes, I can manage that.
Diog. Yes, my Spartan, and here is for the poor. There are a great
many of them, very sorry for themselves and resentful of their
helplessness. Tell them to dry their tears and cease their cries;
explain to them that here one man is as good as another, and they will
find those who were rich on earth no better than themselves. As for
your Spartans, you will not mind scolding them, from me, upon their
present degeneracy?
Pol. No, no, Diogenes; leave Sparta alone; that is going too far;
your other commissions I will execute.
Diog. Oh, well, let them off, if you care about it; but tell all the
others what I said.
H.
II
Before Pluto: Croesus, Midas, and Sardanapalus v. Menippus
Cr. Pluto, we can stand this snarling Cynic no longer in our
neighbourhood; either you must transfer him to other quarters, or we
are going to migrate.
Pl. Why, what harm does he do to your ghostly community?
Cr. Midas here, and Sardanapalus and I, can never get in a good cry
over the old days of gold and luxury and treasure, but he must be
laughing at us, and calling us rude names; 'slaves' and 'garbage,' he
says we are. And then he sings; and that throws us out.—In short, he is
a nuisance.
Pl. Menippus, what's this I hear?
Me. All perfectly true, Pluto. I detest these abject rascals! Not
content with having lived the abominable lives they did, they keep on
talking about it now they are dead, and harping on the good old days. I
take a positive pleasure in annoying them.
Pl. Yes, but you mustn't. They have had terrible losses; they feel it
deeply.
Me. Pluto! you are not going to lend your countenance to these
whimpering fools?
Pl. It isn't that: but I won't have you quarrelling.
Me. Well, you scum of your respective nations, let there be no
misunderstanding; I am going on just the same. Wherever you are, there
shall I be also; worrying, jeering, singing you down.
Cr. Presumption!
Me. Not a bit of it. Yours was the presumption, when you expected men
to fall down before you, when you trampled on men's liberty, and forgot
there was such a thing as death. Now comes the weeping and gnashing of
teeth: for all is lost!
Cr. Lost! Ah God! My treasure-heaps—
Mid. My gold—
Sar. My little comforts—
Me. That's right: stick to it! You do the whining, and I'll chime in
with a string of GNOTHI-SAUTONS, best of accompaniments.
F.
III
Menippus. Amphilochus. Trophonius
Me. Now I wonder how it is that you two dead men have been honoured
with temples and taken for prophets; those silly mortals imagine you
are Gods.
Amp. How can we help it, if they are fools enough to have such
fancies about the dead?
Me. Ah, they would never have had them, though, if you had not been
charlatans in your lifetime, and pretended to know the future and be
able to foretell it to your clients.
Tro. Well, Menippus, Amphilochus can take his own line, if he likes;
as for me, I am a Hero, and do give oracles to any one who comes
down to me. It is pretty clear you were never at Lebadea, or you would
not be so incredulous.
Me. What do you mean? I must go to Lebadea, swaddle myself up in
absurd linen, take a cake in my hand, and crawl through a narrow
passage into a cave, before I could tell that you are a dead man, with
nothing but knavery to differentiate you from the rest of us? Now, on
your seer-ship, what is a Hero? I am sure I don't know.
Tro. He is half God, and half man.
Me. So what is neither man (as you imply) nor God, is both at once?
Well, at present what has become of your diviner half?
Tro. He gives oracles in Boeotia.
Me. What you may mean is quite beyond me; the one thing I know for
certain is that you are dead—the whole of you.
H.
IV
Hermes. Charon
Her. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will
prevent any unpleasantness later on.
Ch. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight.
Her. One anchor, to your order, five shillings.
Ch. That is a lot of money.
Her. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap,
fourpence.
Ch. Five and four; put that down.
Her. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; ten-pence.
Ch. Down with it.
Her. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the
lot.
Ch. They were worth the money.
Her. That's all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay
it?
Ch. I can't just now, Hermes; we shall have a war or a plague
presently, and then the passengers will come shoaling in, and I shall
be able to make a little by jobbing the fares.
Her. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray
for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid?
Ch. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just
now, as you see, owing to the peace.
Her. That is just as well, though it does keep me waiting for my
money. After all, though, Charon, in old days men were men; you
remember the state they used to come down in,—all blood and wounds
generally. Nowadays, a man is poisoned by his slave or his wife; or
gets dropsy from overfeeding; a pale, spiritless lot, nothing like the
men of old. Most of them seem to meet their end in some plot that has
money for its object.
Ch. Ah; money is in great request.
Her. Yes; you can't blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment.
F.
V
Pluto. Hermes
Pl. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no
children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?
Her. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?
Pl. Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer,
please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me
down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest
of them.
Her. It would seem so strange, wouldn't it?
Pl. On the contrary, it would be ideal justice. What business have
they to pray for his death, or pretend to his money? they are no
relations. The most abominable thing about it is that they vary these
prayers with every public attention; when he is ill, every one knows
what they are after, and yet they vow offerings if he recovers; talk of
versatility! So let him be immortal, and bring them away before him
with their mouths still open for the fruit that never drops.
Her. Well, they are rascals, and it would be a comic ending. He
leads them a pretty life too, on hope gruel; he always looks more dead
than alive, but he is tougher than a young man. They have divided up
the inheritance among them, and feed on imaginary bliss.
Pl. Just so; now he is to throw off his years like Iolaus, and
rejuvenate, while they in the middle of their hopes find themselves
here with their dream-wealth left behind them. Nothing like making the
punishment fit the crime.
Her. Say no more, Pluto; I will fetch you them one after another;
seven of them, is it?
Pl. Down with them; and he shall change from an old man to a blooming
youth, and attend their funerals.
H.
VI
Terpsion. Pluto
Ter. Now is this fair, Pluto,—that I should die at the age of thirty,
and that old Thucritus go on living past ninety?
Pl. Nothing could be fairer. Thucritus lives and is in no hurry for
his neighbours to die; whereas you always had some design against him;
you were waiting to step into his shoes.
Ter. Well, an old man like that is past getting any enjoyment out of
his money; he ought to die, and make room for younger men.
Pl. This is a novel principle: the man who can no longer derive
pleasure from his money is to die!—Fate and Nature have ordered it
otherwise.
Ter. Then they have ordered it wrongly. There ought to be a proper
sequence according to seniority. Things are turned upside down, if an
old man is to go on living with only three teeth in his head, half
blind, tottering about with a pair of slaves on each side to hold him
up, drivelling and rheumy-eyed, having no joy of life, a living tomb,
the derision of his juniors,—and young men are to die in the prime of
their strength and beauty. 'Tis contrary to nature. At any rate the
young men have a right to know when the old are going to die, so that
they may not throw away their attentions on them for nothing, as is
sometimes the case. The present arrangement is a putting of the cart
before the horse.
Pl. There is a great deal more sound sense in it than you suppose,
Terpsion. Besides, what right have you young fellows got to be prying
after other men's goods, and thrusting yourselves upon your childless
elders? You look rather foolish, when you get buried first; it tickles
people immensely; the more fervent your prayers for the death of your
aged friend, the greater is the general exultation when you precede
him. It has become quite a profession lately, this amorous devotion to
old men and women,—childless, of course; children destroy the illusion.
By the way though, some of the beloved objects see through your dirty
motives well enough by now; they have children, but they pretend to
hate them, and so have lovers all the same. When their wills come to be
read, their faithful bodyguard is not included: nature asserts itself,
the children get their rights, and the lovers realize, with gnashings
of teeth, that they have been taken in.
Ter. Too true! The luxuries that Thucritus has enjoyed at my expense!
He always looked as if he were at the point of death. I never went to
see him, but he would groan and squeak like a chicken barely out of the
shell: I considered that he might step into his coffin at any moment,
and heaped gift upon gift, for fear of being outdone in generosity by
my rivals; I passed anxious, sleepless nights, reckoning and arranging
all; 'twas this, the sleeplessness and the anxiety, that brought me to
my death. And he swallows my bait whole, and attends my funeral
chuckling.
Pl. Well done, Thucritus! Long may you live to enjoy your wealth,—and
your joke at the youngsters' expense; many a toady may you send hither
before your own time comes!
Ter. Now I think of it, it would be a satisfaction if Charoeades
were to die before him.
Pl. Charoeades! My dear Terpsion, Phido, Melanthus,—every one of them
will be here before Thucritus,—all victims of this same anxiety!
Ter. That is as it should be. Hold on, Thucritus!
