Dialogues of the Dead

Perseus Greek · Perseus Greek · 494 sections

20.1.1
Let me tell you how you stand; your boat is small, as you can see, and unsound, and leaks almost all over; if it lists one way or the other, it will capsize and sink. Yet you come in such numbers all at once, each of you laden with luggage. If, then, you take all this on board, I’m afraid you’ll be sorry for it later on, particularly those of you that can’t swim.
20.1.2
Well, what shall we do to have a good passage?
20.1.3
I’ll tell you. Strip yourselves before you come on board, and leave all this useless stuff on the shore; for, even then, the ferry will hardly hold you. It will be up to you, Hermes, to let none of them aboard after this, unless he has stripped himself and thrown away his trappings, as I said he must. Go and stand by the gangway, and sort them out for admission. Make them strip, before you let them on board.
20.2.1
Well spoken. Let’s do as you say. Who’s this first one?
20.2.2
I’m Menippus. But see, here’s my bag for you, Hermes, and my stick; into the water with them. My cloak I didn’t even bring—and a good job too!
20.2.3
Come on board, Menippus, best of men, and take the seat of honour up beside the steersman, so that you can keep an eye on the others.
20.3.1
And who’s this handsome fellow?
20.3.2
Charmoleos, the darling of Megara, whose kiss was worth two talents.
20.3.3
Then off with your beauty and your lips, kisses and all, your luxuriant hair, your rosy cheeks and all your skin; that’s fine, now you’re travelling light, and may come on board.
20.4.1
And who are you over here, with the purple robe and diadem, you who are so solemn?
20.4.2
Lampichus, tyrant of Gela.
20.4.3
Well why, Lampichus, do you bring all that with you?
20.4.4
Well, what should I do? Ought a tyrant to come naked, Hermes?
20.4.5
A tyrant shouldn’t, but a dead man most certainly should. So off with it all.
20.4.6
There you are; there goes my wealth.
20.4.7
Away too with your vanity, Lampichus, and your pride; they will weigh down the ferry, if they come in along with you.
20.4.8
Then at least allow me to keep my diadem and my mantle.
20.4.9
Certainly not; away with these too.
20.4.10
Very well. What else? I’ve thrown away everything, as you can see.
20.4.11
There remain your cruelty, folly, insolence, and temper; away with these too.
20.4.12
There you are; I’m stripped.
20.5.1
Now you may get in. You, the fat and fleshy one, who are you?
20.5.2
Damasias, the athlete.
20.5.3
Yes, you look like him. I know you, having often seen you in the ring.
20.5.4
Yes, Hermes; but let me in; I’m stripped to the skin.
20.5.5
No, you’re not, my good fellow, not while you have all that flesh on you. Well, take it off, for you’ll sink the boat, if you only put one foot aboard. Off too with those wreaths and proclamations of your prowess.
20.5.6
There you are; I’m really stripped now, as you see, and no heavier than the other dead.
20.6.1
It’s better that you should be light like that; get in then. You too, Craton, off with your wealth and your effeminacy too, and your luxury, and don’t bring your funeral trappings or your ancestors’ reputations, but leave behind family, fame, all public proclamations in your honour, and the inscriptions on your statues, and say nothing of the mighty tomb they raised over your body. Even the mention of such things weighs down the boat.
20.6.2
I don’t like it, but away they go. What choice have I?
20.7.1
Good gracious! You there—what do you want with all that armour? Why do you carry that trophy?
20.7.2
Because I was victorious, won the prize for valour, and was honoured by my city.
20.7.3
Leave your trophy on earth above; there’s peace in Hades and weapons won’t be needed.
20.8.1
But here’s an august personage, to judge by his appearance, and a proud man. Who can he be, with his haughty eyebrows, thoughtful mien, and bushy beard?
20.8.2
A Philosopher, Hermes, or rather an impostor, full of talk of marvels. Strip him too, and you’ll see many amusing things covered up under his cloak.
