No More Learning

SOCRATES. They are advancing in a throng, following an oblique path
across the dales and thickets.

STREPSIADES. 'Tis strange! I can see nothing.

SOCRATES. There, close to the entrance.

STREPSIADES. Hardly, if at all, can I distinguish them.

SOCRATES. You _must_ see them clearly now, unless your eyes are filled
with gum as thick as pumpkins.

STREPSIADES. Aye, undoubtedly! Oh! the venerable goddesses! Why, they
fill up the entire stage.

SOCRATES. And you did not know, you never suspected, that they were
goddesses?

STREPSIADES. No, indeed; methought the Clouds were only fog, dew and
vapour.

SOCRATES. But what you certainly do not know is that they are the support
of a crowd of quacks, both the diviners, who were sent to Thurium,[503]
the notorious physicians, the well-combed fops, who load their fingers
with rings down to the nails, and the baggarts, who write dithyrambic
verses, all these are idlers whom the Clouds provide a living for,
because they sing them in their verses.

STREPSIADES. 'Tis then for this that they praise "the rapid flight of the
moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day" and "the waving locks of
the hundred-headed Typho" and "the impetuous tempests, which float
through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with
mists" and "the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour. "[504] As a
reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and
delicate thrushes.

SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?

STREPSIADES. Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so
very much resemble mortals. This is not their usual form.

SOCRATES. What are they like then?

STREPSIADES. I don't know exactly; well, they are like great packs of
wool, but not like women--no, not in the least. . . . And these have noses.

SOCRATES. Answer my questions.

STREPSIADES. Willingly! Go on, I am listening.

SOCRATES. Have you not sometimes seen clouds in the sky like a centaur, a
leopard, a wolf or a bull?

STREPSIADES. Why, certainly I have, but what then?

SOCRATES. They take what metamorphosis they like. If they see a debauchee
with long flowing locks and hairy as a beast, like the son of
Xenophantes,[505] they take the form of a Centaur[506] in derision of his
shameful passion.

STREPSIADES. And when they see Simon, that thiever of public money, what
do they do then?

SOCRATES. To picture him to the life, they turn at once into wolves.

STREPSIADES. So that was why yesterday, when they saw Cleonymus,[507] who
cast away his buckler because he is the veriest poltroon amongst men,
they changed into deer.

SOCRATES. And to-day they have seen Clisthenes;[508] you see . . . they are
women.

STREPSIADES. Hail, sovereign goddesses, and if ever you have let your
celestial voice be heard by mortal ears, speak to me, oh! speak to me, ye
all-powerful queens.

CHORUS. Hail! veteran of the ancient times, you who burn to instruct
yourself in fine language. And you, great high-priest of subtle nonsense,
tell us your desire. To you and Prodicus[509] alone of all the hollow
orationers of to-day have we lent an ear--to Prodicus, because of his
knowledge and his great wisdom, and to you, because you walk with head
erect, a confident look, barefooted, resigned to everything and proud of
our protection.

STREPSIADES. Oh! Earth! What august utterances! how sacred! how wondrous!

SOCRATES. That is because these are the only goddesses; all the rest are
pure myth.

STREPSIADES. But by the Earth! is our Father, Zeus, the Olympian, not a
god?

SOCRATES. Zeus! what Zeus? Are you mad? There is no Zeus.

STREPSIADES. What are you saying now? Who causes the rain to fall? Answer
me that!

SOCRATES. Why, 'tis these, and I will prove it. Have you ever seen it
raining without clouds? Let Zeus then cause rain with a clear sky and
without their presence!

STREPSIADES. By Apollo! that is powerfully argued! For my own part, I
always thought it was Zeus pissing into a sieve. But tell me, who is it
makes the thunder, which I so much dread?

SOCRATES. 'Tis these, when they roll one over the other.

STREPSIADES. But how can that be? you most daring among men!

SOCRATES. Being full of water, and forced to move along, they are of
necessity precipitated in rain, being fully distended with moisture from
the regions where they have been floating; hence they bump each other
heavily and burst with great noise.