F.
VII
Zenophantus. Callidemides
Ze. Ah, Callidemides, and how did you come by your end? As for me,
I was free of Dinias's table, and there died of a surfeit; but that is
stale news; you were there, of course.
Cal. Yes, I was. Now there was an element of surprise about my
fate. I suppose you know that old Ptoeodorus?
Ze. The rich man with no children, to whom you gave most of your
company?
Cal. That is the man; he had promised to leave me his heir, and I
used to show my appreciation. However, it went on such a time; Tithonus
was a juvenile to him; so I found a short cut to my property. I bought
a potion, and agreed with the butler that next time his master called
for wine (he is a pretty stiff drinker) he should have this ready in a
cup and present it; and I was pledged to reward the man with his
freedom.
Ze. And what happened? this is interesting.
Cal. When we came from bath, the young fellow had two cups ready, one
with the poison for Ptoeodorus, and the other for me; but by some
blunder he handed me the poisoned cup, and Ptoeodorus the plain; and
behold, before he had done drinking, there was I sprawling on the
ground, a vicarious corpse! Why are you laughing so, Zenophantus? I am
your friend; such mirth is unseemly.
Ze. Well, it was such a humorous exit. And how did the old man
behave?
Cal. He was dreadfully distressed for the moment; then he saw, I
suppose, and laughed as much as you over the butler's trick.
Ze. Ah, short cuts are no better for you than for other people, you
see; the high road would have been safer, if not quite so quick.
H.
VIII
Cnemon. Damnippus
Cne. Why, 'tis the proverb fulfilled! The fawn hath taken the lion.
Dam. What's the matter, Cnemon?
Cne. The matter! I have been fooled, miserably fooled. I have passed
over all whom I should have liked to make my heirs, and left my money
to the wrong man.
Dam. How was that?
Cne. I had been speculating on the death of Hermolaus, the
millionaire. He had no children, and my attentions had been well
received by him. I thought it would be a good idea to let him know that
I had made my will in his favour, on the chance of its exciting his
emulation.
Dam. Yes; and Hermolaus?
Cne. What his will was, I don't know. I died suddenly,—the roof
came down about my ears; and now Hermolaus is my heir. The pike has
swallowed hook and bait.
Dam. And your anglership into the bargain. The pit that you digged
for other….
Cue. That's about the truth of the matter, confound it.
F.
IX
Simylus. Polystratus
Si. So here you are at last, Polystratus; you must be something very
like a centenarian.
Pol. Ninety-eight.
Si. And what sort of a life have you had of it, these thirty years?
you were about seventy when I died.
Pol. Delightful, though you may find it hard to believe.
Si. It is surprising that you could have any joy of your life—old,
weak, and childless, moreover.
Pol. In the first place, I could do just what I liked; there were
still plenty of handsome boys and dainty women; perfumes were sweet,
wine kept its bouquet, Sicilian feasts were nothing to mine.
Si. This is a change, to be sure; you were very economical in my
day.
Pol. Ah, but, my simple friend, these good things were presents—came
in streams. From dawn my doors were thronged with visitors, and in the
day it was a procession of the fairest gifts of earth.
Si. Why, you must have seized the crown after my death.
Pol. Oh no, it was only that I inspired a number of tender passions.
Si. Tender passions, indeed! what, you, an old man with hardly a
tooth left in your head!
Pol. Certainly; the first of our townsmen were in love with me. Such
as you see me, old, bald, blear-eyed, rheumy, they delighted to do me
honour; happy was the man on whom my glance rested a moment.
Si. Well, then, you had some adventure like Phaon's, when he rowed
Aphrodite across from Chios; your God granted your prayer and made you
young and fair and lovely again.
Pol. No, no; I was as you see me, and I was the object of all desire.
Si. Oh, I give it up.
Pol. Why, I should have thought you knew the violent passion for old
men who have plenty of money and no children.
Si. Ah, now I comprehend your beauty, old fellow; it was the Golden
Aphrodite bestowed it.
Pol. I assure you, Simylus, I had a good deal of satisfaction out of
my lovers; they idolized me, almost. Often I would be coy and shut some
of them out. Such rivalries! such jealous emulations!
Si. And how did you dispose of your fortune in the end?
Pol. I gave each an express promise to make him my heir; he believed,
and treated me to more attentions than ever; meanwhile I had another
genuine will, which was the one I left, with a message to them all to
go hang.
Si. Who was the heir by this one? one of your relations, I suppose.
Pol. Not likely; it was a handsome young Phrygian I had lately
bought.
Si. Age?
Pol. About twenty.
Si. Ah, I can guess his office.
Pol. Well, you know, he deserved the inheritance much better than
they did; he was a barbarian and a rascal; but by this time he has the
best of society at his beck. So he inherited; and now he is one of the
aristocracy; his smooth chin and his foreign accent are no bars to his
being called nobler than Codrus, handsomer than Nireus, wiser than
Odysseus.
Si. Well, I don't mind; let him be Emperor of Greece, if he likes,
so long as he keeps the property away from that other crew.
H.
X
Charon. Hermes. Various Shades
Ch. I'll tell you how things stand. Our craft, as you see, is small,
and leaky, and three-parts rotten; a single lurch, and she will capsize
without more ado. And here are all you passengers, each with his
luggage. If you come on board like that, I am afraid you may have cause
to repent it; especially those who have not learnt to swim.
Her. Then how are we to make a trip of it?
Ch. I'll tell you. They must leave all this nonsense behind them on
shore, and come aboard in their skins. As it is, there will be no room
to spare. And in future, Hermes, mind you admit no one till he has
cleared himself of encumbrances, as I say. Stand by the gangway, and
keep an eye on them, and make them strip before you let them pass.
Her. Very good. Well, Number One, who are you?
Men. Menippus. Here are my wallet and staff; overboard with them. I
had the sense not to bring my cloak.
Her. Pass on, Menippus; you're a good fellow; you shall have the seat
of honour, up by the pilot, where you can see every one.—Here is a
handsome person; who is he?
Char. Charmoleos of Megara; the irresistible, whose kiss was worth a
thousand pounds.
Her. That beauty must come off,—lips, kisses, and all; the flowing
locks, the blushing cheeks, the skin entire. That's right. Now we're in
better trim;—you may pass on.—And who is the stunning gentleman in the
purple and the diadem?
Lam. I am Lampichus, tyrant of Gela.
Her. And what is all this splendour doing here, Lampichus?
Lam. How! would you have a tyrant come hither stripped?
Her. A tyrant! That would be too much to expect. But with a shade we
must insist. Off with these things.
Lam. There, then: away goes my wealth.
Her. Pomp must go too, and pride; we shall be overfreighted else.
Lam. At least let me keep my diadem and robes.
Her. No, no; off they come!
Lam. Well? That is all, as you see for yourself.
Her. There is something more yet: cruelty, folly, insolence, hatred.
Lam. There then: I am bare.
Her. Pass on.—And who may you be, my bulky friend?
Dam. Damasias the athlete.
Her. To be sure; many is the time I have seen you in the gymnasium.
Dam. You have. Well, I have peeled; let me pass.
Her. Peeled! my dear sir, what, with all this fleshy encumbrance?
Come, off with it; we should go to the bottom if you put one foot
aboard. And those crowns, those victories, remove them.
Dam. There; no mistake about it this time; I am as light as any shade
among them.
Her. That's more the kind of thing. On with you.—Crato, you can take
off that wealth and luxury and effeminacy; and we can't have that
funeral pomp here, nor those ancestral glories either; down with your
rank and reputation, and any votes of thanks or inscriptions you have
about you; and you need not tell us what size your tomb was; remarks of
that kind come heavy.
Cra. Well, if I must, I must; there's no help for it.
Her. Hullo! in full armour? What does this mean? and why this trophy?
A General. I am a great conqueror; a valiant warrior; my country's
pride.
Her. The trophy may stop behind; we are at peace; there is no demand
for arms.—Whom have we here? whose is this knitted brow, this flowing
beard? 'Tis some reverend sage, if outside goes for anything; he
mutters; he is wrapped in meditation.
Men. That's a philosopher, Hermes; and an impudent quack not the
bargain. Have him out of that cloak; you will find something to amuse
you underneath it.
Her. Off with your clothes first; and then we will see to the rest.
