Selected Dialogues

TIMON THE MISANTHROPE

TIMON, the archetypal misanthrope who retired to a solitary tower in disgust with his fellow men, reputedly lived at Athens during the time of Pericles. Apart from this dialogue our knowledge of him derives mainly from Plutarch’s Life of Antony (70), though he is mentioned by Aristophanes (Birds 1549, Lysistrata 809); the comic poet Antiphanes (fourth century BC) wrote a play Timon; and the historian Neanthes of Cyzicus (third century BC) wrote his life. In later Greek literature his continuing popularity is evidenced in Alciphron (Letters 2.32) and Libanius (Declamation 12), while the type of the morose misanthrope appears in New Comedy, notably in Menander’s Dyscolus. We learn too from Pausanias (1. 30. 4) that ‘Timon’s tower’ survived as a tourist attraction in his time (mid-second century AD). He has a secure place in English literature through Shakespeare’s play of that name, in which the resemblances to Lucian are very obvious.

The dialogue has a sustained brilliance and vigour which mark it out as one of Lucian’s best. Apart from the surface humour of the knockabout scenes, there is a seriously satiric look at wealth and the problems it brings. Lucian attacks both its misuse in Timon’s hands, where his thoughtless over-generosity backfires terribly on himself, and also the elbowing and scrambling for it shown by the flatterers and the parasites. These are stock types in the literature and life of the time; another is the randy philosopher (Thrasycles), a stern moralist to his pupils, but when off duty he emphatically does not practise what he preaches. Once more too we have the favourite Lucianic motif of gods intervening in human life and physically appearing among men.

TIMON. O Zeus, protector of friends and guests and comrades and the hearth, wielder of lightning, guardian of oaths, gatherer of clouds, pealing thunderer, and whatever other names the crack-brained poets call you by—especially when they are in difficulties with their lines, as a string of your epithets can support their faltering metre and fill up the gaps in their scansion—where now is your pealing lightning, your loud-roaring thunder, the blazing flash of your terrifying bolt?* All that turns out to be nonsense and just poetic humbug, except for the resonance of the epithets. That much-vaunted, far-shooting weapon ready to your hand has somehow been utterly quenched and gone cold: it hasn’t got even a tiny spark left of anger against evildoers. In fact anybody planning to commit perjury might as soon be afraid of a smouldering lamp-wick as of the flame of your all-subduing thunderbolt. You seem to threaten them with only a brand from which they need not fear fire or smoke, and the only damage they expect is to be covered in soot.

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That is why Salmoneus * dared even to rival you in thundering, and he was by no means unconvincing, with his fiery deeds and his great boastings to set against a Zeus whose anger had gone cold. And why shouldn’t he, when you lie asleep as if drugged with mandragora, neither hearing perjurers nor noticing wrongdoers? Your eyes are dim and you’re half-blind to what’s going on and you’ve become as deaf as an old man. At least when you were still young and quick-tempered and your wrath had an edge to it, you were energetic against wrongdoers and bullies and you gave them no respite then. Your thunderbolt was in full operation, your aegis shook threateningly, your thunder pealed, the shafts of your lightning were like a continuous bombardment. The earth was shaken by quakes like a sieve, snow fell in heaps, we were stoned by hail (to use a vulgar expression), rain poured down fast and furious, every drop like a river. So in Deucalion’s * time such a disaster occurred in a moment, that when all else had sunk beneath the waters barely one little chest survived, which landed on Lycoreus preserving a spark of human seed to breed future generations of greater wickedness.

That’s why you are reaping the fruits of your laziness from men, with no one now sacrificing or garlanding your statues. Someone may do so as an act incidental to the Olympic games, but not in the belief that it is at all essential: he is just keeping up an ancient custom. They have deposed you from your place of honour, O noblest of gods, and are gradually turning you into a Cronus.* I won’t mention how many times already your temple has been robbed; but some have even laid hands on your very person at Olympia, and you, High Thunderer, were too frightened to rouse the dogs or summon the neighbours to rush to your aid and catch the fellows while they were still preparing their escape. Instead, you noble Giant-Slayer and Titan-Conqueror, you just sat there letting them cut your hair off, a ten-cubit thunderbolt gripped in your right hand!

Well then, you strange being, when will this careless disregard for things cease? When will you punish all this wickedness? How many Phaethons * and Deucalions will it take to deal with such overwhelming human arrogance? For example, if I may leave aside generalizations and speak personally, I have given so many Athenians a leg-up in their lives, made some rich who were desperately poor, helped all who needed it; indeed I have poured out my money in heaps to serve my friends. But now that I have become poor through all this, I am cut dead and don’t even get a glance from those who previously bowed and cringed to me and hung on my nod. If I happen to meet any of them in the street, they pass me by as they would an ancient tombstone that has fallen over through age, without even stopping to read it. Others, seeing me in the distance, take the next turning off: not long before I was their saviour and benefactor, and now I am a disagreeable and ill-omened sight to them. That is why I’ve been driven by my wrongs to put on a leather jacket and dig this field at the back of beyond for four obols a day, meditating on solitude and on my fork. Here at least I can enjoy the advantage that I don’t have to see a lot of people prospering undeservedly—that would certainly be more painful.

