by Karel Čapek
“No one said that, Eupator.”
“I thought you didn’t trust them. But if you have no reason to distrust them, then why on earth are you and your crowd blowing on their pans? Either it’s because you don’t care whether the truth comes out, or because you only want to split up into two parties and quarrel. May the gods damn all of you, Philagoros. I don’t know if Nikomachos is guilty, but you’re all damned guilty of trying to interfere with the course of justice. It’s odd how inferior the willow twigs are this year; they bend like string, but they’ve got no firmness, no substance. We need warmer weather, Philagoros, but that’s in the hands of the gods, not in ours.”
August 3, 1926
Thersites
It was night, and the men of Achaea sat huddled close to their campfires.
“As usual, the mutton wasn’t fit to eat,” said Thersites, picking his teeth. “I’m surprised you take it lying down, Achaeans. I bet they had spring lamb for dinner, at the very least; but of course stinking goat is good enough for us old soldiers. Boys, when I remember that roast mutton of ours back home in Greece — ”
“Knock it off, Thersites,” grunted the old veteran Eupator. “War’s war.”
“War,” sniffed Thersites. “Please! You call this war? Hanging around here ten years now, all for nothing? I’ll tell you what it is, boys: this is no war, it’s nothing but fancy generals and bigshots taking an overseas outing at government expense. And us old soldiers, we’re supposed to gape in wonder at the way some sniveling young pup, some mama’s little darling, runs around the camp swaggering with his shield. That’s what it is, boys.”
“You mean Achilles, son of Peleus,” said young Laomedon.
“Him or another,” declared Thersites. “Anyone with eyes in his head knows who I mean. Nobody can pull a fast one on us, boys: if it really was a question of conquering that stupid Troy, we’d have taken it long ago. One good sneeze and it would’ve been a pile of ruins. Why don’t they just launch an assault on the main gate? You know, a really solid, impressive storming with shouts, threats, and belting out songs of war — and our tour of duty would be over in no time.”
“Hm,” muttered the level-headed Eupator, “Troy won’t fall by shouting.”
“You’re really wrong there,” hooted Thersites. “Even a child knows the Trojans are cowards, sissies, and gutless riffraff. We ought to let them know once and for all, at the top of our lungs, just who we are: Greeks! You’d see how they’d come crawling and begging for mercy! All we’d have to do is attack the Trojan women a few times when they went out to fetch water in the evening — ”
“Attacking women,” said Hippodamos of Megara, shrugging his shoulders, “that just isn’t done, Thersites.”
“War’s war,” Thersites proclaimed bravely. “A fine patriot you are, Hippodamos! You think we’ll win the war because every three months his Lordship Achilles stages a public scuffle with that clumsy fool Hector? Why, those two are in cahoots and collusion just for the fun of it; those duels of theirs are nothing but a big act so us yokels will think the two of them are battling it out for our sake! Hey, Troy, hey, Greece, come gawk at the mighty heroes! And the rest of us, we’re nothing; our suffering’s not worth a cat’s whisker; not even a dog barks when we go by. I’ll tell you something, Achaeans: Achilles plays the hero only so he can skim off all the cream for himself and squeeze us out of any credit for the war. He only wants himself talked about, as if he was the be-all and end-all — and those others aren’t any better. That’s how it is, boys. And the war drags on like this only so Mr. Achilles can puff himself up like god-knows-what kind of glorified warrior. I’m surprised you haven’t seen through it.”
“Excuse me, Thersites,” young Laomedon broke in, “but what exactly has Achilles ever done to you?”
“To me? Nothing in the slightest,” Thersites retorted indignantly. “What do I care about him? As a matter of fact, I don’t even speak to him; but everybody’s fed up with the way that fellow puts on airs. That business of sulking in his tent, for instance. We’re living in a historic moment here, when the honor of our Hellas is at stake; the whole world is watching us — And what does Mr. Hero do? Lolls around in his tent saying he won’t fight. And at this historic moment we’re supposed to do all the dirty work for him and save the honor of all Hellas? But that’s how it is: whenever the going gets tough, Achilles crawls into his tent and acts like he’s offended. Pff, what a farce! There’s your national heroes for you! They’re a bunch of cowards!”