My goodness, what a bundle: quackery, ignorance, quarrelsomeness,
vainglory; idle questionings, prickly arguments, intricate conceptions;
humbug and gammon and wishy-washy hair-splittings without end; and
hullo! why here's avarice, and self-indulgence, and impudence! luxury,
effeminacy and peevishness!—Yes, I see them all; you need not try to
hide them. Away with falsehood and swagger and superciliousness; why,
the three-decker is not built that would hold you with all this
luggage.
A Philosopher. I resign them all, since such is your bidding.
Men. Have his beard off too, Hermes; only look what a ponderous bush
of a thing! There's a good five pounds' weight there.
Her. Yes; the beard must go.
Phil. And who shall shave me?
Her. Menippus here shall take it off with the carpenter's axe; the
gangway will serve for a block.
Men. Oh, can't I have a saw, Hermes? It would be much better fun.
Her. The axe must serve.—Shrewdly chopped!—Why, you look more like a
man and less like a goat already.
Men. A little off the eyebrows?
Her. Why, certainly; he has trained them up all over his forehead,
for reasons best known to himself.—Worm! what, snivelling? afraid of
death? Oh, get on board with you.
Men. He has still got the biggest thumper of all under his arm.
Her. What's that?
Men. Flattery; many is the good turn that has done him.
Phil. Oh, all right, Menippus; suppose you leave your independence
behind you, and your plain—speaking, and your indifference, and your
high spirit, and your jests!—No one else here has a jest about him.
Her. Don't you, Menippus! you stick to them; useful commodities,
these, on shipboard; light and handy.—You rhetorician there, with your
verbosities and your barbarisms, your antitheses and balances and
periods, off with the whole pack of them.
Rhet. Away they go.
Her. All's ready. Loose the cable, and pull in the gangway; haul up
the anchor; spread all sail; and, pilot, look to your helm. Good luck
to our voyage!—What are you all whining about, you fools? You
philosopher, late of the beard,—you're as bad as any of them.
Phil. Ah, Hermes: I had thought that the soul was immortal.
Men. He lies: that is not the cause of his distress.
Her. What is it, then?
Men. He knows that he will never have a good dinner again; never
sneak about at night with his cloak over his head, going the round of
the brothels; never spend his mornings in fooling boys out of their
money, under the pretext of teaching them wisdom.
Phil. And pray are you content to be dead?
Men. It may be presumed so, as I sought death of my own accord.—By
the way, I surely heard a noise, as if people were shouting on the
earth?
Her. You did; and from more than one quarter.—There are people
running in a body to the Town-hall, exulting over the death of
Lampichus; the women have got hold of his wife; his infant children
fare no better,—the boys are giving them handsome pelting. Then again
you hear the applause that greets the orator Diophantus, as he
pronounces the funeral oration of our friend Crato. Ah yes, and that's
Damasias's mother, with her women, striking up a dirge. No one has tear
for you, Menippus; your remains are left in peace. Privileged person!
Men. Wait a bit: before long you will hear the mournful howl of dogs,
and the beating of crows' wings, as they gather to perform my funeral
rites.
Her. I like your spirit.—However, here we are in port. Away with you
all to the judgement-seat; it is straight ahead. The ferryman and I
must go back for a fresh load.
Men. Good voyage to you, Hermes.—Let us be getting on; what are you
all waiting for? We have got to face the judge, sooner or later; and by
all accounts his sentences are no joke; wheels, rocks, vultures are
mentioned. Every detail of our lives will now come to light!
F.
XI
Crates. Diogenes
Cra. Did you know Moerichus of Corinth, Diogenes? A shipowner,
rolling in money, with a cousin called Aristeas, nearly as rich. He had
a Homeric quotation:—Wilt thou heave me? shall I heave thee?
[Footnote: Homer, Il. xxiii. 724. When Ajax and Odysseus have wrestled
for some time without either's producing any impression, and the
spectators are getting tired of it, the former proposes a change in
tactics. "Let us hoist—try you with me or I with you." The idea
evidently is that each in turn is to offer only a passive resistance,
and let his adversary try to fling him thus.' Leaf.]
Diog. What was the point of it?
Cra. Why, the cousins were of equal age, expected to succeed to each
other's wealth, and behaved accordingly. They published their wills,
each naming the other sole heir in case of his own prior decease. So it
stood in black and white, and they vied with each other in showing that
deference which the relation demands. All the prophets, astrologers,
and Chaldean dream-interpreters alike, and Apollo himself for that
matter, held different views at different times about the winner; the
thousands seemed to incline now to Aristeas's side, now to Moerichus's.
Diog. And how did it end? I am quite curious.
Cra. They both died on the same day, and the properties passed to
Eunomius and Thrasycles, two relations who had never had a presentiment
of it. They had been crossing from Sicyon to Cirrha, when they were
taken aback by a squall from the north-west, and capsized in
mid-channel.
Diog. Cleverly done. Now, when we were alive, we never had such
designs on one another. I never prayed for Antisthenes's death, with a
view to inheriting his staff—though it was an extremely serviceable
one, which he had cut himself from a wild olive; and I do not credit
you, Crates, with ever having had an eye to my succession; it included
the tub, and a wallet with two pints of lupines in it.
Cra. Why, no; these things were superfluities to me—and to yourself,
indeed. The real necessities you inherited from Antisthenes, and I from
you; and in those necessities was more grandeur and majesty than in the
Persian Empire.
Diog. You allude to—-
Cra. Wisdom, independence, truth, frankness, freedom.
Diog. To be sure; now I think of it, I did inherit all this from
Antisthenes, and left it to you with some addition.
Cra. Others, however, were not interested in such property; no one
paid us the attentions of an expectant heir; they all had their eyes on
gold, instead.
Diog. Of course; they had no receptacle for such things as we could
give; luxury had made them so leaky—as full of holes as a worn-out
purse. Put wisdom, frankness, or truth into them, and it would have
dropped out; the bottom of the bag would have let them through, like
the perforated cask into which those poor Danaids are always pouring.
Gold, on the other hand, they could grip with tooth or nail or somehow.
Cra. Result: our wealth will still be ours down here; while they will
arrive with no more than one penny, and even that must be left with the
ferryman.
H.
XII
Alexander. Hannibal. Minos. Scipio
Alex. Libyan, I claim precedence of you. I am the better man.
Han. Pardon me.
Alex. Then let Minos decide.
Mi. Who are you both?
Alex. This is Hannibal, the Carthaginian: I am Alexander, the son of
Philip.
Mi. Bless me, a distinguished pair! And what is the quarrel about?
Alex. It is a question of precedence. He says he is the better
general: and I maintain that neither Hannibal nor (I might almost add)
any of my predecessors was my equal in strategy; all the world knows
that.
Mi. Well, you shall each have your say in turn: the Libyan first.
Han. Fortunately for me, Minos, I have mastered Greek since I have
been here; so that my adversary will not have even that advantage of
me. Now I hold that the highest praise is due to those who have won
their way to greatness from obscurity; who have clothed themselves in
power, and shown themselves fit for dominion. I myself entered Spain
with a handful of men, took service under my brother, and was found
worthy of the supreme command. I conquered the Celtiberians, subdued
Western Gaul, crossed the Alps, overran the valley of the Po, sacked
town after town, made myself master of the plains, approached the
bulwarks of the capital, and in one day slew such a host, that their
finger-rings were measured by bushels, and the rivers were bridged by
their bodies. And this I did, though I had never been called a son of
Ammon; I never pretended to be a god, never related visions of my
mother; I made no secret of the fact that I was mere flesh and blood.
My rivals were the ablest generals in the world, commanding the best
soldiers in the world; I warred not with Medes or Assyrians, who fly
before they are pursued, and yield the victory to him that dares take
it.
Alexander, on the other hand, in increasing and extending as he did the
dominion which he had inherited from his father, was but following the
impetus given to him by Fortune. And this conqueror had no sooner
crushed his puny adversary by the victories of Issus and Arbela, than
he forsook the traditions of his country, and lived the life of a
Persian; accepting the prostrations of his subjects, assassinating his
friends at his own table, or handing them over to the executioner. I in
my command respected the freedom of my country, delayed not to obey her
summons, when the enemy with their huge armament invaded Libya, laid
aside the privileges of my office, and submitted to my sentence without
a murmur. Yet I was a barbarian all unskilled in Greek culture; I could
not recite Homer, nor had I enjoyed the advantages of Aristotle's
instruction; I had to make a shift with such qualities as were mine by
nature.—It is on these grounds that I claim the pre-eminence. My rival
has indeed all the lustre that attaches to the wearing of a diadem,
and—I know not—for Macedonians such things may have charms: but I
cannot think that this circumstance constitutes a higher claim than the
courage and genius of one who owed nothing to Fortune, and everything
to his own resolution.
