by Daisy Dunn
You don’t come to see me, Socrates, as often as you ought: If I were still able to go and see you I would not ask you to come to me. But at my age I can hardly get to the city, and therefore you should come oftener to the Piraeus. For let me tell you, that the more the pleasures of the body fade away, the greater to me is the pleasure and charm of conversation. Do not then deny my request, but make our house your resort and keep company with these young men; we are old friends, and you will be quite at home with us.
I replied: There is nothing which for my part I like better, Cephalus, than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as travellers who have gone a journey which I too may have to go, and of whom I ought to enquire, whether the way is smooth and easy, or rugged and difficult. And this is a question which I should like to ask of you who have arrived at that time which the poets call the ‘threshold of old age’—Is life harder towards the end, or what report do you give of it?
I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old proverb says; and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance commonly is—I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but now that is gone, and life is no longer life.
Some complain of the slights which are put upon them by relations, and they will tell you sadly of how many evils their old age is the cause. But to me, Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which is not really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being old, and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But this is not my own experience, nor that of others whom I have known. How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, How does love suit with age, Sophocles,—are you still the man you were? Peace, he replied; most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master. His words have often occurred to my mind since, and they seem as good to me now as at the time when he uttered them. For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, we are freed from the grasp not of one mad master only, but of many. The truth is, Socrates, that these regrets, and also the complaints about relations, are to be attributed to the same cause, which is not old age, but men’s characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.
I listened in admiration, and wanting to draw him out, that he might go on—Yes, Cephalus, I said; but I rather suspect that people in general are not convinced by you when you speak thus; they think that old age sits lightly upon you, not because of your happy disposition, but because you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter.
You are right, he replied; they are not convinced: and there is something in what they say; not, however, so much as they imagine. I might answer them as Themistocles answered the Seriphian who was abusing him and saying that he was famous, not for his own merits but because he was an Athenian: ‘If you had been a native of my country or I of yours, neither of us would have been famous.’ And to those who are not rich and are impatient of old age, the same reply may be made; for to the good poor man old age cannot be a light burden, nor can a bad rich man ever have peace with himself.
May I ask, Cephalus, whether your fortune was for the most part inherited or acquired by you?
Acquired! Socrates; do you want to know how much I acquired? In the art of making money I have been midway between my father and grandfather: for my grandfather, whose name I bear, doubled and trebled the value of his patrimony, that which he inherited being much what I possess now; but my father Lysanias reduced the property below what it is at present: and I shall be satisfied if I leave to these my sons not less but a little more than I received.
That was why I asked you the question, I replied, because I see that you are indifferent about money, which is a characteristic rather of those who have inherited their fortunes than of those who have acquired them; the makers of fortunes have a second love of money as a creation of their own, resembling the affection of authors for their own poems, or of parents for their children, besides that natural love of it for the sake of use and profit which is common to them and all men. And hence they are very bad company, for they can talk about nothing but the praises of wealth.
That is true, he said.
Yes, that is very true, but may I ask another question?—What do you consider to be the greatest blessing which you have reaped from your wealth?
One, he said, of which I could not expect easily to convince others. For let me tell you, Socrates, that when a man thinks himself to be near death, fears and cares enter into his mind which he never had before: the tales of a world below and the punishment which is exacted there of deeds done here were once a laughing matter to him, but now he is tormented with the thought that they may be true: either from the weakness of age, or because he is now drawing nearer to that other place, he has a clearer view of these things; suspicions and alarms crowd thickly upon him, and he begins to reflect and consider what wrongs he has done to others. And when he finds that the sum of his transgressions is great he will many a time like a child start up in his sleep for fear, and he is filled with dark forebodings. But to him who is conscious of no sin, sweet hope, as Pindar charmingly says, is the kind nurse of his age:
‘Hope,’ he says, ‘cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice and holiness, and is the nurse of his age and the companion of his journey;—hope which is mightiest to sway the restless soul of man.’
How admirable are his words! And the great blessing of riches, I do not say to every man, but to a good man, is, that he has had no occasion to deceive or to defraud others, either intentionally or unintentionally; and when he departs to the world below he is not in any apprehension about offerings due to the gods or debts which he owes to men. Now to this peace of mind the possession of wealth greatly contributes; and therefore I say, that, setting one thing against another, of the many advantages which wealth has to give, to a man of sense this is in my opinion the greatest.
1 Bendis, the Thracian Artemis
THREE TYPES
Characters
Theophrastus
Translated by James Diggle, 2004
Theophrastus (371 BC–c. 287 BC) was born on Lesbos and succeeded Aristotle as head of the Lyceum – the Peripatetic school of philosophy. His book of Characters consists of a series of pen portraits of human character types. Whilst capturing the realities of ancient Athens, Theophrastus’ caricatures are truly timeless. Who hasn’t encountered a Shabby Profiteer or Tactless Man? Here are three of his most dynamic and familiar personalities.