20.8.3
You there, off first with your clothes, and then with all this here. Ye gods, what hypocrisy he carries, what ignorance, contentiousness, vanity, unanswerable puzzles, thorny argumentations, and complicated conceptions—yes, and plenty of wasted effort, and no little nonsense, and idle talk, and splitting of hairs, and, good heavens, here’s gold too, and soft living, shamelessness, temper, luxury, and effeminacy! I can see them, however much you try to hide them. Away with your falsehood too, and your pride, and notions of your superiority over the rest of men. If you came on board with all these, not even a battleship would be big enough for you.
20.8.4
Then I take them off, since these are your orders.
20.9.1
But he ought to take off that beard as well, Hermes; it’s heavy and shaggy, as you can see. He has at least five pounds of hair there.
20.9.2
Well spoken. Off with that too.
20.9.3
Who will be my barber?
20.9.4
Menippus here will take a shipwright’s axe and cut it off; he can use the gangway as his block.
20.9.5
No, Hermes, pass me up a saw. That’ll be better fun.
20.9.6
The axe will do well enough. That’s fine. You look more human, now that you’ve lost that goat’s beard of yours.
20.9.7
Shall I take a little off his eyebrows as well?
20.9.8
By all means; he has them rising high over his forehead, as he strains after something or other. What’s this? Crying, you scum? Afraid to face death? Get in with you.
20.9.9
He still has the heaviest thing of all under his arm.
20.9.10
What, Menippus?
20.9.11
Flattery, Hermes, which was often most useful to him in life.
20.9.12
What about you then, Menippus? Off with your independence, plain speaking, cheerfulness, noble bearing, and laughter. You’re the only one that laughs.
20.9.13
Do nothing of the sort, but keep them, Menippus; they’re light and easy to carry, and useful for the voyage.
20.10.1
But you, Rhetorician, throw away your endless loquacity, your antitheses, balanced clauses, periods, foreign phrases, and everything else that makes your speeches so heavy.
20.10.2
Look, away they go.
20.10.3
Good. Loose the hawsers, then, let’s pull in the gangway, raise anchor and spread the sail, and you, Charon, take the rudder and see to the steering, and good luck to us.
20.11.1
Why are you groaning like that, you fools, and you, in particular, the Philosopher just despoiled of the beard?
20.11.2
Because, Hermes, I thought my soul was immortal.
20.11.3
He’s lying; something else seems to be grieving him.
20.11.4
What?
20.11.5
That he’ll have no more expensive dinners, or go out at night, unknown to all, with his cloak wrapped over his head, and go the round of the brothels, and never again take money next morning for cheating the young men with his show of wisdom. That’s what grieves him.
20.11.6
Aren’t you sorry to die yourself, Menippus?
20.11.7
How so, when I was eager for death and needed no invitation?
20.12.1
But, as I speak, don’t I hear the noise of what seems to be shouting on earth?
20.12.2
Yes, Menippus, and coming from several quarters. In one place they’ve all flocked to the assembly, glad and laughing over the death of Lampichus, while the women have got hold of his wife, and his tiny children too are being pelted by the other children with showers of stones. Then there are others, in Sicyon, applauding Diophantus, the Rhetorician, for his funeral speech over Craton here; and, upon my word, there’s the mother of Damasias wailing with the other women, and leading the dirge over him. But nobody weeps for you, Menippus; you’re the only one lying in peace.
20.13.1
Not so; soon you’ll hear the dogs howling most piteous laments over me, and the ravens flapping their wings in mourning, when they gather and perform my burial.
20.13.2
You’re a man of spirit, Menippus. But, now that we’ve reached port, off to the court with you along that straight path, while the ferryman and I go for another lot.
20.13.3
A good voyage to you, Hermes; but let’s be on our way too. Why do you keep on lingering? We shall have to be judged, and they say the sentences are heavy, wheels and stones and vultures; and the life of each of us will be revealed.
21.1.1
Diogenes, did you know Moerichus, the rich man, the millionaire from Corinth, who owned a fleet of merchant ships, and had a cousin called Aristeas, another rich man, who used to quote Homer and say, “You try to throw me, or let me try to throw you”?
