Dinner Pieces: A Translation of the Intercenales 0866980288, 9780866980289

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LEO N

B A T T IST A

A LBERTI

Dinner Pieces

A Translation of the Intercenales by DAVID MARSH

Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies In conjunction with

The Renaissance Society of America I I I N U I I A M T O N , NHW Y O K K

litLi;. Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these jewels and coins as an ollering. I fear envy. ap . Distribute this wealth among good men. N01U.P.. I don’t know how. ap Beware lest more than two eyes watch you. n o h i .k . That’s hardly possible.

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Make sure your peers are present.5 Difficult. a p . Then have no fear of being killed.6 p h i l o t i m u s .7 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these eulogies of you as an offering. [I wish to be praised. a p . Give others reason to praise you,- if you can't, then praise many others. d a n d y . Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring this trumpet as an offering. I wish to form many friendships. a p . Inscribe their names on the trumpet. Visit them often,- perform d a ily favors. j e a l o u s . Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring this bowl of tears as an offer­ ing. I want to forget my love affairs. a p . Wash your back with these tears.]8 j e a l o u s . It hurts to lose. a l o c h o c r a t u s .9 I bring this goat as an offering. I wish to have a chaste wife. a p . Never leave this goat alone or untied. Spit in no one's home but your own. Allow no cobwebs to grow in your house.10 l i b r i p e t a . 11 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these books as an offer­ ing. I wish to seem a man of letters. a p . Become one by reading night and day. Earn the praise of others; if they don't praise you, praise others. l i b r . I am weary; I would rather seem than he. a p . Then be a detractor of all men of letters. y p o l o c h u s . 12 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these hundred sheets as an offering. I strive to have a compliant wife. a p . When you go to her, cover your head with all these sheets. c e r t o p o r a . 13 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring this Pegasean horse as an offering. I strive to overcome my enemies. a p . As you fight, firmly bar your door; then greet or curse them from your window.14 Tire this horse in pursuit or flight. m e g a l o p h r o n u s .15 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these slaves as an offering. I am eager to become prosperous. a p . Each day free slaves, and enslave as many free m en.16 m e g . Difficult. a p . See that many either love or fear yo u .17 m e g . What if it is better to be feared?18 a p . Always seek revenge or strife.19 m e g . What if it is good to be loved? a p . Love. iiRAvnis,111 He gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these torches aflame with my sighs as an offering. I am burning to possess my beloved. ap Warm her breast with these torches. ap.

noble.

Frugality er as.

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I a m sp urn ed.

Persist. You'll gain more by sitting than by running. p h i l o d o x u s .21 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring this sword studded with jasper as an offering. I covet fame. a p . C u t harmful shoots with this sword. Polish the jasper. Wrestle with yourself and toil on mountain peaks. e t h i c o n o m u s .22 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring these heavy slippers of solid gold as an offering. I aspire to be prudent.23 a p . Wear these slippers as you run. Eat only tongues and eyes for ten years.24 d u l l a r d . Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. I bring this ivory staff as an offer­ ing. I seek to be cautious and astute. a p . In whatever you do, test the way first with this staff. In all affairs, doubt something. p e n u s .25 Be gracious, Apollo, I pray. Since I have nothing but words to bring as an offering, it is up to you, Apollo, to see that I can bring more than I just promised.26 If you make me rich, I w ill bring as an offering silver tripods and golden candelabra laden with emeralds. What is your answer? (Apollo is silent! Even the gods scorn the needy.) Yet I beseech you again and again, Apollo,- I cannot bear poverty.27 a p . Hang it from a tree, wretch. p e n u s . He bids me hang myself?28 I'm leaving. ap.

Frugality [Parsimonia] p e r i f r o n u s .1 I'm going outside to see if any friends pass by. The two peevish and sluggish old men who haven't come are keeping my guests waiting. But look, here's Micrologus.2 Greetings, friend. Where have you left our dear Philocerdus?3 m i c r o l o g u s . He'll be here presently. He told me to go ahead and join you, while he finishes a bit of business with some merchants from Rhodes. But what is the matter, Perifronus? Are you well? p e r . Why do you ask? m i c r . Is it true, as I just learned from your servant on the way here, that you've prepared a lavish and elegant dinner for us, your friends, and your household?

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As was proper. You mustn't think so. Anyone who is not fool and who cares for you would praise frugality between friends far more than such sumptuous extravagance. per . You've been killing me for a long time with your incessant sermons on frugality. In my opinion, it is the sign of a timorous or irresolute mind to postpone to the future one's present needs.5 m icr . I don't deny that. But I ask you one thing. Tell me, please: if some of your servants were scribes, some painters, some carpenters, some plowmen, some bookkeepers, some cooks, and some ditchdiggers, would you put them all to work at the same task, such as tilling the soil or carv­ ing bowls? per . O f course not. m icr . Then you would be wise to assign different servants to do those tasks for which they were better suited and trained? per . Yes, I'd set each his own task, unless it was not suited to his ability.6 m icr . I think that you should do the same with money, which must not be put only to one use or another. Rather, I believe that you ought to ap­ portion part of your money for books, part for food, 'and part for clothing, furnishings, or other household refinements, so that, when the moment arises, you w ill never lack funds for aiding friends and for meeting those needs that often arise in life. per . Well said. But tell me this. If you were setting forth on a journey abroad with several companions, would you always be the first to explore unfamiliar roads, or to seek out an innkeeper and bid him prepare dinner for those who follow? Would you choose to subject yourself to such troubles and worries? m icr . By no means. Rather, I would deem foolish and even mad anyone who acted thus. per . Exactly. It is the part of a wise man to complete the journey he has undertaken with pleasure and good cheer, and to lodge gratefully with any hosts which the time and place may provide. m icr . And rightly so. per . I think we must do the same in life. One ought not pry deep into the blind and unknown ways of fortune because he is continually plagued by fearful and vexatious suspicions. Nor should one cheat oneself of pre­ sent goods through fear of future harm. Unless I am mistaken, a wise man will face with cheer and pleasure whatever glad and sunny day fortune brings h im .7 What enemy, thief, or mishap can snatch from me the joyful and IcNtive days I enjoy? Unless I err, my dear Micrologus, the goods of fortune belong not so much to those who merely possess them, as to those who wisely pul them to the best use,8 In short, if I hear in mind that I may die per

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m icr .

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tomorrow, why should I plan even a year ahead? If I can't help myself, neither can my friends; or if they can, then m y need is sm all.9 But those who wish to become rich through our labors when we are gone should realize that they w ill gain more from their own industry than from our frugality. m i c r . I am reminded of what the ancient philosophers used to observe, namely, that some men live lavishly, as if they were soon to die, while others order their lives strictly and thriftily, as if they had bargained with the gods for eternal life. Both types deserve the scorn of prudent men. For my part, I would prefer that you err with me by looking to your future and that of your family .10 O f course, I don’t want you to live each sad day with a countenance full of worries, but I want you to observe a moderate and honorable plan of life. I therefore urge you repeatedly to take care that no day is less than pleasant and pleasurable, and that no luxury forces you to bear misfortune or hardship.11 You will find only one merit in prodigali­ ty: it thrusts men down from greatest wealth to poverty, so that, destitute and laid low, they learn to praise and embrace frugality when it is too late. I must not forget to mention something that you should hear in mind above all else. You were born not only for yourself, but also for your fam ily.12 As your children grow, so w ill the difficulties —neither minor nor infrequent—of the countless affairs which require your attention. You must plan for these needs and provide defenses against them. It behooves a wise man to reflect in all his thoughts that fortune is never favorable, just, or constant to anyone. p e r . I long ago devised a means of avoiding all such misfortunes easily. When I learn that we are expecting a daughter, I immediately plant three hundred lumber trees at the edge of my land. In fifteen years, these will have grown to supply a large dowry for the girl —if the gods are willing, ior it is said that we can do nothing against their w ill. But as her greatest and noblest dowry, our daughter will learn chastity from her parents. As for my sons, I shall leave them an abundant knowledge of virtue and liberal learning as their greatest and securest inheritance. I have so armed and forlified myself against fortune's violent attacks, that I fear no misfortunes. I would have you know that nothing can make me a poor man. m i c r . What you say amazes me. p e r . If you hear me and heed me, you w ill know how to enjoy abundant wealth forever. m i c r . There is nothing I desire more from you. p e r . Then be extremely frugal. m i c r . What's this? p e r . I don't mean frugal with possessions, but frugal in your wants and desires. The man who desires few things will never lack them. But here's I’hilocerdus. Let's go in, then, to join our guests.

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The C o ck [Gallus] Among some poultry-cocks who were kept shut up in a coop, there was one who rejected all the feed and pellets offered him and therefore lay ut­ terly exhausted by emaciation and gloom. When his companions in the cage asked him why he was killing himself by fasting amid such abundance, he replied that he did so both deliberately and w isely.1 For those who in­ dulged their pleasures were especially mad, since they failed to see that by so doing they hastened their own death and destruction. It was obvious that such abundant feed was provided solely in order to fatten them quick­ ly for slaughter. Now , when the head of the household saw how this cock was always practically wasted away with starvation and faintness, he feared that the cause was a contagious disease which might harm the other fowls. So he threw the infirm cock into a thicket of brambles and sedge, where a ravenous wolf instantly devoured him . They say that amid his laments the cast-out cock bitterly reproached himself and suffered great anguish: for he had led a wretched and indigent life in the midst of great abundance, only to end his days, after a life of perpetual misery, in an ignoble death. And they add, surprisingly, that the cock wished that his death had nourished a man rather than a foul and savage beast. Some citizens of our city will perhaps not deny that this fable applies to them .2

Soothsaying 1 [Vaticinium] x r r x e s . What manners! What a worthy and modest city! Indeed, churls, has your impudence taught you to demand everything you desire? I beg you again: leave at least a little space before the door. And you, decrepit astrologer, sit down inside where the mob can't crush you. I'll stand in the doorway and describe people's appearance and features, which you can discern luit poorly because of your defective vision.

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a s t r o l o g e r . Good idea. I'll sit here. But admit our customers on one con­ dition. Whether good or bad, they must regard my predictions as coming from the stars, not from me. x e r . Fine. I'll cry out. Hark, citizens! If you desire to learn your fate, come forth. You won't regret having consulted our divine astrologer. p h i l a r g i r i u s .2 Here I am. f a c t i o p o r a .3 And here I am. x e r . Form a single line. In that way, all w ill be satisfied without crowding and confusion. Hear me again, citizens! I forgot something. I'll cry out. Hark, citizens! Whoever wants his fortune told, must pay a gold coin. You there, where are you going, after you rushed in here in such a hurry before the others?4 p h i l . I won't be gone long.5 f a c t . Let the wretch go. Keep me, and take my gold. x e r . Concentrate, astrologer. This man who has offered us gold has a kite's eyes, a goat's throat, and a monkey's nose, and he has a wrinkled brow, a sagging neck, and a narrow chest. His one shoulder is raised toward his head while the other sinks toward his chest, and his complexion is ashen. Gan you picture the man I have described? a s t r . Anyone who instantly reads men's minds or guesses their desires from a single word or feature is altogether too clever. f a c t . Yet that's exactly the case. No one is more wretched than that fellow I’hilargirius. a s t r . Besides, you'll be stubborn. f a c t . Are you making fun of me? Are you mocking me? a s t r . You show yourself too mistrustful. f a c t . Return my money. Enough prophecy! You've satisfied m e.6 a s t r . This fellow must be fastidious if he's so suddenly satisfied. You t here, if you can control yourself, sit down. We must conduct our business by orderly turns. When I have the chance, I'll unfold all your destiny and omit nothing. f a c t . Do you think I fell for your game?7 But I'll sit down. It's best to Immor those from whom you desire something. x f . r . Citizens, please make way for an instant while this man comes up here. Now I commend your courtesy. a s o t u s .8 Take this. Speak. x f . r . How generous, astrologer! The latest arrival has tossed in my lap 1wo gold coins fresh from the mint. a s o t . In fact, by such generosity I know how to win favors even from obstinate and envious men. Now then, if you want to avoid trouble, you must predict everything about me in detail. xf.r . Ha! ha! ha! How charming! a s t r . Who is this Insolent and overbearing man? Describe his appearance

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x e r . His neck is short, his shoulders thrown back, his forehead swollen, his cheeks rouged, and his belly thrust forward.9 a s t r . His complexion? x e r . Like someone blowing on a hearth. a s t r . Give me his hand. x e r . Here it is. a s t r . What's this? x e r . Knuckle-bones, dice, and writing-tablets.10 a s t r . Read the tablets. x e r . I shall. a s t r . Loudly, so that I can hear. a s o t . Indeed, let all hear it. I have never striven to conceal my love affairs. x e r . I'll do as you say, astrologer. Citizens, listen carefully as I read this tablet. "Asotus send greetings to Bacchis.11 Although I am grieved to learn from your cruelty to me that you prefer your other suitors, yet I shall never, my sweet, have other feelings for you, my darling. For when I recall our pleasures together, my delight, I am tormented, my dearest.” 12 a s t r . Enough. This fellow w ill never be free of sickness, but w ill forever suffer pains and diseases.13 a s o t . Never mind, astrologer. When I am sick, I'll pay for doctors. Come, tell me about empires and excellent things: what is in store for me? a s t r . Fool, do you look for empires, when you reek of taverns and inns? You'll go begging! a s o t . M ay the gods ruin you! I would rather have drunk up m y gold with Bacchis. I'll go to see her.14 x e r . Next in line, approach!15 p h i l a r g i r i u s . I was here before. Take this gold. f a c t i o p o r a . I'll try again, and throw them another two gold coins. Here, take them, and see that he does not precede me. I've decided to waste my money, so long as he can't boast being preferred to me. x e r . Well, astrologer, the man whom you bade wait, and whose ap­ pearance I described to you, has handed us another two gold pieces. a s t r . Is there anyone more envious? But you've got his gold? x e r . I do. a s t r . Keep it. f a c t i o p o r a . Proceed. x e r . We must drive away this nuisance. a s t r . I'll see to it. You there, reprobate! I predict that you w ill always be tormented by grievous worries. You’ll have no faithful friends, and everyone will hate you. Have you understood?16 What's more, your dishonesty or, rather, your fury and frenzy will utterly destroy you. f a c t . Shameless glutton! You publie scoundrels, is this how you cheat me? Give me hack the coins you swindled.

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x e r . What, should I unwillingly return what you willingly contracted to give? Not for the world! f a c t . You'll be summoned to court. a s t r . O mighty one, since you have learned to harass mighty citizens with your lawsuits, and to pervert and corrupt all the courts, do you threaten us, the weak and utterly humble? Your enterprise w ill not succeed, knave. f a c t . Still, I'll go to see the judges. Then you'll find that you're dealing with a sober and honest man, and are charged not only with extortion, but with theft and personal affront as well. x e r . He's gone off in anger. a s t r . The last thing real men have to fear from such fellows is what they threaten in public. For just as the flames of their anger are ignited by the slightest spark of indignation, so they are extinguished by the slightest reason. x e r . Next in line, approach!17 But what's this, astrologer? Our crowd of customers is dwindling, and virtually no one is stepping forward. That man hurt our business with his brawling and insults. PHIL. Here I am, I say, offering gold.18 x e r . The others offer three coins, but you offer only one, and counterfeit at that? p h i l . By those holy and pious powers you worship for revealing your wonderful prophecies, and by all the gods in heaven and hell, I beg and beseech you, most wise and sagacious astrologer: tell me with confidence whatever you know concerning m e .19 For the moment, give no thought to money; on another occasion I shall show you how grateful and generous I can be. xer . Whoever desires the services of this divine man must offer gold, not words. a s t r . Besides, it is extremely difficult, arduous, and even somewhat dangerous, to reveal everything you know.20 If you don't offer empires, you will be cursed. If you speak your mind freely, it is taken as an affront. In short, when favors are owed, many prayers are offered, and where you would expect thanks, you are repaid in envy and hatred. mu,. By the faith and complete trust I place in you, my dear fellow, I heg you to have no such fears of me. M y character and entire way of life have always been peaceable, innocent, and completely modest.21 So do not think that anything could come between us which would occasion any anger. xi n. What then, astrologer? Shall we go, since this fellow only offers us words?22 mu.. All right, I'll give you gold as you said. For one must be faithful and constant in his words. It wouldn't be right to change our agreement from one minute to the nextT 1

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If our terms are agreed, give us the gold. What then? Do you scorn one who offers gold? Here, take my m oney.24 x e r . No. p h i l . I don't commend your attitude of disparaging gold, as some may do who have not learned what great toils and cares are needed to earn it. In my opinion, anyone who disdains making money is heedless and indolent in all his affairs. x e r . You philosophize in vain. Do you know what you w ill achieve by such words?25 p h i l . I know well that you are excellent men. x e r . You're perfectly right. But do you know what effect your words have on us? p h i l . What is that? x e r . You d e a fe n us. p h i l . Practice the humanity and good-nature which you seem to possess most of all.26 x e r . Here you are. p h i l . I'm getting nowhere. If only you knew who I am!27 x e r . G et up, astrologer. I shall go inside, while we adopt another plan. This fellow is hounding me. p h i l . Wait, I say, wait! x e r . Draw forth, squeeze out, wring out, and press forth some pure and genuine gold coins from that greasy and rotting purse of yours.28 p h i l . Ha! ha! ha! Is that how you order me, charming fellow? But I com ply.29 Scratch out one of my eyes if you find I have any other coins. x e r . You have sworn? p h i l . I swear. x e r . Ha, liar! What is that bulging in the purse at your side? p h i l . Ha! ha! ha! M y clever friend, what do you think is there? You're far luckier today than I would wish. Somehow, when I rummaged through everything, to my surprise I finally found another gold philip, and a dazzl­ ing one at that.30 So ask him now. Any other coins I have left are foreign and useless. x e r . You’ve spoken the truth. For any money that belongs to misers and niggards like you is useless and bothersome. p h i l . Do you think it contributes little to virtue? W ill you judge a man less than prudent who lives by minding his expenses and practicing frugality? xnw, Wc haven't time for an argument. And even if you argue, I shall not grant that avarice should he called frugality." xer.

p h il .

mil What do you think In wrong with me? When my mind In Net on some apprtlle or dcNlre, I Iccl an urge to Npendj or when I have made a decision,

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I run or rush to satisfy myself. Here, take three gold coins.32 I give them gladly and willingly. Now tell me what you think. x e r . I’ve been observing you for a while, but although I search m y memory, I still can't remember ever seeing anyone who was insaner. p h i l . Do you enjoy jesting with me as if we were friends? I give you three gold pieces. x e r . Absolutely not. p h i l . Then someone offering more than the others and more than you asked is spurned and rejected? x e r . It's only fair. You've been stingier than the others. p h i l . Won't you permit me, after all, to obtain this favor and kindness from you? I'll dig another coin out of my very bones. O , wretched me! This much gold would have paid for six months' food. Permit me at last, I beg you. a s t r . We'll permit you, if you’ll add to these coins four times their worth. x e r . Let's not refuse him, astrologer, but profit from our character and generosity. We must be kind to this fellow, who would more gladly pay out an eye than a coin. You'd take pity if you saw how he mutters, pales, and falters as he counts his money. p h i l . Indeed. a s t r . Be quiet.33 I prefer anything to words. xer . Now he offers four gold coins, which he has rubbed in his hands four times one thousand one hundred twenty-eight times. a s t r . What is the total? p h i l . I beg you, my friends, now that you have my money, not to delay any longer. I'm expected in court. a s t r . I can't quadruple such a large number, but I'm not far from the roots of the cube. Yet first we must discuss the diameter.34 p h i l . Wretched me! They extorted four gold coins from me, and now lliey’rc making fun of m e.35 xer . You may go join your friends now, so that they w ill not miss your help. When you return, you'll find the astrologer in a better mood for your rase. You see how the fellow is intent on this computation, and he often loses his temper when interrupted in the midst of such calculations. I'm advising you as a friend. If I were you, I'd go away. a s t r . Has he left? xer. He hasn't left. He stands with his mouth gaping and his eyes sunken. II Is gaze is fixed on these coins, his forehead gloomy, his eyebrows raised, Ills heard bristling, and his chest caved in. Please speak out, astrologer, so dial we may dismiss this crowd. a s t r . He w i l l die o f hunger. xer I'd rather he died of thirst. Farewell, spectators. Laugh at such behavior!M’

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Poverty [Paupertas] p e n i p l u s i u s .1 Can you treat me as if I might find your behavior unpleas­ ant or unwelcome, when I have been your close friend for so long?2 In my opinion, we should condemn all prevarication and flattery between friends. I for one take great delight in offering openly and freely the candor, good­ will, advice, and other things which serve to promote, protect, and preserve friendship.3 So if you know of anything that would make me better able to maintain and enhance our friendship, and become a closer friend, please tell me what you wish of m e.4 p a l e t e r u s .5 I know nothing I might say to strengthen or reinforce our mutual affection, but there is one thing I feel duty-bound not to conceal from you. A number of worthy men who are well-disposed toward you, hav­ ing learned of m y trust and affection for you, have asked me to assume the task of defending your honor. Knowing your modest nature, I approached the task confidently. For I am certain that you will not resent if I do what is necessary to increase and advance your renown.6 M y dear Peniplusius, I shall state the case as briefly as possible. Let me first remind you that you are in the public eye no less than other prominent men. Your character and behavior are closely scrutinized, and even details you may think trivial are not considered unimportant by the masses. You must reflect that, like other good citizens, you are often the subject of both public and private discussions. Now, in every conversation I have heard, all highly praise and admire your singular virtue. Yet one thing seems almost to detract from your praises. They say that common opinion regards you as too severely and strictly frugal. Consider how dismayed your true friends are, when they hear that the masses brand you thus. Hence, they asked me to warn you not to give your detractors even the least occasion to reproach you. You know how it befits a wise man to consider all things in winning and keep­ ing his good nam e.7 And if there is anyone who ought to care for his good name, surely you, who are noble and high-minded, and have been liberally educated from your youth, should take especial care that all your efforts, actions, and endeavors, all your thoughts, spirit, and resolves, seem to pro­ mote your reputation for virtue. p e n . I'm grateful to you for looking after my name and reputation, and in the future I shall every day do my best to seem worthy of praise. Yet as long (in I harm no one, I believe that detractors arc scarcely to be feared, and that the lodgment of the maNNCN, while not to he despised, should not he valued so highly that their censures dictate one's private and personal