XXI: The Man of Petty Ambition
[Petty Ambition would seem to be a mean desire for prestige.]
The Man of Petty Ambition is the kind who, when he gets an invitation to dinner, is eager to sit next to the host. He takes his son to Delphi to have his hair cut. He goes to the trouble of acquiring an Aethiopian attendant. When he pays back a mina of silver he pays it back in new coin. He is apt to buy a little ladder for his domestic jackdaw and make a little bronze shield for it to carry when it hops onto the ladder. When he has sacrificed an ox he nails up the skull opposite the entrance to his house and fastens long ribbons around it, so that his visitors can see that he has sacrificed an ox. After parading with the cavalry he gives his slave the rest of his equipment to take home, then throws back his cloak and strolls through the marketplace in his spurs. On the death of his Maltese dog he builds a funeral monument and sets up a little slab with the inscription ‘** from Malta’. He dedicates a bronze finger in the sanctuary of Asclepius and does not let a day pass without polishing, garlanding and oiling it. And you can be sure that he will arrange with the executive committee of the Council that he should be the one to make the public report on the conduct of religious business, and will step forward wearing a smart
white cloak, with a crown on his head, and say ‘Men of Athens, my colleagues and I celebrated the Milk-Feast with sacrifices to the Mother of the Gods. The sacrifices were propitious. We beg you to accept your blessings.’ After making this report he goes home and tells his wife that he had an extremely successful day.
XXX: The Shabby Profiteer
[Shabby profiteering is desire for shabby profit.]
The Shabby Profiteer is the kind who does not provide enough bread when he entertains. He borrows money from a visitor who is staying with him. When he is serving out helpings he says that it is right and proper that the server should be given a double helping and so he proceeds to give himself one. When he has wine for sale he sells it to a friend watered down. He takes his sons to the theatre only when there is free admission. When he goes abroad on public service he leaves his official travel allowance at home and borrows from the other delegates, loads his attendant with more baggage than he can carry and provides him with shorter rations than anyone else, and asks for his share of the presents and then sells them. When he is oiling himself in the baths he says to his slave ‘The oil you bought is rancid’ and he uses someone else’s. If his slaves find a few coppers in the street he is liable to demand a portion of them, saying ‘Fair shares for all’. He takes his cloak to the cleaner’s and borrows one from an acquaintance and puts off returning it for several days until it is demanded back. [And the like.] He measures out the rations for the household in person, using a measuring jar set to the old Pheidonian standard, that has had its bottom dinted inwards, and rigorously levels off the top. ******************. And you can be sure that when he repays a debt of thirty minae he pays it back four drachmas short. When his sons do not attend school for the full month because of illness he deducts a proportion of the fees, and he does not send them for lessons during Anthesterion, to avoid the expense, because there are so many shows. When he collects his share of a slave’s earnings he charges him for the cost of exchanging the copper coin; and when he gets an account from < >. When he entertains members of his phratry he asks for food for his slaves from the communal meal, but he has an inventory made of the radish-halves left over from the table, so that the slaves waiting at the table won’t get them. When he is abroad with acquaintances he uses their slaves and lets his own slave out for hire and doesn’t put the proceeds towards the joint account. And, needless to say, when the dining club meets at his house he charges for the firewood, beans, vinegar, salt and lamp-oil that he is providing. When a friend is getting married or marrying off a daughter he leaves town some time before, so that he won’t have to send a present. And he borrows from acquaintances the kinds of thing which nobody would demand back or be in a hurry to take back if offered.
XII: The Tactless Man
[Tactlessness is choosing a time which annoys the people one meets.]
The Tactless Man is the kind who comes for a discussion when you are busy. He serenades his girlfriend when she is feverish. He approaches a man who has just forfeited a security deposit and asks him to stand bail. He arrives to give evidence after a case is closed. As a guest at a wedding he delivers a tirade against the female sex. When you have just returned home after a long journey he invites you to go for a walk. He is liable to bring along a higher bidder when you have already completed a sale. When the audience has taken the point he gets up to explain it all over again. He will enthusiastically try to secure what you don’t want but haven’t the heart to refuse. When people are engaged in a sacrifice and inclining heavy expense he arrives with a request for payment of interest. He stands watching while a slave is being whipped and announces that a boy of his own once hanged himself after such a beating. When he assists at an arbitration he puts the parties at loggerheads, though they are both eager for a reconciliation. When he wants to dance he takes hold of a partner who is still sober.
THE MISANTHROPE
Dyskolos
Menander
Translated by Norma Miller, 1987
Menander (c. 342/41 – c. 290 BC) was a Greek writer of comic plays. Most of his work has vanished but his Dyskolos or ‘Misanthrope’ is largely extant. Knemon, the misanthrope of this comedy, despises all company. When a wealthy man named Sostratos attempts to marry his daughter, he is none too pleased.