21.1.2
Why, Crates?
21.1.3
They were of an age and showering attentions each on the other for his property. They made no secret of their wills; Moerichus was leaving Aristeas master of all he had, if he died first, and Aristeas was doing the same for Moerichus. This was all down in black and white, and they tried to outdo each other with obsequious attentions, and not only the prophets, divining the future from stars or from dreams in the best Chaldaean tradition, but even the Delphic god himself would assign the victory first to Aristeas, and then to Moerichus, and the scales would dip in favour now of one, now of the other.
21.2.1
Well, what happened in the end? The story’s worth hearing.
21.2.2
Both have died on one day, and the properties have passed on to Eunomius and Thrasycles, two relations who have never imagined things turning out thus. Their ship was halfway across from Sicyon to Cirrha, when a squall from the north-west caught her on the beam and capsized her.
21.3.1
And a good thing too! We never had such thoughts about each other, when we were alive. I never prayed for the death of Antisthenes, so that I could inherit his staff—though he had a very strong one that he had made for himself from the wild olive—nor did you, Crates, I imagine, wish that I should die and leave you my property, the tub and the bag with its two measures of lupines.
21.3.2
No, I didn’t need any of these things; but neither did you, Diogenes. All that was needful you inherited from Antisthenes and I from you—things far more important and august than the Persian empire.
21.3.3
What things do you mean?
21.3.4
Wisdom, independence, truth, plain speaking, freedom.
21.3.5
Good heavens, yes. I remember taking over these riches from Antisthenes, and leaving you them in still greater measure.
21.4.1
But no one else cared for wealth of this sort, or paid us attentions in the hope of inheriting it from us; it was gold on which they all had their eyes.
21.4.2
Only to be expected; they had nowhere to put such a legacy from us. They were falling apart from rich living, and were like rotten purses; and so no sooner did one put wisdom or plain speech or truth into them, than it would fall out through a hole, for the bottom couldn’t hold it. It was just like what happens to those daughters of Danaus here, as they pour water into that jar full of holes. But their gold they would keep safe with teeth or nails or any means in their power.
21.4.3
In consequence we shall retain our wealth even down here, but they will bring with them no more than an obol, and even that won’t go beyond the ferryman.
22.1.1
Seeing that we’ve nothing to do, Antisthenes and Crates, why don’t we make straight for the entrance, to have a walk around, and see what the newcomers are like, and how each of them acts?
22.1.2
Let’s do that, Diogenes. It will be a pleasant sight to see some of them weeping, others begging to be let go, and some most reluctant to come down, resisting, though Hermes pushes them along head foremost, lying on their backs, and bracing their bodies against him. Quite unnecessary behaviour!
22.1.3
Then I’ll tell you what I saw on my way down.
22.1.4
Do tell us, Crates. It looks as though what you saw was really amusing.
22.2.1
We had quite a crowd with us on our way down, but the most distinguished were our rich countryman Ismenodorus, Arsaces, governor of Media, and Oroetes the Armenian. Well, Ismenodorus, who’d been killed by bandits on his way past Cithaeron to Eleusis, I believe, was groaning, holding his wound with both hands, and calling upon the young children he had left behind, reproaching himself for his rashness in only bringing two servants when crossing Cithaeron and passing the district round Eleutherae, when it had been desolated by the wars, although he was taking five golden bowls and four cups with him.
22.3.1
Arsaces, an old man, and, in all truth, not undignified to look at, showed his annoyance in true barbarian fashion at having to walk, and kept calling for his horse; for his horse had been killed with him, both pierced by the same blow from a Thracian targeteer in the fight with the Cappadocians by the Araxes. Arsaces was riding, he told us, a long way ahead of the rest, when the Thracian, standing his ground and crouching beneath his shield, parried his lance, and, planting his pike beneath him, pierced both man and horse with it.
22.4.1
How, Crates, could that be done by one blow?