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So come on now, son of Cronus and Rhea, shake off that nice deep slumber—you’ve already beaten Epimenides’ record sleep *– rekindle your thunderbolt, or light another one from Etna, and make a great blaze to show the wrath of a vigorous young Zeus—unless what the Cretans say about you and your grave there is true after all!*

ZEUS. Who is that, Hermes, yelling from Attica by the foothills of Hymettus, the filthy, squalid fellow in a leather coat? He seems to be bending over and digging; loquacious too, and insolent. He must be a philosopher, or he wouldn’t be carrying on with such blasphemy against us.

HERMES. What, father? Don’t you recognize Timon, son of Echecratides, of Collytus? He’s the one who has often feasted us with perfect sacrifices; he was newly made rich, offered whole hecatombs, and used to entertain us lavishly at the Diasia.*

ZEUS. Dear me, what a change! Is this the fine and wealthy gentleman, who had so many friends about him? So what happened to a man like that, who seems now a squalid wretch, digging for hire and heaving such a massive fork?

HERMES. Well, you could say it was his goodheartedness and kindness that ruined him, and his compassion to anyone in need; but in truth it was his folly and simplicity and lack of judgment regarding his friends. He didn’t understand that he was being generous to ravens and wolves, and while all those vultures were tearing at his liver * the poor devil thought they were his friends and comrades, enjoying their food because they liked him. But when they had carefully stripped his bones and gnawed them clean, and very thoroughly sucked out any marrow in them, they departed leaving him as dry as a tree with its roots cut off, no longer recognizing him or giving him a glance (why should they?), or offering him any help, or repaying his generosity. That’s why you see him with fork and leather coat, having left the city through shame. He tills the land for hire, half-crazed with his wrongs, as those he has made rich pass by him in utter disdain, not even knowing that his name is Timon.

ZEUS. Well, we must not ignore or neglect this man: with his misfortunes he had good reason to be so irritated. We too would be behaving like those abominable flatterers if we forgot someone who has burnt all those fat ox and goat thigh-bones on our altars: I can still savour them in my nostrils. But I’ve been so busy, what with this upsurge of perjurers and assaulters and plunderers; and then there’s the fear of temple-robbers—so many of them and hard to guard against, and they don’t let you close your eyes for a moment. So it’s ages since I even looked towards Attica, especially since philosophy and disputation became so prevalent there; for what with their wrangling and shouting at each other, it’s impossible to hear any prayers. The result is you have to sit with your ears stopped up, or else be ground down with deafening discourses on ‘virtue’ and ‘incorporeals’ and other rubbish. That’s why I come to have neglected this man though he’s no paltry figure.

However, go to him quickly, Hermes, and take Wealth with you; and let Wealth take Treasure with him too, and let them both stay with Timon and not abandon him so readily, however much he wants to drive them from his house again through his good-heartedness. And as to those flatterers and the ingratitude they showed him, I’ll be seeing to them in due course and they’ll get their deserts, as soon as I’ve had my thunderbolt repaired. Its two biggest prongs got broken and blunted the other day, when I was a bit too energetic in firing a shot at the sophist Anaxagoras * for teaching his disciples that we gods don’t exist. I missed him, as Pericles put up his hand to shield him, and the bolt glanced off onto the Anaceum,* set that on fire, and almost shattered itself on the rock. But meanwhile it will be punishment enough for them to see Timon exceedingly rich.

HERMES. It certainly pays to yell out and make yourself troublesome and impudent: it’s useful not only if you are pleading in court, but praying to the gods too. Here’s Timon moving from poverty to riches in a moment, just because he attracted Zeus’ attention by his loud outspoken prayers. If he’d just bent over his digging in silence he’d still be digging unnoticed.

WEALTH. But I can’t go to him, Zeus.

ZEUS. Why not, my dear Wealth, since I’ve told you to do just that?

WEALTH. Because, by Zeus, he insulted me, ruined me, cut me up into little pieces, even though I was a family friend. He virtually pitchforked me out of the house, like someone hurling a live coal from his hands. So am I to go back again just to be handed over to parasites and flatterers and courtesans? Send me, Zeus, to those who will appreciate the gift, who will treat me well, who will value and love me. Let these idiots stick to the poverty which they prefer to me: they can get a leather coat and a fork from her, poor fools, and be content with four-obol wages after heedlessly throwing away ten-talent presents.

