Dialogues of the Dead

Perseus Greek · Perseus Greek · 494 sections

12.6.1
People don’t think like that about me, but put me on a par with Heracles and Dionysus. And yet I alone have subdued the famous Aornos, a place captured by neither of them.
12.6.2
Don’t you see how you’re speaking just now like the son of Ammon, in comparing yourself to Heracles and Dionysus? Aren’t you ashamed, Alexander? Won’t you learn to forget your pride, and know yourself, and realise that you’re now dead?
13.1.1
What’s this, Alexander? Are you dead too, just like the rest of us?
13.1.2
As you see, Diogenes. There’s nothing strange in a human like me dying.
13.1.3
Ammon lied, then, when he said you were his son? You were Philip’s son after all?
13.1.4
Of course I was Philip’s son. I shouldn’t have died, if Ammon was my father.
13.1.5
And it was another lie about Olympias—that a serpent came to her and was seen in her bed, that that was how you came to be born, and that Philip was deceived in thinking that he was your father?
13.1.6
I heard that too, just as you did, but now I see that there was not a word of truth in what my mother and the prophets of Ammon said.
13.1.7
But their lies weren’t without practical advantage to you, Alexander. For many cowered down before you, thinking you a god.
13.2.1
But tell me, to whom have you left your great empire?
13.2.2
I don’t know, Diogenes; I didn’t give any instructions about it in time; I merely gave my ring to Perdiccas when I died. But why do you laugh, Diogenes?
13.2.3
I’m only recalling how Greece treated you, flattering you from the moment you succeeded to your kingdom, and choosing you as her champion and leader against the barbarians, and how some even added you to the twelve gods, built you temples, and sacrificed to you, as the son of the serpent.
13.3.1
But tell me, where did the Macedonians bury you?
13.3.2
I’ve been lying in Babylon for a whole thirty days now, but my guardsman Ptolemy promises that, whenever he gets a respite from the present disturbances, he’ll take me away to Egypt and bury me there, so that I may become one of the gods of the Egyptians.
13.3.3
Well, can I help laughing, Alexander, when I see that even in Hades you still act like a fool and hope you’ll be an Anubis or an Osiris? But don’t be too hopeful about that, personage most divine. It’s against our law that anyone who has once sailed across our lake and passed within our entrance should go up again. For Aeacus does not neglect his duties, nor is Cerberus to be taken lightly.
13.4.1
But what I should like you to tell me is how you bear the thought of the great happiness you left on the earth above, when you came here—your bodyguards, crack regiments and satraps, all that gold, the nations bowing down before you, and Babylon and Bactra, and those enormous beasts, and the honour and the glory, and your distinction, when you rode forth with a white ribbon on your head, and wearing a purple robe fastened with brooches. Don’t you feel sad that these things are passing beyond your memory? Why do you cry, you fool? Didn’t the wise Aristotle even teach you to realise the insecurity of the gifts of fortune?
13.5.1
Wise Aristotle! Why, he’s the arch-knave of all flatterers. Let me be the sole authority on him, with all his requests for gifts and his instructions, and the way he took advantage of my zeal for education by flattering and praising me, sometimes for my beauty (as though even that were part of the “Good”), or again for my achievements and my wealth. For that was yet another thing he counted as good, so that he need have no shame in accepting some for himself too. The fellow’s an impostor, Diogenes, and a master at the game. But I did at least get one thing from his wisdom—grief for those things you’ve just enumerated, for I think them the greatest of goods.
13.6.1
Well, here’s what to do. I’ll prescribe a cure for your grief. As there’s no hellebore growing here, you’d better take a stiff drink of the water of Lethe, and repeat the dose frequently, and then you’ll stop sorrowing for Aristotle’s “goods”. Do so, for I see Clitus over there and Callisthenes and many others bearing down on you, to tear you to pieces and get even with you for the things you did to them. So you’d better take this other path here, and take frequent doses as I’ve just said.
