No More Learning

_Her_. Here, skipper. Three hundred of them, including those that were
exposed.

_Cha_. A precious haul, on my word! -These are but green grapes,
Hermes.

_Her_. Who next, Clotho? The Unwept?

_Clo_. Ah! I take you. --Yes, up with the old fellows. I have no time
to-day for prehistoric research. All over sixty, pass on! What's the
matter with them? They don't hear me; they are deaf with age. I think
you will have to pick them up, like the babies, and get them along
that way.

_Her_. Here they are; fine well-matured fruit, gathered in due season;
three hundred and ninety-eight of them.

_Cha_. Nay, nay; these are no better than raisins.

_Clo_. Bring up the wounded next, Hermes. _Now_ I can get to work.
Tell me how you were killed. Or no; I had better look at my notes, and
call you over. Eighty-four due to be killed in battle yesterday, in
Mysia, These to include Gobares, son of Oxyartes.

_Her_. Adsunt.

_Clo_. The seven who killed themselves for love. Also Theagenes, the
philosopher, for love of the Megarian courtesan.

_Her_. Here they are, look.

_Clo_. And the rival claimants to thrones, who slew one another?

_Her_. Here!

_Clo_. And the one murdered by his wife and her paramour?

_Her_. Straight in front of you.

_Clo_. Now the victims of the law,--the cudgelled and the crucified.
And where are those sixteen who were killed by robbers?

_Her_. Here; you may know them by their wounds. Am I to bring the
women too?

_Clo_. Yes, certainly; and all who were shipwrecked; it is the same
kind of death. And those who died of fever, bring them too, the doctor
Agathocles and all. Then there was a Cynic philosopher, who was to
have succumbed to a dinner with Dame Hecate, eked out with sacrificial
eggs and a raw cuttlefish; where is he?

_Cy_. Here I stand this long time, my good Clotho. --Now what had I
done to deserve such a weary spell of life? You gave me pretty nearly
a spindleful of it. I often tried to cut the thread and away; but
somehow it never would give.

_Clo_. I left you as a censor and physician of human frailties; pass
on, and good luck to you.

_Cy_. No, by Zeus! First let us see our captive safe on board. Your
judgement might be perverted by his entreaties.

_Clo_. Let me see; who is he?

_Her_. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes; tyrant.

_Clo_. Come up, Megapenthes.

_Me_. Nay, nay, my lady Clotho; suffer me to return for a little
while, and I will come of my own accord, without waiting to be
summoned.

_Clo_. What do you want to go for?

_Me_. I crave permission to complete my palace; I left the building
half-finished.

_Clo_. Pooh! Come along.

_Me_. Oh Fate, I ask no long reprieve. Vouchsafe me this one day, that
I may inform my wife where my great treasure lies buried.

_Clo_. Impossible. 'Tis Fate's decree.

_Me_. And all that money is to be thrown away?

_Clo_. Not thrown away. Be under no uneasiness. Your cousin Megacles
will take charge of it.

_Me_. Oh, monstrous! My enemy, whom from sheer good nature I omitted
to put to death?

_Clo_. The same. He will survive you for rather more than forty years;
in the full enjoyment of your harem, your wardrobe, and your treasure.

_Me_. It is too bad of you, Clotho, to hand over my property to my
worst enemy.

_Clo_. My dear sir, it was Cydimachus's property first, surely? You
only succeeded to it by murdering him, and butchering his children
before his eyes.

_Me_. Yes, but it was mine after that.

_Clo_. Well, and now your term of possession expires.

_Me_. A word in your ear, madam; no one else must hear this. --Sirs,
withdraw for a space. --Clotho, if you will let me escape, I pledge
myself to give you a quarter of a million sterling this very day.

_Clo_. Ha, ha! So your millions are still running in your head?

_Me_. Shall I throw in the two mixing-bowls that I got by the murder
of Cleocritus? They weigh a couple of tons apiece; refined gold!

_Clo_. Drag him up. We shall never get him to come on board by
himself.