ZEUS. Timon will not treat you like that now. Unless his loins are totally impervious to pain, his digging will have taught him a clear lesson that you are preferable to poverty. But you do seem to me to be too critical: you find fault with Timon now because he opened his doors to you and let you wander around freely, and didn’t lock you up jealously. But at other times you took the opposite line, complaining that the rich kept you locked up so closely with bolts and keys and seals that you couldn’t even peep out and see daylight. At any rate that was your complaint to me, that you were stifled in total darkness. That’s why you appeared so pale and careworn, your fingers distorted with constant counting on them, and you threatened to run away if you got the chance. In a word, you thought it frightful to have to lead a virgin life like Danae in a bronze or iron chamber,* under the care of those strict and horrible guardians, Interest and Accounts. Actually, you used to say that they behaved ridiculously in loving you extravagantly but not daring to enjoy you though they could; and though quite free to indulge their passion, instead they stayed awake to guard you, staring unblinkingly at their seals and bolts. They thought it was sufficient enjoyment not to enjoy you themselves but to prevent others enjoying you, like the dog in the manger which didn’t eat the barley herself nor allow the hungry horse to have it.* What is more, you laughed at them scraping and saving and even, absurdest of all, feeling jealous of themselves, but quite unaware that a cursed house-slave or jailbird of a steward would secretly slip in and cause mayhem, leaving his wretched, unloved master to sit up poring over his interest payments by the dim light of a narrow-necked lamp with a thirsty wick. So, isn’t it inconsistent in you to criticize that sort of behaviour in the past and now to blame Timon for doing the opposite?

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WEALTH. Actually, if you consider the thing realistically you’ll realize that I have good reason for both my attitudes. This utter carelessness of Timon can only be regarded as negligent and unfriendly towards me. On the other hand, those who kept me shut up in dark boxes, taking care to make me grow fat and overweight, not touching me themselves nor showing me to the light of day in case someone saw me—those I thought stupid and arrogant. What had I done wrong for them to let me rot away in such a prison, not realizing that in a short time they would pass away and leave me to some other lucky man? So I have no time for either that lot or the others who are too free with me, but for those who follow the best course, which is moderation in this matter, and who neither abstain from spending altogether nor squander all they have.

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In Zeus’ name, Zeus, look at it like this. Suppose a man should legally marry a pretty young woman, and then put no restrictions on her and feel no jealousy about her whatsoever, but let her wander freely night and day and see anyone who wanted her company—or rather, himself encourage her to commit adultery, flinging open his doors and playing the pander by inviting all and sundry to come to her: would you think that such a man loved her? You wouldn’t say so, Zeus, with all your experience of love. But suppose, on the other hand, a man takes a freeborn woman in due form into his house to bear him legitimate children, but neither himself touches the girl in the bloom of her beauty, nor lets anyone else look at her, but keeps her locked up to live a life of barren virginity, claiming, however, that he loves her, and proving it by his pallor and wasted flesh and sunken eyes. Surely such a person would be thought to be out of his wits, when he could be having children and enjoying his marriage, but instead lets such a lovely and desirable girl wither away by keeping her all her life like a priestess of Demeter. That’s the sort of thing I get angry about too, because some people kick me about shamefully and lap me up greedily and pour me away like water, while others keep me in irons like a branded runaway slave.

ZEUS. Why are you angry with them? Both sorts pay a fair penalty. The latter are hungry and thirsty and dry-mouthed, like Tantalus,* just gaping at their gold; while the others, like Phineus,* have their food snatched from their throats by the Harpies. Come on, off you go to Timon: you’ll find him much more sensible now.

WEALTH. Why, will he ever stop eagerly pouring me out of a leaky sieve, as it were, even before I’ve finished streaming in, trying to beat the inflow and stop me overflowing and drowning him? I think I’ll just be carrying water to the Danaids’ jar * and filling it in vain, as the vessel leaks and empties almost before you’ve filled it—the outflow is so much wider and nothing stops me from running out.

ZEUS. Well, if he’s not going to stop that hole and it’s been opened up for good, you will quickly run out and he will find his leather coat and his fork again in the dregs of the jar. But off with both of you and make him rich. And remember, Hermes, on your way back bring the Cyclopes from Etna, so that they can sharpen and repair my thunderbolt: I’ll soon need it with a good point.

HERMES. Let’s go, Wealth. What’s this? Are you limping? My dear fellow, I didn’t know you were lame as well as blind.

WEALTH. Not always, Hermes; but whenever I go to somebody on an errand from Zeus I somehow get sluggish and lame in both legs, so that I barely make it to my destination, and sometimes the man who’s expecting me has grown old before I get there. But when I am due to leave you’ll see me growing wings and much swifter than dreams. The starting gate is hardly opened before I am announced winner of the race, having leapt round the course so fast that the spectators sometimes don’t even see me.