14.1.1
If you don’t mind, ferryman, let’s work out how much you owe me at the moment, so that we won’t quarrel about it later.
14.1.2
Let’s do that, Hermes. It’s better to have this settled, and it’ll save trouble.
14.1.3
I brought you an anchor as you ordered; five drachmae.
14.1.4
That’s dear.
14.1.5
By Hades, that’s what I paid for it, and a thong for an oar cost me two obols.
14.1.6
Put down five drachmae and two obols.
14.1.7
And a darning-needle for your sail. Five obols it cost me.
14.1.8
Put that down too.
14.1.9
And wax to plug up the leaks in your boat, and nails, and a bit of rope which you made into a brace, costing two drachmae in all.
14.1.10
You got these cheap too!
14.1.11
That’s all, unless we’ve forgotten something in our calculations. Well, when do you say that you are going to pay me?
14.1.12
For the moment, Hermes, it’s impossible, but if an epidemic or a war sends me down a large batch, I can then make a profit, by overcharging on the fares in the rush.
14.2.1
So, for the present, I’ll have to sit down and pray for the worst to happen so that I may be paid?
14.2.2
It can’t be helped, Hermes. We get few coming here at the moment, as you can see. It’s peacetime.
14.2.3
Better so, even if you do keep me waiting for what you owe me. Ah, but in the old days, Charon, you know what men they were that came, all of them brave, and most of them covered with blood and wounded; but now we get a few poisoned by a wife or a son, or with their legs and bellies all puffed out with rich living, a pale miserable lot, all of them, quite unlike the old ones. Most of them have money to thank for their coming here; they scheme against each other for it, apparently.
14.2.4
Yes, it’s the grand passion.
14.2.5
Then you won’t think it wrong of me if I dun you for my debt.
15.1.1
Do you know the old man—I mean that veritable greybeard, EuCrates the rich—the man with no sons, but with fifty thousand men hunting his estate?
15.1.2
Yes, you mean the man from Sicyon. Well, what?
15.1.3
Let him go on living, Hermes, and, over and above the ninety years he’s had already, measure out as many more for him, if possible, or even more; but as for his toadies, young Charinus and Damon and the rest, drag them all down here one after the other.
15.1.4
That would look queer.
15.1.5
No; it would be perfectly just. What possesses them that they pray for his death, or aspire to his fortune, although not related? But what’s most disgusting of all is the way they shower attentions on him in public in spite of such prayers, and make their plans obvious to everyone when he’s sick, but, in spite of it all, they promise sacrifices if he recovers; in fact there’s no little versatility in their flattery. So, I’d like him to be immortal, and them, thwarted in their open-mouthed greed, to depart the scene before him.
15.2.1
That will be an amusing fate for the rascals to suffer.
15.2.2
He himself often leads them up the garden path with great skill, and has hopes of his own. In fact, though he always looks “close to death’s dark vale”, he’s a lot healthier than the young men. But they’ve already divided up his property amongst themselves and batten on it, thinking a life of bliss is already theirs. So, let him cast off his old age like Iolaus, and grow young again, and let them leave behind the wealth they dreamed of, and in the midst of their hopes come here forthwith, dying the sorry death they deserve.
15.2.3
Don’t worry, Pluto. I’ll start fetching them for you now, one after the other. There are seven of them, I think.
15.2.4
Drag them down, and he’ll change from old age to the prime of youth, and attend each of the funerals.
16.1.1
Is this just, Pluto? Me to die at thirty, and old Thucritus, already over ninety, to go on living?
16.1.2
Perfectly just, Terpsion; he lives on without praying for the death of any of his friends, but you spent all your time plotting against him and waiting for his possessions.
16.1.3
Well, oughtn’t an old man like him, who can no longer make use of his wealth, to depart from life and make way for young men?
16.1.4
I never heard the like of this edict of yours, Terpsion, requiring the death of anyone who can no longer use his wealth on pleasure. But Fate and Nature have arranged things otherwise.