STREPSIADES. But is it not Zeus who forces them to move?

SOCRATES. Not at all; 'tis aerial Whirlwind.

STREPSIADES. The Whirlwind! ah! I did not know that. So Zeus, it seems,
has no existence, and 'tis the Whirlwind that reigns in his stead? But
you have not yet told me what makes the roll of the thunder?

SOCRATES. Have you not understood me then? I tell you, that the Clouds,
when full of rain, bump against one another, and that, being inordinately
swollen out, they burst with a great noise.

STREPSIADES. How can you make me credit that?

SOCRATES. Take yourself as an example. When you have heartily gorged on
stew at the Panathenaea, you get throes of stomach-ache and then suddenly
your belly resounds with prolonged growling.

STREPSIADES. Yes, yes, by Apollo! I suffer, I get colic, then the stew
sets a-growling like thunder and finally bursts forth with a terrific
noise. At first, 'tis but a little gurgling _pappax, pappax_! then it
increases, _papapappax! _ and when I seek relief, why, 'tis thunder
indeed, _papapappax! pappax! ! papapappax! ! ! _ just like the clouds.

SOCRATES. Well then, reflect what a noise is produced by your belly,
which is but small. Shall not the air, which is boundless, produce these
mighty claps of thunder?

STREPSIADES. But tell me this. Whence comes the lightning, the dazzling
flame, which at times consumes the man it strikes, at others hardly
singes him. Is it not plain, that 'tis Zeus hurling it at the perjurers?

SOCRATES. Out upon the fool! the driveller! he still savours of the
golden age! If Zeus strikes at the perjurers, why has he not blasted
Simon, Cleonymus and Theorus? [510] Of a surety, greater perjurers cannot
exist. No, he strikes his own Temple, and Sunium, the promontory of
Athens,[511] and the towering oaks. Now, why should he do that? An oak is
no perjurer.

STREPSIADES. I cannot tell, but it seems to me well argued. What is the
thunder then?

SOCRATES. When a dry wind ascends to the Clouds and gets shut into them,
it blows them out like a bladder; finally, being too confined, it bursts
them, escapes with fierce violence and a roar to flash into flame by
reason of its own impetuosity.

STREPSIADES. Forsooth, 'tis just what happened to me one day. 'Twas at
the feast of Zeus! I was cooking a sow's belly for my family and I had
forgotten to slit it open. It swelled out and, suddenly bursting,
discharged itself right into my eyes and burnt my face.

CHORUS. Oh, mortal! you, who desire to instruct yourself in our great
wisdom, the Athenians, the Greeks will envy you your good fortune. Only
you must have the memory and ardour for study, you must know how to stand
the tests, hold your own, go forward without feeling fatigue, caring but
little for food, abstaining from wine, gymnastic exercises and other
similar follies, in fact, you must believe as every man of intellect
should, that the greatest of all blessings is to live and think more
clearly than the vulgar herd, to shine in the contests of words.

STREPSIADES. If it be a question of hardiness for labour, of spending
whole nights at work, of living sparingly, of fighting my stomach and
only eating chick-pease, rest assured, I am as hard as an anvil.

SOCRATES. Henceforward, following our example, you will recognize no
other gods but Chaos, the Clouds and the Tongue, these three alone.

STREPSIADES. I would not speak to the others, even if I should meet them
in the street; not a single sacrifice, not a libation, not a grain of
incense for them!

CHORUS. Tell us boldly then what you want of us; you cannot fail to
succeed, if you honour and revere us and if you are resolved to become a
clever man.

STREPSIADES. Oh, sovereign goddesses, 'tis but a very small favour that I
ask of you; grant that I may distance all the Greeks by a hundred stadia
in the art of speaking.

CHORUS. We grant you this, and henceforward no eloquence shall more often
succeed with the people than your own.

STREPSIADES. May the god shield me from possessing great eloquence! 'Tis
not what I want. I want to be able to turn bad lawsuits to my own
advantage and to slip through the fingers of my creditors.