“I don’t know, Thersites,” remarked the prudent Eupator. “They say Achilles is terribly offended because Agamemnon sent that slave girl of his — I forget her name, Briseis or Chryseis, something like that — back to her parents.. The son of Peleus is making it out to be a matter of prestige, but I think he really loved the girl. That wouldn’t be a farce, young man.”
“Don’t try to put anything over on me,” said Thersites. “ I know exactly what happened. Agamemnon simply took the girl for himself. Everybody knows he’s got piles of plundered jewels, and when it comes to female flesh he’s a tomcat — I’ve had enough of these women as it is: it’s all because of that trollop Helen that the war started in the first place, and here we go again — Did you hear that Helen’s sleeping with Hector now? Every man in Troy’s been with that woman, even that old geezer with one foot in the grave, that hoary old Priam. And we’re supposed to fight and suffer all kinds of hardship here just because of that tramp? Not me, thanks!”
“They say,” young Laomedon offered shyly, “that Helen is very beautiful.”
“They’re telling you wrong,” Thersites said scornfully. “She’s one faded flower and a slut besides, second to none. I wouldn’t give a sack of beans for her. Boys, here’s what I wish for that fool Menelaus: that we win this war and he gets Helen back. All that business about Helen’s beauty is a myth, a fraud, and with a dab of face-paint.”
“So we Greeks,” ventured Hippodamos, “are fighting for a mere myth. Is that it, Thersites?”
“My dear Hippodamos,” said Thersites, “you don’t seem to get it. We Hellenes are fighting, first of all, so that old fox Agamemnon can rake in a sackful of loot; in the second place, so that fop Achilles can satisfy his outrageous ambition; in the third place, so that crook Odysseus can steal our military supplies; and finally, so that a certain bought-off street singer, Homer or whatever the bum’s name is, for a few grubby pennies, can heap glory on the greatest of all traitors to the Greek nation — and, while he’s at it, vilify or at least hush up the true, modest, self-sacrificing Achaean heroes — like you. That’s how it is, Hippodamus.”
“’The greatest of all traitors,’” said Eupator. “Those words are a bit strong, Thersites.”
“Well, for your information,” Thersites burst out, and then he lowered his voice, “I have proof of their treachery. Gentlemen, it’s awful: I won’t tell you all I know, but you can tuck this under your helmets: we’ve been sold out. Surely you can see it for yourselves: why, who’d ever believe that we Greeks, the most courageous and civilized nation in the world, wouldn’t have taken that Trojan dungheap long ago and pounded those beggars and rascals to pieces, if we hadn’t been betrayed all these years? Do you really think, Eupator, that we, Achaeans, are such cowardly dogs that we couldn’t have polished off that filthy Troy long ago? That the Trojans might be better soldiers than us? Listen, Eupator, if you think that, then you’re no Greek, you’re some kind of Epirot or Thracian. A true Greek, a classical man, must feel genuine pain at the kind of shame and skulduggery we’re mixed up in.”
“It is true,” Hippodamos said thoughtfully, “that this war has gone on for a damnably long time.”
“You see?” exclaimed Thersites. “And I’ll tell you why: because the Trojans have allies and accomplices among us. Maybe you know who I mean.”
“Who?” Eupator demanded sternly. “Now you’ll have to finish what you started, Thersites.”