Mi. Not bad, for a Libyan.—Well, Alexander, what do you say to that?
Alex. Silence, Minos, would be the best answer to such confident
self-assertion. The tongue of Fame will suffice of itself to convince
you that I was a great prince, and my opponent a petty adventurer. But
I would have you consider the distance between us. Called to the throne
while I was yet a boy, I quelled the disorders of my kingdom, and
avenged my father's murder. By the destruction of Thebes, I inspired
the Greeks with such awe, that they appointed me their
commander-in-chief; and from that moment, scorning to confine myself to
the kingdom that I inherited from my father, I extended my gaze over
the entire face of the earth, and thought it shame if I should govern
less than the whole. With a small force I invaded Asia, gained a great
victory on the Granicus, took Lydia, lonia, Phrygia,—in short, subdued
all that was within my reach, before I commenced my march for Issus,
where Darius was waiting for me at the head of his myriads. You know
the sequel: yourselves can best say what was the number of the dead
whom on one day I dispatched hither. The ferryman tells me that his
boat would not hold them; most of them had to come across on rafts of
their own construction. In these enterprises, I was ever at the head of
my troops, ever courted danger. To say nothing of Tyre and Arbela, I
penetrated into India, and carried my empire to the shores of Ocean; I
captured elephants; I conquered Porus; I crossed the Tanais, and
worsted the Scythians—no mean enemies—in a tremendous cavalry
engagement. I heaped benefits upon my friends: I made my enemies taste
my resentment. If men took me for a god, I cannot blame them; the
vastness of my undertakings might excuse such a belief. But to
conclude. I died a king: Hannibal, a fugitive at the court of the
Bithynian Prusias—fitting end for villany and cruelty. Of his Italian
victories I say nothing; they were the fruit not of honest legitimate
warfare, but of treachery, craft, and dissimulation. He taunts me with
self-indulgence: my illustrious friend has surely forgotten the
pleasant time he spent in Capua among the ladies, while the precious
moments fleeted by. Had I not scorned the Western world, and turned my
attention to the East, what would it have cost me to make the bloodless
conquest of Italy, and Libya, and all, as far West as Gades? But
nations that already cowered beneath a master were unworthy of my
sword.—I have finished, Minos, and await your decision; of the many
arguments I might have used, these shall suffice.
Sci. First, Minos, let me speak.
Mi. And who are you, friend? and where do you come from?
Sci. I am Scipio, the Roman general, who destroyed Carthage, and
gained great victories over the Libyans.
Mi. Well, and what have you to say?
Sci. That Alexander is my superior, and I am Hannibal's, having
defeated him, and driven him to ignominious flight. What impudence is
this, to contend with Alexander, to whom I, your conqueror, would not
presume to compare myself!
Mi. Honestly spoken, Scipio, on my word! Very well, then: Alexander
comes first, and you next; and I think we must say Hannibal third. And
a very creditable third, too.
F.
XIII
Diogenes. Alexander
Diog. Dear me, Alexander, you dead like the rest of us?
Alex. As you see, sir; is there anything extraordinary in a mortal's
dying?
Diog. So Ammon lied when he said you were his son; you were Philip's
after all.
Alex. Apparently; if I had been Ammon's, I should not have died.
Diog. Strange! there were tales of the same order about Olympias too.
A serpent visited her, and was seen in her bed; we were given to
understand that that was how you came into the world, and Philip made a
mistake when he took you for his.
Alex. Yes, I was told all that myself; however, I know now that my
mother's and the Ammon stories were all moonshine.
Diog. Their lies were of some practical value to you, though; your
divinity brought a good many people to their knees. But now, whom did
you leave your great empire to?
Alex. Diogenes, I cannot tell you. I had no time to leave any
directions about it, beyond just giving Perdiccas my ring as I died.
Why are you laughing?
Diog. Oh, I was only thinking of the Greeks' behaviour; directly you
succeeded, how they flattered you! their elected patron, generalissimo
against the barbarian; one of the twelve Gods according to some;
temples built and sacrifices offered to the Serpent's son! If I may
ask, where did your Macedonians bury you?
Alex. I have lain in Babylon a full month to-day; and Ptolemy of the
Guards is pledged, as soon as he can get a moment's respite from
present disturbances, to take and bury me in Egypt, there to be
reckoned among the Gods.
Diog. I have some reason to laugh, you see; still nursing vain hopes
of developing into an Osiris or Anubis! Pray, your Godhead, put these
expectations from you; none may re-ascend who has once sailed the lake
and penetrated our entrance; Aeacus is watchful, and Cerberus an
awkward customer. But there is one thing I wish you would tell me: how
do you like thinking over all the earthly bliss you left to come
here—your guards and armour-bearers and lieutenant-governors, your
heaps of gold and adoring peoples, Babylon and Bactria, your huge
elephants, your honour and glory, those conspicuous drives with
white-cinctured locks and clasped purple cloak? does the thought of
them hurt? What, crying? silly fellow! did not your wise Aristotle
include in his instructions any hint of the insecurity of fortune's
favours?
Alex. Wise? call him the craftiest of all flatterers. Allow me to
know a little more than other people about Aristotle; his requests and
his letters came to my address; I know how he profited by my
passion for culture; how he would toady and compliment me, to be sure!
now it was my beauty—that too is included under The Good; now it was my
deeds and my money; for money too he called a Good—he meant that he was
not going to be ashamed of taking it. Ah, Diogenes, an impostor; and a
past master at it too. For me, the result of his wisdom is that I am
distressed for the things you catalogued just now, as if I had lost in
them the chief Goods.
Diog. Wouldst know thy course? I will prescribe for your distress.
Our flora, unfortunately, does not include hellebore; but you take
plenty of Lethe-water—good, deep, repeated draughts; that will relieve
your distress over the Aristotelian Goods. Quick; here are Clitus,
Callisthenes, and a lot of others making for you; they mean to tear you
in pieces and pay you out. Here, go the opposite way; and remember,
repeated draughts.
H.
XIV
Philip. Alexander
Phil. You cannot deny that you are my son this time, Alexander; you
would not have died if you had been Ammon's.
Alex. I knew all the time that you, Philip, son of Amyntas, were my
father. I only accepted the statement of the oracle because I thought
it was good policy.
Phil. What, to suffer yourself to be fooled by lying priests?
Alex. No, but it had an awe-inspiring effect upon the barbarians.
When they thought they had a God to deal with, they gave up the
struggle; which made their conquest a simple matter.
Phil. And whom did you ever conquer that was worth conquering? Your
adversaries were ever timid creatures, with their bows and their
targets and their wicker shields. It was other work conquering the
Greeks: Boeotians, Phocians, Athenians; Arcadian hoplites, Thessalian
cavalry, javelin-men from Elis, peltasts of Mantinea; Thracians,
Illyrians, Paeonians; to subdue these was something. But for gold-laced
womanish Medes and Persians and Chaldaeans,—why, it had been done
before: did you never hear of the expedition of the Ten Thousand under
Clearchus? and how the enemy would not even come to blows with them,
but ran away before they were within bow-shot?
Alex. Still, there were the Scythians, father, and the Indian
elephants; they were no joke. And my conquests were not gained by
dissension or treachery; I broke no oath, no promise, nor ever
purchased victory at the expense of honour. As to the Greeks, most of
them joined me without a struggle; and I dare say you have heard how I
handled Thebes.
Phil. I know all about that; I had it from Clitus, whom you ran
through the body, in the middle of dinner, because he presumed to
mention my achievements in the same breath with yours. They tell me too
that you took to aping the manners of your conquered Medes; abandoned
the Macedonian cloak in favour of the candys, assumed the upright
tiara, and exacted oriental prostrations from Macedonian freemen! This
is delicious. As to your brilliant matches, and your beloved
Hephaestion, and your scholars in lions' cages,—the less said the
better. I have only heard one thing to your credit: you respected the
person of Darius's beautiful wife, and you provided for his mother and
daughters; there you acted like a king.
Alex. And have you nothing to say of my adventurous spirit, father,
when I was the first to leap down within the ramparts of Oxydracae, and
was covered with wounds?