CHORUS. It shall be as you wish, for your ambitions are modest. Commit
yourself fearlessly to our ministers, the sophists.

STREPSIADES. This will I do, for I trust in you. Moreover there is no
drawing back, what with these cursed horses and this marriage, which has
eaten up my vitals. So let them do with me as they will; I yield my body
to them. Come blows, come hunger, thirst, heat or cold, little matters it
to me; they may flay me, if I only escape my debts, if only I win the
reputation of being a bold rascal, a fine speaker, impudent, shameless, a
braggart, and adept at stringing lies, an old stager at quibbles, a
complete table of the laws, a thorough rattle, a fox to slip through any
hole; supple as a leathern strap, slippery as an eel, an artful fellow, a
blusterer, a villain; a knave with a hundred faces, cunning, intolerable,
a gluttonous dog. With such epithets do I seek to be greeted; on these
terms, they can treat me as they choose, and, if they wish, by Demeter!
they can turn me into sausages and serve me up to the philosophers.

CHORUS. Here have we a bold and well-disposed pupil indeed. When we shall
have taught you, your glory among the mortals will reach even to the
skies.

STREPSIADES. Wherein will that profit me?

CHORUS. You will pass your whole life among us and will be the most
envied of men.

STREPSIADES.
Shall I really ever see such happiness?

CHORUS. Clients will be everlastingly besieging your door in crowds,
burning to get at you, to explain their business to you and to consult
you about their suits, which, in return for your ability, will bring you
in great sums. But, Socrates, begin the lessons you want to teach this
old man; rouse his mind, try the strength of his intelligence.

SOCRATES. Come, tell me the kind of mind you have; 'tis important I know
this, that I may order my batteries against you in a new fashion.

STREPSIADES. Eh, what! in the name of the gods, are you purposing to
assault me then?

SOCRATES. No. I only wish to ask you some questions. Have you any memory?

STREPSIADES. That depends: if anything is owed me, my memory is
excellent, but if I owe, alas! I have none whatever.

SOCRATES. Have you a natural gift for speaking?

STREPSIADES. For speaking, no; for cheating, yes.

SOCRATES. How will you be able to learn then?

STREPSIADES. Very easily, have no fear.

SOCRATES. Thus, when I throw forth some philosophical thought anent
things celestial, you will seize it in its very flight?

STREPSIADES. Then I am to snap up wisdom much as a dog snaps up a morsel?

SOCRATES. Oh! the ignoramus! the barbarian! I greatly fear, old man,
'twill be needful for me to have recourse to blows. Now, let me hear what
you do when you are beaten.

STREPSIADES. I receive the blow, then wait a moment, take my witnesses
and finally summon my assailant at law.

SOCRATES. Come, take off your cloak.

STREPSIADES. Have I robbed you of anything?

SOCRATES. No, but 'tis usual to enter the school without your cloak.

STREPSIADES. But I am not come here to look for stolen goods.

SOCRATES. Off with it, fool!

STREPSIADES. Tell me, if I prove thoroughly attentive and learn with
zeal, which of your disciples shall I resemble, do you think?

SOCRATES. You will be the image of Chaerephon.

STREPSIADES. Ah! unhappy me! I shall then be but half alive?

SOCRATES. A truce to this chatter! follow me and no more of it.

STREPSIADES. First give me a honey-cake, for to descend down there sets
me all a-tremble; meseems 'tis the cave of Trophonius.

SOCRATES. But get in with you! What reason have you for thus dallying at
the door?

CHORUS. Good luck! you have courage; may you succeed, you, who, though
already so advanced in years, wish to instruct your mind with new studies
and practise it in wisdom!