16.2.1
Then I object to the present arrangement. It ought to be a matter of turn, with the oldest man first, and after him the next oldest, without the slightest change in the order. Your Methuselah shouldn’t live on, when he has no more than three teeth still left, and is scarcely able to see, supported by four servants, with his nose always running and his eyes bleary, past knowing any of the pleasures of life, a living tomb laughed at by the young men. He shouldn’t live, while handsome lusty young men die. That’s as unnatural as “rivers running backwards ”. The young men ought at least to know when each old man is going to die, so that they wouldn’t waste their attentions upon some of them. But at present, it’s just one more case of the proverbial cart coming before the horse.
16.3.1
Things are done much more sensibly than you think, Terpsion. Tell me now, what makes you gape with greed at other people’s property, and foist yourselves upon childless old men? As a result you provide a good laugh, if your burial comes before theirs, and most folk find the situation really delightful. The more you pray for their death, the more delighted people are, if you die first; for there’s never been anything like this art you’ve invented, with your love for old men and women, and for the childless ones in particular, while those with children inspire no love in your hearts. However, many of those you love have seen through the wickedness behind your affection, and, even if they have children, they pretend to hate them, so that they too may have their own lovers. But later, when the wills are read, the bodyguard, for all their years of service, are excluded, and the sons and Nature herself, as is only right, prevail over all of them, and they gnash their teeth in secret at having been made to look such fools.
16.4.1
True enough. Take me, for example—how much of mine has Thucritus devoured! Yet he always seemed on the point of death, and whenever I came in, would be groaning to himself, and his voice would be as faint and squeaky as an unfledged chicken straight from the egg; and so I, thinking I’d be putting him in his coffin any minute, would send in most of what he got, so that my rivals in love should not outdo me in generosity, and usually I lay awake at night, sleepless with worry, calculating each penny and arranging each move. It is this that has caused my death—the loss of sleep and the worry. But he gobbled down all that bait, and turned up the other day to gloat at my funeral.
16.5.1
Well done, Thucritus! Long may you live to keep your wealth, and, at the same time, have the laugh on fellows like that! May you never die till you have seen the funeral of all these toadies!
16.5.2
It will give me too, the greatest pleasure Pluto, under the circumstances, if Charoeades is another to die before Thucritus.
16.5.3
Don’t worry, Terpsion. Not only he but Phidon and Melanthus, and, in fact, all of them will come here before him through the same worries.
16.5.4
I’m glad to hear it. Long life to you, Thucritus.
17.1.1
Well, Callidemides, how did you die? I used to be a parasite of Dinias, and choked myself to death by eating too much, as you know; for you were there when I died.
17.1.2
Yes, I was there, Zenophantus. But my death was a strange one. I think you know Ptoeodorus, the old man?
17.1.3
The rich man with no children? I knew you were often with him.
17.1.4
I was always most attentive to him, because he promised I would benefit by his death. But since the matter was taking an unconscionable time, and he was living to be older than Tithonus, I found a short cut to the inheritance. I bought poison, and persuaded his butler, next time he asked for wine—he’s a pretty heavy drinker, you know—to have the poison ready in the cup, and give it to him. I promised him his freedom, if he did it.
17.1.5
Well, what happened? Your story looks like being a strange one.
17.2.1
When we’d come in after our bath, the lad had two cups ready, one with the poison for Ptoeodorus, and the other for me, but somehow he made a mistake, giving me the poison, and Ptoeodorus the harmless cup. A moment later, while he was still drinking, I was lying my full length on the floor, and the wrong man was dead. Why do you find it amusing, Zenophantus? You oughtn’t to laugh at a friend.
17.2.2
Well, it was a droll thing to happen. But what did the old man do?
17.2.3
At first he was a little put out by the suddenness of it all, but then he understood what had happened, I suppose, and laughed himself to see what his butler had done.
17.2.4
But you oughtn’t to have taken that short cut; you’d have been surer of getting him here by the highway, even if he was a little slow in coming.