Phil. Not a word. Not that it is a bad thing, in my opinion, for a
king to get wounded occasionally, and to face danger at the head of his
troops: but this was the last thing that you were called upon to do.
You were passing for a God; and your being wounded, and carried off the
field on a litter, bleeding and groaning, could only excite the
ridicule of the spectators: Ammon stood convicted of quackery, his
oracle of falsehood, his priests of flattery. The son of Zeus in a
swoon, requiring medical assistance! who could help laughing at the
sight? And now that you have died, can you doubt that many a jest is
being cracked on the subject of your divinity, as men contemplate the
God's corpse laid out for burial, and already going the way of all
flesh? Besides, your achievements lose half their credit from this very
circumstance which you say was so useful in facilitating your
conquests: nothing you did could come up to your divine reputation.
Alex. The world thinks otherwise. I am ranked with Heracles and
Dionysus; and, for that matter, I took Aornos, which was more than
either of them could do.
Phil. There spoke the son of Ammon. Heracles and Dionysus, indeed!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alexander; when will you learn to
drop that bombast, and know yourself for the shade that you are?
F.
XV
Antilochus. Achilles
Ant. Achilles, what you were saying to Odysseus the other day about
death was very poor-spirited; I should have expected better things from
a pupil of Chiron and Phoenix. I was listening; you said you would
rather be a servant on earth to some poor hind 'of scanty livelihood
possessed,' than king of all the dead. Such sentiments might have been
very well in the mouth of a poor-spirited cowardly Phrygian,
dishonourably in love with life: for the son of Peleus, boldest of all
Heroes, so to vilify himself, is a disgrace; it gives the lie to all
your life; you might have had a long inglorious reign in Phthia, and
your own choice was death and glory.
Ach. In those days, son of Nestor, I knew not this place; ignorant
whether of those two was the better, I esteemed that flicker of fame
more than life; now I see that it is worthless, let folk up there make
what verses of it they will. 'Tis dead level among the dead,
Antilochus; strength and beauty are no more; we welter all in the same
gloom, one no better than another; the shades of Trojans fear me not,
Achaeans pay me no reverence; each may say what he will; a man is a
ghost, 'or be he churl, or be he peer.' It irks me; I would fain be a
servant, and alive.
Ant. But what help, Achilles? 'tis Nature's decree that by all means
all die. We must abide by her law, and not fret at her commands.
Consider too how many of us are with you here; Odysseus comes ere long;
how else? Is there not comfort in the common fate? 'tis something not
to suffer alone. See Heracles, Meleager, and many another great one;
they, methinks, would not choose return, if one would send them up to
serve poor destitute men.
Ach. Ay, your intent is friendly; but I know not, the thought of the
past life irks me—and each of you too, if I mistake not. And if you
confess it not, the worse for you, smothering your pain.
Ant. Not the worse, Achilles; the better; for we see that speech is
unavailing. Be silent, bear, endure—that is our resolve, lest such
longings bring mockery on us, as on you.
H.
XVI
Diogenes. Heracles
Diog. Surely this is Heracles I see? By his godhead, 'tis no other!
The bow, the club, the lion's-skin, the giant frame; 'tis Heracles
complete. Yet how should this be?—a son of Zeus, and mortal? I say,
Mighty Conqueror, are you dead? I used to sacrifice to you in the other
world; I understood you were a God!
Her. Thou didst well. Heracles is with the Gods in Heaven,
And hath white-ankled Hebe there to wife.
I am his phantom.
Diog. His phantom! What then, can one half of any one be a God, and
the other half mortal?
Her. Even so. The God still lives. 'Tis I, his counterpart, am dead.
Diog. I see. You're a dummy; he palms you off upon Pluto, instead of
coming himself. And here are you, enjoying his mortality!
Her. 'Tis somewhat as thou hast said.
Diog. Well, but where were Aeacus's keen eyes, that he let a
counterfeit Heracles pass under his very nose, and never knew the
difference?
Her. I was made very like to him.
Diog. I believe you! Very like indeed, no difference at all! Why, we
may find it's the other way round, that you are Heracles, and the
phantom is in Heaven, married to Hebe!
Her. Prating knave, no more of thy gibes; else thou shalt presently
learn how great a God calls me phantom.
Diog. H'm. That bow looks as if it meant business. And yet,—what have
I to fear now? A man can die but once. Tell me, phantom,—by your great
Substance I adjure you—did you serve him in your present capacity in
the upper world? Perhaps you were one individual during your lives, the
separation taking place only at your deaths, when he, the God, soared
heavenwards, and you, the phantom, very properly made your appearance
here?
Her. Thy ribald questions were best unanswered. Yet thus much thou
shalt know.—All that was Amphitryon in Heracles, is dead; I am that
mortal part. The Zeus in him lives, and is with the Gods in Heaven.
Diog. Ah, now I see! Alcmena had twins, you mean,—Heracles the son of
Zeus, and Heracles the son of Amphitryon? You were really half-bothers
all the time?
Her. Fool! not so. We twain were one Heracles.
Diog. It's a little difficult to grasp, the two Heracleses packed
into one. I suppose you must have been like a sort of Centaur, man and
God all mixed together?
Her. And are not all thus composed of two elements,—the body and the
soul? What then should hinder the soul from being in Heaven, with Zeus
who gave it, and the mortal part—myself—among the dead?
Diog. Yes, yes, my esteemed son of Amphitryon,—that would be all very
well if you were a body; but you see you are a phantom, you have no
body. At this rate we shall get three Heracleses.
Her. Three?
Diog. Yes; look here. One in Heaven: one in Hades, that's you, the
phantom: and lastly the body, which by this time has returned to dust.
That makes three. Can you think of a good father for number Three?
Her. Impudent quibbler! And who art thou?
Diog. I am Diogenes's phantom, late of Sinope. But my original, I
assure you, is not 'among th' immortal Gods,' but here among dead men;
where he enjoys the best of company, and snaps my fingers at Homer and
all hair-splitting.
F.
XVII
Menippus. Tantalus
Me. What are you crying out about, Tantalus? standing at the edge and
whining like that!
Tan. Ah, Menippus, I thirst, I perish!
Me. What, not enterprise enough to bend down to it, or scoop up some
in your palm?
Tan. It is no use bending down; the water shrinks away as soon as it
sees me coming. And if I do scoop it up and get it to my mouth, the
outside of my lips is hardly moist before it has managed to run through
my fingers, and my hand is as dry as ever.
Me. A very odd experience, that. But by the way, why do you want to
drink? you have no body—the part of you that was liable to hunger and
thirst is buried in Lydia somewhere; how can you, the spirit, hunger or
thirst any more?
Tan. Therein lies my punishment—soul thirsts as if it were body.
Me. Well, let that pass, as you say thirst is your punishment. But
why do you mind it? are you afraid of dying, for want of drink? I do
not know of any second Hades; can you die to this one, and go further?
Tan. No, that is quite true. But you see this is part of the
sentence: I must long for drink, though I have no need of it.
Me. There is no meaning in that. There is a draught you need,
though; some neat hellebore is what you want; you are suffering from
a converse hydrophobia; you are not afraid of water, but you are of
thirst.
Tan. I would as lief drink hellebore as anything, if I could but
drink.
Me. Never fear, Tantalus; neither you nor any other ghost will ever
do that; it is impossible, you see; just as well we have not all got a
penal thirst like you, with the water running away from us.
H.
XVIII
Menippus. Hermes
Me. Where are all the beauties, Hermes? Show me round; I am a
new-comer.
Her. I am busy, Menippus. But look over there to your right, and you
will see Hyacinth, Narcissus, Nireus, Achilles, Tyro, Helen, Leda,—all
the beauties of old.
Me. I can only see bones, and bare skulls; most of them are exactly
alike.
Her. Those bones, of which you seem to think so lightly, have been
the theme of admiring poets.
Me. Well, but show me Helen; I shall never be able to make her out by
myself.
Her. This skull is Helen.
Me. And for this a thousand ships carried warriors from every part of
Greece; Greeks and barbarians were slain, and cities made desolate.
Her. Ah, Menippus, you never saw the living Helen; or you would have
said with Homer,
Well might they suffer grievous years of toil
Who strove for such a prize.
We look at withered flowers, whose dye is gone from them, and what can
we call them but unlovely things? Yet in the hour of their bloom these
unlovely things were things of beauty.
Me. Strange, that the Greeks could not realize what it was for which
they laboured; how short-lived, how soon to fade.