CHORUS (_Parabasis_). Spectators! By Bacchus, whose servant I am, I will
frankly tell you the truth. May I secure both victory and renown as
certainly as I hold you for adept critics and as I regard this comedy as
my best. I wished to give you the first view of a work, which had cost me
much trouble, but I withdrew, unjustly beaten by unskilful rivals. [512]
'Tis you, oh, enlightened public, for whom I have prepared my piece, that
I reproach with this. Nevertheless I shall never willingly cease to seek
the approval of the discerning. I have not forgotten the day, when men,
whom one is happy to have for an audience, received my 'Young Man' and my
'Debauchee'[513] with so much favour in this very place. Then as yet
virgin, my Muse had not attained the legal age for maternity;[514] she
had to expose her first-born for another to adopt, and it has since grown
up under your generous patronage. Ever since you have as good as sworn me
your faithful alliance. Thus, like Electra[515] of the poets, my comedy
has come to seek you to-day, hoping again to encounter such enlightened
spectators. As far away as she can discern her Orestes, she will be able
to recognize him by his curly head. And note her modest demeanour! She
has not sewn on a piece of hanging leather, thick and reddened at the
end,[516] to cause laughter among the children; she does not rail at the
bald, neither does she dance the cordax;[517] no old man is seen, who,
while uttering his lines, batters his questioner with a stick to make his
poor jests pass muster. [518] She does not rush upon the scene carrying a
torch and screaming, 'La, la! la, la! ' No, she relies upon herself and
her verses. . . . My value is so well known, that I take no further pride in
it. I do not seek to deceive you, by reproducing the same subjects two or
three times; I always invent fresh themes to present before you, themes
that have no relation to each other and that are all clever. I attacked
Cleon[519] to his face and when he was all-powerful; but he has fallen,
and now I have no desire to kick him when he is down. My rivals, on the
contrary, once that this wretched Hyperbolus has given them the cue, have
never ceased setting upon both him and his mother. First Eupolis
presented his 'Maricas';[520] this was simply my 'Knights,' whom this
plagiarist had clumsily furbished up again by adding to the piece an old
drunken woman, so that she might dance the cordax. 'Twas an old idea,
taken from Phrynichus, who caused his old hag to be devoured by a monster
of the deep. [521] Then Hermippus[522] fell foul of Hyperbolus and now all
the others fall upon him and repeat my comparison of the eels. May those
who find amusement in their pieces not be pleased with mine, but as for
you, who love and applaud my inventions, why, posterity will praise your
good taste.

Oh, ruler of Olympus, all-powerful king of the gods, great Zeus, it is
thou whom I first invoke; protect this chorus; and thou too, Posidon,
whose dread trident upheaves at the will of thy anger both the bowels of
the earth and the salty waves of the ocean. I invoke my illustrious
father, the divine Aether, the universal sustainer of life, and Phoebus,
who, from the summit of his chariot, sets the world aflame with his
dazzling rays, Phoebus, a mighty deity amongst the gods and adored
amongst mortals.

Most wise spectators, lend us all your attention. Give heed to our just
reproaches. There exist no gods to whom this city owes more than it does
to us, whom alone you forget. Not a sacrifice, not a libation is there
for those who protect you! Have you decreed some mad expedition? Well! we
thunder or we fall down in rain. When you chose that enemy of heaven, the
Paphlagonian tanner,[523] for a general, we knitted our brow, we caused
our wrath to break out; the lightning shot forth, the thunder pealed, the
moon deserted her course and the sun at once veiled his beam threatening
no longer to give you light, if Cleon became general. Nevertheless you
elected him; 'tis said, Athens never resolves upon some fatal step but
the gods turn these errors into her greatest gain. Do you wish that this
election should even now be a success for you? 'Tis a very simple thing
to do; condemn this rapacious gull named Cleon[524] for bribery and
extortion, fit a wooden collar tight round his neck, and your error will
be rectified and the commonweal will at once regain its old prosperity.

Aid me also, Phoebus, god of Delos, who reignest on the cragged peaks of
Cynthia;[525] and thou, happy virgin,[526] to whom the Lydian damsels
offer pompous sacrifice in a temple of gold; and thou, goddess of our
country, Athene, armed with the aegis, the protectress of Athens; and
thou, who, surrounded by the Bacchanals of Delphi, roamest over the rocks
of Parnassus shaking the flame of thy resinous torch, thou, Bacchus, the
god of revel and joy.