_Me_. I call you all to witness! My city-wall, my docks, remain
unfinished. I only wanted five days more to complete them.

_Clo_. Never mind. It will be another's work now.

_Me_. Stay! One request I can make with a clear conscience.

_Clo_. Well?

_Me_. Suffer me only to complete the conquest of Persia; . . . and to
impose tribute on Lydia; . . . and erect a colossal monument to myself,
. . . and inscribe thereon the military achievements of my life. Then
let me die.

_Clo_. Creature, this is no single day's reprieve: you would want
something like twenty years.

_Me_. Oh, but I am quite prepared to give security for my expeditious
return. Nay, I could provide a substitute, if preferred--my
well-beloved!

_Clo_. Wretch! How often have you prayed that he might survive you!

_Me_. That was a long time ago. Now,--I see a better use for him.

_Clo_. But he is due to be here, shortly, let me tell you. He is to be
put to death by the new sovereign.

_Me_. Well, Clotho, I hope you will not refuse my last request.

_Clo_. Which is?

_Me_. I should like to know how things will be, now that I am gone.

_Clo_. Certainly; you shall have that mortification. Your wife will
pass into the hands of Midas, your slave; he has been her gallant for
some time past.

_Me_. A curse on him! 'Twas at her request that I gave him his
freedom.

_Clo_. Your daughter will take her place in the harem of the present
monarch. Then all the old statues and portraits which the city set up
in your honour will be overturned,--to the entertainment, no doubt, of
the spectators.

_Me_. And will no friend resent these doings?

_Clo_. Who was your friend? Who had any reason to be? Need I explain
that the cringing courtiers who lauded your every word and deed were
actuated either by hope or by fear--time-servers every man of them,
with a keen eye to the main chance?

_Me_. And these are they whose feasts rang with my name! who, as they
poured their libations, invoked every blessing on my head! Not one but
would have died before me, could he have had his will; nay, they swore
by no other name.

_Clo_. Yes; and you dined with one of them yesterday, and it cost you
your life. It was that last cup you drank that brought you here.

_Me_. Ah, I noticed a bitter taste. --But what was his object?

_Clo_. Oh, you want to know too much. It is high time you came on
board.

_Me_. Clotho, I had a particular reason for desiring one more glimpse
of daylight. I have a burning grievance!

_Clo_. And what is that? Something of vast importance, I make no
doubt.

_Me_. It is about my slave Carion. The moment he knew of my death, he
came up to the room where I lay; it was late in the evening; he had
plenty of time in front of him, for not a soul was watching by me; he
brought with him my concubine Glycerium (an old affair, this, I
suspect), closed the door, and proceeded to take his pleasure with
her, as if no third person had been in the room!
Having satisfied the
demands of passion, he turned his attention to me. 'You little
villain,' he cried, 'many's the flogging I've had from you, for no
fault of mine! ' And as he spoke he plucked out my hair and smote me on
the face. 'Away with you,' he cried finally, spitting on me, 'away to
the place of the damned! '--and so withdrew. I burned with resentment:
but there I lay stark and cold, and could do nothing. That baggage
Glycerium, too, hearing footsteps approaching, moistened her eyes and
pretended she had been weeping for me; and withdrew sobbing, and
repeating my name. --If I could but get hold of them--

_Clo_. Never mind what you would do to them, but come on board. The
hour is at hand when you must appear before the tribunal.

_Me_. And who will presume to give his vote against a tyrant?

_Clo_. Against a tyrant, who indeed? Against a Shade, Rhadamanthus
will take that liberty. He is strictly impartial, as you will
presently observe, in adapting his sentences to the requirements
of individual cases. And now, no more delay.

_Me_. Dread Fate, let me be some common man,--some pauper! I have been
a king,--let me be a slave! Only let me live!

_Clo_. Where is the one with the stick? Hermes, you and he must drag
him up feet foremost. He will never come up by himself.

_Her_. Come along, my runagate. Here you are, skipper. And I say, keep
an eye--

_Cha_. Never fear. We'll lash him to the mast.