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way of life. However, you'll find no man's reputation so certain and secure that it can escape being completely undermined by gossip, especially by the detractions of the envious. p a l . W ell said. I too have never paid the least attention to what vicious and wicked men say. Yet I do my best not to offer scoundrels the least op­ portunity of slandering m e.8 For I think that the wise man is obliged to avoid harming anyone, so that everyone will justly come to love and revere him, no one w ill reproach him , and all w ill praise his words and deeds. As your dutiful friend, I must not fail to tell you that I clearly see some who do not censure your behavior, as detractors do, but who diligently allude in discussion to many things which, if you admit were deliberate, w ill cer­ tainly cause you to be suspected of avarice. Even if these things happen without your knowledge, you w ill still do well, I think, to be aware henceforth of anything the masses might lay to your blame. Consider what t he public must think when they behold a prominent man's family clothed with insufficient decency, his horses neglected, and the master himself attired with insufficient dignity —in short, the entire house less sumptuous and elegant than it was in previous generations and than public customs and standards require. Please bear in mind that I speak as a dutiful friend. p e n . In fact, I am grateful to you for acting as my friend. But know that I am remiss in nothing which I regard as affecting my reputation and dignil y . I believe I know my duty, and I daresay that there is no vice from which I am more remote than avarice. You'll see that this is the case if you call to mind m y forebears, whose exceptional fortune you have witnessed. Com ­ pare me and my household to them, and all our way of life to theirs. Although my fortunes are scantier, don't I raise more horses, and feed a larger household? Don't I personally entertain more guests daily than all of them used to? What is my point? I call the gods to witness: if I hadn't been aided by you and my other friends, I would have been virtually ruined more than once. If I owe you money, it is for these very expenses. And yet if anyone gladly faced such debts with a cheerful face and heart, as I do, would you lodge him a miser or a spendthrift? p a l . I would praise more highly the man who drew from his revenues lo meet his expenses. p e n . In this entire question, I would have you think that a reputation of wealth enhances our dignity and esteem, and that we must completely shun l he very name of poverty.9 For hand in hand with an indigent condition, there goes a reputation for instability, impudence, audacity, crimes and vices which are condemned by everyone's suspicions and rumors. If someone has committed a theft, it is thought that the pauper was driven to the deed by necessity. If a pauper inadvertently errs, it is attributed to his baseness. If lie swears, no one heeds himj but no one believes him If lie swears no oath

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He is excluded from friendships, and driven from the intimate and habitual familiarity of other citizens. In short, he leads a life burdensome both to himself and to his acquaintances, and filled with every sort of hardship. In addition to this misery, a pauper can possess no virtue so great that it lends him even the least prestige or dignity. He walks about in gloom, unwelcome, suspect, abject, and derided. The circumstances of poverty make his life bitter, and bring him disgrace and ignominy. Is there anyone who dares not rebuke, ruin, and injure a pauper? Yet the pauper must suf­ fer all arrogant men mildly, humbly, and sadly, and must revere all rich men as his masters.10 He can do nothing as he wishes. He laughs, speaks, is silent, or weeps at the w ill and whim of others. Need I say more? In sum, I believe that all the gods and men detest poverty. By contrast, anyone who is thought rich may safely contend, and decently petition. His authority makes him strong, and his influence powerful. He is thronged by well-wishers, and lacks neither clients nor friends who ap­ plaud, praise, and amuse him. Thus, it clearly behooves great men to be considered misers rather than paupers.11 I won't deny that spendthrifts detest avarice, but they detest poverty more.12 Honest men often disparage avarice, but on occasion they may perhaps praise it as a sort of frugality. You will find many good men, moreover, who would never agree with Plato or any other philosopher who praises poverty.13 A miser's enemies may censure him, but they do so sparingly, for a sharp-tongued slanderer can­ not with impunity vex a man armed with gold. Is there anyone so insolent that he would not fear a rich man's anger —even a miser's—more than he would detest the vice of avarice? For it is easy to find a miser who could be generous in mining a detractor, and fear will silence an aggressive tongue. Now, if anyone who minds the affairs of others more than his own will heap curses on a miser, and if all are free to harm a pauper, the miser will hear only words, but the pauper w ill bear blow s.14 p a l . I don't think one can deny that poverty is quite harmful, but what would you do if someone acted that way? I ask you: could you support your family more lavishly or liberally? If you can, but don't wish to, you neglect your duty. If you wish to, but can't, why don't you forego the luxury and ostentation of maintaining servants and attendants beyond your means? Can you doubt that a small but well-furnished household is preferable to one that is populous but squalid? What do you say to this? Tell me, please, for your reasons will aid me in clearing your name completely with the masses. pun . 1would say to them whatever the occasion seemed to require. Above all, 1would be quite careful not to diminish the popular belief in my wealth. There arc many who esteem, revere, and love me. But if they sensed that my fortunes were cramped, meagre, and unproductive, or If they suspected that my friendship would prove less advantageous than they Imped, could

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they find anything more despicable than me? I have never sought to hide any of my private affairs from you .15 Now if you are led by truth and rea­ son, rather than by public opinion, to regard me as inclined to avarice, then I suppose by your reasoning you would argue that a man is hardly free from this vice if he fails to bestow his goods freely, gladly, and generously on needy friends and relations. Or perhaps you will accuse me of being com­ pletely dominated by an excessive desire for profit and gain. For the men who discuss such matters assert that avarice consists principally in such faults as these, and they likewise consider it a vice to be immoderate by giving too little and by wanting too m uch. But you have long known that I have nothing to do with base arts of money-making.16 Indeed, when I ask you a favor, you often reproach me for being too timid in making requests of friends, and too reckless and generous in granting requests. If this is so, how can you listen to those who charge me with avarice? Perhaps I should also finally clear myself of charges of ambition and in­ consistency, since I admit that only an immoderate and imprudent man chooses to introduce into his home ostentation which is beyond his m e­ ans. In this matter, I may suitably employ you both as my advocate and as my judge. For since in other matters you have never thought me fool­ ish, you w ill not hesitate, I think, to declare me quite prudent in this mat­ ter as well, even though I am not as capable as you might wish of defending my actions from envious detractors.17 In m y opinion, a householder is sufficiently prudent if, by ruling decorously and providing necessities, he manages his house so that he is clearly loved by his entire household. You know my family's feelings for me, and how they cherish and love me. I there­ fore believe that my family's affection brings sufficient honor and distinct ion to our house. And sufficiently splendid, I maintain, is a home in which all enjoy the master's humanity, affability, and favor. So let the envious cease to deride me as harsh and tight-fisted. And let others cease to dis­ parage my reputation by their slanders, unless perhaps they think tapesl ries, amulets, and medals more valuable than virtues in winning praise.18 p a l . By the gods, there is nothing I wished more than that such excellent and elegant reasons had occurred to me when I spoke with those who ac­ cuse you of avarice.19 I could have shown myself very eloquent by enlarg­ ing on those points which you have touched upon so briefly and summarily. ri'.N. I wouldn't wish you to. p a l . Why not? p u n . It would do no good. p a l . Why, what do you mean?20 p u n . Because diminishing my reputation for wealth would cause me more damage and detriment than would tolerating vague rumors of my avarice. p a l . If that is your view, let us think of arguments by which you may pro­ tect the belief in your wealth and absolve yourself of the stigma of avarice.11

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p e n . Please listen to me. I know that all good men attend to their own affairs, and take no pains to make mine worse by their gossip. As for w ick­ ed men and those who censure everything for the pleasure of detraction, I pay them no mind. It is enough that my cause is sufficiently justified before an honest man like you. And even if I cannot ultimately avoid a reputation for avarice, I shall not yield. Countless reasons, which it would be tedious to recount, urge and advise me to adopt this resolve and to persist in it. I would have you know clearly that I have on occasion debated this ques­ tion with myself, namely, whether it is better to seem a miser or a pauper. Finally, having thoroughly and carefully examined every aspect of the ques­ tion, I have been led to embrace one conclusion, from which no one can shake me. I would rather be thought a miser than a thief, pander, or traitor, since all such vices and crimes are inextricably associated with poverty.22 Hence, leaving aside its other ill effects, I think a wise man should not tolerate even the least suspicion of poverty. But to comply with your wishes and desires, I shall do my best to see that everyone perceives that I am a frugal man.

The C o in 1 [Nummus] Nearly all the most erudite and sagacious priests in the entire world once convened for a holiday and solemn gathering at Delphi during the first Olym piad, when fewer but more learned men were initiated than are in the present age.2 They held many varied and subtle discussions concern­ ing the gods and religious matters which they conducted with the highest dignity and which aroused the wonder of their audience. O f all these, by far the worthiest of record for posterity arose when they engaged in this difficult and recondite dispute, namely, which god should priests worship above all others?3 It would be tedious to recount the arguments by which some advocated Venus, some Hypocrisy, and some Bacchus, as the foremost god. In the debate, each priest strove to assert and defend his own view not only with eloquence and rhetoric, but also with shameless insults. Soon, in the zeal of their factions, the question grew into serious contention. In order to resolve the controversy suitably, the priests decided to consult the god Apollo, having first established the condition that henceforth it would

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be sinful for priests to worship as foremost any god but the one Apollo named. When Apollo was consulted, he was silent for a day. The priests inter­ preted his silence to mean that he had taken time to ponder this ambiguous and problematic question. Asked again on the second day, Apollo still re­ mained silent. This confirmed the priests' belief that he had withdrawn in order to examine this obscure and intricate matter, and had repaired to the council of the gods to take counsel.4 On the following day, the priests were driven by an intense desire to learn the gods' decision. So, to propitiate the silent oracle with an offering, they made their greatest sacrifice, which they called the hecatomb, according to the number of cattle.5 When the sacrifice had been carried out most scrupulously, they received the god's oracle. Apollo's oracle Old men in brow, yet boys importunate in prayers and spirit, Tomorrow's light w ill show the god you seek upon the altar.6 I laving received the oracle, the priests went to the god's shrine the next morning, filled with keen anticipation. But in the place indicated by the oiaclc, they found no written word, and heard no utterance from the god.7 The priests' sad expressions and their silence betrayed their disappointment. They were quite inclined to believe that the oracle's pronouncement meant 1hat priests should think there is no god.8 While they looked at each other downcast and silent in their bewilderment, Monopus, the oldest and shrewdest of the priests, looked at the tripod and said: "What, idle blockheads, don't you see how neatly and aptly the god's oracle has been iccordcd?"9 For in the middle of the altar, there happened to be a coin. It would be difficult to describe how happily the priests all ran forward at once on learning this, and how eagerly each of them swore that money would lorcver be his supreme and sovereign god.10 Either because they revere the ancient and holy law of their forebears, or because they heartily approve 1lie god's pronouncement in this sacred matter, priests value this oath so highly that) even to the present day, no priest has incurred even the slightest miNpicion of perjury in this regard.11

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Pluto [Pluto] They say that when Hercules died and first ascended into heaven as a god, he greeted as friends all of the gods whom great Jupiter sent to meet him, except Pluto.1 Pluto alone, hastening with the others to congratulate Hercules, was driven away with scowls and scorn like a foul and filthy vaga­ bond. When Hercules was asked why he did this, he replied that could not patiently tolerate in the society of gods one whom, during his travels across the earth, he had only seen as a close friend of the most slothful and in­ dolent men. Pluto, they say, smiled at this and admonished Hercules to recall that he and all the other gods received their great temples and golden tributes from the close friends of Pluto.2

Wealth [Divitiae] M y grandfather, Benedetto Alberti, a Florentine knight noted for his fine character and virtue, had been driven into exile by seditious citizens, and lay on his death bed on the island of Rhodes.1 Urged by his friends to draw up a w ill, he asked them what things they wished him to include in it. His friends replied: "Your own, Benedetto, for no one doubts that you are the richest man in Tuscany.” He said: "I assure you that there is nothing of which I am more ignorant and unaware. As for those things which I suppose you mean, I scarcely know now what is mine. But in my youth, I labored many years under such an error, and imprudently deemed mine those things which are popularly thought to belong to a person. I followed the common usage of my fellowcitizens, and called them m y estates, m y property, and m y wealth, as peo­ ple do.” "But weren’t they yourN?" his friends asked. "No," my grandfather replied, "liven more surprisingly, I have long realized that even litis body which confines me was never teally mine I'm I recall

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how against my w ill these members were always subject to cold, to heat, or to various pains, and how they hindered and opposed my nobler inten­ tions and desires.2 I recall how this body continually suffered hunger, thirst, and other such harsh and savage masters.3 And I perceive how in a single day fortune, mistress of our affairs, has snatched from me all my wealth and goods and even my homeland, and has driven me into exile. What, then, dare I call mine, either past or present? “Now, wealth in human life is like a game with a ball. For it is not holding the ball in your hands a long time, but throwing it with skill and returning it accurately, that helps you win the victory. Just so, I judge that it is not the possession but the use of wealth that contributes to happiness.4 And as for myself, I admit that I have virtually nothing left that I may especial­ ly call m ine, except the knowledge of my deeds and the recollection of what I suffered in life.51wish, therefore, to leave my heirs this sole inheritance. They may claim that, above all others in our city, I was the most devoted to my country, and the most desirous of peace, tranquillity, and freedom; that I was by no means ignorant of liberal studies, letters, and arts; and that I defended the public weal with great vigilance and faith, and was always content with my private estate.6 Let these deeds of mine pass to my heirs."7

B O O K

T H R E E

Paintings [Picture] In the land of the gymnosophists, the very ancient philosophers celebrated for their pursuit of virtue and their renown for wisdom, they say there was a temple dedicated to Good and 111 Fortune, which was filled with a vast quantity of ornaments and variety of riches.1 Its intercolumniations, capitals, architraves, pediments, and basins, carved in Parian marble and in stone from the remotest mountains of India and Arabia, were all wonder­ ful in number, size, and workmanship.2 Its vases, candelabra, tripods, caldrons, and other such articles set out for sacrifices, were likewise numerous and beautiful, and splendidly adorned with gold and gems. But let us leave these aside, for even more rare and worthy of record were the subjects which they say were painted with wonderful skill on opposite walls of the temple. The reader will not only delight in the paintings' variety and the artist's invention, but w ill be grateful, I believe, when he finds in our work pleasing and enjoyable counsels for living wisely.3 The paintings were as follows. On the temple's right-hand wall were ten paintings, to which there corresponded another ten paintings on the lefthand wall. The paintings were arranged in this way. On the right-hand wall, the paintings formed a symmetrical line, five of them extending in each direction from the middle to the far side. The paintings on the opposite wall were placed in the same manner, so that the balanced surfaces and intervals greatly enhanced the grace and beauty of the temple. In the mid­ dle of each wall there was this inscription: "From these two mothers sprang the progeny on both sides." I shall begin with the left-hand wall, so that this Dinner Piece ends more auspiciously. O f the two mothers placed in the middle, the first was depicted as a decrepit and hunch-backed crone with a pallid face, bleary eyes, and thick brows. She straddles a ten-foot rule, which she holds with one hand, like a boy riding a hobby-horse, while in the other she holds a plumb-line. On her neck, she carries a suvage ape who tenrN her hair, cheeks, and ears with his nails and teeth. Above this woman Is written the name: F.nvy, mother In the second place Is painted a woman with an emaciated lace

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and a sly expression suggestive of deceitful speech. She is covered by a net, and breathes flames from her mouth. She holds out flowers in one hand, while she sows thistles with the other. Above her is written: Calum ny, daughter of Envy. In the third place is painted a woman who clenches her fists and contracts all her muscles, while flames burst here and there from her obscenely swollen belly and head. Above her is written: Indignation, the daughter of Calum ny. In the fourth place is painted a woman with tur­ bulent face and eyes, who stands erect with her neck raised high. W ith one of her hands, she points a sword toward the sky, while she holds a broken sundial in the other, and drags a rock tied by a chain to her foot.4 Above her is written: Enmity, daughter of Indignation. In the fifth place is painted a weeping naked woman. She catches the falling tears in her open palms, but they flow so abundantly that they spill from her palms in a constant stream and drench her feet.5 Above her is written: Misery, daughter of Enmity. On the other side of the wall, in the first place is painted a woman with a haughty brow, swelling breast, and insolent mien. Dressed in regal garments, she blows into a broken trumpet, which curves back toward her lace and poms murky smoke in her eyes. W ith her other hand, she points a finger at jewels and golden vases encrusted with reliefs, which have been cast on the ground. By her is written: Ambition, mother. In the next place is painted a woman of towering build, dressed in petitions and contracts. In one hand, she wields several wooden hooks and bent urn-handles, while with the palm of the other, she shades and protects her eyes from the rays of light, as if sighting something she recognizes at a great distance. By her is written: Contention, daughter of Ambition. In the third place is painted a woman who, from the thigh down, is not human but goat-like, and who has the snout and teeth of a dog. In one hand, she brandishes a torch; with t he other, she places on her head a crown made of wasps and hornets. Above her is written: Injury, daughter of Contention. In the fourth place is painted a woman firmly rooted from the knees in a rock. Having severed one of her arms at the shoulder, she wields it as a club. Above her is written: Vengeance. In the fifth place is painted a woman dressed in sordid mournIng weeds and seated on a rock in the sea. W ith both hands, she scratches and tears the back of her head. Above her is written: Calam ity, daughter of Vengeance. These two groups of five figures which I have described were painted on the left-hand wall. ( )n the right-hand wall, five painted images of women, grouped in the same pattern, correspond singly to each of five others. In the first place near 1 lie center of the wall is painted a beautiful woman in a Coan garment, her hair skilfully braided and wondrously arranged/’ With one hand, she presses her mouth, while with the other, she clutches her rohe to her thigh, wrapping her private parts in Its folds, and gazes at Iter husnm with pen

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sive and downcast eyes.7 Above her is written: Modesty, mother. In the next place is painted a woman with a cheerful and festive look and lively eyes, whose gown, being untied and bound by no clasps, is open at the bosom, and completely filled with flowers. Wearing golden sandals, she treads on sharp twigs that rise from the pavement, crushing them and smil­ ing as she does so.8 Above her is written: Peace of M ind. In the third place is painted a woman wearing a gown which is girt up and padded, and winged sandals. With a knife, she cuts the golden thorn-bushes around her, while with her foot, she clears the prunings from the threshing-floor, making it wider. Above her is written: Cultivation of Virtue, daughter of Peace of M ind. In the fourth place is painted a tall woman, practically an amazon, with winged temples, and unbound hair that undulates in the breeze. Holding a trumpet encrusted with reliefs and gems, she blows into it, and innumerable garlands flow forth. Her whole body is laden and wreathed with garlands. Above her is written: Praise, daughter of Cultivation of Vir­ tue. In the fifth place is painted a golden human shadow, to whom candelabra and divine ornaments have been set out on an altar. Above the figure is written: Immortality, daughter of Praise. O n the other side of the wall, another five painted figures follow. In the first place, there is painted an extraordinary image of a woman, around whose neck are gathered various faces, young, old, happy, sad, joyful, serious, and so forth. Numerous hands extend from her shoulders, some holding pens, others lyres, some a polished gem, others a painted or carved emblem, some various mathematical instruments, and others books.9 Above her is written: Hum anity, mother. In the second place is painted the likeness of a beautiful woman. With one hand, she counts coins into a Samian vase, while with the other she turns the soil with a hoe.10 Next to her is written: Beneficence, daughter of Hum anity. In the third place is painted a naked woman. Instead of a heart, a mirror clings to her breast, and, instead of a mirror, she holds a human heart before her. In the heart appears the likeness of a mirror, and in the mirror on her breast appears the likeness of the entire woman. Above her is written: Benevolence, daughter of Beneficence. In the fourth space is painted a woman whose splendid health is evident in the color and vigor of her face and in the en­ tire appearance of her body. She is building a temple and beautiful altar from all kinds of seeds and ears of grain, and from an abundant variety of berries and fruits. By her is written: Peace, daughter of Benevolence. In the fifth place is the painted image of a woman with a solemn and mature face. For a couch, she lies on a neatly piled little bundle, and she reclines in a flowery meadow, in the midst of a multitude of books, worshipping the Nun with uplifted eyes and downturncd hands. Above her is written: Hap­ piness, daughter of Peace,

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By these paintings, unless we err, we have offered our readers some pleasure and some counsel for living well and happily. Having achieved this, we have reaped the greatest and most desired reward for our studies. Scholars, applaud!

Flowers [Flores] When God the greatest and best first created the world, Phoebus was assigned the task of allotting to each created thing its season for coming forth.1 So Phoebus divided everything into years, and each year into spring, summer, autumn, and winter. He bade all things come forth only in their season, and he warned them to attempt nothing unseasonably. Thus, flowers and foliage were given spring, harvest chose summer, new wine took autumn, and snow and ice were pushed back to winter. A ll things ap­ proved his allotment. But between the flowers and the foliage there arose a great quarrel, which has hardly subsided even today. Both of them vigorously contended for the glory and prestige of being the first to adorn the spring with beauty.2 The flowers were tremendously haughty and over­ weening on account of the excellence and nobility of their line. It is hard to describe how they intrigued to persuade Phoebus to give them the privilege of appearing first. At last, overcome by the persistent urgings of the flowers, Phoebus gave in, saying: "Beware lest your immense desire lor glory cause you more harm than honor.” The flowers, burning to win glory, paid him little heed. As soon as they saw spring approaching, they swiftly raced one another in bursting out of their swelling buds. But not without harm: for as soon as the winds, on which spring was borne, began 11>sport wantonly throughout their gardens, the flowers suffered widespread destruction. Viewing the devastation from above, they cursed all their striv­ ings for glory. They wished they had yielded to the stronger boughs that could resist the winds’ aggression, and, almost too late, they secured the alliance of the boughs in order to withstand the onslaught of the w inds.'

