Her. Mind what you say, Ares; it is not safe to talk like that; we might get paid out for chattering.
Ar. You don’t suppose I should say this to every one; I am not afraid of you; I know you can keep a quiet tongue. I must tell you what made me laugh most while he stormed: I remember not so long ago, when Posidon and Hera and Athene rebelled and made a plot for his capture and imprisonment, he was frightened out of his wits; well, there were only three of them, and if Thetis had not taken pity on him and called in the hundred-handed Briareus to the rescue, he would actually have been put in chains, with his thunder and his bolt beside him. When I worked out the sum, I could not help laughing.
Her. Oh, do be quiet; such things are too risky for you to say or me to listen to.
XXIV
Hermes. Maia
Her. Mother, I am the most miserable god in Heaven.
Ma. Don’t say such things, child.
Her. Am I to do all the work of Heaven with my own hands, to be hurried from one piece of drudgery to another, and never say a word? I have to get up early, sweep the dining-room, lay the cushions and put all to rights; then I have to wait on Zeus, and take his messages, up and down, all day long; and I am no sooner back again (no time for a wash) than I have to lay the table; and there was the nectar to pour out, too, till this new cup-bearer was bought. And it really is too bad, that when every one else is in bed, I should have to go off to Pluto with the Shades, and play the usher in Rhadamanthus’s court. It is not enough that I must be busy all day in the wrestling-ground and the Assembly and the schools of rhetoric, the dead must have their share in me too. Leda’s sons take turn and turn about betwixt Heaven and Hades — I have to be in both every day. And why should the sons of Alemena and Semele, paltry women, why should they feast at their ease, and I — the son of Maia, the grandson of Atlas — wait upon them? And now here am I only just back from Sidon, where he sent me to see after Europa, and before I am in breath again-off I must go to Argos, in quest of Danae, ‘and you can take Boeotia on your way,’ says father, ‘and see Antiope.’ I am half dead with it all. Mortal slaves are better off than I am: they have the chance of being sold to a new master; I wish I had the same!
Ma. Come, come, child. You must do as your father bids you, like a good boy. Run along now to Argos and Boeotia; don’t loiter, or you will get a whipping. Lovers are apt to be hasty.
XXV
Zeus. Helius
Zeus. What have you been about, you villainous Titan? You have utterly done for the earth, trusting your car to a silly boy like that; he has got too near and scorched it in one place, and in another killed everything with frost by withdrawing the heat too far; there is not a single thing he has not turned upside down; if I had not seen what was happening and upset him with the thunderbolt, there would not have been a remnant of mankind left. A pretty deputy driver!
Hel. I was wrong, Zeus; but do not be angry with me; my boy pressed me so; how could I tell it would turn out so badly?
Zeus. Oh, of course you didn’t know what a delicate business it is, and how the slightest divergence ruins everything! it never occurred to you that the horses are spirited, and want a tight hand! oh no! why, give them their heads a moment, and they are out of control; just what happened: they carried him now left, now right, now clean round backwards, and up or down, just at their own sweet will; he was utterly helpless.
Hel. I knew it all; I held out for a long time and told him he mustn’t drive. But he wept and entreated, and his mother Clymene joined in, and at last I put him up. I showed him how to stand, and how far he was to mount upwards, and where to begin descending, and how to hold the reins, and keep the spirited beasts under control; and I told him how dangerous it was, if he did not keep the track. But, poor boy, when he found himself in charge of all that fire, and looking down into yawning space, he was frightened, and no wonder; and the horses soon knew I was not behind them, took the child’s measure, left the track, and wrought all this havoc; he let go the reins — I suppose he was afraid of being thrown out — and held on to the rail. But he has suffered for it, and my grief is punishment enough for me, Zeus.
Zeus. Punishment enough, indeed! after daring to do such a thing as that! — Well, I forgive you this time. But if ever you transgress again, or send another substitute like him, I will show you how much hotter the thunderbolt is than your fire. Let his sisters bury him by the Eridanus, where he was upset. They shall weep amber tears and be changed by their grief into poplars. As for you, repair the car — the pole is broken, and one of the wheels crushed — , put the horses to and drive yourself. And let this be a lesson to you.
XXVI
Apollo. Hermes
Ap. Hermes, have you any idea which of those two is Castor, and which is Pollux? I never can make out.
Her. It was Castor yesterday, and Pollux to-day.
Ap. How do you tell? They are exactly alike.
Her. Why, Pollux’s face is scarred with the wounds he got in boxing; those that Amycus, the Bebrycian, gave him, when he was on that expedition with Jason, are particularly noticeable. Castor has no marks; his face is all right.
Ap. Good; I am glad I know that. Everything else is the same for both. Each has his half egg-shell, with the star on top, each his javelin and his white horse. I am always calling Pollux Castor, and Castor Pollux. And, by the way, why are they never both here together? Why should they be alternately gods and shades?
Her. That is their brotherly way. You see, it was decreed that one of the sons of Leda must die, and the other be immortal; and by this arrangement they split the immortality between them.
