Delphi Complete Works of Lucian

by Lucian Samosata

  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.

  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?

  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.

  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 o
nly 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.

  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.

  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.

  XXIV

  Diogenes. Mausolus

  Diog. Why so proud, Carian? How are you better than the rest of us?

  Man. 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.

  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.

  XXVI