18.1.1
It’s just like the proverb; the fawn’s caught the lion.
18.1.2
Why so angry, Cnemon?
18.1.3
You ask why I’m angry? I’ve been outsmarted, poor fool that I am, and have left an heir I didn’t want, passing over those I’d have preferred to have my property.
18.1.4
How did it happen?
18.1.5
I’d been showering my attentions on Hermolaus, the childless millionaire, in hopes of his death, and he was glad enough to have them. So I thought of another clever move, and decided to make my will public. I’ve left him all my property in it, hoping he in turn would emulate me, and do the same by me.
18.1.6
Well, what did he do?
18.1.7
What he put in his own will, I don’t know; I can only tell you that I myself died suddenly, when my roof fell down upon me, and now Hermolaus is in possession of my property, like a greedy bass that has swallowed both hook and bait.
18.1.8
Not only that, but he’s swallowed you the fisherman as well; you’ve been caught by your own cunning.
18.1.9
So it seems; that’s why I’m so sorry for myself.
19.1.1
So, you’ve come to join us at last, Polystratus, after living to be, I think, almost a hundred?
19.1.2
Ninety-eight, Simylus.
19.1.3
Whatever sort of life did you have for these thirty years after my death? I died when you were about seventy.
19.1.4
An exceedingly pleasant life, even if you will think it strange.
19.1.5
Strange indeed, if you were not only old and weak but also childless, and yet could enjoy life.
19.2.1
At first, I could do anything. I still could enjoy plenty of pretty boys, and the nicest women, unguents and fragrant wine, and a table to outdo any in Sicily.
19.2.2
That’s something new. I knew you to be very sparing.
19.2.3
Ah, but the good things came pouring in from others, my good fellow; at crack of dawn crowds of folk would start flocking to my doors, and later in the day all kinds of choice gifts from every corner of the earth would arrive.
19.2.4
Did you become tyrant, Polystratus, after my time?
19.2.5
No, but I had thousands of lovers.
19.2.6
You make me laugh. Lovers? At your age? With only four teeth in your head?
19.2.7
Yes indeed, the noblest lovers in the city. Though I was old and bald, as you see, yes, and blear-eyed and snivelling too, they were delighted to court me, and anyone of them I favoured with a mere glance thought himself in heaven.
19.2.8
You weren’t another to have a divine passenger, as did Phaon, when he ferried Aphrodite over from Chios, and have your prayers answered, becoming young, handsome and attractive all over again?
19.2.9
No, I was the desire of all, though just as you see me now.
19.2.10
You’re talking in riddles.
19.3.1
Yet this great love for rich, childless old men is there for all to see.
19.3.2
Now I understand your beauty, you old wonder; it came from the golden Aphrodite.
19.3.3
And no small enjoyment, Simylus, my lovers have brought me; I was almost worshipped by them. Often I would be coy, and occasionally bar my door to some of them, but they would vie with each other in their zeal for my affection.
19.3.4
But what decision did you make about your property in the end?
19.3.5
I would keep saying in public that I had left each of them as my heir, and each would believe me, and show himself more assiduous than ever in his flattery; but all the time my real will was different and I left them—instructions to go to the devil one and all.
19.4.1
And who was the heir under your final will? One of your family, no doubt?
19.4.2
Good heavens no; it was a pretty boy from Phrygia I’d just bought.
19.4.3
What sort of age was he?
19.4.4
Roughly about twenty.
19.4.5
Now I understand how he won your favour.
19.4.6
Oh well, he deserved to be my heir much more than they did, even if he was a barbarian and a pest. He’s already being courted by the noblest of them all. So he became my heir, and is now numbered among the aristocrats, and, despite his smooth chin and foreign accent, is credited with bluer blood than Codrus, greater beauty than NIreus, and more intelligence than Odysseus.
19.4.7
That doesn’t worry me. Let him even be Generalissimo of Greece, if he wishes to, so long as those fellows don’t inherit.

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