Delphi Complete Works of Lucian

by Lucian Samosata

  Ly. Stop there, Samippus; after such a victory, it is high time you retired to Babylon, to keep festival. Three-quarters of a mile is your allowance of dominion, as I reckon it. Timolaus now selects his wish.

  Sa. Well, tell me what you think of mine?

  Ly. It seems to me, most sapient monarch, to involve considerably more trouble and annoyance than that of Adimantus. While he lives luxuriously, and hands about gold cups — hundred-pounders — to his guests, you are sustaining wounds in single combat. From morning till night, all is worry and anxiety with you. You have not only the public enemies to fear: there are the numberless conspiracies, the envy and hatred of your courtiers; you have flatterers enough, but not one friend; their seeming goodwill is the work of fear or ambition. As to enjoyment, you can never dream of such a thing. You have to content yourself with glory and gold embroidery and purple; with the victor’s garland, and the king’s bodyguard; beyond these there is nothing but intolerable toil and continual discomfort. You are either negotiating with ambassadors, or judging cases, or issuing mandates to your subjects. Here a tribe revolts: there an enemy invades. All is fear and suspicion. The world may think you happy; but you know better. And surely it is a very humiliating circumstance that you should be apt to fall ill, just like ordinary people? Fevers seem not to understand that you are a king; nor does Death stand in any awe of your bodyguard; when the fancy takes him, he comes, and carries you off lamenting; what cares he for the diadem? Fallen from your high estate, dragged from your kingly throne, you go the same road as the rest of us; there is no ‘benefit of royalty’ among the timid flock of shades. You leave behind you upon earth some massive tomb, some stately column, some pyramid of noble outline; but it will be too late then for vanity to enjoy these things; and the statues and temples, the offerings of obsequious cities, nay, your great name itself, all will presently decay, and vanish, and be of no further account. Take it at the best; let all endure for ages: what will it profit your senseless clay? And it is for this that you are to live uneasy days, ever scheming, fearing, toiling! — Timolaus, the wish is with you. We shall expect better things from your judgement and experience.

  Ti. See if you can find anything questionable or reprehensible in what I propose. As to treasure-heaps and bushels of coin, I will have none of them; nor monarchy, with the wars and terrors it involves. You rightly censured such things, precarious as they are, exposed to endless machinations, and bringing with them more vexation than pleasure. No; my wish is that Hermes should appear and present me with certain rings, possessed of certain powers. One should ensure its wearer continual health and strength, invulnerability, insensibility to pain. Another, like that of Gyges, should make me invisible. A third should give me the strength to pick up with ease a weight that ten thousand men could barely move. Then I must be able to fly to any height above the earth; a ring for that. Again, I shall want to be able to put people to sleep upon occasion; and at my approach all doors must immediately fly open, all bolts yield, all bars withdraw. One ring may secure these points. There remains yet one, the most precious of them all; for with it on my finger I am the desire of every woman and boy, ay, of whole nations; not one escapes me; I am in all hearts, on all tongues. Women will hang themselves for the vehemence of their passion, boys will go mad. Happy will those few be reckoned on whom I cast a glance; and those whom I scorn will pine away for grief. Hyacinth, Hylas, Phaon, will sink into insignificance beside me. And all this I hold on no brief tenure; the limitations of human life are not for me. I shall live a thousand years, ever renewing my youth, and casting off the slough of old age every time I get to seventeen. — With these rings I shall lack nothing. All that is another’s is mine: for can I not open his doors, put his guards to sleep, and walk in unperceived? Instead of sending to India or to the Hyperboreans for their curiosities, their treasures, their wines or their delicacies, I can fly thither myself, and take my fill of all. The phoenix of India, the griffin, that winged monster, are sights unknown to others: I shall see them. I alone shall know the sources of the Nile, the lands that are uninhabited, the Antipodes, if such there be, dwelling on the other side of the earth. Nay, I may learn the nature of the stars, the moon, the sun itself; for fire cannot harm me. And think of the joy of announcing the Olympian victor’s name in Babylon, on the day of the contest! or of having one’s breakfast in Syria, and one’s dinner in Italy! Had I an enemy, I could be even with him, thanks to my invisibility, by cracking his skull with a rock; my friends, on the other hand, I might subsidize with showers of gold as they lay asleep. Have we some overweening tyrant, who insults us with his wealth? I carry him off a couple of miles or so, and drop him over the nearest precipice. I could enjoy the company of my beloved without let or hindrance, going secretly in after I had put every one else in the house to sleep. What a thing it would be to hover overhead, out of range, and watch contending armies! If I liked, I could take the part of the vanquished, send their conquerors to sleep, rally the fugitives and give them the victory. In short, the affairs of humanity would be my diversion; all things would be in my power; mankind would account me a God. Here is the perfection of happiness, secure and indestructible, backed as it is by health and longevity. What faults have you to find, Lycinus?