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D iscoid [Discordia] Is that you, Mercury? Yes. Greetings, Argos. When I looked down from Olympus and saw you sitting atop this high mountain near Fiesole, I flew down at once. Tell me, did you find the goddess Justice, whom at Jupiter’s bidding I ordered you to find and bring to him? a r g o s . In m y search for the goddess, I neglected no people anywhere. I searched, tracked, questioned, and inquired everywhere. At last, I came to the beautiful city which you see at the foot of these mountains, for I believed that the goddess delighted in sumptuous and magnificent dwellings.1 But there is not the least trace of her here. Indeed, there is no mortal anywhere who claims even to have seen her, apart from a few deranged old men near Evander's dwelling who repeat a tale which their grandfathers had heard from their great-grandfathers. They allege that Justice used to lodge in their city, which, though large and ancient, is now quite ruined and deserted.2 m e r c u r y . Then is she concealed in the underworld, since she is not hiding on earth or in heaven? If so, I must leave to visit the Stygian shades, for Jupiter has ordered me to abandon all else in m y search for Justice. But what about you? a r g o s . Having journeyed through the entire world, I sat down here to rest. I decided to take this Pegasean horse back to the fountain of Helicon, from which I had taken him at your behest. m e r c u r y . Good. Farewell, then. I'll proceed to the underworld to sum­ mon the goddess. a r g o s . But first, Mercury, please tell me why the gods are so eager to find the goddess. m e r c u r y . I'll give you a brief account, then. A bitter debate has arisen between the gods concerning who should be regarded as the father of the goddess Discord.3 For there is no god who does not eagerly assert that he is the father of this powerful goddess. She can subvert at w ill all human and divine laws, and even against the gods' wishes she can dissolve all bonds of kinship, marriage, and friendship. She utterly undoes and destroys the sacrosanct piety and love between parents and children, and turns to bitter hatred the just and pleasant affection of brothers. By her dissensions and rivalries she severs and ruins all laudable familiarity and intimacy between families, relatives, and friends. She overturns the greatest commonwealths, and reduces empires to slavery. If she chooses, Discord can render even the highest gods more abject than (he lowliest and humblest men. a r g o s.

m ercury.

Th e E n e m y

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59

Thus, each of the gods does his utmost to be reckoned the father of this virtually omnipotent goddess, and applies all his craft and ingenuity to per­ suading the others. First of all, there are some who cry that she is Pluto's daughter, calling upon a vast horde of usurers as witnesses. Bacchus too is there, swearing in a loud voice that he alone should be judged Discord's sire, and he promises that respected and worthy witnesses w ill soon ap­ pear to prove his claim. The god Termen also asserts that he is her pro­ genitor, and demands that all the legions of soldiers and all the schools of jurists be admitted to testify. Not even the ridiculous god Priapus is ex­ cluded or rejected from pleading his case, when he says that all mortals openly confess that Discord sprang from him and Pleasure. But the one god who excels the others in authority and dignity, Honor, summons as witnesses all kings and rulers and even the gods, and divulges both the time and the place in which he begat Discord by the goddess Justice.4 Since his arguments have been the most persuasive, Jupiter bade Justice be summoned so that, when she has been examined, the entire controversy may be end­ ed. Now you know the story. a r g o s . Clearly. m e r c u r y . I shall go to the underworld, as I intended. Farewell. —No, I've changed my mind. First, I think I should report to the gods that the god­ dess Justice is not to be found on earth, as they thought. Then I'll carry out whatever Jupiter may command. Farewell. a r g o s . Tell them that Justice is nowhere, Mercury. I too must go.

The Enem y [Hostis] According to tradition, in our ancestors' day a number of Pisan noblemen were captured by the Genoese in a naval battle.1 After the victory, the question of what to do with the numerous prisoners was brought before the members of the senate in Genoa. Some of the senators thought that all the prisoners should be put to death, and they cited the saying of Thcodectus, who recommended that Pompcy be killed: "A dead man docs not bite."2 They said that under the code of war they should take harsh revenge on their cruel enemy, so that others would he deterred from future violence and brutality. "We must by all means consider one lael," they

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said.3 "Now that we have fought the enemy in deadly combat, defeated him by strength of arms, and obtained this victory through great efforts and dangers, we must do nothing which would force us to fight again. We must not spare these warlike and savage captives for another time or occa­ sion when, as leaders of our enemies and accomplices of fortune, they may bring disaster down on us, and cause us to regret having spared them. Nor is it expedient, in order to avoid such danger, to assume the onerous and difficult task of keeping enemies under guard in our city, when in a single horn: we can eliminate the problem quite simply and justly.”4 Others argued that the captives should be released free and unharmed. "We should only use violence," they said, "against those who attack us with arms and hatred. But once you have vanquished your opponents, it is bet­ ter to rule them as subjects than to destroy them as wretches. Nor is it right that we, whom fortune or victory spared in armed combat, should so fear vanquished, unarmed, and imprisoned men that we disgrace ourselves by cruelty, which valiant men have always shunned. Rather than mere vic­ tory, we should seek a peace which will put an end to wars. And that peace w ill be just, expedient, and lasting, which is sustained by goodwill rather than fear. By far the noblest victory of all is one which abolishes enmity rather than the enemy. After defeating their foe, valiant men must avoid apppearing to yield to anger or rage. Instead, they should strive to subdue by kindness and mercy those whom they have conquered by arms. It is our duty to see that these men, who were not destroyed by the fury of war and enraged soldiers, are not put to death by just and responsible civilians." Still others were of a radically different opinion, which, they say, was proposed by a certain Pisan, an infirm fellow and quite poor, but not, it would seem, of slow w it.5 Seeking revenge for his exile, he proposed neither killing the prisoners, nor freeing them unharmed, but keeping them in prison. One should remember, he said, that the Pisans bear an ancient and incredible hatred for the Genoese. And one generous deed could scarcely cancel the memory of such great defeats, for their savage and enraged spirits tended more to vengeance than to gratitude for favors. “As long,” he said, "as they have even a glimmer of hope for revenge, I am sure that armed strife w ill not cease. I know the hearts and minds of my countrymen. You must not think that your state w ill be served by putting them to death. I deem it expedient, if you decide to seek peace, to keep them as hostages. But if war should threaten, you may expect to find them equally useful in any wartime eventuality.6 By my proposal, the enemy is severely pun­ ished, while mercy is observed. Since the greatness and strength of cities lie in the abundance of their wealth and in the number of their citizens, my plan will exhaust the Pisans' resources in supporting these prisoners, and cut off their future generations, since the prisoners' wives can neither have children nor remarry. My plan In merciful: your generosity will spare

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those who have threatened your lives by the sword. And it is severe: you w ill weaken a dangerous foe in every way you can.” His proposal was adopted, and nearly destroyed Pisa. Thus it is not dif­ ficult to see that on occasion a single person, even an abject one, may wreak injury and ruin on an entire nation.

Stones [LapidesJ In their eagerness to swim, some round and quite voluble stones threw themselves from a high river bank into the rushing stream below. Joyful and unduly happy, they skipped downstream, aided by the momentum of their fall and by the impact of the waves, and they rejoiced in their suc­ cess. But they were stopped short by some other stones of their kind, who had long ago fallen into this same folly through a desire to swim, and were stuck fast. "How belated we were," they said, “in seeing to our best interests! What contemptible sloth was ours until today! Although we lived on the bank so near the water, in our idleness we neglected a thing so useful, noble, and easy to master as learning to swim. We are utterly ashamed that we did not engage sooner in this pleasurable pastime.” When the veteran stones heard this, they replied: "O fools, so clearly illadvised, do you think it is by your own effort, and not by the force of the waves, that your recklessness grants you this brief success? Soon you will learn the difference, silly ones, between growing old on the bank in tran­ quillity, leisure, and freedom, and adopting, in your eagerness for revolu­ tion, a way of life which is foreign to your traditions.1 You'll regret your temerity when you are stuck in squalor and covered with mud and slime, and when you are tumbled, tossed, and battered by the rushing stream, and find neither rest nor respite from oppressive vexations and overwhelming hardships.”2

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Ivy [Hedera] When a pear-tree saw some priests adorn their temple with ivy, thus giv­ ing this weed a place of considerable honor amid ornaments of gold, she exclaimed: "How can this be? W ill they dedicate to religion and holy rites this wanton md barren weed, which, born for no good purpose, has often dragged temple walls down to ruin and never ceases daily to cause various damage to the buildings of the gods? I harm no one, yield sweet fruit, feed the poor, and am the delight of rich men's desserts. Yet any boy can strike me with sticks and rocks.” As the pear-tree complained of her unjust fate and of the priests' wickedness, the ivy replied: "Weren't you aware that this breed of men has always revered and loved the wicked, and those who can harm them most? Com e, then, be hard and bitter."1

Suspicion [Suspitio] [r u m o r ] . The more I consider it, the more this matter seems to demand the attention of our senate and leading citizens. For when we hear reports that it has rained stones, that lightning has struck a wall, or that a monster has been born, such portents are familiar and not unusual.1But the augurs are harassed, people turn to the sybilline books, and our citizens' minds are everywhere agitated by fear, disquiet, and anxiety to fathom what these events mean. And now that an utterly horrible thing has sprung forth from the sacred fire on the altar, great gods, what fear should seize our city, and what foreboding of revolutions perplex our citizens' minds!2 m n i m i a .3 I wonder what news that chatterbox is spreading about, as is her wont. I'd best learn from her what is the matter. r u m o r . Greetings, Mnimia. Have you heard the terrible news? While the virgins were tending the fire, the stalk of a hardy plant sprang from the mid­ dle nl the hearth At the very moment it appeared —wondrous to say!—it

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grew to the height of a cubit, and sent forth many leaves in all directions. Unfamiliar to anyone, these leaves were very long, quite broad, and speckled with wondrous colors of every sort.4 m n i m i a . Didn't they try to uproot the monster at once? r u m o r . The virgins who were present were of two minds. Some thought that the plant should be pulled out, while others thought it should not be touched without an order from the augurs. In this difficult matter, numerous diverse opinions were voiced. So they sent me, accompanied by the virgin Opinion, to report the matter to the college. But she was detained by a crowd in the square. m n i m i a . What about the priests? What do they say? r u m o r . They were struck dumb, paralyzed by their astonishment. Then there was a solemn debate with many references to their holy books. As far as I could gather, they assert that there w ill be strife, grave discord, and deadly feuds. But here are the vestal virgins Reason and Truth, coming toward us from the temple. Let’s ask them what has happened since I left. r e a s o n . Let us go to the fountain, Truth, in order to purify our hands and cleanse our brows of this foul sweat, now that we have eliminated this great plague.5 Soon we shall hasten to summon the virgin Opinion, who left with Rumor. When she has changed her robes, at father Janus' com­ mand she will rekindle the hearth.6 Unless this is done, they declare that we must fear lest the monster may revive. r u m o r . Tell me, Truth, did you remove the monster from the altar? t r u t h . O nly, good gods, with great difficulty and danger. If father Janus had not appeared —divinely sent, I think—the dreadful monster would have overpowered and slain us. m n i m i a . Really? How? t r u t h . It had begun to cover the fire, stifling the flames with its enor­ mous leaves. When Reason arrived to stop this mischief and tried to pluck its leaves, the monster suddenly sent forth a greater mass of them and grew up on all sides. It overwhelmed the girl, covering first her hand, then her elbow, next her breast, and finally her face and eyes. It curled around her so tightly that she was numb and nearly faint with fear and pain, and it pressed her to the altar. While my sister resisted with all her strength, I tried to rescue her. Forgetting myself, I took up a sacrificial knife and vain­ ly strove to cut the monster in pieces. It could not be wounded. The more violently I strove to assail it, the more boldly it extended its leaves like hands to grasp me, and the more tightly it held my sister entangled. While we were at this critical point, father Janus arrived unexpectedly to bring us aid and salvation. He told me to untangle my bound sister from the monster's coils, and then to seize its trunk near the flame and to pull without flinching,7 I obeyed, and as soon as I laid my hands on It, lhr monster collapsed, losing all its strength and ferocity as It Irll We wrrr

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struck dumb, and marveled especially that the trunk had no roots, no ten­ drils, and no runners. Then Father Janus said: "Take it outside quickly!” We followed his orders, and, incredibly, as soon as it saw the sunlight, the monster vanished from sight. m n i m i a . Your story is truly amazing. But tell me, what plant did they think it was? t r u t h . Father Janus said it is called Suspicion.8

B O O K

F O U R

Preface to Poggio Bracciolini 1 While wallowing in the lowly swamp-grass of a muddy river bank, some heifers, they say, saw a she-goat seated on the ruins of an ancient temple which had collapsed atop a rocky crag, and admonished her in these words:2 "You there, wanton one, what temerity possesses you, that you spurn this verdant bank and attempt that arduous and virtually inaccessi­ ble height? Don't you see that it is better to fill yourself with sweet and juicy grass than always to graze thirstily amid jagged ruins, nourished on bitter wild figs? Take care that you don’t come to regret your dangerous rambles on such precipices." The she-goat, they say, replied to the heifers in these words: “Ha! grave, ill-humored, tender-footed beasts! Don't you know that the mouth carefully serves the stomach, and the feet the mouth? I have a goat's stomach, not a cow's. If you disdain what I graze on because you can't reach it, I spurn your swamp-grass because it is available everywhere to even the idlest cat­ tle. And if others' peril bothers you in your sloth, you should have reproved the vultures, who search for carcasses from the highest reaches of heaven. Their fall is far more dangerous than m ine.”3 Now, the very same thing, dear Poggio, I find happening to me as I engage in writing these D inner Pieces. For many of us today seek food and sustenance in the more plentiful and pleasant fields of eloquence.4 And the same people censure me for delighting in difficult pursuits, rather than in those filled with the juice of commonplace eloquence and material reward. But if these critics heed the goat in the fable, I think they will find no cause to reproach me. If they blame me for choosing to spurn other lucrative arts and for following my natural abilities, then they must also blame the mathematicians and all others who devote themselves to understanding the stars and profoundly recondite subjects. Can't everyone see how ruinous­ ly they fail when they fall short of the hope that led them to contemplate the farthest realms of the heavens? Yet no one denies that they pursue a liberal goal. For myself, I take pleasure In rare subjects which, like piquant herbs In

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an appetizer, should not be excluded from the lavish dinners of writers who I confess are richer than myself. Besides, if I wish to prove my diligence in this field—in which zeal furthers talent, and application zeal— whose envy can distract me from bringing forth diverse and rare inventions like these? For when they read my works and see the variety of their subjects.. .5

The Dream 1 [S omnium] l e p i d u s . Good gods, are you my friend Libripeta? What is the matter? Why do I see you so filthy and smeared with mud? Where are you coming from, and where are you going? l i b r i p e t a . Who, me? I came from there. l e p . What, from this stinking sewer, dear fellow? l i b r . Ha ha ha! l e p . You're mad! l i b r . Not at all. Rather, I was led there by great sagacity. l e p . I understand. You had probably heard that there were some ancient books in the sewer, and as an avid book collector, you plunged right in. l i b r . Your wit, witty Lepidus, has always been insipid. l e p . Such unlearned men as I, whom you publicly call crazed and tasteless, enjoy such pungent remarks. But, come, tell me about your sewer sagacity. l i b r . You wish it? l e p . I do. l i b r . I'll tell my tale. As I was contemplating the flood of fools in which this age is awash, it struck me in my indignation that the place best suited to my character would be that to which dreamers repair. For there, as we see when we dream, one is safe to rave as one pleases. So I went to a priest who is quite accomplished in the arts of magic, and after many entreaties I finally learned from him the shortest way that leads to the realms to which dreamers fly. I set forth at once in haste. l e p . Then you dwelt with dreamers while still awake? Your story is astounding. Him It astounds you? iep More than anything else.

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l i b r . Even more astounding were the sights I saw in those realms: rivers, mountains, meadows, fields, and monsters —all terrifying to behold, and incredible to relate and recall, but remarkably suited to the writings of philosophical men. l e p . Since you desire to be thought a philosopher, you have hitherto led a life of silence, but you won't miss this chance to win praise.2 By relating this dream, you'll perform your first act of philosophizing. l i b r . I wish my intellect were equal to the task. It would be a pleasure to describe what I saw, especially the river at the very entrance to this realm. For of all things that can be said or thought, that is by far the most worthy of admiration. l e p . Does it flow with dark liquids like the streams of Lethe? Or with Stygian water? l i b r . By no means. Rather, incredibly, instead of waves, countless human faces roll along it! Among them you would see some pale, sad, and infirm; others ruddy, cheerful, and comely; some long, thin, and wrinkled; others with abundant, prominent, and misshapen foreheads, eyes, noses, mouths, teeth, beards, hair, or chins —all horrible, shocking, and monstrous! And do you know by what strange means you cross this river? You curl yourself into a ball and roll across, like a rock tumbling downhill. l e p . Ridiculous. l i b r . Don't call it ridiculous. It's quite dangerous, for the faces love to bite. If I hadn’t been long accustomed to wounding men with my own teeth, and tough-skinned from the many bites I've received in continual insults and quarrels, you'd see me torn to shreds. But I thank the heavens, since I crossed the river with my nose intact. l e p . Your skin must be very tough to resist such teeth. And after cross­ ing the river, what then? l i b r . Sights worthy of record. On the other side, there are mountain valleys where lost things are preserved. l e p . Are men's lost days kept there too? Ha, how many of your own years did you recognize, eh? l i b r . A ll of them. But more astounding, I found there a large part of my brain, which a crone I once loved had swindled from m e.3 If it had been permitted (it is forbidden to carry anything off), I would have filled the right side of my head, which is hollow and empty. lep . Don't think your brain is empty, when it is filled with madness. And then? Do the liberal arts and ancient Latin writings lie lost there? lib r . Yes, indeed, you'll find there everything that has been lost. In the middle of those fields, there are the ancient empires of nations wc read about, as well as reputations, favors, loves, riches, and all such things that never return, once they are lost, lep . How did you recognize lavors, when you have never done anyone

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a favor in your entire life, and when you have never regarded as a favor even the most generous man's gift to you? l i b r . I wouldn't have recognized them —for almost everything there was not what I thought —if there hadn't been guardians present to explain things to me. l e p . How is that? l i b r . In the middle of the fields, the empires were gathered in a heap that you would despise, if you saw them. l e p . Really? l i b r . They consist of enormous bladders filled with license, lies, and the sound of flutes and trumpets. Next to them lie favors, which consist of silver and gold hooks; and next to these are leaden wings, which they say are men's high offices. Nearby are fiery manacles and fetters, which they say are love affairs. Next, engraved in the dust with a stylus, there are countless citizens' names, which they say are riches. To be brief, you'll find everything there but folly. l e p . Truly, my friend, I confess already that your journey is not unwor­ thy of the writings of philosophizers. l i b r . What if you hear the rest? , l e p . Recount it, please. Although you stink, I shall gladly listen. Proceed; tell your tale. l i b r . I'll tell my tale. Nearby there is a very high mountain in which, they say, all objects of desire and hope boil as in a caldron, and around which lie all the vows and prayers offered by men to the gods. From its summit, the mountain spews forth these and other things, and they spill down the mountain on this side and that.4 Yet I took little pleasure in this spectacle, and neglected many other sights, for I was sated and wearied by their great number. At length, I reached a stream that lay not far off. Its swift torrent is said to swell with the tears of wretches and mourners. It is hard to describe how loudly I laughed as I swam across this river. M en are ferried across it by old women who are condemned to this because in life they acted like proud, unbending girls, when they were really superstitious and malevolent crones.5 You'll laugh when I describe how one crosses it. l e p . I hope I'll laugh, and that you'll omit no details of your journey. l i b r . I'll do as you wish. The old women lie naked on their backs along the shore. Then you place your knees on a woman's loins, take her ears in your hands, and use her head as a rudder to steer your course. Lying on her back, she paddles with her heels and palms. l e p . Just the shipwreck you deserve! But don’t both ship and cargo often sink? uhr . By no means. Let me explain by telling you a notable fact which I learned there from the depths of philosophy. Swimmers float above the waves by virtue of their internal lung. But a scrofulous woman has two

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lungs, one in her loins, and the other in her shoulders. What's more, women's heads are completely empty, and thus provide an excellent means of crossing a river. What are you staring at? l e p . You, for if you're wise, you'll jump back into this sewer. You've learned more philosophy in this one journey than in all the years you spent in your vast library. But tell me, did you think it safe to entrust yourself so ridiculously to a woman's constancy? l i b r . I had a safe and pleasant voyage, for m y beloved crone suddenly met me, laughing with her toothless mouth. You would have praised her care in ferrying me in such good faith, and I thanked her when I got to the op­ posite shore. There I saw wide meadows where, instead of grass and leafy plants, there grew men's hair and beards, women's tresses, beasts' tails, and lions' manes, which covered the entire meadow from sight. Good gods, how many dreamers I saw there! They were digging up roots which make everyone who eats them seem clever and learned, even if they are not. I spent quite some time there. But a vast swarm of lice flew up from the meadow and nearly devoured me, so that I could only flee to save myself. I took to my heels, and when the fates offered me this sewer as an exit, I dove in madly to escape that plague. l e p . Go now and wash yourself. I'll return to my friends, whom you call mad and ignorant.