Her. I have no time for moralizing. Choose your spot, where you will,
and lie down. I must go to fetch new dead.
F.
XIX
Aeacus. Protesilaus. Menelaus. Paris
Aea. Now then, Protesilaus, what do you mean by assaulting and
throttling Helen?
Pro. Why, it was all her fault that I died, leaving my house half
built, and my bride a widow.
Aea. You should blame Menelaus, for taking you all to Troy after such
a light-o'-love.
Pro. That is true; he shall answer it.
Me. No, no, my dear sir; Paris surely is the man; he outraged all
rights in carrying off his host's wife with him. He deserves
throttling, if you like, and not from you only, but from Greeks and
barbarians as well, for all the deaths he brought upon them.
Pro. Ah, now I have it. Here, you—you Paris! you shall not escape
my clutches.
Pa. Oh, come, sir, you will never wrong one of the same gentle craft
as yourself. Am I not a lover too, and a subject of your deity? against
love you know (with the best will in the world) how vain it is to
strive; 'tis a spirit that draws us whither it will.
Pro. There is reason in that. Oh, would that I had Love himself here
in these hands!
Aea. Permit me to charge myself with his defence. He does not
absolutely deny his responsibility for Paris's love; but that for your
death he refers to yourself, Protesilaus. You forgot all about your
bride, fell in love with fame, and, directly the fleet touched the
Troad, took that rash senseless leap, which brought you first to shore
and to death.
Pro. Now it is my turn to correct, Aeacus. The blame does not rest
with me, but with Fate; so was my thread spun from the beginning.
Aea. Exactly so; then why blame our good friends here?
H.
XX
Menippus. Aeacus. Various Shades
Me. In Pluto's name, Aeacus, show me all the sights of Hades.
Aea. That would be rather an undertaking, Menippus. However, you
shall see the principal things. Cerberus here you know already, and the
ferryman who brought you over. And you saw the Styx on your way, and
Pyriphlegethon.
Me. Yes, and you are the gate-keeper; I know all that; and I have
seen the King and the Furies. But show me the men of ancient days,
especially the celebrities.
Aea. This is Agamemnon; this is Achilles; near him, Idomeneus; next
comes Odysseus; then Ajax, Diomede, and all the great Greeks.
Me. Why, Homer, Homer, what is this? All your great heroes flung down
upon the earth, shapeless, undistinguishable; mere meaningless dust;
'strengthless heads,' and no mistake.—Who is this one, Aeacus?
Aea. That is Cyrus; and here is Croesus; beyond him Sardanapalus, and
beyond him again Midas. And yonder is Xerxes.
Me. Ha! and it was before this creature that Greece trembled? this is
our yoker of Hellesponts, our designer of Athos-canals?—Croesus too! a
sad spectacle! As to Sardanapalus, I will lend him a box on the ear,
with your permission.
Aea. And crack his skull, poor dear! Certainly not.
Me. Then I must content myself with spitting in his ladyship's face.
Aea. Would you like to see the philosophers?
Me. I should like it of all things.
Aea. First comes Pythagoras.
Me. Good-day, Euphorbus, alias Apollo, alias what you will.
Py. Good-day, Menippus.
Me. What, no golden thigh nowadays?
Py. Why, no. I wonder if there is anything to eat in that wallet of
yours?
Me. Beans, friend; you don't like beans.
Py. Try me. My principles have changed with my quarters. I find that
down here our parents' heads are in no way connected with beans.
Aea. Here is Solon, the son of Execestides, and there is Thales. By
them are Pittacus, and the rest of the sages, seven in all, as you see.
Me. The only resigned and cheerful countenances yet. Who is the one
covered with ashes, like a loaf baked in the embers? He is all over
blisters.
Aea. That is Empedocles. He was half-roasted when he got here from
Etna.
Me. Tell me, my brazen-slippered friend, what induced you to jump
into the crater?
Em. I did it in a fit of melancholy.
Me. Not you. Vanity, pride, folly; these were what burnt you up,
slippers and all; and serve you right. All that ingenuity was thrown
away, too: your death was detected.—Aeacus, where is Socrates?
Aea. He is generally talking nonsense with Nestor and Palamedes.
Me. But I should like to see him, if he is anywhere about.
Aea. You see the bald one?
Me. They are all bald; that is a distinction without a difference.
Aea. The snub-nosed one.
Me. There again: they are all snub-nosed.
Soc. Do you want me, Menippus?
Me. The very man I am looking for.
Soc. How goes it in Athens?
Me. There are a great many young men there professing philosophy; and
to judge from their dress and their walk, they should be perfect in it.
Soc. I have seen many such.
Me. For that matter, I suppose you saw Aristippus arrive, reeking
with scent; and Plato, the polished flatterer from Sicilian courts?
Soc. And what do they think about me in Athens?
Me. Ah, you are fortunate in that respect. You pass for a most
remarkable man, omniscient in fact. And all the time—if the truth must
out—you know absolutely nothing.
Soc. I told them that myself: but they would have it that that was my
irony.
Me. And who are your friends?
Soc. Charmides; Phaedrus; the son of Clinias.
Me. Ha, ha! still at your old trade; still an admirer of beauty.
Soc. How could I be better occupied? Will you join us?
Me. No, thank you; I am off, to take up my quarters by Croesus and
Sardanapalus. I expect huge entertainment from their outcries.
Aea. I must be off, too; or some one may escape. You shall see the
rest another day, Menippus.
Me. I need not detain you. I have seen enough.
F.
XXI
Menippus. Cerberus
Me. My dear coz—for Cerberus and Cynic are surely related through the
dog—I adjure you by the Styx, tell me how Socrates behaved during the
descent. A God like you can doubtless articulate instead of barking, if
he chooses.
Cer. Well, while he was some way off, he seemed quite unshaken; and I
thought he was bent on letting the people outside realize the fact too.
Then he passed into the opening and saw the gloom; I at the same time
gave him a touch of the hemlock, and a pull by the leg, as he was
rather slow. Then he squalled like a baby, whimpered about his
children, and, oh, I don't know what he didn't do.
Me. So he was one of the theorists, was he? His indifference was a
sham?
Cer. Yes; it was only that he accepted the inevitable, and put a bold
face on it, pretending to welcome the universal fate, by way of
impressing the bystanders. All that sort are the same, I tell you—bold
resolute fellows as far as the entrance; it is inside that the real
test comes.
Me. What did you think of my performance?
Cer. Ah, Menippus, you were the exception; you are a credit to the
breed, and so was Diogenes before you. You two came in without any
compulsion or pushing, of your own free will, with a laugh for
yourselves and a curse for the rest.
F.
XXII
Charon. Menippus. Hermes
Ch. Your fare, you rascal.
Me. Bawl away, Charon, if it gives you any pleasure.
Ch. I brought you across: give me my fare.
Me. I can't, if I haven't got it.
Ch. And who is so poor that he has not got a penny?
Me. I for one; I don't know who else.
Ch. Pay: or, by Pluto, I'll strangle you.
Me. And I'll crack your skull with this stick.
Ch. So you are to come all that way for nothing?
Me. Let Hermes pay for me: he put me on board.
Her. I dare say! A fine time I shall have of it, if I am to pay for
the shades.
Ch. I'm not going to let you off.
Me. You can haul up your ship and wait, for all I care. If I have not
got the money, I can't pay you, can I?
Ch. You knew you ought to bring it?
Me. I knew that: but I hadn't got it. What would you have? I ought
not to have died, I suppose?
Ch. So you are to have the distinction of being the only passenger
that ever crossed gratis?
Me. Oh, come now: gratis! I took an oar, and I baled; and I didn't
cry, which is more than can be said for any of the others.
Ch. That's neither here nor there. I must have my penny; it's only
right.
Me. Well, you had better take me back again to life.
Ch. Yes, and get a thrashing from Aeacus for my pains! I like that.
Me. Well, don't bother me.
Ch. Let me see what you have got in that wallet.
Me. Beans: have some?—and a Hecate's supper.
Ch. Where did you pick up this Cynic, Hermes? The noise he made on
the crossing, too! laughing and jeering at all the rest, and singing,
when every one else was at his lamentations.
Her. Ah, Charon, you little know your passenger! Independence, every
inch of him: he cares for no one. 'Tis Menippus.
Ch. Wait till I catch you—-
Me. Precisely; I'll wait—till you catch me again.
F.
XXIII
Protesilaus. Pluto. Persephone
Pro. Lord, King, our Zeus! and thou, daughter of Demeter! Grant a
lover's boon!