HERMES. That’s not true: I could name you many people who yesterday didn’t have an obol to buy themselves a noose, but suddenly today they are teeming with riches, and driving a pair of white horses, though previously they couldn’t even afford a donkey. And they go about wearing purple clothes and rings on their fingers, though I bet they still can’t believe their wealth isn’t just a dream.

WEALTH. That’s quite different, Hermes. I don’t go on my own feet then, and it’s Pluto not Zeus who sends me to them—he too gives wealth and splendid gifts, as you can tell from his name.* When I have to migrate from one man to another, they put me into a will, seal me carefully, bundle me up and carry me off. The corpse lies in some dark corner of the house, covered from the knees in an old sheet, to be fought over by weasels; while those who have hopes regarding me hang about in the public square with their mouths gaping, like chirping swallow chicks waiting for their mother to fly back to the nest. And when the seal is broken, the thread is cut, and the will opened, my new master’s name is revealed. He is either some relative or flatterer, or a lecherous slave who was once a favoured boyfriend, with his chin still scraped smooth—this fine fellow now reaps a rich reward for all the many and varied pleasures he gave his master even when past the age to give such service. Whoever it is, he grabs me, will and all, and rushes off with me, changing his name from Pyrrhias or Dromo or Tibius to Megacles or Megabyzus or Protarchus, and leaving the others staring at each other, their mouths open in vain, and in real mourning now that a tunny-fish like this has escaped from the folds of their net after swallowing such a lot of bait. But the man who has suddenly fallen into riches, a vulgar, thick-skinned fellow, who still shudders at the thought of shackles, pricks up his ears if someone passing just cracks a whip, and pays reverence to a mill-house * as if it was a holy shrine—he is quite insufferable to those he meets, insulting free men and whipping his fellow-slaves, to see if he too is allowed to behave like that now. At length he becomes involved with a tart, or acquires a mania for breeding horses, or gets into the hands of flatterers who swear that he is more handsome than Nireus, nobler than Cecrops or Codrus, craftier than Odysseus, and richer than sixteen Croesuses * put together: and so the poor wretch squanders in a moment what he gradually amassed through all his perjuries, his swindles, and his villainies.

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HERMES. That’s pretty well what happens. But when you go on your own feet how do you find the way, blind as you are? And how do you recognize the people Zeus sends you to, who he thinks deserve to be rich?

WEALTH. Do you imagine I discover who they are? Not on your life; otherwise I wouldn’t have abandoned Aristides and gone over to Hipponicus and Callias * and many other Athenians who didn’t deserve an obol.

HERMES. But what do you do when you are sent down to earth by him?

WEALTH. I wander up and down, pottering about until I come across somebody unawares. Then whoever first encounters me takes me off to keep me at home—and pays homage to you, Hermes, for his windfall.*

HERMES. So Zeus is deceived in thinking that you follow his wishes and enrich those he thinks deserve riches?

WEALTH. Yes indeed, my dear fellow, and deservedly. He knows I’m blind, but he kept sending me to look for an object exceedingly hard to find and long since extinct in the world: not even Lynceus * could easily find something so small and shadowy. So you see, the good being few and far between, and the wicked completely crowding the cities, it’s easier for me to come across them as I wander around, and to get caught in their nets.

HERMES. Then how do you escape easily when you leave them, not knowing the way?

WEALTH. Somehow I get keen-sighted and swift-footed then, but only for the moment of escape.

HERMES. One more question. Though you are blind (that can’t be denied), and what is more, pale and heavy-footed, how do you come to have so many lovers that everyone looks longingly at you, and if they find you they think themselves happy, but if they miss you life isn’t worth living? Indeed, I know quite a few so madly in love with you that they went and hurled themselves ‘into the deep-yawning sea’ and ‘down from the lofty crags’,* thinking you disdained them, when in fact you just couldn’t see them. But I’m sure even you will admit, if you know yourself, that they must be crazy to be infatuated with such a lover.

WEALTH. Do you think they see me as I really am, lame and blind and so on?

HERMES. Why not, Wealth, unless they are just as blind themselves?

WEALTH. They are not blind, my good fellow, but ignorance and deceit, which are everywhere now, cloud their vision. Moreover, to avoid being totally ugly, I put on a most alluring mask before I meet them, all gold and jewels, and dress myself in gay colours. So they think the beauty they see belongs to me as a person, fall in love with me, and are ready to die if they can’t have me. If anyone stripped me naked and revealed me to them, no doubt they would be accusing themselves for being utterly short-sighted and falling in love with an object so hateful and hideous.

HERMES. Then why is it that even those who have become rich and have themselves put on the mask are still deluded, and if anyone tries to take it off them they would sooner part with their head than their mask? They are surely not likely then to be unaware that your beauty is painted on, having seen all that’s under it.

WEALTH. I have quite a lot of help with this too, Hermes.

HERMES. Like what?