Garlands [Corolle] I'm here to see the maiden that everyone says is so beautiful. Is that you, rhetorician? r h e t o r i c i a n . Greetings, poet. By the gods, this maiden seems to possess elegant beauty and excellent qualities.1 p o e t . I'm sure she's a goddess, for such great dignity and appearance must come from the gods. r h e t o r i c i a n . You're quite right. The grace and nobility of her face and eyes have a rare, divine quality.2 But here comes the rich man. Have you too come to behold this maiden, rich man? r i c h m a n . Clearly. But what garlands are these she holds in her lap? bet's approach and ask.1 O maiden, have you brought these garlands here to the square to sell? r h e t o r ic ia n .

poet.

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PRAISE.

No.

. Then what are they for, maiden? What, are you speaking with these fellows? Have you already forgot­ ten, Praise, that as we left home your mother Virtue warned you to look at no suitors without my permission? We must find you lovers, not seducers. But we shall have some fine sport if we mock these brash and impudent scoundrels. Let me deal with them in my way. You, fellow, what do you want? r i c h m a n . Ye gods, how fiercely and furiously this hag stares at me! e n v y . What are you saying? What are you muttering? r i c h m a n . I'm here to buy a garland. e n v y . Flaunt your wealth somewhere else, rich man. There's nothing for sale here. r i c h m a n . W ill you make a gift of one? e n v y . Not to you, but to deserving and worthy men. p o e t . Then you'll give me one? e n v y . To you? What arts do you know? p o e t . H ow can you ask? Haven't you heard that poets know everything? e n v y . You're a poet, then? , p o e t . Yes, but not a common one. e n v y . You'll earn a garland. But first recite a distich. We love verses. p o e t . That w ill be very easy. Everything I try to say is in verse.4 e n v y . Well then, spit out whatever it is you have been ruminating there with knit brows and pursed lips. p o e t . Here's a splendid and lofty poem: r h e t o r ic ia n envy

.

Arms and the man and the helmets; we shall not die unavenged.5 W ell, doesn't that smack of Virgil? p r a i s e . Absolutely. p o e t . Then I’ve earned a garland. e n v y . If you add another verse to this one, we'll crown you.6 p o e t . I'm off to the library, where in a night's study I shall produce more than a hundred verses. e n v y . That's what you must do: apply yourself to literary studies until your mind grows hot and is quick to invent. For one's wits generally become dull and idle through inactivity and long breaks from reading and writing. We can only approve completely perfect and polished works by you poets. The poet has gone. And you, pale little man, why don't you run off with your untidy and unkempt companion? r h e t o r i c i a n . It was not my purpose to come here only to leave in scorn. Nor do I think myself undeserving of your great and glorious rewards, if yon know me sufficiently. For I am in some measure endowed with virtue

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and refined in learning, so that I dare profess myself a gentleman of liberal breeding. e n v y . Indeed? What gives you the confidence to harass us, you scoundrel? r h e t o r i c i a n . Confiding more in your generosity than in m y own industry, fairest ladies, I dare to assert that, more than anyone else, from m y earliest years and tenderest childhood, as the phrase has it, I have dedicated all my efforts, diligence, assiduity, and talent to the humanities, to the study of literature, to the mastery of the liberal arts, to the pursuit of the good and happy life, and finally to the glory of eloquence. e n v y . Oof, what a prattler! If you prove to be as good as you so confident­ ly boast, you'll take home a garland. But you should know that we don't grant our gifts lightly. We expect you to give proof of the mastery you claim. r h e t o r i c i a n . I'll do as you say. I must discuss my greatest and most ex­ cellent achievements. As I do so, you shall learn astonishing and unheardof things. I shall employ a lofty, copious, and sonorous style. Yet I shall be brief, considering the greatness of my topic, and as succinct as I can. Please give me your attention. p r a i s e . We shall. e n v y . It is our fervent wish. We shall listen gladly and kindly to your speech. r h e t o r i c i a n . Although all remarkable and exceptional geniuses who, by strenuous imitation of antiquity's most venerable and learned men — particularly in those endeavors which merit that signal and singular gratitude of good men which brings them divine praise —although, I say, they have attained the hope of immortality and posterity which the im ­ mortal gods offered and placed before them, not so much by their character and learning as by the excellent and elegant example of their virtue and fortitude; although they have attained glorious fame and renown by their arduous studies and by their worthy services to the state and all good citizens; although they have obtained authority through their great diligence, vigilance, and perseverance, coupled with dignity and the strict observance of duty, and have, with the aid and support of the most mer­ ciful gods, formed bonds of friendship in consonance with the dictates of tradition by conferring favors and exchanging courtesies; yet often the most celebrated men seem to me, by devoting their hearts and minds to the glory of great deeds and by expecting occasionally the greatest rewards for their labors, to desire, under nature's guidance, the objects of mankind's frail and short-lived hopes, the objects of vain and futile aspirations, and of trivial and lightheaded counsels;7 and a shameful and blameworthy opinion arises from the depraved and corrupt judgment of the ignorant, so that the men­ tal power which the Greek Stoics call Pronoia8 is neglected and abandoned by that guiding virtue which opens our way to heaven and which constructs the clearest and safest road to the company of the gods, not by sloth ami

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idleness, but by perseverance, integrity, constancy, and stability in both word and deed; and consequently, it is those who are most skilled not merely in flowing and high-sounding prose, but also in a style governed and regulated by rhythm, who seem to good and worthy citizens most deserv­ ing of these garlands. Therefore, to state the case briefly, as I intended — for you have seen that I have employed no embellishments, no elaborations, and no amplifications —I ask you to grant me the garland I deserve. p r a i s e . Dear fellow, I would gladly give you one, but our garlands would not fit your swelled head. r h e t o r i c i a n . Then I shall fashion my own garlands from the exquisitely beautiful flowers which my genius invents. d e t r a c t o r .9 Good gods, in how many ways men rave! Has this dull rhetorician learned anything but how to speak audaciously? He glories in saying absolutely nothing with such an abundance of words. If you're wise, maiden, you'll give all the garlands to me. p r a i s e . Oof, what an impudent scoundrel! He even boldly laid a hand on me to steal. Do you know who he is, Envy? e n v y . What? Do you think I don't know one whom I bore and brought up? He has thoroughly mastered all my arts. He disparages everyone, con­ demning their words and deeds. In the streets, he burns with indignation at all men, both good and bad, both learned and unlearned, and creates scan­ dal by m ixing truth and falsehood. With me as his tutor and teacher, he has learned all his lessons well. Here, my son, take this garland and go away. d e t r a c t o r . What, one made of nettles and thorns? Still, I am pleased because it is a token of my merits, and because you gave the first gift to me. I'll circle my head with it. Even though it may sting me, I won't take it off. I shall arouse the envy of all those who see me. Look at my splendid insignia, everyone! p r a i s e . Begone with your insolence. We fear your sarcasm. e n v y . He's run off. Now then, maiden, since we have no more suitors, let's go. p r a i s e . As you wish. e n v y . Why do you hesitate? p r a i s e . I noticed a young man gazing at me in silence. He seems somehow a deserving one whose modesty I should not spurn. e n v y . I hate reticent people. If he wants something, let him ask. What are you looking at, young man? LRPiDUS . 111 Unlike that verbose rhetorician, I was silently admiring your beautiful garlands, and trying to think how I might win one. knvy . What cowardice or faint spirit kept you from asking openly for those gifts which she brought here to give away? Suitors must be bold in their demands. You should insist repeatedly, so that you seem truly to desire, and so that the giver knows that you will he eager to receive his g ift."

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l e p i d u s . I feared your unbending severity, and thought you might defiantly reject me. e n v y . Ha! p r a i s e . You misunderstand me, young man, if you think I reject the learn­ ed and modest.

l e p id u s .

I a m o n e w h o d e l i g h t s i n li t e r a t u r e , a n d I h a v e a l w a y s tr ie d to

a ffo r d m e r r i m e n t a n d la u g h t e r t o m y s e l f a n d m y f r ie n d s , w i t h o u t s a c r i f i c ­ in g m y d ig n ity .

Then go ahead and laugh. Ah me! p r a i s e . What, are you weeping, young man? l e p i d u s . Alas, what misfortune! Still, I must bear it lightly, since such an event is not unusual for me. I don’t want you to be surprised at this, maiden. For by some fate, ever since my birth not the least affair has turned out as I wished. It is strange how everything happens contrary to my hopes and expectations. If I seek to win friends through courtesies and favors, I make enemies. If I seek to win favor by liberal studies, I am repaid by en­ vy. If I attend to m y affairs in tranquillity and modesty, offending no one, I meet with detractors, denouncers, secret foes, and villainous betrayers who confound my plans and projects. In short, no matter what I undertake or pursue, nothing turns out as I wish it. p r a i s e . Y o u are truly ridiculous. Take this garland for yourself. l e p i d u s . I am grateful to you, maiden, for you have given me a double gift. You have given me a garland to adorn my head; and you have bestowed on me a bough, which, when dried, will serve to scour my pans. —But stop, what are you doing, old woman? Why have you snatched the garland from me? Why do you tear it so furiously with your teeth? e n v y . What is your name? l e p i d u s . Mine? Lepidus? e n v y . Lepidus? "The witty one"? You should rather be called snappish or bitter or mocker. Let’s go, maiden. You’ll find no one worthy of a garland in this square. p r a i s e . There are jurists, physicians, and theologians here.12 e n v y . They have no interest in your garlands. Gold and ambition are what they seek, maiden. p r a i s e . There are astronomers and mathematicians, too. e n v y . Mere dreamers. Let's go. envy

.

l e p id u s .

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bo o k fo ur

The C y n ic 1 [Cynicus] [m e r c u r y ] . I have brought you the souls of those who died in the past few days, Phoebus, as you bade m e.2 You there, O souls, will once again receive new bodies, and then w ill return to the life of mortals.3 Sit down there, so that you can promptly obey Phoebus' commands without confu­ sion. And you, Phoebus, will send the new arrivals back to earth as soon as possible, if you choose. For thronging crowds of souls flock here each hour after they have died, and their enormous number will soon prove troublesome. p h o e b u s . I believe I must do as you say, Mercury. But we'll finish our business more easily if we form the present legions of dead souls into some sort of divisions and companies. In that way, we can quickly assign to each one what we think suitable. Flock together, O souls, according to your in­ terests and your way of life. And you, Mercury) make sure that they don't lie when questioned. It is said that the men of this age wish to seem crafty by dissembling and deceiving in all they do. c y n i c .4 I'll see to it, Phoebus. A ll these souls know me, and I know almost all of them down to the smallest detail. And since you're both gods, Mercury, it is unbecoming for you to be speak abusively. p h o e b u s . Who is this affable upstart? m e r c u r y . I don't know him. c y n i c . Don't you recognize me, when I have always worshiped you as the foremost of the gods? m e r c u r y . Who are you? c y n i c . Don’t you remember the Tuscan philosopher by whose efforts let­ ters once lost are now revived? p h o e b u s . Whoever you are, you certainly display some cleverness. So I may properly assign you the task of reviewing the lives and character of these souls. But they are already seated and arranged in ranks. Let us ap­ proach them. c y n i c . Ha ha ha! What an impudent and impertinent race! I can't help laughing, Phoebus, at their peevishness and histrionic gestures. They are so full of haughty ambition that their breasts and even their eyes puff and swell. Here's a proud and arrogant race: even among the dead they take the front seats. What, shameless ones, won't you rise when gods approach? [The souls finally rise hesitantly.| Come here, you who flaunt your miters laden with gems and images of the gods, and tell us what kind of life you led.

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When you return to mortal society, you are to assume the bodies that best suit your character. p r i e s t s . We interpreted the w ill of the gods, celebrated their rites, and practiced piety. Men rightly called us fathers and most holy guardians. c y n i c . I shall do nothing to neglect my duty. I shall recite your dishonest acts: since gods are present, I need not fear. Phoebus, they are lying, as they often do, for in their entire lives they cleverly strove to dissemble their real natures. Dishonest, shameless, and fouled with every vice, they made a pretense of seeming virtuous m en.5 They impudently claim that they spend entire nights communing with celestial powers, and conversing with the gods of heaven and hell. By this deception, they have managed to live in lazy indolence, getting drunk at the expense of others.6 How pious and holy their worship has been, I expect that you gods know full well. Phoebus, do you hear the sound of arms, the groans of wounded men, and the din of collapsing buildings and cities with which the seas and moun­ tains resound? These depraved men have wrought this woe through their fraud and treachery, inciting one faction to violence and another to revenge. Let me briefly describe all this baneful race. They are idle and indolent, and sunk in debauchery and drowsiness.7 Their gullets are immense, their tongues impudent, their brows brazen, and their greed and avarice im ­ placable. They contend among themselves in hatred, foment discord be­ tween men at peace, and stir up war and destruction. In short, they are the principal instigators and architects of all crimes and sins. m e r c u r y . Are these acts of religion? But I restrain myself. Divine piety cannot allow its hatred of impiety to deny piety even to the impious. Whoever does good to good men acts justly, for, if the gods were to deny good to just men, they would not themselves be good. Whatever the gods bestow on wicked men aims at obliging wicked men by such freely given gifts that they w ill desire to repay the gods by equal merits.8 c y n i c . You're wasting your breath, Mercury. I could recite similar ex­ cellent maxims which are not fully understood, especially by such people as these. Yet they constantly rehearse such pious admonitions, not in order to rouse others to virtue by their precepts and exhortations, but rather to trick the masses, by their sermons and semblances, into disseminating a favorable opinion of them .9 But these most corrupt and sordid men have ears so deadened that they can't even hear their own public harangues on religion. m e r c u r y . Tell me, Phoebus, why do you look down, silent and undecid­ ed, as if you loathed this race? Ph o e b u s . I was pondering what form of animal would suit them. 1 thought perhaps it was fitting to make them geese because they were voracious, or badgers because they languished in drowsy sloth, or pigs beeause l hey

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chose a filthy way of life .10 But since by their treachery and instigation they have heaped such great disasters on mankind, I could find no monstrous form commensurate with their hideous avarice and vices, unless perhaps I decided on harpies. c y n i c . I wouldn't approve, Phoebus, unless perhaps you think this priestly plague has done too litle harm to mankind. For if in their human bodies they were the most brutal and violent of all, what do you think will hap­ pen when, assuming the likeness of noisome monsters, they may indulge their savagery and prey more ferociously on others? M y own suggestion is more suited to this matter: you should change them to asses. Then igno­ ble labors and constant weariness will render them powerless to harm, and they w ill spend their lives in abject slavery amid frequent thrashings. p h o e b u s . A fine suggestion. Become asses! m e r c u r y . Well done! You in the next group, come forth. m a g i s t r a t e s . Here we ate. p h o e b u s . What kind of life was yours? m a g i s t r a t e s . We ruled cities with justice, and protected freedom. We ex­ ercised authority over our peoples with prudence and diligence. Our vic­ tories and virtue did honor to the state. p h o e b u s . M en who have done such deeds should he counted among the gods. m e r c u r y . You're right, Phoebus. But you, Cynic, what do you say? Why are you silent? Why do you hesitate? Com e closer, and tell us freely in private what you know of them. c y n i c . I shall obey. Let us withdraw a moment, away from those armed men. m e r c u r y . When gods are present, can you be afraid? c y n i c . Yes, I fear them. They are bold despisers of the gods, accustomed to destroy sacred objects, to burn temples, and to revere no gods in heaven or hell. They learned how to wrong others under the law's protection. In their character and behavior, they were drunken, insolent, cruel, and in­ exorable. In the sessions and sentences of their civil courts, they despoiled orphans, widows, and other defenseless citizens. In administering their of­ fice, they did not protect liberty. Rather, they wilfully conducted all their affairs in obedience to their intolerable lusts, and hated all citizens who seemed desirous of liberty. They raped young boys and girls of good fami­ ly. They fined, jailed, or exiled any who opposed their crimes by protest or resistance. In their impunity and license to commit wrongs, they slandered and tortured and murdered anyone they pleased. In all their ac­ tions, they practiced audacity and arrogance. They employed arms more often against their fellow citizens, and against the welfare and authority of the state, than against foreign armies. And finally, they flooded their coun1 1 y with the dregs of exiled miscreants, and banished upright and honest

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citizens. They employed this gang of loathsome and filthy men, to whom they were themselves inferior in merit of virtue, in order to commit their crimes —to subvert state laws, to pervert at will all things sacred and secular, public and private, and to impose harsh and shameful conditions on inno­ cent and virtuous citizens. They had no fear of the gods, no shame, no faith, and no constancy in either word or deed. I have given only a summary and a sort of outline, Phoebus, of the crimes with which these wicked souls are filled.11 p h o e b u s . Com e here, magistrates, and become hawks! Now fly at once from my sight! m e r c u r y . I expected the same life for these as for the priests who preced­ ed them. For their character was similar, and they could rightly have been punished by blows and exhaustion. p h o e b u s . They were sufficiently punished, for nearly every one of them descended to the underworld with foul and bloody wounds. But I dealt with them quite aptly. Since in life they were rapacious, I decided to leave them this vice to torment them continually. Since they hated the freedom of others, I have made sure that they will either languish in the chains of slavery, or live in perilous freedom, hourly seizing their food as predators. Now let's proceed to dealing with the others. What is this crowd of pale and wasted souls which approaches? They seem to have struggled against perpetual sickness and hunger. Com e here. p h i l o s o p h e r s . Here we are. m e r c u r y . Who are you? p h i l o s o p h e r s . We are your darlings, Mercury and Phoebus, so show us your favor. In all our writings, we defended the dignity and sanctity of the heavenly gods against base mortals. In every aspect of our way of life, we shunned contact with the body and with human affairs, and looked only to heavenly and divine things. It is your duty to see that we are not thrust again into bodies of loathsome flesh. c y n i c . What a wanton, shameless, and arrogant race! Aren't you ashamed to lay down laws to the very gods? Do you think that you are permitted to act this way, since during your human life you were imbued with such signal arrogance that you foolishly dared to hand down laws not only to private citizens, nations, and kings, but even to the earth, the stars, and all of nature? I warn you, Phoebus: if you heed these sophists, they will have the effrontery to argue to your face that you are not a god. p h i l o s o p h e r s . You speak in character, Cynic. For by detracting and disparaging, you made men forget that you did not deserve the name of philosopher. c y n i c . What do you think of these, Phoebus? They wrote about disdain­ ing glory in works that sought nothing but glory. They declared that poverty is not evil, but brought their works and efforts to market for a profit 11

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p h o e b u s . Com e, Mercury, let's not waste time in insults. Summon these blatherers who claim to be your friends, and determine with them what form they wish. A ll of you, follow Mercury. Lest these souls lie idle, I want to give them bodies that w ill perpetually be at work. But you souls who are next, won't you follow them? w r i t e r s . Our writings and studies were different from theirs. We record­ ed your deeds, O gods, and described the vicissitudes of history and the mutability of fortune, so that our readers might become more learned and prudent.13 c y n i c . If you read their works, you will see that they were incapable of saying anything free of lies. They invented invincible rulers, public ora­ tions, mountain and sea crossings, and even nations conquered by non­ existent foes. They locked themselves in libraries and gnawed at the fame of meritorious men, hoping that the masses would think them great men of letters, for they burn with such great envy that they want no one else to enjoy the name. In their folly, they boast of having left to posterity the immortality of their name. p h o e b u s . Even if they were unreliable, I think they should be praised, for they did what they could to seem to have truly lived. Become mice! And you, the next! p o e t s . We are poets. p h o e b u s . I detest you, for in your fables you never scrupled to brand the gods with marks of disgrace. If you hadn't pleased me by playing the lyre, you would pay the penalty. c y n i c . Don't think, Phoebus, that these poets were gifted enough to im ­ itate those ancients who invented ludicrous tales about you gods. Instead, they culled verses from the classics and then sought to win praise for them, so that they could declare themselves far superior to Musaeus and Orpheus. p h o e b u s . Become butterflies! Is this next group with them? r h e t o r i c i a n s . Although, best of the gods, in your justice and mercy. . . c y n i c . What circuitous speech are you beginning? Can you deny that your arts were like those of the poets? No, you are even greater scoundrels, for your greatest glory was your ability to win favor through fawning assent and to arouse hatred and envy through disparaging abuse. p h o e b u s . Become bees! c y n i c . See how they knit their brows! Nicely done! Nothing could vex these chatterers more than being denied their preambles and preciosities. r h e t o r i c i a n s . Do you think informers so powerful that their slander can swuy even the almighty gods? c y n i c . Hn ha ha! They fly away jabbering. mouitus. You in the next group, approach quickly. Why do you hesitate? My word, how is it that you arc no badly scarred? And you, Cynic, what do you Nccf

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c y n i c . I see those who claim to measure mountains, oceans, continents, the sky, and the entire world, from its center to the farthest heaven, and who claim to foresee the future and to know by what law you, Phoebus, and Mars, Jupiter, and the other celestial powers wander through the skies.14 Yet they are so dull-witted that they nearly cut themselves to pieces in handling their sharp triangles. But they have paid in large part for most of their absurdities. When their science or some error misled them in their predictions, they were thought mad. And when one of their predic­ tions came true, they were not praised, but the prophecy was interpreted as if accidentally uttered by children or dolts. But what do you see, Phoebus? p h o e b u s . Both you, who are comical, and the follies of mankind, which you have caused me to recall and deride. For mortal men believe neither astrologers nor even our own prophets when we warn them, unless it is already too late to avert catastrophe. But when they find themselves in cir­ cumstances of utter confusion, they remember the words of some madman or dunce, and think them a divine oracle. What shall we make them? c y n i c . Tortoises. p h o e b u s . Become tortoises! But here come Mercury and the philosophers who withdrew. Have you reached an agreement? m e r c u r y . What an insolent and quarreling race! c y n i c . That is their native and peculiar vice, Mercury. They never agree about anything, not about good and evil, nor about truth and falsehood, nor about the origin and development of the world. Their opinions are always divergent and contradictory. Yet they have learned one thing. When they can't win a debate or an argument, they have recourse to insults and abuse. p h o e b u s . What are they saying now? m e r c u r y . They are raving. They think they've won great merit with the gods for bearing light to mortals about the good and happy life, and for teaching them to fear the gods. In short, some propose lions, some elephants, some eagles, and some whales or other great and noble creatures as the bodies suited to these souls.15 c y n i c . How arrogant! m e r c u r y . Yet some of them are more modest, and wish to be rabbits, so that they may delight in examining the bowels of the earth and investigating the roots of plants. p h o e b u s . I've found a means of curbing their pride. Com e here, sophists! I assign you a tiny body, and command you to continue your duties. Bear lights, and become fireflies! Now then, Mercury, let us return to Jupiter. m e r c u r y . A s you wish. m e r c h a n t s . Don't leave us thus neglected, Mercury. c y n i c . If you're wise, Phoebus, you won't let them return to the upper world. They acted as if they were to live forever, and were never nated In amassing wealth.