Pl. What do you want? who are you?
Pro. Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus, of Phylace, one of the Achaean
host, the first that died at Troy. And the boon I ask is release and
one day's life.
Pl. Ah, friend, that is the love that all these dead men love, and
none shall ever win.
Pro. Nay, dread lord, 'tis not life I love, but the bride that I left
new wedded in my chamber that day I sailed away—ah me, to be slain by
Hector as my foot touched land! My lord, that yearning gives me no
peace. I return content, if she might look on me but for an hour.
Pl. Did you miss your dose of Lethe, man?
Pro. Nay, lord; but this prevailed against it.
Pl. Oh, well, wait a little; she will come to you one day; it is so
simple; no need for you to be going up.
Pro. My heart is sick with hope deferred; thou too, O Pluto, hast
loved; thou knowest what love is.
Pl. What good will it do you to come to life for a day, and then
renew your pains?
Pro. I think to win her to come with me, and bring two dead for one.
Pl. It may not be; it never has been.
Pro. Bethink thee, Pluto. 'Twas for this same cause that ye gave
Orpheus his Eurydice; and Heracles had interest enough to be granted
Alcestis; she was of my kin.
Pl. Would you like to present that bare ugly skull to your fair
bride? will she admit you, when she cannot tell you from another man? I
know well enough; she will be frightened and run from you, and you will
have gone all that way for nothing.
Per. Husband, doctor that disease yourself: tell Hermes, as soon as
Protesilaus reaches the light, to touch him with his wand, and make him
young and fair as when he left the bridal chamber.
Pl. Well, I cannot refuse a lady. Hermes, take him up and turn him
into a bridegroom. But mind, you sir, a strictly temporary one.
H.
XXIV
Diogenes. Mausolus
Diog. Why so proud, Carian? How are you better than the rest of us?
Mau. Sinopean, to begin with, I was a king; king of all Caria, ruler
of many Lydians, subduer of islands, conqueror of well-nigh the whole
of Ionia, even to the borders of Miletus. Further, I was comely, and of
noble stature, and a mighty warrior. Finally, a vast tomb lies over me
in Halicarnassus, of such dimensions, of such exquisite beauty as no
other shade can boast. Thereon are the perfect semblances of man and
horse, carved in the fairest marble; scarcely may a temple be found to
match it. These are the grounds of my pride: are they inadequate?
Diog. Kingship—beauty—heavy tomb; is that it?
Mau. It is as you say.
Diog. But, my handsome Mausolus, the power and the beauty are no
longer there. If we were to appoint an umpire now on the question of
comeliness, I see no reason why he should prefer your skull to mine.
Both are bald, and bare of flesh; our teeth are equally in evidence;
each of us has lost his eyes, and each is snub-nosed. Then as to the
tomb and the costly marbles, I dare say such a fine erection gives the
Halicarnassians something to brag about and show off to strangers: but
I don't see, friend, that you are the better for it, unless it is that
you claim to carry more weight than the rest of us, with all that
marble on the top of you.
Mau. Then all is to go for nothing? Mausolus and Diogenes are to rank
as equals?
Diog. Equals! My dear sir, no; I don't say that. While Mausolus is
groaning over the memories of earth, and the felicity which he supposed
to be his, Diogenes will be chuckling. While Mausolus boasts of the
tomb raised to him by Artemisia, his wife and sister, Diogenes knows
not whether he has a tomb or no—the question never having occurred to
him; he knows only that his name is on the tongues of the wise, as one
who lived the life of a man; a higher monument than yours, vile Carian
slave, and set on firmer foundations.
F.
XXV
Nireus. Thersites. Menippus
Ni. Here we are; Menippus shall award the palm of beauty. Menippus,
am I not better-looking than he?
Me. Well, who are you? I must know that first, mustn't I?
Ni. Nireus and Thersites.
Me. Which is which? I cannot tell that yet.
Ther. One to me; I am like you; you have no such superiority as Homer
(blind, by the way) gave you when he called you the handsomest of men;
he might peak my head and thin my hair, our judge finds me none the
worse. Now, Menippus, make up your mind which is handsomer.
Ni. I, of course, I, the son of Aglaia and Charopus,
Comeliest of all that came 'neath Trojan walls.
Me. But not comeliest of all that come 'neath the earth, as far as I
know. Your bones are much like other people's; and the only difference
between your two skulls is that yours would not take much to stove it
in. It is a tender article, something short of masculine.
Ni. Ask Homer what I was, when I sailed with the Achaeans.
Me. Dreams, dreams. I am looking at what you are; what you were is
ancient history.
Ni. Am I not handsomer here, Menippus?
Me. You are not handsome at all, nor any one else either. Hades is a
democracy; one man is as good as another here.
Ther. And a very tolerable arrangement too, if you ask me.
H.
XXVI
Menippus. Chiron
Me. I have heard that you were a god, Chiron, and that you died of
your own choice?
Chi. You were rightly informed. I am dead, as you see, and might have
been immortal.
Me. And what should possess you, to be in love with Death? He has no
charm for most people.
Chi. You are a sensible fellow; I will tell you. There was no further
satisfaction to be had from immortality.
Me. Was it not a pleasure merely to live and see the light?
Chi. No; it is variety, as I take it, and not monotony, that
constitutes pleasure. Living on and on, everything always the same;
sun, light, food, spring, summer, autumn, winter, one thing following
another in unending sequence,—I sickened of it all. I found that
enjoyment lay not in continual possession; that deprivation had its
share therein.
Me. Very true, Chiron. And how have you got on since you made Hades
your home?
Chi. Not unpleasantly. I like the truly republican equality that
prevails; and as to whether one is in light or darkness, that makes no
difference at all. Then again there is no hunger or thirst here; one is
independent of such things.
Me. Take care, Chiron! You may be caught in the snare of your own
reasonings.
Chi. How should that be?
Me. Why, if the monotony of the other world brought on satiety, the
monotony here may do the same. You will have to look about for a
further change, and I fancy there is no third life procurable.
Chi. Then what is to be done, Menippus?
Me. Take things as you find them, I suppose, like a sensible fellow,
and make the best of everything.
F.
XXVII
Diogenes. Antisthenes. Crates
Diog. Now, friends, we have plenty of time; what say you to a stroll?
we might go to the entrance and have a look at the new-comers—what they
are and how they behave.
Ant. The very thing. It will be an amusing sight—some weeping, some
imploring to be let go, some resisting; when Hermes collars them, they
will stick their heels in and throw their weight back; and all to no
purpose.
Cra. Very well; and meanwhile, let me give you my experiences on the
way down.
Diog. Yes, go on, Crates; I dare say you saw some entertaining
sights.
Cra. We were a large party, of which the most distinguished were
Ismenodorus, a rich townsman of ours, Arsaces, ruler of Media, and
Oroetes the Armenian. Ismenodorus had been murdered by robbers going to
Eleusis over Cithaeron, I believe. He was moaning, nursing his wound,
apostrophizing the young children he had left, and cursing his
foolhardiness. He knew Cithaeron and the Eleutherae district were all
devastated by the wars, and yet he must take only two servants with
him—with five bowls and four cups of solid gold in his baggage, too.
Arsaces was an old man of rather imposing aspect; he expressed his
feelings in true barbaric fashion, was exceedingly angry at being
expected to walk, and kept calling for his horse. In point of fact it
had died with him, it and he having been simultaneously transfixed by a
Thracian pikeman in the fight with the Cappadocians on the Araxes.
Arsaces described to us how he had charged far in advance of his men,
and the Thracian, standing his ground and sheltering himself with his
buckler, warded off the lance, and then, planting his pike, transfixed
man and horse together.
Ant. How could it possibly be done simultaneously?
Cra. Oh, quite simple. The Median was charging with his thirty-foot
lance in front of him; the Thracian knocked it aside with his buckler;
the point glanced by; then he knelt, received the charge on his pike,
pierced the horse's chest—the spirited beast impaling itself by its own
impetus—, and finally ran Arsaces through groin and buttock. You see
what happened; it was the horse's doing rather than the man's. However,
Arsaces did not at all appreciate equality, and wanted to come down on
horseback. As for Oroetes, he was so tender-footed that he could not
stand, far less walk. That is the way with all the Medes—once they are
off their horses, they go delicately on tiptoe as if they were treading
on thorns. He threw himself down, and there he lay; nothing would
induce him to get up; so the excellent Hermes had to pick him up and
carry him to the ferry; how I laughed!