22.4.2
Very easily, Antisthenes. He rode to the attack with his twenty cubit lance levelled, but the Thracian parried his thrust with his target, and, when the point had passed him, bent down on one knee, and, meeting the charge with his pike, wounded the chest of the horse, which impaled itself by its own fire and force, while Arsaces too was run right through from groin to buttock. You see what happened; it was done, not by the Thracian, but rather by the horse. However, Arsaces was annoyed at having no more honour than the rest, and wanted to come down on horseback.
22.5.1
Oroetes had very tender feet, and couldn’t even stand on the ground, much less walk. All Medes are just like that, once they’re off their horses; like men walking on thistles, they go on tiptoe and can hardly move. So he threw himself down and lay there and defied all efforts to put him on his feet. But Hermes, excellent fellow, picked him up and carried him all the way to the ferry. How I laughed!
22.6.1
So did I, when I came down. I didn’t mix with the rest, but left them to their groans, and ran on ahead to the ferry, and made sure of a comfortable place for the voyage. During the crossing, they cried and were seasick, but I found it all most enjoyable.
22.7.1
So such, my friends, were your companions on the journey; for my part, I came down with Blepsias, the money-lender from the Piraeus, Lampis, the free-lance officer from Acarnania, and Damis, the rich man from Corinth. Damis had been poisoned by his son, Lampis had committed suicide out of love for Myrtium, the courtesan, while Blepsias, poor fellow, was said to have starved to death, and you could see quite clearly that he was pale in the extreme and completely wasted away. I knew how they died, but I asked just the same. Then, when Damis railed at his son, I said to him, “But your treatment at his hands was quite just, if you, who had a thousand talents in all, and lived a life of pleasure at ninety, wouldn’t allow your eighteen-year-old son any more than fourpence. And you, the gentleman from Acarnania” (for he was groaning too, and cursing Myrtium) “why do you blame Love instead of yourself as you should? Though you never showed fear in the face of the enemy, but would always court danger and fight in front of the others, yet, for all your courage, you admitted defeat to a quite ordinary wench with her artificial tears and lamentations.” As for Blepsias, he was the first to accuse himself of great folly in hoarding his money for heirs who were unrelated, thinking in his folly that he would live for ever. But they afforded me uncommon pleasure by their lamentations on that occasion.
22.8.1
But here we are at the entrance. We must look out and watch the distance for the first appearance of the newcomers. Hullo! What a crowd! What an assortment! And all crying except for those children and infants! Yes, even the oldest among them are in tears. Why such behaviour? Does Life hold them in her spell through a love-potion?
22.9.1
I’d like to put a question to this hoary old fellow. Why do you weep at having died at your age? Why, good sir, are you so annoyed, though you’ve come here only in old age? Were you a king?
22.9.2
By no means.
22.9.3
A satrap?
22.9.4
Not that either.
22.9.5
Were you rich, then, and grieve at having left great luxury by your death?
22.9.6
Nothing of the kind. I was about ninety years old, I got a poor living by rod and line, I was utterly penniless, had no children, and besides all that, was lame and half blind.
22.9.7
And in spite of your condition you still wanted to live?
22.9.8
Yes, for the light was sweet to me, and death was a frightening thing and to be avoided.
22.9.9
You’re out of your mind, old fellow, and acting just like a boy, with such timidity in the face of the inevitable, though you’re as old as our ferryman. Why should we talk any more about the young, when men as old as you are such lovers of life, men who ought to be eager for death as a cure for the evils of old age? But let’s be off now, or we may be suspected of plotting our escape, if we’re seen crowding round the entrance.
23.1.1
If you went mad, Ajax, and killed only yourself, instead of all of us as you had intended, why do you blame Odysseus? Why wouldn’t you look at him the other day, when he came to consult the prophet, or even deign to speak to your fellow-soldier and comrade, but went striding past him with your head in the air?
23.1.2
And quite right, too, Agamemnon. He was personally to blame for my madness, by being my only rival for the arms.

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