WEALTH. When someone first meets me and opens his door to welcome me in, others come in secretly along with me—Pride, Folly, Arrogance, Effeminacy, Insolence, Deceit, and countless more. Once his soul has been possessed by all these, he admires what he should not admire, longs for what he should avoid, and stands in wonder at me, the parent of all these intruding vices who attend me, and he would suffer anything rather than have to part with me.

HERMES. What a smooth, slippery thing you are, Wealth, how elusive and evasive: one can’t get a firm grip on you, but somehow you escape through the fingers like an eel or a snake. On the other hand, Poverty sticks and holds on to people: she has countless hooks growing all over her body, so that anyone coming near gets caught at once and cannot easily get away. But while we’ve been chattering we have forgotten something fairly important.

WEALTH. What’s that?

HERMES. We haven’t brought Treasure with us, and we must have him.

WEALTH. Don’t worry about that. I always leave him back on earth when I come up to you, with instructions to stay at home with the door locked, and not to open to anyone unless he hears my voice.

HERMES. In that case let’s now go to Attica. Hold on to my cloak and follow me until I come to the wilderness.

WEALTH. You’re wise to hang on to me, Hermes. If you leave me behind I’ll wander around and maybe run into Hyperbolus or Cleon.* But what is that noise like iron hitting stone?

HERMES. This is Timon, not far off digging a stony bit of mountain ground. Aha, and here’s Poverty with him, and Toil over there, and Endurance and Wisdom and Courage, and all that multitude of Hunger’s troops—a much better lot than your own bodyguards.

WEALTH. Then shouldn’t we take ourselves off as quickly as possible, Hermes? We can’t do anything worthwhile with a man surrounded by such an army.

HERMES. Zeus thought differently: let us not be cowards.

POVERTY. Where are you off to, Slayer of Argus,* leading that fellow by the hand?

HERMES. We’ve been sent by Zeus to Timon here.

POVERTY. Wealth sent to Timon now, when I have taken him over in a terrible state because of Luxury, and made a noble and worth-while man of him, giving him into the care of Wisdom and Toil? Do you really think that I Poverty am so contemptible and so easy to injure, that I can be robbed of my one and only possession, that I have carefully brought to perfection in virtue, only for Wealth to take him over once more, entrust him to Insolence and Pride, make him once more soft and degenerate and stupid, and then give him back to me worn to a rag?

HERMES. That’s the will of Zeus, Poverty.

POVERTY. I’m off: come along with me, Toil and Wisdom and the rest of you. This fellow will soon realize what he is giving up in me—a good helping hand and teacher of all that’s best. With me he kept going, healthy in body and strong in mind; he lived the life of a man, keeping his independence, and rightly regarding all these excesses and extravagances as alien to him.

HERMES. They’re leaving: let’s go to him.

TIMON. Who are you people, damn you? What do you want, coming here to annoy a working man trying to earn his wages? You’ll go away regretting it, wretches all of you: I’ll straightaway beat you up with these clods and stones.

HERMES. Stop, Timon: don’t throw them at us—we’re not men. I am Hermes, and this is Wealth. Zeus has heard your prayers and sent us; so cease your toils, welcome prosperity, and good luck to you.

TIMON. You’ll still suffer, even if you are gods as you claim. I hate everyone, men and gods alike; and as for this blind fellow, whoever he is, I intend to crush him with my fork.

WEALTH. In Zeus’ name, Hermes, let’s go before I suffer harm: the man looks absolutely crazy to me.

HERMES. Don’t be stupid, Timon: stop this terribly harsh and savage behaviour, and stretch out your hands to accept your good fortune. Be rich again, play a leading part in Athens, and despise the ungrateful while you keep your prosperity to yourself.

TIMON. I don’t need anything from you: stop bothering me. My fork is wealth enough for me, and otherwise I’m happiest if nobody comes near me.

HERMES. Must you be so unsociable, my friend?

Must I take up to Zeus a speech so harsh and so stubborn?*

Indeed you may well hate men after they have treated you so badly, but there’s no reason to hate the gods who are showing such concern for you.

TIMON. All right, Hermes, I’m most grateful to you and to Zeus for your concern, but I’m not having any of this Wealth.

HERMES. Tell me, why?

TIMON. Because in the past he caused me countless troubles, handing me over to flatterers, bringing plotters against me, stirring up hatred, ruining me with good living, exposing me to envy, and in the end suddenly deserting me with such bad faith and treachery. But that good woman Poverty trained me in manly toils, talked to me with frankness and truth, rewarded my labours with life’s necessities, and taught me to despise my former wealth. She made me depend upon myself for my hopes of a livelihood, showing me what my real riches were, which I could not lose to a fawning flatterer or threatening blackmailer or angry mob, or voter in the assembly or plotting tyrant. So, made hardy by my labours I toil away with a will on this field, seeing nothing of the evils of the city, and earning my daily bread amply and sufficiently with my fork. So turn round and be off, Hermes, and take Wealth back to Zeus. As for me, I’d be satisfied if I could cause all men, young and old, to grieve aloud.