“I don’t like to say it,” protes
ted Thersites. “You know me, Danaans, I don’t spread tales, but since you think it’s in the public interest, I’ll tell you something shocking. The other day I was talking with some good, brave Greeks; like any patriot, I was talking about the war and our enemies, and in my frank, open, Greek way I was saying that the Trojans, our mortal and savage enemies, are a pack of cowards, criminals, good-for-nothings, scoundrels, and rats, that their Priam is a senile old codger, and their Hector is yellow. Of course, as you well know, Achaeans, that’s the true and proper opinion of any Greek. And suddenly who should step out of the shadows but Agamemnon himself — not the least ashamed to be eavesdropping! — and he says: ‘Hold on, Thersites; the Trojans are good soldiers, Priam is a fine old man, and Hector is a hero.’ With that, he turned on his heel and was gone before I could dispose of him the way he had coming. Gentlemen, I stood there dumbfounded. Well, well, I said to myself, so that’s the way the wind blows! Now we know who’s behind the disruption, faint-heartedness, and enemy propaganda in our camp! How can we win the war when those despicable Trojans have their own people, their own backers in our midst? — no, worse than that, right in our HQ! And do you think, Achaeans, that a traitor like that does his subversive work for nothing? Not on your life, boys. The man’s not going to praise our nation’s enemies to the skies for free; the Trojans must have paid him plenty for it. Sort it out for yourselves: the war’s being deliberately prolonged, Achilles was offended by design, you hear nothing but complaints and grumbling from our troops, lack of discipline’s on the rise everywhere — in short, the whole thing’s a hotbed of thievery and skulduggery. Everyone you see is a traitor, a flunky, a foreigner, or a wheeler-dealer. And once a man catches on to their tricks, they say he’s a grouser and a disruptive element. That’s what a fellow-countryman like me gets when he’s only trying, come what may, to do his duty for the honor and glory of his people! To think that we, classical Greeks, have come to this! That we’re not suffocating in all this mire! Someday, they’ll write of our age as a time of deepest national disgrace and subjugation, infamy, pettiness and betrayal, duress and disruption, cowardice, corruption and moral decay — ”
“We’ll muddle through somehow,” Eupator yawned. “I’m off to bed. Good night, folks!”
“Good night,” Thersites said in a hearty, convivial tone, and he stretched himself out contentedly. “We’ve had a good, friendly chat this evening, haven’t we?”
November 22, 1931
Agathon, or Concerning Wisdom
The members of the Academy of Boeotia invited the Athenian philosopher Agathon to come lecture to them on philosophy. Although Agathon was not an eminent orator, he nonetheless accepted the invitation so that he might contribute thereby whatever lay within his powers to promote the study of philosophy, which, in the words of the historian, “appears to be in decline.” On the appointed day, Agathon arrived in Boeotia early; he therefore strolled around the city and delighted in the flight of swallows over the rooftops.
At the stroke of eight he presented himself at the lecture hall, but found it nearly empty; only five or six men were seated on the benches. Agathon sat down on the lecturer’s chair and decided to wait for a bit, until a greater number of listeners had assembled. In the meantime, he opened the scroll from which he intended to read, and immersed himself in it.
This scroll contained all the fundamental questions of philosophy: it began with the theory of cognition, defined truth, dismissed with crushing criticism all erroneous views — that is to say, all the philosophies of the world save that of Agathon — and furnished an outline of the most elevated ideas. When Agathon came back to the here and now, he raised his eyes; he saw that the listeners numbered nine in all, and he was overcome by anger and sorrow. Flinging the scroll onto the lectern, he began thus:
Ladies and gentlemen, or rather andres Boitikoi, it would seem that your city has little interest in the lofty questions before us on this evening’s program. I know, men of Boeotia, that you are occupied at the moment with elections to the city council, and at times such as this there is no room for wisdom, not even for reason; elections are an opportunity for cleverness.
Here Agathon stopped and reflected for a moment. Bear with me, he began again, but just now something escaped from my lips which I have never before considered. I spoke three words: cleverness — reason — wisdom. I spoke them in anger. All three denote a certain intellectual ability; I am aware that they have quite different meanings, but it would be difficult for me to say in what ways they differ. I beg your indulgence — and I will return to the evening’s program shortly — but first I must take a moment to clarify these three small words for myself.
It is clear, he continued after a pause, that the opposite of cleverness is stupidity, whereas the opposite of reason is madness. But what is the opposite of wisdom? There are ideas, gentlemen, which are not at all clever, for they are too modest, and which are not reasonable, for they resemble madness, and yet they are wise. Wisdom resembles neither cleverness nor reason.
Men of Boeotia, in the course of everyday life you don’t give a fig, as we say in Greek, for the definition of terms, and yet you obviously differentiate each from the other with precision. You say of someone that he is a clever thief, but you never say that he is a “sensible thief,” let alone a “wise thief.” You praise your tailor for having sensible prices, but you never say that his prices are wise. Clearly there are certain distinctions here which prevent you from confusing these words.