Ant. When I came down, I did not keep with the crowd; I left them
to their blubberings, ran on to the ferry, and secured a comfortable
seat for the passage. Then as we crossed, they were divided between
tears and sea-sickness, and gave me a merry time of it.
Diog. You two have described your fellow passengers; now for mine.
There came down with me Blepsias, the Pisatan usurer, Lampis, an
Acarnanian freelance, and the Corinthian millionaire Damis. The last
had been poisoned by his son, Lampis had cut his throat for love of the
courtesan Myrtium, and the wretched Blepsias is supposed to have died
of starvation; his awful pallor and extreme emaciation looked like it.
I inquired into the manner of their deaths, though I knew very well.
When Damis exclaimed upon his son, 'You only have your deserts,' I
remarked,—'an old man of ninety living in luxury yourself with your
million of money, and fobbing off your eighteen-year son with a few
pence! As for you, sir Acarnanian'—he was groaning and cursing
Myrtium—, 'why put the blame on Love? it belongs to yourself; you were
never afraid of an enemy—took all sorts of risks in other people's
service—and then let yourself be caught, my hero, by the artificial
tears and sighs of the first wench you came across.' Blepsias uttered
his own condemnation, without giving me time to do it for him: he had
hoarded his money for heirs who were nothing to him, and been fool
enough to reckon on immortality. I assure you it was no common
satisfaction I derived from their whinings.
But here we are at the gate; we must keep our eyes open, and get the
earliest view. Lord, lord, what a mixed crowd! and all in tears except
these babes and sucklings. Why, the hoary seniors are all lamentation
too; strange! has madam Life given them a love-potion? I must
interrogate this most reverend senior of them all.—Sir, why weep,
seeing that you have died full of years? has your excellency any
complaint to make, after so long a term? Ah, but you were doubtless a
king.
Pauper. Not so.
Diog. A provincial governor, then?
Pauper. No, nor that.
Diog. I see; you were wealthy, and do not like leaving your boundless
luxury to die.
Pauper. You are quite mistaken; I was near ninety, made a miserable
livelihood out of my line and rod, was excessively poor, childless, a
cripple, and had nearly lost my sight.
Diog. And you still wished to live?
Pauper. Ay, sweet is the light, and dread is death; would that one
might escape it!
Diog. You are beside yourself, old man; you are like a child kicking
at the pricks, you contemporary of the ferryman. Well, we need wonder
no more at youth, when age is still in love with life; one would have
thought it should court death as the cure for its proper ills.—And now
let us go our way, before our loitering here brings suspicion on us:
they may think we are planning an escape.
H.
XXVIII
Menippus. Tiresias
Me. Whether you are blind or not, Tiresias, would be a difficult
question. Eyeless sockets are the rule among us; there is no telling
Phineus from Lynceus nowadays. However, I know that you were a seer,
and that you enjoy the unique distinction of having been both man and
woman; I have it from the poets. Pray tell me which you found the more
pleasant life, the man's or the woman's?
Ti. The woman's, by a long way; it was much less trouble. Women have
the mastery of men; and there is no fighting for them, no manning of
walls, no squabbling in the assembly, no cross-examination in the
law-courts.
Me. Well, but you have heard how Medea, in Euripides, compassionates
her sex on their hard lot—on the intolerable pangs they endure in
travail? And by the way—Medea's words remind me did you ever have a
child, when you were a woman, or were you barren?
Ti. What do you mean by that question, Menippus?
Me. Oh, nothing; but I should like to know, if it is no trouble to
you.
Ti. I was not barren: but I did not have a child, exactly.
Me. No; but you might have had. That's all I wanted to know.
Ti. Certainly.
Me. And your feminine characteristics gradually vanished, and you
developed a beard, and became a man? Or did the change take place in a
moment?
Ti. Whither does your question tend? One would think you doubted the
fact.
Me. And what should I do but doubt such a story? Am I to take it in,
like a nincompoop, without asking myself whether it is possible or not?
Ti. At that rate, I suppose you are equally incredulous when you hear
of women being turned into birds or trees or beasts,—Aedon for
instance, or Daphne, or Callisto?
Me. If I fall in with any of these ladies, I will see what they have
to say about it. But to return, friend, to your own case: were you a
prophet even in the days of your femininity? or did manhood and
prophecy come together?
Ti. Pooh, you know nothing of the matter. I once settled a dispute
among the Gods, and was blinded by Hera for my pains; whereupon Zeus
consoled me with the gift of prophecy.
Me. Ah, you love a lie still, Tiresias. But there, 'tis your trade.
You prophets! There is no truth in you.
F.
XXIX
Agamemnon. Ajax
Ag. If you went mad and wrought your own destruction, Ajax, in
default of that you designed for us all, why put the blame on Odysseus?
Why would you not vouchsafe him a look or a word, when he came to
consult Tiresias that day? you stalked past your old comrade in arms as
if he was beneath your notice.
Aj. Had I not good reason? My madness lies at the door of my solitary
rival for the arms.
Ag. Did you expect to be unopposed, and carry it over us all without
a contest?
Aj. Surely, in such a matter. The armour was mine by natural right,
seeing I was Achilles's cousin. The rest of you, his undoubted
superiors, refused to compete, recognizing my claim. It was the son of
Laertes, he that I had rescued scores of times when he would have been
cut to pieces by the Phrygians, who set up for a better man and a
stronger claimant than I.
Ag. Blame Thetis, then, my good sir; it was she who, instead of
delivering the inheritance to the next of kin, brought the arms and
left the ownership an open question.
Aj. No, no; the guilt was in claiming them—alone, I mean.
Ag. Surely, Ajax, a mere man may be forgiven the sin of coveting
honour—that sweetest bait for which each one of us adventured; nay, and
he outdid you there, if a Trojan verdict counts.
Aj. Who inspired that verdict [Footnote: Athene is meant. The
allusion is to Homer, Od. xi. 547, a passage upon the contest for the
arms of Achilles, in which Odysseus states that 'The judges were the
sons of the Trojans, and Pallas Athene.']? I know, but about the Gods
we may not speak. Let that pass; but cease to hate Odysseus? 'tis not
in my power, Agamemnon, though Athene's self should require it of me.
H.
XXX
Minos. Sostratus
Mi. Sostratus, the pirate here, can be dropped into Pyriphlegethon,
Hermes; the temple-robber shall be clawed by the Chimera; and lay out
the tyrant alongside of Tityus, there to have his liver torn by the
vultures. And you honest fellows can make the best of your way to
Elysium and the Isles of the Blest; this it is to lead righteous lives.
Sos. A word with you, Minos. See if there is not some justice in my
plea.
Mi. What, more pleadings? Have you not been convicted of villany and
murder without end?
Sos. I have. Yet consider whether my sentence is just.
Mi. Is it just that you should have your deserts? If so, the sentence
is just.
Sos. Well, answer my questions; I will not detain you long.
Mi. Say on, but be brief; I have other cases waiting for me.
Sos. The deeds of my life—were they in my own choice, or were they
decreed by Fate?
Mi. Decreed, of course.
Sos. Then all of us, whether we passed for honest men or rogues, were
the instruments of Fate in all that we did?
Mi. Certainly; Clotho prescribes the conduct of every man at his
birth.
Sos. Now suppose a man commits a murder under compulsion of a power
which he cannot resist, an executioner, for instance, at the bidding of
a judge, or a bodyguard at that of a tyrant. Who is the murderer,
according to you?
Mi. The judge, of course, or the tyrant. As well ask whether the
sword is guilty, which is but the tool of his anger who is prime mover
in the affair.
Sos. I am indebted to you for a further illustration of my argument.
Again: a slave, sent by his master, brings me gold or silver; to whom
am I to be grateful? who goes down on my tablets as a benefactor?
Mi. The sender; the bringer is but his minister.
Sos. Observe then your injustice! You punish us who are but the
slaves of Clotho's bidding, and reward these, who do but minister to
another's beneficence. For it will never be said that it was in our
power to gainsay the irresistible ordinances of Fate?
Mi. Ah, Sostratus; look closely enough, and you will find plenty of
inconsistencies besides these. However, I see you are no common pirate,
but a philosopher in your way; so much you have gained by your
questions. Let him go, Hermes; he shall not be punished after that. But
mind, Sostratus, you must not put it into other people's heads to ask
questions of this kind.
F.