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m e r c h a n t s . W ill you never cease to harass everyone, snappish Cynic? Don't you perceive that all detest you, slanderer? Among mortals, no one made greater vows or more frequent gifts to the gods than we did. With our money and wealth, we often defended our country's well-being and our citizens' freedom from pressing dangers. c y n i c . Treacherous breed! I don't deny that you made vows to the gods when you were threatened at sea or captured by bandits. But when the danger was past, you completely neglected to fulfill your great promises. If you gave gifts to the gods, it was for show, not religion. Swollen with garments, silver, and the ostentation of your wealth, you found yourselves burdened with debt, so you pawned your credit and went bankrupt. p h o e b u s . They will be dung-beetles!16 Let us go, Mercury. m e r c u r y . Go; I follow. But what about our Cynic? p h o e b u s . Cynic, you'll be a gold-winged fly.

Fame 1 [Fama] l e p id u s .

Why is it, Libripeta, that I always see you foul and filthy? Weren't you present at the battle we fought, Lepidus? If it was a battle of shameless curses, I'm sure you showed your

l ib r ip e t a . l e p id u s .

valor. Enough, please. Stop being so caustic with me. I enjoy showing you how much I have learned from you. But I'll stop. Tell me, what battle did you fight? Was it fought with weapons? l i b r i p e t a . Yes, by the immortal gods, and what unusual ones!2 History records no battle fought with such weapons. But what are we doing? I'm keeping you from your business, and you're keeping me here pointlessly. Goodbye. l e p i d u s . Wait, don't go. I want to learn about the battle from you. l i b r i p e t a . You'll laugh. l e p i d u s . You'll please me all the more. l i b r i p e t a . I'll tell the story as briefly as I can. In the square, not far from the temple of Fortune, there stands an ancient and holy chapel, known on­ ly to a few, and dedicated to the goddeNs Fame.1 Since whoever enters it will live forever, Itn priests keep close watch so that no one enters it by l ib r ip e t a . l e p id u s .

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chance.4 There are four priests who continually keep guard, examining the life and character of anyone who approaches. They are Wealth, Power, A c­ tion, and Opportunity.5 On the doors of the chapel are written: "I hate the idle” and "Give your life."6 A number of poor and foolish literary scholars led a cow there to sacrifice. The beast was so emaciated and weak with age that I thought it had been wandering in the woods since Hannibal set its horns on fire.7 Having nothing to do, I followed these scholars at some distance, just for fun. At that moment, the priest Opportunity appeared before us and, as is his wont, asked about our life and character. The priests Power and Wealth had been holding open both doors to some merchants who were pushing forward an ass to sacrifice. But when we tried to follow them, they partly shut the doors which they had opened to the merchants—a nasty trick! —and bolted them so firmly with with strong bars that an unarmed man, turned sideways as if creeping through a crack, could scarcely get into the chapel. When we asked them to open the doors wider, the priest Opportunity said: "If that is your aim, do your utmost while I am here; for if I leave, you’ll gain no entry." Having said this, he went into the temple. Each of us made ready and laid hold of the cow, which butted and kicked as we tried to pull it into the chapel by its tail. While we were vainly sweating in this ridiculous effort, the cow's tail was pulled off. So we decided to slaughter the cow in the forecourt of the temple, and to carve it up so that each of us could take one of the pieces inside.8 Some picked an entire limb, and everyone got at least a decent part. I took the stomach, which had been left on the ground, and clutched it to my bosom. l e p i d u s . Ha ha ha! You deserved such a load. l i b r i p e t a . Exactly. l e p i d u s . Proceed. l i b r i p e t a . The priests cried out that this foul crime was desecrating the temple. Suddenly, a roaring mob set on us from all sides, seizing the cow's horns from those who bore them, and using them as weapons. When I saw force being used, I tossed the stomach away and joined the crowd in heap­ ing abuse on the scholars. After all, won’t a prudent man use fraud in a pinch to save himself? But as they say, fraud w ill fail more often than faith, and my plan backfired. As I was shouting at the top of my lungs, someone smash­ ed the stomach on my head. l e p i d u s . So you'll live forever like this, Libripeta. l i b r i p e t a . Forever and ever, since I managed to escape that flood. l e p i d u s . Go and wash yourself. l i b r i p e t a . I'm going.

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A ffliction 1 [Erumna] X x x .2 Greetings! May the gods be favorable and propitious to you, and may they foster your joy! I am glad to find you so cheerful and carefree. Why are you laughing to yourself? p h i l o p o n i u s . 3 O wretched me! Xxx. Can you relapse so suddenly, Philoponius, into the depression which I heard you were suffering? As your friend, I hurried here to aid and console you. But having come to relieve your distress, I am grieved if my arrival has turned your joy into sorrow. p h i l o p o n i u s . Do you think anyone's presence could delight or please me more than yours? You are entirely welcome, and will be of no little help to me in bearing my misery. I have been struck down and laid low by this blow of fortune and by the fierce onslaught of this tempest. When I see you and other friends of my family saddened in sympathy for our calamity, I can't help pondering and contemplating myself, on whom the entire weight of our battered and ruined house has fallen, and I grieve deeply that such great and unexpected ills have overwhelmed me. I am most unhappy in my utter misery, and not even the slightest hope of better fortune is left to me. Every pleasant hope which I used to enjoy has been snatched and stolen from me, and all the things on which I once could rely have perished in this one fatal and quite pitiful disaster—my family's reputation, its authori­ ty, and its prestige —all the things that I hoped and expected would lend me distinction. Nor can I calmly bear to see our once renowned and celebrated family disgraced and destroyed by the private rivalries, base fac­ tions, and unrestrained feuding of my kinsmen, who should have protected it and daily added to its good repute. Your remarkable humanity and sym­ pathy for us lead you and other friends to deplore our harsh fate. Indeed, I marvel that persons outside our family have suffered greater distress at our misfortunes than those who should by rights have cared for their fam i­ ly's splendor and distinction. Xxx. For your sake, I would rather move you to laughter than see you continually recalling those bitter events. There will be another time to recall them. So come now, put those sad cares out of your mind, and give me your aid. Then 1 too shall laugh, and you will forget your distress for a while. Tell me what you were thinking about when I arrived unannounced, as is my custom, and found you laughing here in the library. m iio ro N itiN . Your advice is just, and I shall comply. , , * I was laughing at the philosopher, a filthy and rustic fellow, as you know, and at the

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astonishing inventions he so boldly and shamelessly abuses in debate.5 When he came to see me recently, he mumbled and chattered to himself as he took from his shoulders his cloak, which is tattered and putrid from years of wear. At length, as if roused from a dream, he looked at me with his muddled gaze. "Ho, what’s this, you fool?" he shouted in a loud voice. "Don't you think it base, especially for a brave man and scholar like yourself, to succumb to such grief and sad cares? Where is the courage expected of you, who are strong, fortified against all fortune's blows, and armed with disdain for transitory things? D o you fear poverty? Rich is the man who wants nothing. D o you wish for eminence? Prosperous is the man whom fortune cannot rob. What is it that stirs your indignation? Is it perhaps that your own kinsmen recklessly destroy the praise and renown which your ancestors won? The man free of vice and turpitude is the most distinguished of all. Rejoice then, noble-spirited man, that you are neither unacquainted with virtue nor uninstructed in liberal learning.” As I surveyed every part of the fellow's despicable and abject appearance, I could hardly restrain my laughter. Then his face brightened and he said: "Ye gods above, behold the power of reason! In this one brief exchange of debate, aided only by reason, we have restored to the true virtue and wisdom of philosophy a mind which was imbued with error and false opinions.” So saying, he picked up his cloak and departed. X xx. You hardly approved his rude and rustic manner, and I could never approve his Cynic fanaticism. And yet you may have taken comfort in such arguments and exhortations. Unless I am mistaken, you were persuaded that you should neither fear what could not harm you, nor desire what you could easily lose; that you should bear with equanimity whatever is free of turpitude; and finally that you should rely above all on your own spiritual strength, and rejoice in your own good qualities rather than in those of others. p h i l o p o n i u s . Your remarks can hardly strike me as trivial or insubstan­ tial, when they are openly advanced by grave and learned men like you. Still, while I greatly esteem your authority, which has always carried much weight with me, I am more inclined to accept your assertions, than to feel that they relieve my anguish and distress. Xxx. What would you say, if someone asked you whether you consider t he philosophers' opinions completely worthless and trivial, or regard them as true and weighty? p h i l o p o n i u s . As true, clearly. Xxx. What then, if asked whether reason and truth fail to move you? p h i l o p o n i u s . I would say that the reality of my disaster prevents me from being moved by your words. Xxx. Then are your misfortunes too great to be borne by a man who obeys reason?

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p h i l o p o n i u s . The violence of my calamity has plunged me into such anguish and moral weakness that I am unable to behold the light of truth or hear the weighty voice of reason without distress.6 X xx. Suppose someone asked the cause of your anguish, either for the sake of discussion, which you often enjoy, or in order to discover and diagnose the causes of your malady —as I am sure is possible—and to aid you in dismissing your affliction and putting away your distress. p h i l o p o n i u s . At your suggestion, I shall gladly continue this mode of debate. For I too am sure that your prudence and wisdom w ill aid me in reviving and restoring my fallen spirits. To make your task easier, I shall give you my full cooperation by explaining more clearly the causes of my sadness. Since you are an old friend of my parents, and someone whom I regard as a dear father, I have often complained to you about the injustice of my kinsmen. Their insolence and recklessness were so great that each of them brazenly wanted to be considered and called the family's leader. Yet they did not seek to merit this by virtue and diligence in caring for our estate. Instead, crazed with intolerable haughtiness, they exercised not a father's authority, but a tyrant’s dominion over their less wealthy relations.7 And on their own terms they felt justified in committing any act of anger or oppression against their younger kinsmen. They suffered no rivals without indignation or insults, and they strove to defend all their harsh and headstrong views, not by arguing with reason and intelligence, but by reproaches and altercations. In their love of strife and desire to con­ quer, each of them strove to ruin the others, even at his own great peril. For each hoped that poverty would eliminate his rivals if they exhausted the very wealth which inspired their own elation and excessive presump­ tion. I won't recount their bitter contentions in insults and reprisals, or the destruction and dissolution that naturally ensued. This pitiful and deplorable situation is clear to all. This catastrophe has deeply shaken me, wretch that I am .8 By devoting myself to virtue and by striving to attain ever greater perfection and distinc­ tion in mastering letters and liberal studies, I expected to do great things and nourished fine hopes. I had no doubt that with m y kinsmen's aid I would achieve things which our family's renown and prestige required and which, everyone agreed, would be denied me only through the fraud or injustice of those who may confer them. Not a few powerful men, moreover, were of themselves moved by our family's renown and past kindnesses to prom­ ise me their aid. With their support and mediation, I expected that soon my services and friendly offices would win the considerable favor and good­ will of many. It wus ut this point that disaster befell me. Neither my personal fortune, nor my kinsmen's assistance, nor the wealth of those who promised their aid permit me to meet my needs liven my kinsmen, having suffered the

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blow provoked by their own temerity and inflicted by Fortune, are scarce­ ly able to keep themselves from utter destitution.9 And everyone else, learning of our confused and ruined affairs and not wishing to be burdened by our misfortune, begins to avoid and exclude us. Thus I lie prostrate, cast down by Fortune, disdained by my family, and deserted by all others. I have lost my great hopes and suffered the harsh fate of this great misfortune. Can you imagine the pain I feel, especially when I reflect that in a single moment I plunged from the heights of bliss to the depths of misery, from great hope for success to despair of everything, and from the wealth and companionship of my professed friends to this loneliness and poverty? I used to take the greatest pleasure in watching our numerous heirs and splendid youths grow and flourish in our family. But now the utmost pain afflicts me. For I see that those youths who, under the diligent care of the men responsible for our family's welfare, would easily have attained the glory of their forebears, now are born to bear Fortune's blows and to suffer misfortunes. I used to glory in the splendor and renown of our ancient fami­ ly, which our fathers inherited from their forebears and maintained intact even while wandering in exile through foreign lands.10 But now I recall with tears how our former reputation and magnificence have been com­ pletely wiped out by the shameful and odious strife of men who, on retur­ ning to their homeland, were entrusted with the task of governing and preserving our fam ily. I once agreed with you and other virtuous friends who found m y kinsmen lacking in love and affection for me. You said it was intolerable that some of my kinsmen, whom I had obeyed as parents since my father's death, slighted me in violation of their familial duty and the respect due a virtuous man. But now I too must grieve to see them so reduced by Fortune that, even if they wished to, they could not show me any affection or kindness. In fact, my indignation when they denied me aid was less than my pain now that Fortune prevents my aiding them. For I once rejoiced in their good fortune, perhaps because I was convinced that they would some day love me for my integrity and would aid me as one who revered them. But now see how ill I fare! While Fortune permitted, I devoted my untroubled and undivided attention to my studies. But now that my mind is vexed by such great cares and urgent needs, I am hindered and distracted, and can only declare myself completely wretched.11 I have no choice but to accuse you, Fortune. You lavish wealth on scoun­ drels, show favor to reprobates, and lend dignity to miscreants. Why do you persecute just men with such great hatred? Why do you thwart their well­ being? Why do you subvert their virtuous actions by your injustices, nnd ruin their way of life? You allow destitution to tear the student of letters from his pursuit of wisdom and erudition. You elevate to the highest wealth and luxury the men who are most Ignorant of liberal learning and most

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hostile to talent. You oppress with abject poverty the man who pursues noble studies industriously, actively, and assiduously, and you snatch from him the aid and support of friends and funds. You shower prosperity, clients, hospitality, and even the enormous favor of rulers on idlers, fools, and slug­ gards, who squander them without restraint in luxury, prodigality, and lust. If a man is illustrious for his superior virtue or marvelous studies, or if he is universally declared worthy of the highest fortune, you remove him from his family's position of honor, cheat him of his rightful hopes, and reduce him to misery. Unjust Fortune, you advance to the greatest dignity men who are vile, tainted, and undeserving. You encourage their foolish and monstrous hopes by offering them immense hopes and rewards. You satisfy their savage hopes and lusts and their abominable longings with an abun­ dance of riches. But I prefer not to dwell on such things, and would forget them if I could. X xx. There may be some who would think your remarks require a lengthier confutation than I intend to make, and who would expend all their wit and eloquence on this topic, which provides so m uch matter for discus­ sion. But I think I need only use a brief line of argument. In this way, you w ill clearly see that I rely not on the power of rhetoric, but on the simple truth, as I undertake the task—so beneficial to you and worthy of me as your friend —of relieving your depression. I shall pretend that I am Fortune, against whom you directed your long peroration. I have listened to you and your lengthy complaint. If it were possible by virtue of your humanity and learning, I would not wish you to bear me such vehement anger. A man of letters who is liberally educated should resort to reproaches only when the situation demands it, and then quite moderate­ ly at that. M y dear Philoponius, you see how I treat you. I allow you to call "goods" things which I might deny are good, and "harmful" things which do not harm a wise man. Nor do I contest your grief at your kinsmen's misfortune, for I attribute to affection your wish to see them not only honorable and moderate, but also wealthy and eminent. (And yet it is to your great advantage that those who were so unkind to you should be re­ duced to a condition which curbs the insolence their wealth inspired.) I also regard as honorable and blameless your desire to see your family's youths grow up, under their elders' care, virtuous and free from any stain of vice or turpitude. (And yet I thought that in your mature wisdom you would understand that kinsmen unable to maintain the honor and renown won by others could scarcely lead their younger relatives to glory and splendor.) But I shall not heed you, when your complaint piles up the misfortunes of others in order to exaggerate the heap of your own miseries. What, shall I allow people to run mad aimlessly and to glory in possessing what is mine, when they arc incapable of using what is theirs? Do they think any of their goodN will remain stable or lasting, when by their feuds and factions they

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continually strive to undermine and undo them completely? Should I preserve those possessions which the very owner seeks to destroy? So let us dismiss your kinsmen, and keep them separate from your case. Tell me, then, what are you after? I shall quite gladly grant your request for anything I may grant without injustice. If you want your laments to move me, you may not refuse this one condition. I shall treat you with complete generosity, as you wish, provided it is consonant with duty and justice. For only a shameless man would ask me for something that entails another's loss. And if I were to show you munificence which would harm an innocent person, I don't think you would regard me as virtuous or prudent. Now, do you wish me to make you wealthy, when you are engaged night and day, not in gainful pursuits, but in literary studies, when you spurn every chance to make money as being less important than your learning, and when a concern for profit is the furthest thing from your mind? Really! Anyone who, like you, does nothing to accumulate and protect his wealth is mad if he expects to become rich. Do you want me to fortify you with the favor and goodwill of rulers, when there is nothing more foreign to your noble spirit than servility, the one quality which most sways rulers' minds to love us? Rulers are moved by the pleasure and profit they take in our fawning and favors, not by our displays of duty. What you call a ruler's favor and goodwill smacks of pure servility. Those emotions which make a ruler appear fond of us are stirred when he perceives his own advantage, not when he recognizes our meritorious service. Will you seek, then, to please by some office more excellent than your own virtues? Won't you rather, as a man of refinement and learning, despise wholeheartedly even the appearance of servility? You claim that I have reduced you from dignity and eminence to misery! How can that be? Did I perhaps excite your kinsmen's audacity so that, when their obstinacy destroyed their estate, they would make you relinquish your greatest and firmest hopes? See that you don't repeat such accusations, O innocent but ignorant youth. p h i l o p o n i u s . As if my kinsmen, infamous and abject plague of morality, did not rely on your aid, Fortune, in heaping every possible injury on everyone unlike them! As if they did not follow your example when they seek out cruel and impious criminals, men tainted by vices and crimes equal to theirs, and thrust them into positions of dignity and eminence, while good men are scorned! Xxx. I give the greatest and worthiest gifts to those who willingly make others great and eminent. p h i l o p o n i u s . Greatest, yes, but least worthy. Xxx. They are gifts you yourself may desire and demand. p h i l o p o n i u s . Were they given to me, I would know well how to keep them

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X xx. I see that you are quite agitated, and have come to the point, I believe, where I have long wanted you. If, as you promised, you help me relieve your malady without resisting me, I shall see that you put aside your affliction and soften your bitterness toward me. Please give me your attention. Yesterday Triscatharus spoke to m e .12 "Fortune," he said, "what is your intent? Why have you raised me to this position of vain grandeur and emp­ ty ostentation, in which I feel utterly miserable? Some fear always hangs over me, and I haven't the briefest moment to relax or recover.13 On one side, I am harassed and oppressed by the multifarious and burdensome cares of m y affairs. On the other, I am incessantly terrified and tormented by a host of imminent dangers and disturbances which loom before my eyes, by the havoc wrought by envy and hatred, and by my fears of similar misfor­ tunes. Why don't you permit me to lead a placid and tranquil life, so that I may pursue liberal studies and fine learning, as he does, with a peaceful spirit and a mind freed from the troubles that oppress me now? How happy I would be, if I could join the cheerful and festive company of scholarly friends! Investigating difficult subjects in their company, I would delight in exciting studies and ingenious contrivances, and would finally win fame and renown for my talents.” 14 Thus Triscatharus argued prolixly and with excessive oratory, as griefstricken men often do, and declared himself the most wretched of men. I was as yet unaware of your state of mind, and had resolved not to remove anyone from circumstances which were to his liking. But now I think you w ill give your complete assent when I ask you to change places with Triscatharus. I believe that this will quite easily gratify your desires and hopes, and his too. p h i l o p o n i u s . What could I possibly exchange with him? I have no wealth, no abundance of goods, no patronage networks, and no bonds of hospitali­ ty. No one brings me gifts, no one gladly prostrates himself before me, no one humbly begs my aid, or spends his time currying my favor. In short, I have no prestige, while he has all these things in greatest abundance. Xxx. You are correct, and we shall briefly review your possessions, many of which are excellent and desirable. What is yours, I believe, are letters and fine learning; moral steadfastness and an abhorrence of vice,- the habitual exercise of your abilities; renown for your industry and rewards for your moderation; sobriety, loyalty, and fairness; a splendid character, and a sense of duty coupled with conscience, profound learning, and the fame and glory of your inventions.15 By my mediation, these and other such qualities, which you have singularly cultivated from your youth, you shall now ex­ change for his goods, if you wish. He will give you the great power of his wealth, and you will give him your abundance of excellent qualities. He will offer you status, dignity, and the ruler's favor; and you will offer him