Ap. Rather a stupid way of doing it: if one of them is to be in Heaven, whilst the other is underground, they will never see one another at all; and I suppose that is just what they wanted to do. Then again: all the other gods practise some useful profession, either here or on earth; for instance, I am a prophet, Asclepius is a doctor, you are a first-rate gymnast and trainer, Artemis ushers children into the world; now what are these two going to do? surely two such great fellows are not to have a lazy time of it?
Her. Oh no. Their business is to wait upon Posidon, and ride the waves; and if they see a ship in distress, they go aboard of her, and save the crew.
Ap. A most humane profession.
DIALOGUES OF THE COURTESANS — Ἑταιρικοὶ Διάλογοι
Translated by H. W. Fowler and F. G. Fowler
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
VII
VIII
IX
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
I
Glycera. Thais
Gly. Thais, that Acarnanian soldier, who used to be so fond of Abrotonum, and then fell in love with me — he was decorated, and wore a military cloak — do you know the man I mean? I suppose you have forgotten him?
Th. Oh no, dear, I know; why, he shared our table last harvest festival. Well? you look as if you had something to tell me about him.
Gly. That wicked Gorgona (such a friend of mine, to be sure!) — she has stolen him away from me.
Th. What! he has given you up, and taken her in your place?
Gly. Yes, dear; isn’t it horrid of her?
Th. Well, Glycera darling, it is wicked, of course; but it is not very surprising; it is what all we poor girls do. You mustn’t be too much vexed; I shouldn’t blame her, if I were you; Abrotonum never blamed you about him, you know; and you were friends, too. But I cannot think what he finds in her; where are his eyes? has he never found out how thin her hair is? what a lot of forehead she shows! and her lips! all livid; they might be a dead woman’s; and that scraggy neck, veined all over; and what an amount of nose! I grant you she is tall and straight; and she has quite a nice smile.
Gly. Oh, Thais, you don’t think it was her looks caught him. Don’t you know? her mother Chrysarium is a witch; she knows Thessalia
n charms, and can draw down the moon; they do say she flies o’ nights. It was she bewitched him with drugs in his drink, and now they are making their harvest out of him.
Th. Ah well, dear, you will get a harvest out of some one else; never mind him.
II
Myrtium. Pamphilus. Doris
Myr. Well, Pamphilus? So I hear you are to marry Phido the shipmaster’s daughter, — if you have not done so already! And this is the end of your vows and tears! All is over and forgotten! And I so near my time! Yes, that is all I have to thank my lover for; that, and the prospect of having a child to bring up; and you know what that means to us poor girls. I mean to keep the child, especially if it is a boy: it will be some comfort to me to call him after you; and perhaps some day you will be sorry, when he comes to reproach you for betraying his poor mother. I can’t say much for the lady’s looks. I saw her only the other day, with her mother, at the Thesmophoria; little did I know then that she was to rob me of my Pamphilus! Hadn’t you better see what she is like first? Take a good look at her eyes; and try not to mind the colour, and the cast (she has such a squint!). Or no: there is no need for you to see her: you have seen Phido; you know what a face he has.
Pa. How much more nonsense are you going to talk about shipowners and marriages? What do I know about brides, ugly or pretty? If you mean Phido of Alopece, I never knew he had a grown-up daughter at all. Why, now I think of it, he is not even on speaking terms with my father. They were at law not long ago — something about a shipping contract. He owed my father a talent, I think it was, and refused to pay; so he was had up before the Admiralty Court, and my father never got paid in full, after all, so he said. Do you suppose if I wanted to marry I should pass over Demeas’s daughter in favour of Phido’s? Demeas was general last year, and she is my cousin on the mother’s side. Who has been telling you all this? Is it just a cobweb spun in that jealous little brain of yours?
Myr. Pamphilus! You mean to say you are not going to be married?
Pa. Are you mad, or what is the matter with you? We did not have much to drink yesterday.
Myr. Ask Doris; it is all her fault. I sent her out to buy some wool, and to offer up prayer to Artemis for me. And she said that she met Lesbia, and Lesbia —— Doris, tell him what Lesbia said, unless you invented it all yourself.
Dor. May I die, miss, if I said a word more than the truth! Just by the town-hall Lesbia met me, and ‘Doris,’ says she, smiling, ‘your young gentleman is to marry Phido’s daughter. And if you don’t believe me,’ says she, ‘look up their street, and you will see everything crowned with garlands, and a fine bustle going on; flutes playing, and people singing the wedding-song.’
Pa. Well; and you did?
Dor. That I did, sir; and it was all as Lesbia had said.
Pa. Ah, now I see! You have told your mistress nothing but the truth; and there was some ground for what Lesbia told you. However, it is a false alarm. The wedding is not at our house. I remember now. When I went back home yesterday, after leaving you, ‘Pamphilus,’ said my mother, ‘here is neighbour Aristaenetus’s son, Charmides, who is no older than you, just going to marry and settle down: when are you going to turn over a new leaf?’ And then I dropped off to sleep. I went out early this morning, so that I saw nothing of all that Doris has seen. If you doubt my word, Doris can go again; and look more carefully this time, Doris; mark the house, not the street only, and you will find that the garlands are next door.