HERMES. That’s no way to talk, my friend: they don’t all deserve to grieve. Do drop this childish show of bad temper and accept Wealth. Gifts from Zeus shouldn’t be rejected.

WEALTH. Are you willing for me to state my case, Timon? Or will you be angry if I say anything?

TIMON. Say on—but don’t be long about it, and no preambles like those damned orators. I’ll put up with a few words from you for Hermes’ sake.

WEALTH. I really ought perhaps to be making a long speech in view of all your accusations. However, just consider your charge that I have wronged you. It was I who gave you all your greatest pleasures, prestige, precedence, crowns of honour, and every sort of luxury. Through me you were admired, famous, and courted. And if you suffered at the hands of flatterers, that’s not my fault. In fact, it’s I who have been wronged by you, when you so basely handed me over to vile men who praised and cajoled and plotted against me in every way. And as to what you said last, that I betrayed you, on the contrary I could charge you with driving me off in every possible way and kicking me headlong out of your house. That’s the reason Poverty, so dear to your heart, has exchanged your soft cloak for this leather jacket. So, Hermes here is my witness how I begged Zeus that I needn’t visit you again after such hostile behaviour towards me.

HERMES. But can’t you see how changed he has now become, Wealth? So don’t be afraid to spend time with him. You keep on digging, Timon; and you, Wealth, put Treasure under his fork: Treasure will come at your call.

TIMON. I must obey, Hermes, and become rich again. For what can you do when the gods insist? But consider all the troubles you are throwing a luckless man into. Up to now I was leading a life of bliss; and all of a sudden, though I’ve done no wrong, I’m to get a heap of gold and take on heaps of cares.

HERMES. Put up with it, Timon, for my sake, even if it is harsh and intolerable, in order that those flatterers may burst with envy. And now I must be flying up to heaven by way of Etna.

WEALTH. He’s gone, I suppose, to judge from the beating of his wings. But you stay here, while I go and send Treasure to you; or rather, strike the earth. I say, Treasure of gold, pay heed to Timon here and let him grub you up. Dig away, Timon, with good deep strokes. I will leave you two together.

TIMON. Come, my fork, show me your strength now and don’t tire as you call up Treasure from the depths to the light of day. O Zeus, god of wonders! O favouring Corybants!* O Hermes, god of gain! Where did all this gold come from? This must be a dream. I fear I’ll wake up and find nothing but ashes.* But yes, it is coined gold, red and heavy and most sweet to look upon.

O gold, to mortals fairest gift.*

Indeed, you shine out like blazing fire * both night and day. Come to me, O most beloved and desirable. Now I do believe that Zeus once turned into gold: for what girl would not receive with open bosom so beautiful a lover pouring through the roof?* O Midas and Croesus and treasures of Delphi, how you fade away compared with Timon and Timon’s wealth! Not even the Persian king can rival me.

My fork and my beloved leather coat, it is fitting to dedicate you to Pan here. As for me, I’ll now buy the whole area, and I’ll build a tower over the treasure, sufficient for me to live in alone, and to serve for my tomb when I’m dead.

‘Let it be resolved as a binding law for the rest of my life that I shall avoid, ignore, and despise all men. Friend, guest, comrade, the Altar of Pity,* these shall just be empty words. To pity someone in tears and to help the needy shall be to transgress the law and the code of behaviour. My life shall be solitary like the wolves, and Timon my only friend. All others shall be enemies and plotters; to associate with them shall be pollution. If I so much as see them, that makes the day unlucky. In short, they shall be to me just like statues of stone or bronze. I shall receive no herald from them and make no treaty with them: my solitude shall be the boundary between us. Tribesmen, clansmen, demesmen, even native land shall be cold and useless terms—the pride of fools. Timon shall enjoy his wealth alone, despise everyone, live in luxury alone, free from flattery and vulgar praise. He shall sacrifice and feast alone, his own neighbour and associate, shaking himself free of all others. And once for all be it resolved that he will pay the due honours to himself when he dies, and put on his own funeral wreath. Let his own favourite name be Misanthrope, and the distinguishing marks of his character to be peevish, harsh, awkward, wrathful, and inhuman. If I see anyone being destroyed in a fire and begging for it to be quenched, I am to quench it with pitch and oil. And if a winter torrent is sweeping somebody away and he is stretching out his hands and begging me to grab him, I am to push his head right under so he cannot come up again. So shall they get fair repayment. Law proposed by Timon, son of Echecratides, of Collytus; put to the vote of the assembly by the said Timon.’