Characters
PAN, the god of country life
SOSTRATOS, a young man about town
CHAIREAS, his friend
PYRRHIAS, his servant
KNEMON, a cantankerous old farmer
A GIRL, his daughter
GORGIAS, his step-son
DAOS, Gorgias’s servant
SIMICHE, Knemon’s servant
KALLIPIDES, Sostratos’s father
GETAS, his servant
SIKON, a cook
Sostratos’s MOTHER and MYRRHINE, Knemon’s estranged wife
also appear
ACT ONE
[SCENE: a village in Attica, about fourteen miles from Athens. In the centre of the stage is the shrine of Pan and the Nymphs, with statues at its entrance. On the audience’s left of this is Knemon’s house, on the right that of Gorgias. A statue of Apollo of the Ways stands by Knemon’s door.]
[Enter PAN from shrine]
PAN. [Addresses audience] Imagine, please, that the scene is set in Attica, in fact at Phyle, and that the shrine I’m coming from is the one belonging to that village (Phylaeans are able to farm this stony ground). It’s a holy place, and a very famous one. This farm here on my right is where Knemon lives: he’s a real hermit of a man, who snarls at everyone and hates company – ‘company’ isn’t the word: he’s getting on now, and he’s never addressed a civil word to anyone in his life! He’s never volunteered a polite greeting to anyone except myself (I’m the god Pan): and that’s only because he lives beside me, and can’t help passing my door. And I’m quite sure that, as soon as he does, he promptly regrets it.
Still, in spite of being such a hermit, he did get married, to a widow whose former husband had just died, leaving her with a small son. Well, he quarrelled with his wife, every day and most of the night too – a miserable life. A baby daughter was born, and that just made things worse. Finally, when things got so bad that there was no hope of change, and life was hard and bitter, his wife left him and went back to her son, the one from her former marriage. He owns this small-holding here, next door, and there he’s now struggling to support his mother, himself and one loyal family servant. The boy’s growing up now, and shows sense beyond his years: experience matures a man.
The old man lives alone with his daughter, and an old servant woman. He’s always working, fetching his own wood and doing his own digging – and hating absolutely everyone, from his neighbours here and his wife, right down to the suburbs of Athens. The girl has turned out as you’d expect from her upbringing, innocent and good. She’s careful in her service to the Nymphs who share my shrine, and so we think it proper to take some care of her, too. There’s a young man. His father’s well-off, farms a valuable property here. The son’s fashionable and lives in town, but he came out hunting with a sporting friend, and happened to come here. I’ve cast a spell on him, and he’s fallen madly in love.
There, that’s the outline. Details you’ll see in due course, if you like – and please do like. Ah! I think I see our lover coming with his friend; they’re busily discussing this very topic.
[Exit PAN into shrine. Enter CHAIREAS and SOSTRATOS right.]
CHAIREAS. What? You saw a girl here, a girl from a respectable home, putting garlands on the Nymphs next door, and you fell in love at first sight, Sostratos?
SOSTRATOS. At first sight.
CHAIREAS. That was quick! Or was that your idea when you came out, to fall for a girl?
SOSTRATOS. You think it’s funny. But I’m suffering, Chaireas.
CHAIREAS. I believe you.
SOSTRATOS. That’s why I’ve brought you in on it. For I reckon you’re a good friend, and a practical man, too.
CHAIREAS. In suc
h matters, Sostratos, my line is this. A friend asks me for help – he’s in love with a call-girl. I go straight into action, grab her, carry her off, get drunk, burn the door down, am deaf to all reason. Before even asking her name, the thing to do is to get her. Delay increases passion dangerously, but quick action produces quick relief.
But if a friend is talking about marriage and a ‘nice’ girl, then I take a different line. I check on family, finance and character. For now I’m leaving my friend a permanent record of my professional efficiency.
SOSTRATOS. Great. [Aside] But not at all what I want.
CHAIREAS. And now we must hear all about the problem.
SOSTRATOS. As soon as it was light, I sent Pyrrhias my huntsman out.
CHAIREAS. What for?
SOSTRATOS. To speak to the girl’s father, or whoever is head of the family.
CHAIREAS. Heavens, you can’t mean it!
SOSTRATOS. Yes, it was a mistake. It’s not really done to leave a job like that to a servant. But when you’re in love, it’s not too easy to remember propriety. He’s been away for ages, too, I can’t think what’s keeping him. My instructions were to report straight back home to me, when he’d found how things stood out there.
[Enter PYRRHIAS, running as if pursued.]
PYRRHIAS. Out of the way, look out, everyone scatter! There’s a maniac after me, a real maniac.
SOSTRATOS. What on earth, boy—?