As we were preparing to come here, we were hailed by the Moon and were
charged to wish joy and happiness both to the Athenians and to their
allies; further, she said that she was enraged and that you treated her
very shamefully, her, who does not pay you in words alone, but who
renders you all real benefits. Firstly, thanks to her, you save at least
a drachma each month for lights, for each, as he is leaving home at
night, says, "Slave, buy no torches, for the moonlight is
beautiful,"--not to name a thousand other benefits. Nevertheless you do
not reckon the days correctly and your calendar is naught but
confusion. [527] Consequently the gods load her with threats each time
they get home and are disappointed of their meal, because the festival
has not been kept in the regular order of time. When you should be
sacrificing, you are putting to the torture or administering justice. And
often, we others, the gods, are fasting in token of mourning for the
death of Memnon or Sarpedon,[528] while you are devoting yourselves to
joyous libations. 'Tis for this, that last year, when the lot would have
invested Hyperbolus[529] with the duty of Amphictyon, we took his crown
from him, to teach him that time must be divided according to the phases
of the moon.

SOCRATES. By Respiration, the Breath of Life! By Chaos! By the Air! I
have never seen a man so gross, so inept, so stupid, so forgetful. All
the little quibbles, which I teach him, he forgets even before he has
learnt them. Yet I will not give it up, I will make him come out here
into the open air. Where are you, Strepsiades? Come, bring your couch out
here.

STREPSIADES. But the bugs will not allow me to bring it.

SOCRATES. Have done with such nonsense! place it there and pay attention.

STREPSIADES. Well, here I am.

SOCRATES. Good! Which science of all those you have never been taught, do
you wish to learn first? The measures, the rhythms or the verses?

STREPSIADES. Why, the measures; the flour dealer cheated me out of two
_choenixes_ the other day.

SOCRATES. 'Tis not about that I ask you, but which, according to you, is
the best measure, the trimeter or the tetrameter? [530]

STREPSIADES. The one I prefer is the semisextarius.

SOCRATES. You talk nonsense, my good fellow.

STREPSIADES. I will wager your tetrameter is the semisextarius. [531]

SOCRATES. Plague seize the dunce and the fool! Come, perchance you will
learn the rhythms quicker.

STREPSIADES. Will the rhythms supply me with food?

SOCRATES. First they will help you to be pleasant in company, then to
know what is meant by oenoplian rhythm[532] and what by the
dactylic. [533]

STREPSIADES. Of the dactyl? I know that quite well.

SOCRATES. What is it then?

STREPSIADES. Why, 'tis this finger; formerly, when a child, I used this
one. [534]

SOCRATES. You are as low-minded as you are stupid.

STREPSIADES. But, wretched man, I do not want to learn all this.

SOCRATES. Then what _do_ you want to know?

STREPSIADES. Not that, not that, but the art of false reasoning.

SOCRATES. But you must first learn other things. Come, what are the male
quadrupeds?

STREPSIADES. Oh! I know the males thoroughly. Do you take me for a fool
then? The ram, the buck, the bull, the dog, the pigeon.

SOCRATES. Do you see what you are doing; is not the female pigeon called
the same as the male?

STREPSIADES. How else? Come now?

SOCRATES. How else? With you then 'tis pigeon and pigeon!

STREPSIADES. 'Tis true, by Posidon! but what names do you want me to give
them?

SOCRATES. Term the female pigeonnette and the male pigeon.

STREPSIADES. Pigeonnette! hah! by the Air! That's splendid! for that
lesson bring out your kneading-trough and I will fill him with flour to
the brim.

SOCRATES. There you are wrong again; you make _trough_ masculine and it
should be feminine.

STREPSIADES. What? if I say _him_, do I make the _trough_ masculine?

SOCRATES. Assuredly! would you not say him for Cleonymus?