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the friendship of good men, your illustrious name, and your splendid reputa­ tion. In short, you w ill receive all that is his, both good and bad, and he w ill receive all that is yours. I strongly urge you to do this. philoponius . Could I value wealth so much that I would not abhor this monster’s injustice, indolence, impudence, sloth, audacity, levity, perfidy, inconstancy, turpitude, and impiety? Could I choose to live without learn­ ing, without liberal studies, and without the pursuit of virtue? How could I change places with this deadly monster and plague on our youth, who revels in inconstancy, exults with foolish joy in his acquisitions, and vain­ ly glories in our ruler's goodwill?16 Can any man deserve prosperity, when his cruelties, debaucheries, and poisonings have earned him the hatred of all the gods in heaven and hell? A voluptuary exhausted by idle and langorous leisure is unworthy of men's sight and the light of day. How can you urge me, Fortune, to exchange the lasting and eternal goods I have won by diligent study and long vigils, for the fragile, transitory, and impermanent goods which you have bestowed on the idle sloth of this man? X xx. By inveighing angrily against him , you don't prove his wickedness, but your own perversity. Please consider the differences between you. Triscatharus regards you as honest, serious, and thoroughly good. He doesn't say that Fortune has unfairly given you that keen and versatile genius, by which, no less than by your laborious vigils, you have accomplished so m uch. He doesn't accuse his fate because he grew up without learning or gentlemanly manners. But he says that you forget propriety when you at­ tribute to others' generosity that distinction which he has won by his own industry and by his marvelous services to our ruler, and when you claim that everything he has achieved by spending all his time in great labors and many vigils was simply awarded to his idleness. He also notes that the splen­ dor of his life, the luxury and celebrity of his house, and all his furnishings, silver coins, and artworks —things for which men toil with their sweat and blood —are scarcely inferior to your meagre and empty titles of virtue and integrity. In the midst of his luxury and sumptuous goods, he may easily choose to live moderately, frugally, and chastely, if need be. But you, who vaunt your erudition, cannot live as splendidly and elegantly as you truly desire, for you lack the necessary means. It is better to be unlearned, if learn­ ed men respect and revere you, than to be eloquent, if you are contemned and despised by idle and abject men, among whom you reckon him. Although many duties, dangers, and fears may weigh upon him , his digni­ ty, distinction, privilege, and affluence never desert him. You lack every pleasure, suffer need and anxiety, and must bear the sad cares of poverty. Often envy may creep into your mind, disturbing and destroying the thoughts you direct toward virtuous pursuits. Can you find anyone so lacking in human feeling that in his misery he does not envy the fortunate?1' Human nature is such that we arc most aware of others'

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p a r m e n o . So they say. There's something about the girl that I don't trust. But to my tale. The old woman is superstitious. X xx. Here’s gossip for slaves! p a r m e n o . What are you muttering? X xx. That I admire you. p a r m e n o . I deserve it. If there's a job to do at home or in the country, Parmeno is your man to get it done. X xx. You deserve to give the orders. p a r m e n o . Am I not a rare breed of man? X xx. None of our best citizens rivals your excellence. p a r m e n o . W ell, enough of this. As I was saying, in their zeal both the stubborn old man in the country and the foolish flock of women here at home are unfairly wearing me out. Good gods, what ridiculous orders! I should have been born with a hundred feet and three hundred hands. The house echoes throughout with orders for Parmeno. To spite them, I occa­ sionally steal off and hide among the storage jars. There I can have a drink and observe from my ambush what each says and does. X xx. What vigilance! p a r m e n o . I want the others to fear me. Only Pamphilus is kind to me and heeds my advice.7 Nothing happens in the house that he doesn't learn from me. This morning, when I had finished my work at home, I went to the port to see whether Pamphilus had arrived so that I could be the first to congratulate him . I can't keep still. X xx. You've arranged a fine life, if you live to be busy. p a r m e n o . As I hoped, I found Pamphilus and brought him home while I informed him of his important affairs. In short, I cheered him up. He thanked me, and declared openly that my shrewdness had brought him back from the dead. X xx. From the dead? How? p a r m e n o . There's no need for a long account. I didn't want to witness the foolish scene of the women doting on Pamphilus, so I left the house again and went back to the port. I helped the servants with their burdens, and checked carefully to see that none of our goods were left behind. I was the last to leave the dock, but by running, I was the first one whom Pam­ philus saw returning with our goods intact. Although I was tired and very thirsty, I fairly flew through the town, knowing how fast I had to move. Xxx. Were you so lacking in your usual wisdom that you didn't make sure you quenched your thirst before it troubled you? A wise man ought to plan far in advance, so that he won't have any oversights to regret. parm eno . A wise man w ill take responsibility for his mistakes, but not for accidents. Although I was thirsty, nothing happened contrary to my ex­ pectations, only contrary to my plan. It is not left to mortal men to pro­ vide against every accident; rather, they must yield to circumstances. As

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long as you do your duty, it is best to accept gladly what cannot be avoided. X xx. Blessed the family for whom you are the household philosopher! But what urgent matter made you run through town? p a r m e n o . I had to meet a certain Caridemus.8 1 didn't know him , but Pamphilus had described him as his ghastly houseguest. I carefully asked everyone I met about this monster. Dam n him , and Pamphilus too, who enjoys such foul friendships! Please bear in mind that I'm omitting many details for the sake of brevity. It would be tedious to recount how many silly and impudent people I met who tried to provoke me with their words: the city is full of them. But, O gracious gods, how cleverly I curbed their rudeness! X xx. I know how, while smiling, you often make ambiguous and barbed remarks.9 p a r m e n o . That is my principal glory. It is even more glorious that my advice has made many people better and more fortunate. But enough of this. If only Pamphilus would listen to me and let m y wisdom make him happier! I had no sooner returned from my errand than I took to my feet again to cheer up Pamphilus. I don't want to relate everything I did. The day would not suffice to tell you: that's how loyally and diligently I attend to so many important affairs. Besides, before I return to the country, I have a number of errands to do, which can be safely entrusted only to Parmeno. Good-bye. Don't detain me. X xx. Is that all you were laughing about just now? p a r m e n o . Oh! It completely slipped my mind. X xx. Such is the way of people with too many things on their minds. One worry, they say, cancels another. p a r m e n o . It's just as you say. X xx. And now you're laughing again! p a r m e n o . Yes indeed. Ha ha ha! I just can't forget what I saw happen to Birria the slave. Xxx. Can you tell me the story sometime? It's your custom to let me share your amusements.10 p a r m e n o . Do y o u w a n t m e to t a k e t i m e fr o m m y im p o r t a n t a ffa ir s fo r y o u ? X xx. I greatly desire it. p a r m e n o . You're the only friend of mine whose wit is a source of con­ stant delight. Most people are too boorish to grasp such urbane delights. I'll tell you. As I said, all these errands had worn me out. But finally, after several drinks with Pamphilus, I was standing in front of the house, reflecting on my way of life, and following a chain of thought about how one man is better off than another. Some are born to acts of kindness, so that even un­ wittingly they do a lot of good. I was congratulating myself and taking pride in being one of their number. But that’s beside the point, As I was rapt In

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thought, the dread of the neighborhood, Pamphilus' mother Sostrata, ap­ peared, bent over and shaking with her hands dangling at her side.11 X xx. Dam n you, what an act for the stage! p a r m e n o . "M y dear Parmeno,” she said, "when we want a job done well, we have to entrust it to you. G o to the country, please, and tell the ser­ vants not to make any preparations. I've decided not to go.” I stared at her and said: "Whatever possessed you to make this unusual trip to the coun­ try alone, when you are so old and feeble? I was resolved to do all I could to dissuade you from such folly.” And so I set out. On my way, I began to resent how everyone had conspired today to wear me out with running. Then I came across a sad, bearded fellow. I had heard once that he could free your mind of anxiety, and knew that people call him a philosopher. I went up to the fellow, greeted him , and asked him to hear my story. I gave him a detailed account of my life and character, so that he would undertand how I was born to misery. The philosopher began a discourse so sweet and pleasant that I shall never forget it as long as I live. I remember the fellow's gestures and expression exactly. "What would you say,” he asked, "if I showed you that you are more for­ tunate than your master?” I was slightly angered, and replied: "Do you mean that a reasonable man would call me fortunate? I am a slave.” He smiled and said: "Come now, has it ever happened that, in order to do your master's bidding, you had to start a journey at night?” "Yes,” I said. "And in your concern as a loyal and honest slave,” he asked, "did you sleep poorly awaiting the hour to set forth?” "Yes," I said, "more than anyone.” "Were you perhaps afraid," he asked, “that your master would awaken you with reproaches and blows?” "No," I said, "but I wished to be loved, and strove to seem a diligent servant.” "Then no harsh master forced you to act,” he said. "No one,” I said. "And if there had been a savage master to prevent your sleep­ ing,” the philosopher said, "would your condition have been harder to bear?” "Clearly,” I said, "and more painful." “What would you say," he asked, "if your owner obeyed so relentless a master that he spent sleepless nights, and days full of cares and toils?”12 "I would think myself free," I said, "in comparison to one so completely a slave.” “And w hat,” he asked, "if your owner should obey several savage masters?” "I should think him very wretched,” I said. Then he said: "Please pay attention. Have you ever heard that there is something that rules even over kings?” "I don't recall," I said. "Have you heard,” he asked, “that a goddess called Necessity wanders among mortals?” "I don't recall," I said. "When you are thirsty, hungry, or cold,” he asked, "don’t you sometimes find that it happens against your will?” "Indeed,” I said. "It is Necessity that compels you,” he said. "What a harsh goddess, O philosopher!" I cried. And the philosopher said: "Even the greatest kings

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obey her, albeit unwillingly. Do you believe this?” "O f course,” I said, "if they are hum an.” 13 "N ow ,” he said, "when the owner feeds his mule, do you think his ac­ tion necessary?” "Absolutely necessary,” I said. "Why?" he asked. "Because if he doesn't feed the m ule," I said, "he will suffer loss, for a starving beast is useless and even harmful to his master." "Well then,” he said, "your master furnishes your food and clothing. Should he, or could he, justly fail to do so?" "By no means." “Then he is obeying Necessity," he said. "Exact­ ly as you say,” I said. "If he didn’t suitably meet each person's necessities," he asked, "would you love him?" "Not as much as I do." "If he were negligent," he asked, "would you obey him eagerly and willingly?" "Not as m uch as I do." "If he treated you so inhum anely,” he said, "wouldn't his reputation suffer?” "A great deal.” "Wouldn't good men despise him?" "A great deal.” "Wouldn't he seem less suited for public life, as is proper? And don't you think public disgrace would trouble him as keenly as his household's opinion?” "Certainly," I said. "If he neglected his reputation with good men, wouldn't he pay in public hatred?" "They would have reason to hate him ," I said. "Don't you think that would punish him?" "Yes,” I said. "Severely?" "Very severely." "You see, then/' he said, "that in serving his reputation and the good of his house, he is subject to Necessity? And if he errs by being negligent, you won't deny that he must pay the penal­ ty?" I nodded m y assent. "Well then,” he said, "how well do you think he sleeps when this obstinate goddess orders him about? As well as you, in your untroubled slumbers?” “By no means," I said. "Don't you see, then," said the philosopher, "that he is greatly inferior to you? He lies awake in bed, troubled by the constant needs he must face. He alone is responsible for all of his household, and must see that none of them goes hungry or suffers from heat or cold.” When I reflected how little I could earn and yet how little I lacked, I agreed that I should warmly thank my master and that I did not fare poorly in terms of happiness. Then the philosopher asked: "Shall we say that your owner serves as his master all those he supports in his household?" "I don't understand," I said. "I mean to say," he replied, "that he obeys everyone's needs, which openly dictate to him and menace him with grave consequences.” 14 “Yes," I said, “reason shows this. And you have shown that he w ill face hatred and disgrace if he neglects his family and property.” "Parmeno," he said, "you have only one master. But doesn't your owner endure several unrelenting masters, as we have said?” "Yes, I believe so," I said. "Then you have a humane, lenient, and flexible master,” he said, "under whom you may oc­ casionally err with impunity. But he has several inhuman and harsh masters who w ill not pardon his mistakes. What do you think?" "Exactly that," I

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said. "By day,” he said, "you can drink and stretch out for a nap, complete­ ly carefree, and you tranquilly sleep tranquil nights. But he submits to each relentless command of necessities that arise at every hour. You furnish the small effort that he demands of you, and live the rest of your time for yourself. But he employs all his energy, talent, care, zeal, and diligence for the sake of each one of you. What do you think?” "You've convinced me, philosopher,” I said. “I begin to doubt whether it is not better for me to be a slave than a master, unless I am lured by the golden name of freedom. For, if I understand correctly, no wise man would want so many dependents who bring him such varied and troublesome cares.” "Decide this question as you w ill,” he said. "But I urge you to con­ sider this again and again: if someone shares with you the entire fortune he has won through great toils and perils, and yet himself derives no more pleasure from his wealth than what he allots to you for your natural com­ forts, wouldn't you call him a friend rather than a master?" "I'd even call him my steward,” I said. Our discussion touched on many other topics like these. We concluded that I was very fortunate to have found such an honest and liberal patron. In my joy, I couldn't help embracing the philosopher for liberating me by his arguments. Now, all this while, Birria the slave was present. I'm already laughing at the fellow. He approved the philosopher's words by nodding and gaping as he listened with rapt attention. At length, as if awaking from slumber, he asked: "Can you give me some advice, philosopher? I serve a boorish master who finds fault with everything I do.” The philosopher replied: "Your owner w ill value you if he finds in you more loyalty than ostentation, and more work than words in caring for his estate; if you don't spare any efforts or indulge in any pleasures; if you think it just to serve a wiser and better man than yourself; and if you diligently strive to show that you love and respect his fam ily.” 15 When Birria heard this, he seemed perplexed. The philosopher looked at him and said:16 "Have you ever noticed how many great benefits an oak tree provides? It settles land disputes, furnishes acorns and shade to cattle, and offers many such benefits. Yet it receives no worthy reward from the farm-steward. It is not manured or pruned, and, most pitiful of all, after it has spent the summer in benefiting others, its inner core is eaten by hordes of ants. Have you observed this?" Birria replied: "Yes, quite often." "Doesn't it seem un­ just to you?" "Yes, it seems very unjust,” Birria then replied.17 "Now, think of your owner as an oak tree,” said the philosopher. "Although he feeds and cares for all of you, his lazy bunch of servants, how do you repay his great generosity? For your sake, he is filled with cares which gnaw him no less than ants a tree trunk. But, like cattle, you abuse his benefits.” "Well said,” replied Birria. "I feel his oaken nature when he cudgels me." We laughed. "What is more," said the philosopher, "when at night you bear a torch

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before a crowd, does it ever happen that, in lighting their way, you yourself walk in darkness and stub your toe against a rock?” 18 "Quite often,” said Birria. “You must consider that this is what happens in human life, Birria,” said the philosopher. "Some are horn to bestow more blessings on others than on themselves. Whom shall we place in this category, your owner or you yourself, who are clothed and shod by others' generosity and fed by others' sweat? I think you should rejoice in your good fortune, rather than bear your lot impatiently. Or do you think differently?” Birria was speechless. The philosopher continued: "You may have heard it said, my friend, that understanding one's lot leads to wisdom. By doing so, one can adapt to circumstances, and accept whatever happens by reflecting that pa­ tience lightens our burdens and turns to pleasure all but the gravest m ishaps.” When the philosopher said this, Birria lost his temper and said: "Tell me something better!19 You've made Parmeno lord over his master, but you want me to remain a slave forever." "Then be idle,” said the philosopher with a smile. Birria put these words into action, and eagerly began long conversations with everyone he met. When his owner found him prattling and neglecting his chores, he struck him more than twenty blows with his fist. I laughed and, remembering my own affairs, departed. But dusk is fall­ ing. Goodbye. X xx. Goodbye. The fellow's gone. Did you hear this?20 Isn't it better to have no slaves, rather than nourish these two-legged rogues, most of whom are lazy, stupid, unreliable, loquacious, and foul-mouthed? Is there any greater nuisance than having a boorish and ignorant slave take care of your affairs? You must train an unskilled slave and teach an ignorant one, and still you must yourself carry out whatever you order. If you have a sly and clever slave, by con­ trast, you’ll often regret keeping such a pest in your household. A dull slave is no help to his owner, but an honest slave, while rare, is defiant in serv­ ing you.

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The Deceased 1 [Defunctus] p o l y t r o p u s .2 In this underworld gloom, I can hardly discern the figure that approaches. Is this the shade of Neophronus, whose great affection for me and mutual goodwill I used to promote by the highest offices? n e o p h r o n u s .3 How I had hoped to find here many of my friends who died before me! When we were alive, they surrounded me with flattery, accom­ panied me to the square, greeted me, and thronged so close around me on all sides, that I could scarcely step outside without a great crowd of friends. But since I descended from the light of day, no one approaches me, neither friend or stranger. O harsh reality! M ust I then see myself utterly deserted and despised? Is it perhaps better to tarry here at this entrance to darkness, rather than blindly to venture further? p o l . Being used to light and colors, the fellow naturally goes astray in these shadows. But no one may be ignorant of the road to the underworld, and it is my duty to direct a friend who is wandering. You there, are you looking for friends in this night? n e o . What bad luck! I meet no one—not friends or strangers or any of the countless number of my former followers —who might aid me in such great confusion. But you there, whoever you are who offer your kind assistance, please inform me which way to go. p o l . Com e here to me without fear. A ll the entrances here are quite safe. But where are you going? n e o . O h my! p o l . Don't hesitate. The path to the underworld is open and easy everywhere.4 In it you'll encounter nothing to slow or stop you. neo

. I r e a liz e t h a t c le a r ly , b u t I w a s t r y i n g t o r e c a l l w h i c h fr ie n d o f m i n e

h a d y o u r v o ic e .

Do you remember Polytropus? You speak of an excellent man and m y close friend, whose example I always valued, and whose loyalty and affection inspire in me an eternally grateful and devoted memory. Ah, what a good man Polytropus was, what a good friend! I always loved and cherished him above all others. If your voice were not hoarse and faint, you would seem to be Polytropus. But whoever you are, I am greatly obliged to you. For you have led a foreign and abandoned soul, wandering in darkness, to the right way. pol. Everyone's voice in the underworld is thin and husky like mine, dear Neophronus. I am Polytropus himself. neo . You ure Polytropus? pol. neo

.

The Deceased po l

The very same.

.

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. I a m g la d t h a t , e v e n i n t h e s e s h a d o w s a n d i n s u c h g r e a t s o lit u d e ,

I m a y e n jo y t h e c o m p a n y o f a fr ie n d t o w h o m I a lw a y s s h o w e d t h e g r e a t e s t a ffe c tio n .

Com e here, then. I fly to you. p o l . I am glad you arrived at this moment. n e o . And I am happy to have met you so soon. p o l . Good. What news do you bring? What is happening among mortals?5 n e o . Ha ha ha! Everyone is mad!6 p o l . Indeed, mad? But how?7 n e o . In countless ways. They burn with love or seethe with hate, or some madness lures them to suffer toils, wounds, and extreme perils in pursuit of wealth and eminence, pleasures, and similar follies. I can hardly describe what impetuous desires and feverish cares seize and inflame the minds of mortals. M an’s perennial condition is this: everyone living either hopes or fears, dares or dreads, grieves or exults, is angry or cold and languid; or in turn envies, despises, hates, or is consumed by other such cares. In short, if you ponder everything thoroughly, you'll understand that there is almost nothing mortals do which you would not judge vain and foolish. p o l . What you say is nothing new. Were you unaware that men’s lives are never free from passions? n e o . I hadn't noticed. p o l . As if you had never heard the theories of those who argue that it is natural for men to love, hate, spurn, avoid, and admire, and to feel joy, pleasure, grief, lust, desire, and satiety! They say that nature, most suitably and almost of necessity, has implanted these feelings in men's souls both to teach them to avoid what is harmful and to seek what is healthful, and to provide their reason and strength of mind with material for meritorious struggle. n e o . You know the saying: after the concluding speeches have been made, the lawyer who has lost often sees clearly all the arguments which would have served his cause. I confess that this has happened to me. For now that I am dead, I have finally seen how everyone, including myself, continually lived in utter madness. p o l . Then perhaps I shall find that I too lived in no small error. For I deemed you a man of the highest wisdom, while you declare yourself a com­ plete fool. Tell your story, I beg you. You've laughed enough. n e o . Certainly. I'll tell you. Do you remember how dearly I loved my wife? p o l . You shared that folly with many husbands. n e o . What if, rather than thinking such love amiss, t thought it proper, since my wife's henuty, character, and chastity seemed worthy of praise and affection? pol. neo

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Did you think her beauty and charm obliged you to suffer anxiety? M y insanity led me not only to suffer anxiety, but even to embrace harsh servitude, the greatest that can be described. Wretch that I was, I sank so low that I zealously carried out all my wife's orders, and never opposed her prohibitions. I undertook nothing without her knowledge or advice, and never acted against her w ill. I leave aside more important matters, so that you may better understand the others. Consider what misery I lived in. I never dined with friends without asking her permission. If I saw that her expression was sad, I instantly tried to cheer her with witty sayings and jests. Yet even then, my dear Polytropus, I was apprehensive that my words might annoy her. Thus, if my wife was silent, I thought it sinful to utter a word anywhere in the house, and when the lady was not chattering, our entire home fell silent. Such was my misery! Yet I did not consider it shameful to indulge and serve my wife in this way. p o l . Truly yours was a most wretched and unfortunate servitude. n e o . Even worse. When you hear how I behaved, you'll laugh at my follies. I lay ill with the fatal disease which claimed my life. Who could describe the grief which seemed to afflict my wife, or recount her care and concern for me? She harassed doctors, relatives, servants, neighbors, and friends, all on my account. She ordered some to come and go, and others to run this way and that. She told them to do one thing, to bring another, and to remove still another. You would have praised the woman's extraordinary diligence and concern. p o l . You're mistaken. I would have thought that such an imperious woman was odious. n e o . As I lay ill in bed, my wife's attentions seemed welcome and helpful. But I won't deny that she annoyed me in my last hour by clinging to the bed and deafening me with her laments. She cried out that this day was ill-starred, bitter, and accursed, since it deprived her of her love, her darl­ ing, her pleasure. She called upon death, and swore that she preferred death with me to life without me. Rivers of tears flowed from her eyes, so that even a heartless husband could not have endured seeing his wife so over­ come by grief. Yet I admit that her tears tormented me, and that I was quite indignant, until death, which alone could do so, separated me from my sweet wife. In fact, my wife's piteous wailing caused me to pass away more painfully than I would have otherwise. p o l . Foolishly, too. For how could the death of an elderly man like you be premature? Is any death premature except that which cuts short a youth's noble undertakings? n e o . N o , indeed. But since I was unaware of death's advantages, I still longed to live with my wife and children. I won’t discourse en the benefits which death brings, but shall proceed with my story. Now, having left my body's members, I felt that I could move with complete freedom. As I con­ pol.

