On a rocky slope sat a man in deep despair. He had thrown a cloak over his head and was bowed to the ground. Another figure approached him softly, cautiously climbing upward and carefully feeling every step. The first man uncovered his face and exclaimed:  
“Is that you I just now saw, my good Socrates? Is that you passing by me in this cheerless place? I have already spent many hours here without knowing when day will relieve the night. I have been waiting in vain for the dawn.”
 
“Yes, I am Socrates, my friend, and you, are you not Elpidias who died three days before me?”
 
“Yes, I am Elpidias, formerly the richest tanner in Athens, now the most miserable of slaves. For the first time I understand the words of the poet: ‘Better to be a slave in this world than a ruler in gloomy Hades.’”
 
“My friend, if it is disagreeable for you where you are, why don’t you move to another spot?”
 
“O Socrates, I marvel at you—how dare you wander about in this cheerless gloom? I—I sit here overcome with grief and bemoan the joys of a fleeting life.”
 
“Friend Elpidias, like you, I, too, was plunged in this gloom when the light of earthly life was removed from my eyes. But an inner voice told me: ‘Tread this new path without hesitation’, and I went.”
 
“But whither do you go, O son of Sophroniscus? Here there is no way, no path, not even a ray of light; nothing but a chaos of rocks, mist, and gloom.”
 
“True. But, my Elpidias, since you are aware of this sad truth, have you not asked yourself what is the most distressing thing in your present situation?”
 
“Undoubtedly the dismal darkness.”
 
“Then one should seek for light. Perchance you will find here the great law—that mortals must in darkness seek the source of life. Do you not think it is better so to seek than to remain sitting in one spot? I think it is, therefore I keep walking. Farewell!”
 
“Oh, good Socrates, abandon me not! You go with sure steps through the pathless chaos in Hades. Hold out to me but a fold of your mantle—”
 
“If you think it is better for you, too, then follow me, friend Elpidias.”
 
And the two shades walked on, while the soul of Ctesippus, released by sleep from its mortal envelop, flew after them, greedily absorbing the tones of the clear Socratic speech.
 
“Are you here, good Socrates?” the voice of the Athenian again was heard. “Why are you silent? Converse shortens the way, and I swear, by Hercules, never did I have to traverse such a horrid way.”
 
“Put questions, friend Elpidias! The question of one who seeks knowledge brings forth answers and produces conversation.”
 
Elpidias maintained silence for a moment, and then, after he had collected his thoughts, asked:
 
“Yes, this is what I wanted to say—tell me, my poor Socrates, did they at least give you a good burial?”
 
“I must confess, friend Elpidias, I cannot satisfy your curiosity.”
 
“I understand, my poor Socrates, it doesn’t help you cut a figure. Now with me it was so different! Oh, how they buried me, how magnificently they buried me, my poor fellow-Wanderer! I still think with great pleasure of those lovely moments after my death. First they washed me and sprinkled me with well-smelling balsam. Then my faithful Larissa dressed me in garments of the finest weave. The best mourning-women of the city tore their hair from their heads because they had been promised good pay, and in the family vault they placed an amphora—a crater with beautiful, decorated handles of bronze, and, besides, a vial.—”
 
“Stay, friend Elpidias. I am convinced that the faithful Larissa converted her love into several minas. Yet—”
 
“Exactly ten minas and four drachmas, not counting the drinks for the guests. I hardly think that the richest tanner can come before the souls of his ancestors and boast of such respect on the part of the living.”
 
“Friend Elpidias, don’t you think that money would have been of more use to the poor people who are still alive in Athens than to you at this moment?”
 
“Admit, Socrates, you are speaking in envy,” responded Elpidias, pained. “I am sorry for you, unfortunate Socrates, although, between ourselves, you really deserved your fate. I myself in the family circle said more than once that an end ought to be put to your impious doings, because—”
 
“Stay, friend, I thought you wanted to draw a conclusion, and I fear you are straying from the straight path. Tell me, my good friend, whither does your wavering thought tend?”
 
“I wanted to say that in my goodness I am sorry for you. A month ago I myself spoke against you in the assembly, but truly none of us who shouted so loud wanted such a great ill to befall you. Believe me, now I am all the sorrier for you, unhappy philosopher!”
 
“I thank you. But tell me, my friend, do you perceive a brightness before your eyes?”
 
“No, on the contrary such darkness lies before me that I must ask myself whether this is not the misty region of Orcus.”
 
“This way, therefore, is just as dark for you as for me?”
 
“Quite right.”
 
“If I am not mistaken, you are even holding on to the folds of my cloak?”
 
“Also true.”
 
“Then we are in the same position? You see your ancestors are not hastening to rejoice in the tale of your pompous burial. Where is the difference between us, my good friend?”
 
“But, Socrates, have the gods enveloped your reason in such obscurity that the difference is not clear to you?”
 
“Friend, if your situation is clearer to you, then give me your hand and lead me, for I swear, by the dog, you let me go ahead in this darkness.”
 
“Cease your scoffing, Socrates! Do not make sport, and do not compare yourself, your godless self, with a man who died in his own bed——“.
 
“Ah, I believe I am beginning to understand you. But tell me, Elpidias, do you hope ever again to rejoice in your bed?”
 
“Oh, I think not.”
 