Myr. I breathe again! Pamphilus, if it had been true, I should have killed myself!
Pa. True, indeed! Am I mad, that I should forget Myrtium, so soon to become the mother of my child?
III
Philinna. Her Mother
Mother. You must be mad, Philinna; what was the matter with you at the dinner last night? Diphilus was in tears this morning when he came and told me how he had been treated. You were tipsy, he said, and made an exhibition of yourself, dancing when he asked you not to; then you kissed his friend Lamprias, and when Diphilus did not like that, you left him and went and put your arms round Lamprias; and he choking with rage all the time. And afterwards you would not go near him, but let him cry by himself, and kept singing and teasing him.
Phi. Ah, mother, he never told you how he behaved; if you knew how rude he was, you would not take his part. He neglected me and made up to Thais, Lamprias’s girl, before Lamprias came. I was angry, and let him see what I thought of him, and then he took hold of Thais’s ear, bent her neck back and gave her — oh, such a kiss! I thought it would never end. So I began to cry; but he only laughed, and kept whispering to her — about me, of course; Thais was looking at me and smiling. However, when they heard Lamprias coming, and had had enough of each other at last, I did take my place by him all the same, not to give him an excuse for a fuss afterwards. It was Thais got up and danced first, showing her ankles ever so much, as if no one else had pretty ones. And when she stopped, Lamprias never said a word, but Diphilus praised her to the skies — such perfect time! such varied steps! foot and music always right; and what a lovely ankle! and so on, and so on; it might have been the Sosandra of Calamis he was complimenting, and not Thais; what she is really like, you know well enough. And how she insulted me, too! ‘If some one is not ashamed of her spindle-shanks,’ she said, ‘she will get up and dance now.’ Well, that is all, mammy; of course I did get up and dance. What was I to do? take it quietly and make her words seem true and let her be queen?
Mother. You are too touchy, my lass; you should have taken no notice. But go on.
Phi. Well, the others applauded, but Diphilus lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, till I was tired and gave up.
Mother. But what about kissing Lamprias? is that true? and going across and embracing him? Well, why don’t you speak? Those are things I cannot forgive.
Phi. I wanted to pay him out.
Mother. And then not sitting near him! singing while he was in tears! Think how poor we are, girl; you forget how much we have had from him, and what last winter would have been if Aphrodite had not sent him to us.
Phi. I dare say! and I am to let him outrage my feelings just for that?
Mother. Oh, be as angry as you like, but no tit for tat. You ought to know that if a lover’s feelings are outraged his love ends, and he finds out his folly. You have always been too hard on the lad; pull too tight, and the rope breaks, you know.
IV
Melitta. Bacchis
Me. Bacchis, don’t you know any of those old women — there are any number of them about, ‘Thessalians,’ they call them — they have incantations, you know, and they can make a man in love with you, no matter how much he hated you before? Do go and bring me one, there’s a dear! I’d give the clothes off my back, jewellery and all, to see Charinus here again, and to have him hate Simiche as he hates me at this moment.
Ba. Melitta! You mean to tell me that Charinus has gone off after Simiche, and that after making his people so angry because he wouldn’t marry the heiress, all for your sake? She was to have brought him five talents, so they said. I have not forgotten what you told me about that.
Me. Oh, that is all over now; I have not had a glimpse of him for the last five days. No; he and Simiche are with his friend Pammenes enjoying themselves.
Ba. Poor darling! But it can’t have been a trifle that drove him away: what was it all about?
Me. I don’t know exactly. All I can say is, that he came back the other day from Piraeus (his father had sent him there to collect some money), and wouldn’t even look at me! I ran to meet him, expecting him to take me in his arms, instead of which he pushed me away! ‘Go to Hermotimus the ship-owner,’ he said; ‘go and read what is written on the column in the Ceramicus; you will find your name there, and his.’ ‘Hermotimus? column? what do you mean?’ said I. But he would tell me nothing more; he went to bed without any dinner, and never gave me so much as a look. I tried everything: I lavished all my endearments on him, and did all I could to make him look at me. Not
hing would soften him: all he said was, ‘If you keep on bothering, I shall go away this minute, I don’t care what time it is.’
Ba. But you did know Hermotimus, I suppose?
Me. My dear, if I ever so much as heard of a Hermotimus who was a ship-owner, may I be more wretched than I am now! — Next morning, at cock-crow, Charinus got up, and went off. I remembered his saying something about my name being written up in the Ceramicus, so I sent Acis to have a look; and all she found was just this, chalked up close by the Dipylus, on the right as you come in: Melitta loves Hermotimus; and again a little lower down: Hermotimus the ship-owner loves Melitta.
Ba. Ah, mischievous boys! I see what it is! Some one must have written it up to tease Charinus, knowing how jealous he is. And he took it all in at once! I must speak to him if I see him anywhere. He is a mere child, quite unsophisticated.
Delphi Complete Works of Lucian Page 114