Diogenes. Pollux
Diog. Pollux, I have a commission for you; next time you go up — and I think it is your turn for earth tomorrow — 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 unconsidered trifles he can snap up in the way of pauper doles 12 or lustral eggs. 13
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 14 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.
12 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.
13 ‘Eggs were often used as purificatory offerings and set out in front of the house purified.’ Id.
14 See Puzzles in Notes.
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 Drow, 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?
15
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 lad 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.
15 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.
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 preeminence. 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-inchief; 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 today; 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?
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