neo

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templated myself, I began to exult: "How happy I am, now that I can move wherever I wish!” Who could describe what great pleasure I felt? M y dear Polytropus, I was nearly crazed with immense, infinite, and incredible joy, and I exulted: "What happiness! Kind gods, since I have found such freedom, I thank all of you in heaven and hell for this divine gift!” p o l . You danced with joy? n e o . Does it surprise you? Then, in my exhilaration, I decided to visit several places on earth which I had wished to see while alive. But first I wanted to go back and see my wife and children, whom I missed even in death. So I flew to the rooftop of an adjacent building, from which I could view the entire interior of my house. Sitting there and looking through the windows, I could see my virtuous wife. Holding in her hand the two rings which I used to wear, she kissed them with many tears, and amid her laments she cried in a loud voice: "Dear jewels, chaste tokens of our love, and holy memorials of our marriage!” She swore that she would keep them forever. In marrying me, she had promised always to place in me all her pleasures, desires, and hopes, and had in fact done so. So now, she vowed perpetual chastity to her deceased husband's memory, and swore she would never desire anyone but me. And she said that she would keep those rings eternally in her sight, as witnesses to her devotion and continence. p o l . What a saintly wife! n e o . O h yes! Nearby were the other members of the household, mourn­ ing by my corpse, as is customary. "But why do they feel grief?” I asked. "Are they sad because I have been released from that corpse? Are they an­ noyed because they think my death will cause them misfortune? Who would think that such mourning betokened dutiful affection?8 Who would not rather deem it a sign of envy or insanity either to wish me to remain in that fetid corpse, or to seek to ease their burdensome misfortune by weep­ ing? Are they not utterly mad to wish to see me imprisoned in a foul cadaver, which they must soon cast out because of its stench?9 p o l . Clearly. n e o . Meanwhile, my friends arrived to arrange the funeral. With them was my steward. p o l . Tell me, who was your steward? n e o . Don't you remember Melibeus, a rustic, hairy, talkative, and ridiculous fellow?10 p o l . Yes, I do. I mistrusted him ever since I noticed how, in his keen devo­ tion to your wife, he left the country for your nearby gardens. n e o . Then the saying is correct that friends are wiser in others' affairs than in their own. Your wife's life and character were clear to me long ago, aN if 1 per­

pol.

ce ive d them in you, with whom she had lived no long. neo

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Unlike me, you were justly suspicious of my steward. Hul I regard

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ed him as completely loyal and forthright. So I let the fellow spend his time with the household women and take part himself in family matters as he pleased. I even allowed him to join my wife in the dining-room, and to con­ verse alone with her at length. Foolish and incautious, I judged my wife so virtuous, modest, and well-disposed toward me that neither the youth's familiarity nor the woman's loyalty seemed suspect.11 p o l . I fail to see how mellifluous Melibeus could have been with her.12 But clearly the ancient saying I heard my grandfather ascribe to our ancestors is absolutely true and correct. n e o . What was it? Tell me. p o l . Didn't you ever hear it from your family's elders? n e o . What would I have heard? p o l . When women see that they are laxly guarded they tend to become lascivious, by their own nature and without any prompting. What do you think? n e o . Anyone who thinks otherwise is ignorant. I'll tell you a humorous and comical tale which proves the point. When my wife saw the steward, she suddenly left the crowd of mourners. Like one of the fam ily, the fellow followed her boldly into a distant room. When they were both inside, she locked the door. I was suddenly struck by suspicion. I wondered why my wife had left the crowd of mourners, and I couldn't fathom what purpose Melibeus had inside. With keen attention and suspenseful gaze, I observed carefully what they were doing inside. p o l . A worthy subject to study after death, if you had never noticed it in life! But tell m e, what business were they engaged in? Were they perhaps hiding some valuable object, so that it would not be stolen in the confu­ sion of the funeral? n e o . I have said that my wife was attentive during my illness. Wouldn't you think she was concerned after my death?13 Do you know what they were doing, Polytropus? To leave nothing out, now that we've broached the subject, they were engaged in the sweet pleasures of love.14 p o l . M y word! O n the occasion of a funeral, a family's mourning, and a husband's death, what could not, or should not, have seemed sad and bit­ ter to a bereft widow? n e o . I thought there was nothing you didn't know. Do love, pleasure, gaiety, and jesting seem bitter or sad to you? p o l . Indeed, they are sadder than people think, for they cause much suf­ fering to the soul. But they are unsuited to a doleful funeral. Love is in­ compatible with grieving and the squalor of mourning. But proceed. n eo . I omit a good deal for decency's sake, rather than from grief. In fact, my wife's lewdness strikes me as quite ridiculous. I won't repeat the obscene mill filthy things they said about me, or the hatred and condemnation which filled their conversation. My wife's most decent remark was this: "My love,

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I congratulate you. M y darling, I rejoice that we now have the good for­ tune to be together so long." pol . O h , the m orals and chastity of the w om an! n eo . So you see? pol . You learned full well how she felt about you. n eo . Full well. pol . D id you also learn how candid women are by nature? n eo . Exceedingly well. pol . Then you certainly were an ignorant fellow! What husband could have been naiver? You were a fool to consider your wife more chaste than others. n eo . It couldn't be helped, for love dulled my wits, clouded my vision, and deadened m y mind. Love made me sluggish, lazy, credulous, dull, demented, and utterly foolish. pol . Nothing better could have happened to you. You discovered that women neither show any loyalty or affection to their husbands, nor respect the laws of marriage, the holiness of the conjugal bed, or the sanctity of mat­ rimony. And you learned what harsh and savage servitude oppressed you. n eo . Besides these and other indications, the depraved nature of women became especially clear when I beheld my wife's incredible behavior. Kiss­ ing the steward again and again, she gave him as a gift one of the rings she had taken from my dying hand. "M y darling! M y joy!” she said. "Let this ring be the pledge of our pleasures. I give you this one, and keep the other. As formerly they were kept on one man's fingers and adorned one man’s hands, let them now maintain us in one love and urge us to one pleasure together.” pol . How treacherous is your nature, woman! Were you so faithless that in your lust you gave this rustic the very ring which you had just taken from your husband as the divine pledge of a sacred vow? Could you make the pledge and guarantor of your base love this very ring, which you were bound by duty and oath to preserve as an ornament of your chastity and honor?15 n eo . Yet that was the case. As you see, my wife's role was ridiculous. They finally both came out, just as if they had made some very important decision. Then, when my wife rejoined the gathering of women, heavens, what laments she uttered and what copious tears she poured forth! She paused w ith one woman and then another, going the round of all, and drowning each with her doleful cries. She called herself wretched, deserted, and destitute, and said that in me she had lost her glory, her richest treasure, and her deity. "O misery!” she exclaimed. "O calamity! O unlucky and most bitter day!” Then she ripped her face with her nails, tore out her hair, and beat herself with her fists, while often calling out nty name amid her sobs and blows.

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And you were still on the rooftop? Although I was quite indignant because of the steward, I couldn't help laughing. "How deceptive, treacherous, and corrupt woman’s nature is!” I cried. "Who would ever have thought that this same woman, who just now was so happy and cheerful with the steward Melibeus, could so deceitfully produce these false tears and feign such realistic grief? Bah, the foolish madness of men who love women! Learn from this, delirious lovers, learn how women love you! If they are able to dupe their husbands, will they scruple to deceive others? No greater madness can be found than the madness of those who firmly believe that the female sex possesses any con­ stancy, honor, or moral integrity.” po l . Ah, how exactly you describe the way things are!16 n e o . It's true. At any event, just as I laughed at my wife's treachery, I also reproached my earlier madness. And I condemned the foolishness of the bystanders, whose tears were inspired by m y wife's artificial and "craftytongued w iles,” as they say.17 pol . What deformed faces and expressions did you see? n e o . The most disgusting possible. There was a decrepit old fellow who must have struck everyone as singularly ridiculous. He stood there with his mouth gaping, his throat wide open, and only a few teeth showing. His eyes were oozing and red from age or drink (I can't say which), and they grew more hideous and foul as he mourned.18 pol . Ha ha, and swollen? n e o . If you'd been there, I don't know whether you would have thought this decrepit fellow more risible or despicable. Soaked with his own tears and hunched over, he spewed forth great noises from his lungs. Doubtless you would have turned away, finding him and the other mourners repulsive.19 p o l . I hope you'll point out this decrepit old man when he arrives here. We shall openly mock him as a madman. I think that anyone who acts so foolishly in his later years deserves ridicule even among the dead. But I cor­ rect myself. Perhaps he was a devoted friend affected by keen and powerful longing for you. n e o . Don’t think so, Polytropus. Several mourners approached the fellow, resolved to console him , and asked whether he was a close friend of mine. They observed that a wise man bears such misfortunes with moderation, for they must be borne by everyone, even against one's w ill. The fellow replied: ”1 bear no relation to the deceased, and wasn't even his friend. In fact, I don't recall seeing him while he was alive. I'm just a passer-by who was summoned to attend the funeral. But ever since my youth, I've been so compassionate and pious that even an enemy's misfortunes cause me great pain. Who can restrain his tears when he is in a crowd of mourners?” 1*01,1 You don't say! po l .

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It's true. What a grave and mature old man! Seeing other fools, he acted like a madman himself. At any age, folly and delusion are blameworthy, but especially in one's later years. n e o . You're right. Those who are distressed for so little reason and daunted by such trivial grief, possess no manly and solid spirit, but languish from their childish and weak nature. p o l . Exactly. A childish disposition and womanish tears are disgraceful in a grave and mature man, so you were right to mock these mourners. n e o . Rather, I detested them. I turned m y eyes away, and surveyed my children and the rest of the household. p o l . Then your children were with the mourners? n e o . Actually, they had withdrawn to put on mourning clothes in order to sit with the family in funeral attire. p o l . This too smacks of madness. n e o . O f course. Why should we deceased prefer black garments to white? p o l . Still, I wouldn't blame children who were grieved by their afflictions or greatly distressed by longing for their father, not even those who discredit themselves by womanish mourning. For whoever loses a father, loses a valuable assistant in his affairs. n e o . Com e now, Polytropus, and learn how much fathers are missed by their sons. Judge from my children, since you had none. Do you remember my eldest son —what talent he had, what hopes I had for him , what prom­ ise he showed, and what a worthy citizen we predicted he would be? p o l . I thought he would always be very respectful and obedient to you. n e o . Then we were both mistaken. p o l . How can that be? He was so modest, discreet, and serious beyond his years that one could have cited the famous phrase: "I hate a boy of precocious wisdom.''20 n e o . Shall we think we were wise, if even children deceived us? And shall we believe we were shrewd, if we failed to recognize a child's dissembling? M y son was not obedient by nature, as he seemed, but from fear. He was impious, dear Polytropus. M y own son was impious to me! p o l . Alas, how? Your young son was impious to you, his aged father? n e o . I know it seems absurd to you. p o l . It seems completely absurd that your sons were less than loving to you, for no one doubts that they were dearer to you than anything else. n e o . Yet they were i m p i o u s . p o l . Beware lest you rashly condemn your well-bred children as impious. For everyone, especially your children, knew from experience that you were by far the most indulgent and dutiful of fathers. .

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But I myself saw my eldest son overjoyed by my death.

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p o l . Overjoyed, you say? Didn't your own children miss you, when even strangers bewailed your death with profuse tears? n e o . With m y own eyes, I saw him dance and exult, and raise his hands to heaven—my own son!—to thank the gods for removing me from his sight.21 So that you understand more clearly how dear I was to him , I shall repeat the lengthy and extravagant speech in which my son congratulated himself. "O great and gracious gods above,” the good youth said, "what thanks I owe you for snatching me from my father's harsh tyranny, and for grant­ ing me this new freedom! W ith what pleasure you have filled me, O gods, by satisfying m y lifelong prayers! You have rid me of the most harsh and pitiless of fathers. "At last, you are gone, and never w ill return, cruel father. At last, you w ill leave me alone, unworthy and decrepit old man. At last, you w ill cease to oppose my pleasures, spiteful father, who never let me dine with com­ panions, stay with friends, love, drink, or do anything as I wished. A ll my actions were dictated by your harsh laws and limited by your tyranny. You denied me everything, unless I begged you in long, repeated pleas. You are finally gone, barbarian. At last, I shall determine all m y own pleasures, and shall live under my own law, not another's censorship. Why should I fear your fierce and furious grimaces any longer?” p o l . M y word, what a son you describe! n e o . Alas, I began to weep at this, saying: "O wretched son! O crazed youth! Does m y death, which should seem sad and bitter to you, give you pleasure? Do you hate the father who loved you all too well? Did you wish the death of the one person who helped you live an honorable life? May the gods give you a better character! For you have many odious vices: not only inconstancy, but wantonness; not only wantonness, but impiety; and not only impiety, but the worst vice of all, the plague and ruin of good morals —ingratitude toward your father.” p o l . How well I now understand, Neophronus, why you claimed that nothing in human life is free of madness.22 Those who should be afflicted by sorrow are filled with great joy. Those who should be least affected, mourn. Those who should have loved you were false and deceitful. Those we deemed honest were corrupt, and the woman whose character we thought chaste was completely unchaste. Alas! Go now, and believe the feigned tears of women, O mortals, and place faith in the false words of men! Whose affection can you trust, when you have found such treachery in your wives, sons, and entire family? Or do you think that a father's estate, life, and health should be dearer to strangers than to his household, or more welcome to outsiders than to his own wife and children? While you thought that you were highly respected, revered, and loved by your own family, you were in luct utterly odious and burdensome to them.

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n e o . Rather, I was despised, neglected, and mocked. Even my servants, whom I regarded as quite devoted to their master’s affairs, soon revealed their hostility, although they were ridiculous. p o l . In their laments did they do anything foolish or shameless? n e o . Countless things. They made grotesque faces, and their boorish cries echoed in the colonnades and deafened the entire neighborhood. But I had something something else in mind to tell you. You’ll laugh. p o l . Tell me, please. n e o . Do you recall the old Chian wine which I kept in my cellar?23 p o l . That aged, aromatic, blood-restoring, and vivifying wine, from which we often parted drunk?24 n e o . Then you remember it? p o l . Yes, we often talked at great length, sweetly filling each other's glass and sipping that wine. Ah, what good wine! You never tired of saying that it had conversed with your distant ancestors.25 Ah, what good wine! It tasted of ancestral, honeyed, and mature eloquence. n e o . Well put. Now you'll hear my ridiculous tale. But I fear I'm being verbose. p o l . I prefer that you speak happily and humorously, rather than sadly and in haste. It's not easy to be both brief and entertaining. n e o . To my point, then. p o l . I'm listening. n e o . Well, as it pleased the gods, my wine-steward was present in the little gathering of servants, holding a heavy wine-cup before his face and sampling all the wines.26 "This one is truly past its prime,” he said. "That one has soured. This summer wine seems better. You there, vigorously bore a hole in this one; dare manfully, and stoutly drive the auger into its mid­ dle! Heavens! Ha ha! Let me have such sweet, brilliant, and fragrant wines! They say that the gods' ambrosia and nectar are like this, but these wines are better suited to our nature. Ho! Drink boldly, everyone! Put shame aside, forget your cares, and banish your fears! I remember that our master often philosophized in such words. Let gladness, festivity, pleasure, and sport reign! Drink up this sweet wine, and pom away that musty old wine! Youth has always been more pleasant than old age. What are you doing? Drink! Our master won’t notice. He can’t see what we do. Our master has closed his eyes forever." p o l . O treacherous wine-steward! When I was your master's most trusted friend and came to you for a drink, you set out the tiniest glasses and the smallest bottle you could find. Sometimes you claimed to have lost the key to the cellar. With your neck twisted and your brows knitted, you lined to say that such sacred wine could only be tasted at the beginning of each month. So you denied it to friends only to lavish it on servants? Should I call you frugal, when you saved it for gluttons? Hut this was untiling

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unusual. Frugality has this result, that what has long been saved is lavished on the thankless. Often, greater ruin comes from frugality than from prodigality. n e o . But these are small matters, even if I was quite mad to think im ­ prudently that my steward was frugal. p o l . It always seemed to me that you valued him too highly. You never ceased to praise the frugality and devotion of that decrepit, scrofulous, and depraved fellow .27 n e o . If I was foolish in more important matters, wouldn't you expect me to be filled with madness in this as well? Who is unaware that all servants only follow orders so that they may lead an idle life through the industry and labor of others? Still, these are small matters, as I said, and even ridiculous ones. But the burden of my greatest madness lay in my naive belief in the loyalty and goodwill of my kinsmen. p o l . How did you think they felt about you? n e o . Quite kindly and affectionately. p o l . Because they mourned you, perhaps? n e o . No, for when I first saw them standing firm without tears, I believed they were displaying manly courage.28 I deemed them praiseworthy for bearing the end of my life with such restraint. And I considered them dutiful in maintaining their dignity, diligent in being watchful and meticulous about my estate, and wise for displaying maturity and for not grieving where no disgrace was involved. So I thought my children would be well provid­ ed for, if they were entrusted to such worthy men. p o l . You viewed their behavior in a positive light. n e o . Yes, indeed, but it was not free of vice. p o l . So among mortals even gravity and virtue are tinged with madness? n e o . I was mad myself to regard dishonest men as honest. Instead, they were vicious miscreants. p o l . Is virtue among mortals, then, merely a cloak for sin and a veil for crime?29 Are all men so perversely insane? n e o . You may be certain that human minds are so deeply imbued and so thoroughly tinged by this stain that no human thought, no discourse, no judgment, no custom, and no opinion is free from folly's dominion. p o l . I agree with you: no wise person doubts that everyone living is altogether ignorant and foolish. But I'm waiting to hear how your folly was linked to your kinsmen's gravity and to their crime. n e o . Fine, I'll tell you. As soon as they learned o f my death, all my kinsmen —worthy m en!—ran breathlessly to my house. As they were ad­ mitted, they assumed grave faces and sad expressions. Their eyes were dry, as I said, and they shed no tears, as if they had come to care, for my estate, rather than to eollcet it. They made a great show of seeming to be careful guardiattN and diligent overseers of the property. Then they posed n u m e r o u s

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questions, learned details from friends of the family, and finally asked cun­ ningly about the extent and distribution of the legacy. The family members replied that they knew only what they had overheard from the witnesses to the w ill, namely, that the children were designated as sole heirs, and that no one else was to inherit m y farm or my property in town. When my kinsmen heard this, they began to curse me vehemently and to wish horri­ ble torments for me, shouting that I was the most miserly, greedy, and ungrateful of men. . . p o l . M y word! n e o . . . .because in death I had neglected my kinsmen. p o l . You don't say! n e o . It's true. p o l . Were they moved to such great wrath and hatred? n e o . Even greater. p o l . Were your kinsmen so hostile and bitter toward you? Did they revile and curse in death a man they used to honor and respect in life? n e o . Would that they had neglected me in life! Perhaps they wouldn’t have been so impious to a dead man, or have gone so far in insulting a corpse. p o l . What more nefarious act could they have committed than to curse without reason a distinguished citizen, a departed relative, and an honorable man? n e o . They sullied themselves with a far greater crime. p o l . D id they perhaps disrupt the funeral procession, or cancel the eulogies? n e o . That wouldn't have grieved me as much as what they did. It seems to me no great loss to forego eulogies, unless an auctioneer's cry, an epitaph, or an orator's speech is supposed to win us more praise than our own vir­ tues and deeds. Besides, I don't see any harm in omitting funeral proces­ sions. It might encourage frugality. p o l . Then what further crimes did your kinsmen commit against you? n e o . A base and wicked one. Not content to sting me with foul and sting­ ing words, they acted more impiously. p o l . Please go on. What did they do? n e o . What do you think? Nothing contrary to a stout and strong man’s duty. With a sort of military discipline, they posted men to guard the doors. They themselves burst into my library and manfully set to work, not reading my books, as we used to do, but choosing their booty and seeking out everything hidden away in the library. p o l . Alas! n e o . Everything w a s tumbled and jumbled, and all my cases were broken open. Nothing was so well concealed, hidden, or locked away that my good kinsmen in their rapacious zeal did not lay hands on It, rip It out, aearih it out, and expose it. Everything was hurled to the ground, and my library

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soon resembled the sorry spectacle of a captured camp. M y books, once neat and elegant, seemed to mourn their fate as they were turned and tossed by these plunderers. “Alas!" I cried. "M y wretched study, once full of peace and quiet, what base destruction you now suffer! Once the source of my greatest pleasures, what great anguish you now cause me! And you, my books, once happy in the hands of learned friends, how wretchedly you fall prey to these brigands! D id I preserve you until now for this?" "And you, my base and impious kinsmen, reveal what piety I may ex­ pect you to show my children. How w ill you act in a moment better suited to plunder, when I see you plunder me so shamelessly in the midst of the tears and grief of so many? How can I believe that you will show care and affection to my little ones, when you rob them of their possessions even before you become their guardians? You, who were supposed to protect them from injury, commit these atrocious wrongs against them. Whose trust and piety can my wretched children implore if, while almost in their father's lap, they cannot escape their kinsmen's treacherous cruelty? Are these the morals and the teachings which you ought to instill in m y young children?” p o l . Tell me, did you think this would happen, or not? n e o . I would scarcely have dared suspect it, since in life they so respected and revered me. p o l . Then, fool, you didn't reflect that their fawning attentions were aimed only at extorting things from you? n e o . It hardly crossed my mind to suspect such a thing, for I judged others' natures by my own character. Yet the worst of it was not watching them haul away my manuscripts, or seeing them seize and disperse all m y diaries, books, and possessions. The most bitter event by far, Polytropus, is so grievous that I can hardly recall it without tears. What futile human labors! What vain cares! What deceptive hopes! What pointless vigils! How emp­ ty, useless, fragile, trifling, impermanent, and short-lived are the pursuits and works of mortals! p o l . Good gods, how you have filled me with great suspense! You must describe kinsmen more savage than the remotest barbarians, if you regard their acts as worse than cursing the dead and despoiling the living! n e o . Woe is me! p o l . Com e, stop your crying now. n e o . I s h a l l , fo r s o m e h o w t h e g o d s h a v e b e s t o w e d o n m a n k i n d t h is d e s t i n y , t h a t e v e r y t h i n g m o r t a ls u n d e r t a k e p r o v e s v a i n , t r i v i a l , t r a n s it o r y , a n d u t t e r ly w o r t h le s s .