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Very well: let that be resolved by us and let us stick to it firmly. All the same, I would have given a lot for everyone somehow to find out that I am enormously rich: that would make them want to hang themselves. But what’s this? Goodness, what a rush! People running up from all sides, panting and covered in dust: somehow they got a whiff of the gold. Now, shall I climb up this hill and drive them away with a shower of stones from above, or shall I break the law to the extent of talking to them just this once, to make them suffer even more by being despised? Yes, I think that’s better. So, let me stand my ground and receive them. Well then, who is this I see first? Gnathonides the flatterer. When I asked him the other day for a loan he offered me a noose, though he has often vomited up whole jars of wine at my house. Well done in coming here: he’ll be the first to suffer.

GNATHONIDES. Didn’t I tell you the gods would not neglect a good man like Timon? Greetings, Timon, most handsome, most good-natured, and jolliest of fellows.

TIMON. Greetings to you, Gnathonides, greediest of all vultures, most rascally of men.

GNATHONIDES. You’ll always have your little joke. But where’s the party? I’ve brought you a new song from one of the shows that’s just been produced.

TIMON. Indeed, it’s a lament you’ll be singing, and very feelingly too thanks to this fork of mine.

GNATHONIDES. Here, what’s this? Hitting me, Timon? Witnesses, please. O lord, ow! ow! I’ll summon you before the Areopagus * for assault.

TIMON. If you just stick around a bit longer maybe I’ll be summoned for murder.

GNATHONIDES. No, no! At least heal my wound by dressing it with a little gold—it’s marvellous for stanching blood.

TIMON. You still here?

GNATHONIDES. I’m going, but you’ll be sorry you stopped being kind and became so surly.

TIMON. Who’s this coming up, going bald on top? It’s Philiades, the most loathsome of the flatterers. He had a whole farm from me and a dowry of two talents for his daughter, as payment for praising me to the skies when I’d sung a song that everyone received in silence: he swore I sang more sweetly than a swan. But when he saw me ill the other day and I approached him for some help, all the noble fellow gave me was blows.

PHILIADES. O for shame! Now do you all recognize Timon? Now is Gnathonides his friend and drinking partner? Then he has got his deserts for being so ungrateful. But we who have been old established intimates and fellow students and neighbours are more restrained, so as not to seem too pushy. Greetings, sir. Do be on your guard against these foul flatterers, who are only interested in your dinners and otherwise no different from ravens. You can’t trust anyone nowadays: everybody is ungrateful and wicked. I was coming to bring you a talent to help you for your pressing needs, when I heard on the way not far off that you had come into an enormous amount of wealth. So I’ve come to offer this word of warning; but as you’re so wise you probably don’t need to listen to me—you could tell even Nestor * what to do.

TIMON. True enough, Philiades; but come here so I can welcome you with my fork.

PHILIADES. Help! The thankless wretch has broken my head because I gave him some useful advice.

TIMON. Look, here comes a third, the orator Demeas, with a decree in his right hand, and claiming to be a relative of mine. This man had sixteen talents from me on one day to pay to the city: he had been condemned to a fine and imprisoned for not paying it, so I took pity on him and got him freed. But the other day, when it was his turn to distribute the show-money to the Erechtheis tribe,* and I went up for my share, he said he didn’t know me as a citizen.

DEMEAS. Greetings, Timon, great supporter of your clan, bulwark of Athens, defender of Greece. The assembly and both the councils * have long since met and await your presence. But first hear the decree which I have drawn up on your behalf:

‘Whereas Timon of Collytus, son of Echecratides, who is not only a man of the highest character but wiser than any other in Greece, never ceases to offer the highest services to the city, and has been victorious at Olympia in boxing and wrestling and running, all in one day, as well as in the chariot races, both the full-grown teams and the colt-pairs …’

TIMON. Actually I’ve never even been to see the Olympics.

DEMEAS. So what? You will one day: it looks good to put in a lot of that sort of thing. ‘And he distinguished himself last year fighting for the city of Acharnae, where he cut to pieces two Spartan divisions …’

TIMON. How could I? I wasn’t even on the service-list because I had no armour.

DEMEAS. You are too modest, but we would be ungrateful if we didn’t remember you. ‘And furthermore he has done notable service to the state in proposing decrees, giving counsel, and serving as general. For all these reasons be it resolved by the Council and the Assembly and the Supreme Court, tribe by tribe, and the demes, both separately and in common, that a golden statue of Timon be set up beside Athena on the Acropolis, with a thunderbolt in his hand and a crown of rays on his head, and that he be decked with seven golden wreaths which shall be granted him by proclamation today at the Dionysia when the new tragedies are performed; for this day’s Dionysia must be held in his honour. Moved by Demeas the orator, his next of kin and pupil; for Timon excels in oratory and in everything else he chooses.’

That’s the resolution for you. I also wanted to bring my son to see you: I’ve called him Timon after you.

TIMON. How so, Demeas, when so far as I know you aren’t even married?

DEMEAS. Well, I shall marry next year, god willing, and have a child, and I hereby call him Timon, for he’ll be a boy.