_Me_. Look you, I must have the seat of honour.

_Clo_. And why exactly?

_Me_. Can you ask? Was I not a tyrant, with a guard of ten thousand
men?

_Cy_. Oh, dullard! And you complain of Carion's pulling your hair!
Wait till you get a taste of this stick; you shall know what it is to
be a tyrant.

_Me_. What, shall a Cynic dare to raise his staff against me? Sirrah,
have you forgotten the other day, when I had all but nailed you to the
cross, for letting that sharp censorious tongue of yours wag too
freely?

_Cynic_. Well, and now it is your turn to be nailed,--to the mast.

_Mi_. And what of me, mistress? Am I to be left out of the reckoning?
Because I am poor, must I be the last to come aboard?

_Clo_. Who are you?

_Mi_. Micyllus the cobbler.

_Clo_. A cobbler, and cannot wait your turn? Look at the tyrant: see
what bribes he offers us, only for a short reprieve. It is very
strange that delay is not to your fancy too.

_Mi_. It is this way, my lady Fate. I find but cold comfort in that
promise of the Cyclops: 'Outis shall be eaten last,' said he; but
first or last, the same teeth are waiting. And then, it is not the
same with me as with the rich. Our lives are what they call
'diametrically opposed. ' This tyrant, now, was thought happy while he
lived; he was feared and respected by all: he had his gold and his
silver; his fine clothes and his horses and his banquets; his smart
pages and his handsome ladies,--and had to leave them all. No wonder
if he was vexed, and felt the tug of parting. For I know not how it
is, but these things are like birdlime: a man's soul sticks to them,
and will not easily come away; they have grown to be a part of him.
Nay, 'tis as if men were bound in some chain that nothing can break;
and when by sheer force they are dragged away, they cry out and beg
for mercy. They are bold enough for aught else, but show them this
same road to Hades, and they prove to be but cowards. They turn about,
and must ever be looking back at what they have left behind them, far
off though it be,--like men that are sick for love. So it was with the
fool yonder: as we came along, he was for running away; and now he
tires you with his entreaties. As for me, I had no stake in life;
lands and horses, money and goods, fame, statues,--I had none of them;
I could not have been in better trim: it needed but one nod from
Atropus,--I was busied about a boot at the time, but down I flung
knife and leather with a will, jumped up, and never waited to get my
shoes, or wash the blacking from my hands, but joined the procession
there and then, ay, and headed it, looking ever forward; I had left
nothing behind me that called for a backward glance. And, on my word,
things begin to look well already. Equal rights for all, and no man
better than his neighbour; that is hugely to my liking. And from what
I can learn there is no collecting of debts in this country, and no
taxes; better still, no shivering in winter, no sickness, no hard
knocks from one's betters. All is peace. The tables are turned: the
laugh is with us poor men; it is the rich that make moan, and are ill
at ease.

_Clo_. To be sure, I noticed that you were laughing, some time ago.
What was it in particular that excited your mirth?

_Mi_. I'll tell you, best of Goddesses. Being next door to a tyrant up
there, I was all eyes for what went on in his house; and he seemed to
me neither more nor less than a God. I saw the embroidered purple, the
host of courtiers, the gold, the jewelled goblets, the couches with
their feet of silver: and I thought, this is happiness. As for the
sweet savour that arose when his dinner was getting ready, it was too
much for me; such blessedness seemed more than human. And then his
proud looks and stately walk and high carriage, striking admiration
into all beholders! It seemed almost as if he must be handsomer than
other men, and a good eighteen inches taller. But when he was dead, he
made a queer figure, with all his finery gone; though I laughed more
at myself than at him: there had I been worshipping mere scum on no
better authority than the smell of roast meat, and reckoning happiness
by the blood of Lacedaemonian sea-snails! There was Gniphon the
usurer, too, bitterly reproaching himself for having died without ever
knowing the taste of wealth, leaving all his money to his nearest
relation and heir-at-law, the spendthrift Rhodochares, when he might
have had the enjoyment of it himself.