Do you believe that? I firmly believe it. I see that everything which men think perma­ nent, or believe committed to eternity, perishes abruptly, passes away sud­ denly, and is destroyed in an instant. Human affairs arc not opposed by fate and fortune. Kathcr, human beings are the greatest bane of the human race. pol. neo

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p o l . Although I may be persuaded of what you say, I don't understand what you're driving at. n e o . Have you forgotten with what vigilance, labors, and diligence I devoted myself to composing m y history? pol.

I r e m e m b e r , a n d I c o n s id e r y o u v e r y p r a is e w o r th y fo r d o in g s o . I n e v e r

s a w a n y o n e m o r e p a in s t a k in g a n d d ilig e n t i n in v e s t i g a t i n g , c o m p i l i n g , a n d r e s e a r c h in g s u c h n o te w o r th y m a tte r s . n e o . Rather, I was utterly foolish, since through such care, such effort, and such diligence I wasted my life in vain. p o l . Would you have me believe that your labor was in vain, when by recording excellent sayings and outstanding deeds, you not only won glory and renown for your family, but also left to posterity works which would make them more learned and more virtuous? n e o . It was in vain, Polytropus, all in vain. p o l . But how?30 n e o . I thought that my vigils would be richly rewarded and that my re­ searches would be welcomed by future generations. In my madness, I even envisioned my little treatises winning immortal fame. How many years I spent in this laborious task, how many sleepless nights I passed, and how many fine dinners I denied my appetite! Fool that I was, I believed that I should disdain hunger, thirst, fatigue, heat, cold, and other hardships, as long as I spent entire days and endless nights in bookish studies. But now I plainly see how imprudent I was to let no family duties, no opportunity for profit, no business concern, and nothing else distract me from my lamp and my books. I valued my studies so highly that I neglected my personal fortune, my public and private affairs, my friends' conversations, as well as all holidays and pleasures.31 p o l . I am afraid that, by arguing that all our mortal deeds are in vain and mad, you are acting like the greatest madman of all. How can I judge of sound mind a man who, having devoted himself to publishing valuable studies, ascribes to folly what everyone must judge a product of great wisdom? n e o . Be careful lest you consider men's judgments too important and thus act like the greatest madman of all. W ill you think sage a man who with keen effort, burning zeal, unending labor, and relentless exertion perseveres in an endeavor which offers him no profit, no payment, and no reward? Will you deem wise a man who exhausts himself in a lifelong pursuit which causes him nothing but anxiety, toil, and infinite solicitude? Here is my opinion, which I don't think mistaken. Let us suppose that someone sacrifices or despises what is useful, pleasant, and desirable in order to pur­ sue harsh, pointless, and harmful goals. Even if he does so intentionally, he is just as insane as if he were to prove his courage with no view to profit or praise. For without compensation, what prudent man would ever under

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take any project? And if loss and expense were to replace every possible reward, wouldn't even a fool avoid such an endeavor?32 p o l . Do you think students of letters are like this? n e o . I can't speak about others who are charmed by the delights of let­ ters. Let them be as wise as they are thought, or as learned as they wish to be considered. For my own part, I must confess that in the end I learned clearly that all the days of effort and reflection I had spent with my books were completely pointless and wasted. p o l . What you say is incredible. I have always heard it said that literary leisure is better than any occupation. For letters reward those who study them with pleasure, and promote wisdom and learning in future readers. So I forbid you to repeat these insane remarks of yours. Stop now, don't cry. I won't be stubborn: I'll agree that, since you are mad in death, you were completely mad in life. Stop, I say. n e o . I shall. Enough, begone, sad memories! Such great disappointment is painful, but it cannot make me regret my love of letters and wisdom. p o l . Now I praise you. But please tell me, what was your disappointment? n e o . It's best not to revive such sad events. p o l . I must ask you, Neophronus. Were you disappointed through some extraordinary mistake you made, or through some special oversight? n e o . I don't understand. p o l . I'm asking whether you attempted something beyond your abilities, or failed for lack of effort or skill. n e o . As far as I could, I always pursued laudable goals, and strove to act so that my hopes and expectations were clearly in keeping with a man's duty. p o l . Then how is it that a deed of others still grieves you here in the underworld? n e o . You have spoken well. You are very perceptive, Polytropus. I'll tell the tale briefly. p o l . Proceed. n e o . I've related how my kinsmen, most worthy men, set up guards and stoutly burst in to plunder my possessions. p o l . You said that they entered your library, overturned everything, and carried off your books. n e o . That's exactly what they did. I had many splendid and sumptuous Greek and Latin volumes decorated with silver. M y kinsmen piled them up in the middle of the room. Then the oldest and most revered of them began to speak: "If ever you have been guided by justice and equity, my companions, I entreat you now to act with the greatest moderation. And if you do so, as you should, you will permit me to divide this large number of books. I shall see that no one receives a portion larger than another's." They accepted his proposal. Equal stacks of books were set up corresponding

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to the number of brigands, and each received his portion by drawing lots. p o l . So you've seen how your just kinsmen practice justice when they pillage? n e o . If they observe justice in distributing booty, how scrupulous do you think they w ill be when they judge a case as jurors? p o l . Extremely. n e o . So, having divided the books, they followed the same principle in assembling and apportioning my statues, my paintings, and the other ob­ jects which had given me pleasure. Among these were the notebooks of my history, rough and unpolished drafts of no interest to these brigands. But hear their fate. I had deplored the disastrous conditions of our age for lacking learned men who could help me revise my works, and I blamed my own negligence, for at my death I had left my works imperfectly revis­ ed. Still, I thought it best to leave my notes to my children, whatever their condition. For I thought that my children would take far more delight in publishing my works, as if inheriting their father's praise, than would my kinsmen or strangers. p o l . You judged and acted as was right. Those who promote the fame of their fathers and forebears win distinction for themselves. n e o . Well said. Now, by chance there was in my library a little jar, finely wrought with marvelous workmanship, which my friend Crantor had recently had sent to me from Alexandria, filled with a fragrant ointment.33 After admiring it, my kinsmen brought it forth to divide it by their law. p o l . They should be praised, since even in the smallest matters they took pleasure in fairness. n e o . Wretched me! How can I recount this great calamity without tears? p o l . What, are you relapsing into madness? n e o . O miserable me! O fatal gift! O baneful ointment! p o l . What is the matter? Are you in the throes of violent insanity? Please proceed with your tale, if there is more to tell. Was that ointment so precious to you? D id you perhaps wish to arrive in the underworld well anointed? n e o . Alas! You'll weep with me, Polytropus, when you hear what happened. p o l . I can't wonder enough at your folly. After saying that you didn't mind their insults and curses, or the plundering of your books and property, can you value a Samian or Alexandrian jar of ointment so highly that it would seem to be the only loss you regret?34 n e o . A ll you gods of heaven and hell, and you too, Polytropus, indulge my grief! p o l . Do you think we should indulge you, when you rave on purpose? I won't, unless you stop these vain tears of yours. neo . I'll do as you say, although the grief which overwhelms me is justified.

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p o l . Wise men have no just cause for grief. For what anxiety can affect one who is deeply versed in letters and liberal knowledge? Won't a mature man, fortified by judgment and reason, and rich in experience and years, renounce and reject all distresses of the mind? This ointment must have been an evil poison so noxious that it infected your mind as well as your body. n e o . Could any poison be so deadly or accursed that I could compare it with this ointment? Poisons can only rid us of the weariness of living, but this ointment caused m y utter destruction. It took away all my joys, dashed all my hopes, and completely and utterly annihilated my praise, my fame, and m y renown. The death it caused me was not one which a virtuous man embraces quickly and willingly. Rather, it undermined all my reasons for living, and snatched from me all my personal distinction, all the rewards of my labors, and all the praises of my achievements. p o l . Gracious gods, how can that b e ?35 n e o . To contain the portions of ointment —O shameful crim e!—my kinsmen tore apart my notebooks. p o l . Evil d e e d ! n e o . They tore apart the notebooks, Polytropus, which I had copied in my own hand, composed during long vigils, and in large part revised. They tore them apart to contain the ointment. p o l . Wicked crime! n e o . Thus I labored all my life to produce erudite cones of wrapping paper. A ll my studies and vigils and hopes perished that day. Onward, scholars! Devote yourselves eagerly, completely, and assiduously to literature! Wear yourselves out with studies! Publish your books! Strive with great and ceaseless efforts, and make sure that perfumers and fishmongers lack no elegant and finely lettered manuscripts for wrapping their salves and sardines!36 p o l . Neophronus, please listen to me. Although I don't deny that your kinsmen acted wrongly, I still must judge you foolish if you continue to be burdened by sorrows and sadness. You must free your mind of the cares that burden you. You must dismiss the bitter recollection of your human misfortunes, especially because the same thing happened to so many ex­ cellent ancient authors whose works perished through similar injustice.37 Have you heard how many admirable volumes the Greeks produced, the titles of which scarcely survive in our age? Add to them all our Latins, who, nearly countless, published countless excellent books. How many poets, comic, tragic, elegiac, satiric, and epic —Ennius, Caecilius, Licinius, Atilius, Trabca, Lucetius, Turpilius, Gallus, Naevius, and Lucretius!38 Need I men­ tion all the poets, historians, and orators —Accius, Nigidius, Caecilius, Caceina, Cassius, Lucilius, Laberius, Afranius, Pacuvius, Sulpicius, Hortenslus, Cotta, Fabius, Cato, Piso, Fannius, Vennonius, Clodius, Caelius, and

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Macrus?39 How many other authors and orators Cicero mentions! Consider Pomponius Atticus and the celebrated Varro, who wrote about everything that man may know or study. I won't mention the jurists and the legions, as it were, of scholars who left to posterity abundant and excellent teachings in every field of knowledge. Nor shall I mention you, dear Cicero, whose books O n Glory, On Consolation, O n the Republic, and other works in praise of philosophy are lamented by everyone. Now, when you consider these facts, dear Neophronus, you'll bear your own fate w ith a calm and even spirit. Nor w ill you feel bitterness if either fortune or human villainy has robbed you, as is their ancient custom. For a wise man is not troubled by misfortune or by the offences of others, but only by his own vices and misdeeds. n e o . You counsel me wisely, and I shall easily forget this calamity if I follow your view, which I have always valued highly, and compare my fol­ ly to those excellent and illustrious writers.40 p o l . I wouldn’t ascribe it to folly if you did your best in life to seem to have lived. And when I compare your talent, refinement of learning, and eloquence to any of the ancients, I daresay you are not inferior. The an­ cients won favor in their own lifetimes, and today that favor is enhanced by the authority which their antiquity lends them. I find you especially praiseworthy for the keen and unceasing industry, devotion, care, and diligence which you displayed in reading, studying, and writing. Indeed, I would judge you inferior to no one in this regard. Anyone who praises innate ability rather than its cultivation, or native talent rather than what it achieves in learning, is praising good fortune, and not virtue. We should not praise most the gifts which nature or fortune bestows on men. Far wor­ thier of admiration are those things which men's labor, sweat, industry, and skill contribute to their honor. n e o . You're not the only one to hold such a high opinion of me. p o l . What do you mean? n e o . I recently heard a similar opinion voiced publicly among mortals. p o l . And rightly, for everyone says that your remarkable insanity merits you a prominent place. n e o . What do you think? p o l . You surpass all others. n e o . I would rather their praises were true than yours. They said that in every virtue I was easily equal or superior to the ancients, and that I should rightly be counted among the most illustrious men. Do you agree? p o l . An excellent and sublime eulogy, if it was uttered b y a g r a v e a n d praiseworthy man. n e o . Who is thought graver or holier than Bishop Hermio? p o l . No one. n e o . Those were the praises he sang ol me in his luneral oral Ion

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p o l . I'm surprised that this elderly man acted contrary to his custom. In general, he avoids public gatherings and disdains popular opinion. n e o . Don't you know that the hope of reward and remuneration has power even over priests and philosophers? The promise of a toga filled Hermio with hopes and desires, and drove him mad. Good gods, what vacuity, what ignorance, what mendacity, and what utter incoherence! In his long speech, he touched on my strength, beauty, lineage, fortune, and other such trifles. Yet he said little about the virtues of my character, although he had an­ nounced that he would show how marvelous they all were. He said not a word about my learning, knowledge, talent, liberal studies, fortitude, con­ stancy, moderation, restraint, chastity, wisdom, judgment, historical erudi­ tion, and prudence. He passed over in silence every aspect of my integrity and dignity. p o l . Was he so uncouth, dull, and unrefined that he failed to eulogize your character? Was he so incompetent that, in praising your life and glori­ fying you personally, he completely overlooked your humanity, affability, wit, piety, beneficence, liberality, urbanity, and dignity, which are your signal and outstanding qualities? n e o . He was silent on all these points, although he spoke foolishly, in­ competently, and falsely about my justice. He said that a number of less fortunate citizens had publicly benefited from my just actions. And he added that it was my sense of justice which had won me the protection and distinc­ tion of fame, friendships, and fortunes which would be a sumptuous and bountiful legacy to my heirs. In sum, my qualities of piety and justice alone sufficed to prove how happy I had been. But let us leave this blathering, foolish, and ignorant bishop. He was ut­ terly ridiculous in many ways, including his gestures and grimaces, and his bawling and empty eloquence, but especially in attributing my happiness to the one thing which most clearly involved me in many great misfortunes. I return to m y kinsmen. After they had abused me with their insults, curses, thefts, and savage acts of violence, and saw their plunder exhausted, they rejoined the mourning household. p o l . You must cancel every thought of those wicked and villainous men, lest they add further grief to our conversation. neo

. I s h a ll.

But proceed, and explain how justice caused your misfortunes. I want you to explain that, for I don't see how virtue can harm us. n e o . It would perhaps be ignorant and injudicious of me to say that vir­ tue can bring misfortune on an honorable man. But I am telling the truth when I assert that Bishop Hermio's eulogy of me was false and foolish. In life, I gave many men my personal assistance, and never harmed anyone unless I was unjustly provoked. I always cultivated friendship, religion, and piety, and eagerly pursued integrity, clemency, and conciliation. Only once pol.

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did I assume the task of judging, when as a private arbiter I pronounced a verdict which I have often had good cause to regret. Although just and honest, that verdict caused me more enmity than friendship, and more en­ vy and disgrace than praise and favor. In short, instead of enhancing my legacy to my sons, justice broke it up and reduced it to near poverty. p o l . How strange! They say that no virtue is dearer to the public and that nothing inspires more goodwill and favor. n e o . I won't deny that mercy, equity, goodness, and humanity contribute to favor and friendship. But you are my witness. Do you remember with what integrity, candor, and just intent I pronounced that single verdict in the case between my friend Caspius and the banker Tirsius? No entreaties, friendships, rewards, threats, or intimidations prevented me from doing my duty justly and uncorruptedly, as you and other learned men advised me. Since you are familiar with the case, there's no need for me to describe how hostile and vindictive Tirsius and his family were toward me afterwards. p o l . I know how they strove to see that you met with envy, disgrace, and dishonor. But I won't deny that your resolute spirit in serving justice was laudable. I would consider you blameworthy if you let that scoundrel's desire for vengeance make you regret the fortitude that duty required of you. n e o . Please don't think so. You know how readily I have always faced grave danger and suffering, rather than abandon laudable virtues. p o l . Then why did you say that you had good cause to regret your justice? n e o . Consider all those things which you must recall— the calumnies, accusations, ugly rumors, and base slanders which they hurled against me in their hatred and in their burning desire to harm me. Consider their deceits, insults, violent hostilities, and their other wicked and unjust at­ tempts to destroy me, in payment for my just and dutiful conduct. After such injurious treatment, can I fail to grieve? Shouldn't I be vexed by the result, which completely surprised me and which no one would have be­ lieved possible? Scandalously, my greatest possessions fell into the hands of a man whose crimes and cruelty had made him odious to me. Incredibly, without even dealing with me, the very man who became my enemy through m y justice, candor, and integrity was enriched by my fortunes. Lamentably, the estate which I had justly acquired through my planning, labor, industry, and exertion passed to my worst enemies through their impetuosity. p o l . How can this be? You have begun an astonishing tale. n e o . I shall relate a tale worthy of record. I had built an aqueduct, as you know, to carry pure water to my villa from its silvery source high in the mountains nearby. p o l . I remember. n e o . I was convinced that this aqueduct would prove welcome to my neighbors, and would Iasi forever.

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p o l . How ridiculous! Did you believe that walls built by human hands would last an eternity? Surely you must have known that even the noblest written monuments, composed with the greatest study and skill, are sub­ ject to ruin and destruction. n e o . Yes, I did. p o l . What happened, then? n e o . Before I departed that life, I hid in the aqueduct a large sum of money saved from m y military pay, so that my children would receive it safe from accident, from the treachery of guardians and trustees, and from the plunder­ ing of tyrants. As the only one who knew about it, I told my children about it on my deathbed, and told them not to move the money, unless dire necessity forced them. p o l . O h, how shrewd a precaution! Good gods, what a prudent means of guarding your money! n e o . It was convenient, for I knew how difficult it is for orphans to pro­ tect not only their money, which is often lost through theft or misfortune, but even real estate like fields and houses. p o l . What a convenient bequest! Before it was inherited, it met with ut­ ter disaster. Thus, in your folly, you bequeathed not wealth, but misery to your children; and, instead of money, they inherited misfortune. If anyone offered me a gift which could only harm me, I would show him hatred rather than gratitude. n e o . You're right: I was mad. In life, I often used to visit the place, check­ ing carefully to see that my money was safe and sound.41 p o l . Well and wisely done! I suppose you feared that your hidden and buried gold would act as it is wont, and run away on its own? n e o . Exactly. I can hardly describe how many suspicions assailed me. I wanted to examine the site in careful detail. Yet I didn't dare fix my gaze too closely on any one spot, because I feared that everyone who saw me or the site would share my secret. I was even afraid that the lizards might somehow betray me. What's more, if the tender shoots of the undergrowth were bent, they stung me with sharp suspicions, for I thought they had been trampled by some snooper's footsteps. I can hardly describe the many ways in which I imagined that my money had been stolen. p o l . Fool! If the place caused you so much worry, why didn't you move your money? Wouldn't it have been better to put your money to its intend­ ed use? neo . Which use? pol . To aid your friends, relatives, acquaintances, and benefactors; then, if you have a surplus for yourself, to build, and to beautify yourself and your home with garments, silver, and splendid appointments and furnishings,and finally, if you have these in abundance and have satisfied your basic needs, to spend it on luxuries. Otherwise, I don't see the advantage of

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wealth. If nature did not grant us wealth for such purposes, I fail to see the point of working hard to acquire it. Who would consider money a good thing when, after being accumulated by great exertion, it is hidden and buried, so that many are denied its use, and its owner is deprived of its advantages and prestige? n e o . I hardly had a fortune sufficient for such great projects. p o l . Then what use was your wealth? Shouldn’t you rather have seen to your own needs and reputation? What good is it to steal from yourself in order to save for others? n e o . Since I wanted the money safe for my children, I decided to protect it in a way which seemed not to harm the family. p o l . Ha ha! n e o . What are you laughing at? p o l . At you. You thought your money was safer, not entrusted to a friend, but stored on public land accessible to all, with no fences, gates, or guards, and exposed to accidents. Ought we believe that bricks afford more loyal­ ty, counsel, and diligence, or a surer defense against misfortune than does a friend? n e o . I completely agree with you. But who could count the ways in which we are mad and demented in life? We place more trust in fortune than in our friends, and have more confidence in stone than in our fellow man. p o l . Since men were created for men's sake, who can fail to see that our human duty is to offer our friends and fellow citizens all the aid and assistance we can?42 What shall we think of a man whose avarice or other folly leads him to hide away money which is essential to maintaining the bonds between men and societies?43 Shall we deny that he is utterly mistaken, and deserves extraordinary punishment? Besides, by what fault does it happen that friendship, the most sublime, holy and, desirable of human relationships, should be valued so little that you trust walls more than friends? n e o . Clearly I did not escape unpunished. p o l . Rightly so. But proceed with your tale. n e o . You'll hear it. As I said, the bishop repeatedly praised my just con­ duct, bawling in his foolish manner. He came to the point in his oration where, using more colorful language, he began to shout in a loud voice, like someone calling the night watch. Waving both his arms, he cried: "O most wise, just, and happy of men, Neophronus, whose memory we celebrate here with inadequate but deserved praises, how greatly we should have valued you in life! What honors and favor should wc have shown you in life, when we suffer such longing for you in death? How should wc cherish your memory, when no one is unaware of your great virtues, and all ad mire them? In what place worthy of you do you now reside? You have brought distinction and honor even to Olympus. O excellent virtue!