TIMON. I don’t know if you’ll be marrying, my friend, when you’ve had this wallop from me.

DEMEAS. Ow! What’s that for? You’re trying to be a tyrant, Timon, and beating up free men when it’s not clear that you are a free citizen yourself.* But you’ll soon pay for everything, including setting fire to the Acropolis.

TIMON. It’s not been set on fire, you brute: that proves you’re an informer.

DEMEAS. Well, you got your wealth by breaking into the Treasury.

TIMON. That’s not been broken into either, so that is another lie.

DEMEAS. It’ll be broken into later; but you already have all the contents of it.

TIMON. All right then, take that as well.

DEMEAS. Oh, my back!

TIMON. Stop yelling or I’ll give you a third. It would be utterly ridiculous if unarmed I could cut to pieces two divisions of Spartans, and not thrash one filthy little wretch. In vain would I have won the boxing and wrestling matches at the Olympics.

But what’s this? Do we have Thrasycles the philosopher here? So it is. There he comes, with bushy beard and eyebrows lifted, giving himself airs, eyes flashing like a Titan, hair thrown back from his forehead, the very picture of a Boreas or a Triton as painted by Zeuxis.* He cuts a neat figure, with orderly gait and cloak decently worn. In the morning he discourses endlessly about virtue, attacking pleasure-lovers and praising contentment with little. But when he’s had his bath and comes to dinner, and the boy hands him a large goblet—and the stronger the wine the better– it’s as if he had drunk the water of Lethe, the way he behaves exactly opposite to his morning precepts. He snatches the meat like a kite, elbowing his neighbour aside, and covers his beard with gravy as he gobbles his food like a dog. He crouches over his dishes as though he expects to find virtue in them, carefully wipes the bowls with his finger to leave not a drop of the sauce, and he’s always complaining even if he has a whole cake or a whole boar to himself. He is supreme in greed and gluttony, and when he drinks he’s not just inebriated enough to sing and dance: he turns wrathful and abusive. Moreover, he has a lot to say in his cups—in fact he is then at his most eloquent—about moderation and decorum, and that too when he is by now in a bad way from unmixed wine and stuttering like a clown. Then he vomits, and finally has to be picked up and carried out of the dining-room, grabbing at the music-girl with both hands. But even when sober he yields the palm to none in lying, effrontery, or greed. He is your supreme flatterer and the readiest of perjurers. He is led by imposture and followed by shamelessness; in a word, he is a creature of all craft and subtlety in every detail and accomplished in artfulness. So, he’s about to suffer for being such a worthy fellow. Why, dear me, Thrasycles, it’s a long time since we met.

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THRASYCLES. I haven’t come, Timon, for the same reason as all these others. They are dazzled by your riches, and they’ve come running up hoping for gold and silver and rich dinners, and meaning to heap flattery upon a man as simple-hearted and generous with his money as you. As for me, you know that barley-cake is sufficient dinner for me, and the sweetest relish is thyme or cress or, if I spoil myself, a bit of salt; my drink is water from the Nine Springs.* I prefer this old cloak to the purple you fancy; and as for gold, it’s worth no more to me than pebbles on the beach. It’s for your sake that I’ve come, to prevent your being ruined by that most evil and treacherous possession, wealth, which has been the cause of fatal disasters many times to many people. Take my advice and throw the whole lot of it into the sea: a good man has no need whatever of it, for his eyes are open to the riches of philosophy. But don’t throw it in too deep, my good fellow; just wade in up to your waist and throw it a bit beyond the breakers—with only me as witness. Or if you don’t want to do this, there is another better way to get it quickly out of the house, leaving not an obol for yourself. Just give it away to all the poor and needy, five drachmas to this one, a mina to that one, half a talent to another. If there’s a philosopher around, he ought to get a double or triple share. As for me, I’m not claiming for myself, but to distribute to colleagues who need it, and it will be ample if you just give me what will fill this pouch: it holds a bit less than two Aeginetan bushels.* One who claims to be a philosopher should be moderate and content with little, and not have aspirations beyond the limit of his pouch.

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TIMON. Quite right, Thrasycles; but instead of your pouch do let me fill your head with wallops, measured out by my fork.

THRASYCLES. O Democracy! O Laws! I’m being assaulted by the scoundrel in a free city.

TIMON. What are you complaining about, my friend? Surely I haven’t cheated you? Here, then, take four more measures over the amount. But what’s this? Here’s a crowd coming: there’s Blepsias and Laches and Gnipho, and a whole battalion who are going to suffer at my hands. So why don’t I get up on this rock, give my long-suffering fork a rest, collect all the stones I can, and send a hailstorm onto them from a distance?

BLEPSIAS. Don’t throw, Timon: we’re going.

TIMON. But not without shedding blood and suffering wounds, I can tell you.