“And was there ever a time when you did not sleep in it?”
 
“Yes. That was before I bought goods from Agesilaus at half their value. You see, that Agesilaus is really a deep-dyed rogue——”
 
“Ah, never mind about Agesilaus! Perhaps he is getting them back, from your widow at a quarter their value. Then wasn’t I right when I said that you were in possession of your bed only part of the time?”
 
“Yes, you were right.”
 
“Well, and I, too, was in possession of the bed in which I died part of the time. Proteus, the good guard of the prison, lent it to me for a period.”
 
“Oh, if I had known what you were aiming at with your talk, I wouldn’t have answered your wily questions. By Hercules, such profanation is unheard of—he compares himself with me! Why, I could put an end to you with two words, if it came to it——”
 
“Say them, Elpidias, without fear. Words can scarcely be more destructive to me than the hemlock.”
 
“Well, then, that is just what I wanted to say. You unfortunate man, you died by the sentence of the court and had to drink hemlock!”
 
“But I have known that since the day of my death, even long before. And you, unfortunate Elpidias, tell me what caused your death?”
 
“Oh, with me, it was different, entirely different! You see I got the dropsy in my abdomen. An expensive physician from Corinth was called who promised to cure me for two minas, and he was given half that amount in advance. I am afraid that Larissa in her lack of experience in such things gave him the other half, too——”
 
“Then the physician did not keep his promise?”
 
“That’s it.”
 
“And you died from dropsy?”
 
“Ah, Socrates, believe me, three times it wanted to vanquish me, and finally it quenched the flame of my life!”
 
“Then tell me—did death by dropsy give you great pleasure?”
 
“Oh, wicked Socrates, don’t make sport of me. I told you it wanted to vanquish me three times. I bellowed like a steer under the knife of the slaughterer, and begged the Parcæ to cut the thread of my life as quickly as possible.”
 
“That doesn’t surprise me. But from what do you conclude that the dropsy was pleasanter to you than the hemlock to me? The hemlock made an end of me in a moment.”
 
“I see, I fell into your snare again, you crafty sinner! I won’t enrage the gods still more by speaking with you, you destroyer of sacred customs.”
 
Both were silent, and quiet reigned. But in a short while Elpidias was again the first to begin a conversation.
 
“Why are you silent, good Socrates?”
 
“My friend; didn’t you yourself ask for silence?”
 
“I am not proud, and I can treat men who are worse than I am considerately. Don’t let us quarrel.”
 
“I did not quarrel with you, friend Elpidias, and did not wish to say anything to insult you. I am merely accustomed to get at the truth of things by comparisons. My situation is not clear to me. You consider your situation better, and I should be glad to learn why. On the other hand, it would not hurt you to learn the truth, whatever shape it may take.”
 
“Well, no more of this.”
 
“Tell me, are you afraid? I don’t think that the feeling I now have can be called fear.”
 
“I am afraid, although I have less cause than you to be at odds with the gods. But don’t you think that the gods, in abandoning us to ourselves here in this chaos, have cheated us of our hopes?”
 
“That depends upon what sort of hopes they were. What did you expect from the gods, Elpidias?”
 
“Well, well, what did I expect from the gods! What curious questions you ask, Socrates! If a man throughout life brings offerings, and at his death passes away with a pious heart and with all that custom demands, the gods might at least send some one to meet him, at least one of the inferior gods, to show a man the way. ... But that reminds me. Many a time when I begged for good luck in traffic in hides, I promised Hermes calves——”
 
“And you didn’t have luck?”
 
“Oh, yes, I had luck, good Socrates, but——“.
 
“I understand, you had no calf.”
 
“Bah! Socrates, a rich tanner and not have calves?”
 
“Now I understand. You had luck, had calves, but you kept them for yourself, and Hermes received nothing.”
 
“You’re a clever man. I’ve often said so. I kept only three of my ten oaths, and I didn’t deal differently with the other gods. If the same is the case with you, isn’t that the reason, possibly, why we are now abandoned by the gods? To be sure, I ordered Larissa to sacrifice a whole hecatomb after my death.”
 
“But that is Larissa’s affair, whereas it was you, friend Elpidias, who made the promises.”
 
“That’s true, that’s true. But you, good Socrates, could you, godless as you are, deal better with the gods than I who was a god-fearing tanner?”
 
“My friend, I know not whether I dealt better or worse. At first I brought offerings without having made vows. Later I offered neither calves nor vows.”
 
“What, not a single calf, you unfortunate man?”
 
“Yes, friend, if Hermes had had to live by my gifts, I am afraid he would have grown very thin.”
 
“I understand. You did not traffic in cattle, so you offered articles of some other trade—probably a mina or so of what the pupils paid you.”
 
“You know, my friend, I didn’t ask pay of my pupils, and my trade scarcely sufficed to support me. If the gods reckoned on the sorry remnants of my meals they miscalculated.”
 
“Oh, blasphemer, in comparison with you I can be proud of my piety. Ye gods, look upon this man! I did deceive you at times, but now and then I shared with you the surplus of some fortunate deal. He who gives at all gives much in comparison with a blasphemer who gives nothing. Socrates, I think you had better go on alone! I fear that your company, godless one, damages me in the eyes of the gods.”
 
“As you wi............