  Ly. None; it is not safe to thwart a man who has wings, and the strength of ten thousand. I have only one question to ask. Did you ever, among all the nations you passed in your flight, meet with a similar case of mental aberration? a man of mature years riding about on a finger-ring, moving whole mountains with a touch; bald and snub-nosed, yet the desire of all eyes? Ah, there was another point. What is to prevent one single ring from doing all the work? Why go about with your left hand loaded, — a ring to every finger? nay, they overflow; the right hand must be forced into the service. And you have left out the most important ring of all, the one to stop your drivelling at this absurd rate. Perhaps you consider that a stiffish dose of hellebore would serve the turn?

  Ti. Now, positively, Lycinus, you must have a try yourself. You find fault with everybody else; this time we should like to hear your version of a really unexceptionable wish.

  Ly. What do I want with a wish? Here we are at the gates. What with the valiant Samippus’s single combat at Babylon, and your breakfasts in Syria and dinners in Italy, you have used up my ground between you; and you are heartily welcome. I have no fancy for a short-lived visionary wealth, with the humiliating sequel of barley-bread and no butter. That will be your fate presently. Your bliss and your wealth will take wings; you will wake from your charming dreams of treasure and diadems, to find that your domestic arrangements are of quite another kind, like the actors who take the king’s part in tragedies; — their late majesties King Agamemnon and King Creon usually return to very short commons on leaving the theatre. Some depression, some discontent at your existing arrangements, is to be expected on the occasion. You will be the worst off, Timolaus. Your flying-machine will come to grief, like that of Icarus; you will descend from the skies, and foot it on the ground; and all those rings will slip off and be lost. As for me, I am content with the exquisite amusement afforded me by your various wishes; I would not exchange it for all the treasure in the world, Babylon included. And you call yourselves philosophers!

  OCYPUS; OR, SWIFT-OF-FOOT — Ὠκύπους

  Translated by M. D. Mcleod

  Swift-of-Foot was the son of Podaleirius and Astasia, distinguished for his beauty and strength, and a devotee of the wrestling-school and the hunt. He would often laugh with contempt when he looked at victims in the grasp of remorseless Gout, saying that the ailment amounted to nothing at all. The goddess is angry and runs in through his feet. When he bears up sturdily and denies his plight, the goddess puts him on his back completely.

  The dramatis personae are Gout, Swift-of-Foot, Tutor, Doctor, Pain, Messenger. The play is set in Thebes, and the chorus consists of local sufferers from gout who cross-question Swift- of-Foot. The play is a very witty one.

  DRAMATIS
PERSONAE:

  GOUT

  TUTOR

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  DOCTOR

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  GOUT

  I have a name men dread and loathe to hear;

  They call me Gout, a fearsome scourge to men;

  I bind their feet in sinew-knotting cords,

  When I have swept unseen into their joints.

  I laugh to see men smitten down by me,

  Who will not tell the truth of their distress,

  But practised are in offering vain excuse,

  For each beguiles himself with lying tongue,

  Pretending to his friends he’s sprained a leg

  Or put his ankle out, hiding the cause.

  For what denieth he, thinking to hide,

  The passing time reveals against his will.

  Then overcome he mentions me by name,

  When carried forth to glee of all his friends.

  And Torment helpeth me in all these woes.

  For without him I am myself but nought.

  Therefore it gnaws and catcheth at my heart,

  That, though Torment is cause of woes to all,

  Yet no one rails at him with curses foul,

  But execrations vile at me they hurl,

  As if they hoped my bondage to escape.

  But why this empty talk? Why don’t I tell

  Why I am here with wrath I cannot brook?

  That noble man of guile, bold Swift-of-Foot,

  Against us plots, and says I am as nought.

  And I, like any female stung by wrath,

  Vengeful, with bite that none may cure, aimed true,

  As is my wont, at knuckles of his feet.

  And now dread Torment works in narrow field,

  Boring his feet below with piercing stabs,

  While he deceives his poor old dominie,

  Pretending race or wrestling caused the sprain,

  And, hiding lameness of his foot, my prey,

  Comes forth from home alone unhappy man.

  Whence comes upon your feet this torment dread,

  From no wound sprung, brooking nor walk nor stance?

  Just like an archer when he speeds his shaft,

  I draw his sinews taut and him constrain

  To say, “The worst of pains are healed by time.”

  TUTOR

  Stand up, support yourself, lest you should fall

  And cast me to the ground, my child so lame.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Lo, without weight I hold to thee, and ply

  As bid my painful foot with fortitude.

  For when youth falls he suffers scorn if helped

  By feeble, murmuring, aged servitor.