When I saw him, I laughed as if I should never stop: to think of him
as he used to be, pale, wizened, with a face full of care, his fingers
the only rich part of him, for they had the talents to count,--
scraping the money together bit by bit, and all to be squandered in no
time by that favourite of Fortune, Rhodochares! --But what are we
waiting for now? There will be time enough on the voyage to enjoy
their woebegone faces, and have our laugh out.

_Clo_. Come on board, and then the ferryman can haul up the anchor.

_Cha_. Now, now! What are you doing here? The boat is full. You wait
till to-morrow. We can bring you across in the morning.

_Mi_. What right have you to leave me behind,--a shade of twenty-four
hours' standing? I tell you what it is, I shall have you up before
Rhadamanthus. A plague on it, she's moving! And here I shall be left
all by myself. Stay, though: why not swim across in their wake? No
matter if I get tired; a dead man will scarcely be drowned. Not to
mention that I have not a penny to pay my fare.

_Clo_. Micyllus! Stop! You must not come across that way; Heaven
forbid!

_Mi_. Ha, ha! I shall get there first, and I shouldn't wonder.

_Clo_. This will never do. We must get to him, and pick him up. . . .
Hermes, give him a hand up.

_Cha_. And where is he to sit now he is here? We are full up, as you
may see.

_Her_. What do you say to the tyrant's shoulders?

_Clo_. A good idea that.

_Cha_. Up with you then; and make the rascal's back ache. And now,
good luck to our voyage!

_Cy_. Charon, I may as well tell you the plain truth at once. The
penny for my fare is not forthcoming; I have nothing but my wallet,
look, and this stick. But if you want a hand at baling, here I am; or
I could take an oar; only give me a good stout one, and you shall have
no fault to find with me.

_Cha_. To it, then; and I'll ask no other payment of you.

_Cy_. Shall I tip them a stave?

_Cha_. To be sure, if you have a sea-song about you.

_Cy_. I have several. Look here though, an opposition is starting: a
song of lamentation. It will throw me out.

_Sh_. Oh, my lands, my lands! --Ah, my money, my money! --Farewell, my
fine palace! --The thousands that fellow will have to squander! --Ah, my
helpless children! --To think of the vines I planted last year! Who, ah
who, will pluck the grapes? ---

_Her_. Why, Micyllus, have _you_ never an Oh or an Ah? It is quite
improper that any shade should cross the stream, and make no moan.

_Mi_. Get along with you. What have I to do with Ohs and Ahs? I'm
enjoying the trip!

_Her_. Still, just a groan or two. It's expected.

_Mi_. Well, if I must, here goes. --Farewell, leather, farewell! Ah,
Soles, old Soles! --Oh, ancient Boots! --Woe's me! Never again shall I
sit empty from morn till night; never again walk up and down, of a
winter's day, naked, unshod, with chattering teeth! My knife, my awl,
will be another's: whose, ah! whose?

_Her_. Yes, that will do. We are nearly there.

_Cha_. Wait a bit! Fares first, please. Your fare, Micyllus; every one
else has paid; one penny.

_Mi_. You don't expect to get a penny out of the poor cobbler? You're
joking, Charon; or else this is what they call a 'castle in the air. '
I know not whether your penny is square or round.

_Cha_. A fine paying trip this, I must say! However,--all ashore! I
must fetch the horses, cows, dogs, and other livestock. Their turn
comes now.

_Clo_. You can take charge of them for the rest of the way, Hermes. I
am crossing again to see after the Chinamen, Indopatres and
Heramithres. They have been fighting about boundaries, and have killed
one another by this time.

_Her_. Come, shades, let us get on;--follow me, I mean, in single
file.

_Mi_. Bless me, how dark it is! Where is handsome Megillus _now_?
There would be no telling Simmiche from Phryne. All complexions are
alike here, no question of beauty, greater or less. Why, the cloak I
thought so shabby before passes muster here as well as royal purple;
the darkness hides both alike.