If you say of someone that he is a clever farmer, you obviously think that he knows well how to get good prices for his produce at market; if you say that he is a sensible farmer, no doubt you mean that he manages his farm very well indeed; but if you call him a wise farmer, I suspect you mean that he lives well, knows a great deal, and can give you serious, sympathetic advice.
Now, let us grant that a clever politician can, conceivably, be an utter scoundrel and do harm to the republic; but you call a politician sensible only if he conducts public affairs in a praiseworthy manner for the common good; whereas a wise politician, gentlemen, as surely all of you are aware, is the kind of man who is called “the father of his country” or the like — by this we see that wisdom is something that comes from the heart.
When I say of someone that he is clever, I am thinking of a unique and noteworthy characteristic; it is as if I said that a bee has a stinger or an elephant a trunk. It is quite different if I say that the bee is industrious or that the elephant is wondrously strong; in so saying, you understand immediately that I am appraising the strength and not the trunk. In like manner, I make an appraisal if I say of someone that he is sensible. But if I say that he is wise, that, my friends, is another matter entirely; it is as if I said that I love him. In short, cleverness is a gift or talent, reason is a quality or strength, but wisdom is a virtue.
And now I know the distinction amongst these three words. Cleverness is usually cruel, malicious, and selfish; it seeks a weakness in its neighbor and exploits it for its own gain; it leads to success.
Reason is frequently cruel to man, but it is true to its ends and intents; it seeks to profit everyone; if it finds weakness or ignorance in its neighbor, it attempts to remove it through enlightenment or correction; it leads to improvement.
Wisdom cannot be cruel, for it is pure generosity and good will; it does not seek to profit everyone, for it loves man too much to love instead some more distant goal; if it finds weakness or wretchedness in its neighbor, it forgives it and loves it; it leads to harmony.
Men of Boeotia, have you ever heard the word “wise” applied to an unhappy man? to a jokester? to an embittered and disappointed man? Tell me, why is it the custom, even in the unphilosophical life, to call that man wise who harbors the least hatred and who is on good terms with the world? Say this word “wisdom” to yourselves again and again; say the word in joy or in sorrow, say it when you are weary, angry, or impatient. You will hear sorrow in it, but sorrow reconciled; joy, but joy con
stantly and gently renewed; weariness, but weariness filled with encouragement, patience, and endless forgiveness. And all of this, my friends, is what gives the word wisdom such an exquisite yet melancholy sound, the voice with which wisdom speaks.
Yes, wisdom is melancholy, is longing, in a sense. Man can put all his reason into his work, he can practice it in his labors. But wisdom always remains above and beyond individual tasks. The wise man is like a gardener fertilizing a flower bed or fastening a rose to a stake, who all the while may be thinking of God. His work neither contains nor embodies his wisdom. Reason lies in action, but wisdom lies in experience.
Wise poets and artists, however, are able to put experience into their work; they offer their wisdom not in deeds, but directly in the form of experience. This, then, is the singular and special value of art, and nothing in the world can compare with it.
But look, I have deviated altogether from my topic for this lecture. Yet what more can I say? If wisdom lies in experience and not in ideas, it is unnecessary for me to read to you from my scroll.”
April 1, 1920
Alexander the Great
To Aristotle of Stagira, Director, Lyceum of Athens
My great and beloved teacher, dear Aristotle!
It has been a very long time since I last wrote to you, but as you know, I have been much preoccupied with military matters, and while we were marching through Hyrcania, Drangiana, and Gedrosia, conquering Bactria and advancing beyond the Indus, I had neither the time nor the inclination to take up my pen. I have been back in Susa for some months now, but again, I have been so overwhelmed with administrative concerns, appointing officials and stamping out all manner of intrigues and insurrections, that until today I have not had a minute to write you about myself. To be sure, the official dispatches have given you a rough idea what I have been doing, but both my affection for you and my confidence in your influence on cultured Hellenic circles prompt me once again to open my heart to you as my revered teacher and spiritual guide.