  TUTOR

  Stop, stop, thou fool, thus taunting me, oh stop;

  Speak not to me with boasts of youth, but learn

  That times of need make old men youthful all.

  Heed what I say. I’ll speak with brevity;

  Though old, I stand; though young, thou fallest down.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  But if you slip, you fall from age, not pain.

  For with the old the spirit still is keen,

  But has no more the strength to execute.

  TUTOR

  Why pit your wits with mine? Just tell me how

  Torment has reached the arches of your feet.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  When practising the sprint in quest of speed,

  I strained my foot and wedded was to pain.

  TUTOR

  Run backward then, as said a man who sat

  And plucked his beard, though hairy ‘neath his arms.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Well, I while wrestling tried my man to trip

  But took a knock. It is the truth, I swear.

  TUTOR

  A feeble soldier thou! To try a trip

  But take a knock! A twisted lying tale

  Is this you tell, the same as once was mine,

  When I would tell none of your friends the truth.

  But now you see they all have found it out.

  For racking twisting torment makes thee dance.

  DOCTOR

  Where can I find, my friends, famed Swift-of-Foot,

  The one whose foot is sore, whose gait impaired?

  For I, a doctor, heard from friend of mine

  He suffers terribly and cannot stand.

  But look, I see him lie not far away

  Stretched out upon his back upon a bed.

  By all the gods I greet thee, Swift-of-Foot.

  Quick tell, what’s this thy plight, I fain would know?

  For if I’m told, it may be I shall cure

  Thy grievous pain, thy tragic suffering.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  See, Saviour, Saviour, I repeat that name

  By which men call the Clarion-Goddess too,

  How cruelly grim torment bites my foot,

  How weak and laboured every step I make!

  DOCTOR

  Whence came this ill upon thee? Tell me how.

  For, told the truth, the doctor will proceed

  With surer foot, but trips if uninformed.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  ‘Mid running and gymnastic practising,

  My dear companions dealt me grievous blows.

  DOCTOR

  How then art free from inflammation sore

  Where hurt? And why no lotion dost thou use?

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  I do not hold with woollen bandages.

  They’re useless finery, though much admired.

  DOCTOR

  What is your will, then? Shall I prick your foot?

  For you must know that if you let me act

  I cut the veins and much blood drain away.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Then do so, if fresh method you can find,

  That you at once my feet’s grim pain may stop.

  DOCTOR

  Look, now I poise the scalpel, metal-wrought,

  Bloodthirsty, sharp and hemispherical.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Stop, stop.

  TUTOR

  What do you, Saviour? Safety be not thine.

  How can you bring him pain of metal born?

  Fresh woes from ignorance his feet you give,

  For false the words your ears have heard just now.

  No blow he felt in wrestling or in race,

  As he maintains. But list to what I say.

  At first he walked at home in perfect health, 105

  But, after eating much and drinking much,

  The wretch dropped on his bed and slept alone.

  Then in the night from sleep he woke to shout

  As though by devil struck and filled with fear.

  He cried, “Alas! Whence comes this evil curse?

  Perchance tormenting fiend doth grasp my foot.”

  And so alone last night upon his couch,

  He sat mourning his feet like plaintive tern.

  But when the cock’s note shrill announced the morn,

  He came and laid a cruel hand on me,

  And moaning, fevered, said his foot did ail.

  But all he said just now to you was lies,

  Whereby he hid his illness’ secrets grim.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  An old man ever arms himself with words,

  Though empty all his boasts and weak his strength.

  For he who’s ill and lies unto his friends

  Is like a starving man who chews but gum.

  DOCTOR

  You waste our time by heaping word on word.

  You say you’re ill but have not said of what.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  How shall I tell thee of my suffering?

  Suffering, I nothing know save that I’ve pain.

  DOCTOR

  When without cause a man has pain of foot,

  Thenceforth he fabricates vain words at will,

  Though knowing well the bane to which he’s we
d.

  ’Tis only one foot that doth ail as yet,

  But, when your other foot gives pain as well,

  You’ll weep and groan. But one thing I would say.

  There is the fact, please you or please you not.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  But what is it, pray tell, and what its name?

  DOCTOR

  Its name is fraught with double suffering.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Alas, what’s this? Sire, tell me what I ask.

  DOCTOR

  From that place where you ache its first part comes.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Then do you mean its name doth start with “foot”?

  DOCTOR

  To this for ending “huntress” add, grim word.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  And how still young am I her luckless prey?

  TUTOR

  Right terrible she is, for none she spares.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  Saviour, what’s this you say? What waits me now?

  DOCTOR

  A minute, please. I am dismayed for you.

  SWIFT-OF-FOOT

  What fearsome thing is this that’s on me come?