CONVERSATIONS.
General character of Xenophon's history.--Dialogues and
conversations.--Ancient mode of discussion.--Cyrus's games.--Grand
procession.--The races.--The Sacian.--His success.--Mode of finding
a worthy man.--Pheraulas wounded.--Pheraulas pursues his course.--He
receives the Sacian's horse.--Sumptuous entertainment.--Pheraulas
and the Sacian.--Riches a source of disquiet and care.--Argument of
Pheraulas.--Remark of the Sacian.--Reply of Pheraulas.--Singular
proposal of Pheraulas.--The Sacian accepts it.--The plan carried into
effect.--The happy result.--Cyrus's dinner party.--Conversation
about soldiers.--The discontented soldier.--His repeated
misfortunes.--Amusement of the party.--The awkward squad.--Merriment
of the company.--The file-leader and the letters.--Remark of
Cyrus.--Animadversion version of Aglaitadas.--Aglaitadas's argument
for melancholy.--Defense of the officers.--General character of
Xenophon's Cyropaedia.
We have given the story of Panthea, as contained in the preceding
chapter, in our own language, it is true, but without any intentional
addition or embellishment whatever. Each reader will judge for himself
whether such a narrative, written for the entertainment of vast
assemblies at public games and celebrations, is most properly to be
regarded as an invention of romance, or as a simple record of
veritable history.
A great many extraordinary and dramatic incidents and adventures,
similar in general character to the story of Panthea, are interwoven
with the narrative in Xenophon's history. There are also, besides
these, many long and minute details of dialogues and conversations,
which, if they had really occurred, would have required a very high
degree of skill in stenography to produce such reports of them
as Xenophon has given. The incidents, too, out of which these
conversations grew, are worthy of attention, as we can often judge,
by the nature and character of an incident described, whether it is
one which it is probable might actually occur in real life, or only an
invention intended to furnish an opportunity and a pretext for the
inculcation of the sentiments, or the expression of the views of the
different speakers. It was the custom in ancient days, much more than
it is now, to attempt to add to the point and spirit of a discussion,
by presenting the various views which the subject naturally elicited
in the form of a conversation arising out of circumstances invented
to sustain it. The incident in such cases was, of course, a fiction,
contrived to furnish points of attachment for the dialogue--a sort of
trellis, constructed artificially to support the vine.
We shall present in this chapter some specimens of these
conversations, which will give the reader a much more distinct idea
of the nature of them than any general description can convey.
At one time in the course of Cyrus's career, just after he had
obtained some great victory, and was celebrating his triumphs, in the
midst of his armies, with spectacles and games, he instituted a series
of races, in which the various nations that were represented in his
army furnished their several champions as competitors The army marched
out from the city which Cyrus had captured, and where he was then
residing, in a procession of the most imposing magnificence. Animals
intended to be offered in sacrifice, caparisoned in trappings of gold,
horsemen most sumptuously equipped, chariots of war splendidly built
and adorned, and banners and trophies of every kind, were conspicuous
in the train. When the vast procession reached the race-ground, the
immense concourse was formed in ranks around it, and the racing went
on.
When it came to the turn of the Sacian nation to enter the course,
a private man, of no apparent importance in respect to his rank or
standing, came forward as the champion; though the man appeared
insignificant, his horse was as fleet as the wind. He flew around the
arena with astonishing speed, and came in at the goal while his
competitor was still midway of the course. Every body was astonished
at this performance. Cyrus asked the Sacian whether he would be
willing to sell that horse, if he could receive a kingdom in exchange
for it--kingdoms being the coin with which such sovereigns as Cyrus
made their purchases. The Sacian replied that he would not sell his
horse for any kingdom, but that he would readily give him away to
oblige a worthy man.
"Come with me," said Cyrus, "and I will show you where you may throw
blindfold, and not miss a worthy man."
So saying, Cyrus conducted the Sacian to a part of the field where a
number of his officers and attendants were moving to and fro, mounted
upon their horses, or seated in their chariots of war. The Sacian took
up a hard clod of earth from a bank as he walked along. At length they
were in the midst of the group.
"Throw!" said Cyrus.
The Sacian shut his eyes and threw.
It happened that, just at that instant, an officer named Pheraulas
was riding by. He was conveying some orders which Cyrus had given him
to another part of the field. Pheraulas had been originally a man of
humble life, but he had been advanced by Cyrus to a high position on
account of the great fidelity and zeal which he had evinced in the
performance of his duty. The clod which the Sacian threw struck
Pheraulas in the mouth, and wounded him severely. Now it is the part
of a good soldier to stand at his post or to press on, in obedience
to his orders, as long as any physical capacity remains; and
Pheraulas, true to his military obligation, rode on without even
turning to see whence and from what cause so unexpected and violent
an assault had proceeded.
The Sacian opened his eyes, looked around, and coolly asked who it was
that he had hit. Cyrus pointed to the horseman who was riding rapidly
away, saying, "That is the man, who is riding so fast past those
chariots yonder. You hit _him_."
"Why did he not turn back, then?" asked the Sacian.
"It is strange that he did not," said Cyrus; "he must be some madman."
The Sacian went in pursuit of him. He found Pheraulas with his face
covered with blood and dirt, and asked him if he had received a blow.
"I have," said Pheraulas, "as you see." "Then," said the Sacian, "I
make you a present of my horse." Pheraulas asked an explanation. The
Sacian accordingly gave him an account of what had taken place between
himself and Cyrus, and said, in the end, that he gladly gave him his
horse, as he, Pheraulas, had so decisively proved himself to be a most
worthy man.
Pheraulas accepted the present, with many thanks, and he and the
Sacian became thereafter very strong friends.
Some time after this, Pheraulas invited the Sacian to an
entertainment, and when the hour arrived, he set before his friend and
the other guests a most sumptuous feast, which was served in vessels
of gold and silver, and in an apartment furnished with carpets, and
canopies, and couches of the most gorgeous and splendid description.
The Sacian was much impressed with this magnificence, and he asked
Pheraulas whether he had been a rich man at home, that is, before he
had joined Cyrus's army. Pheraulas replied that he was not then rich.
His father, he said, was a farmer, and he himself had been accustomed
in early life to till the ground with the other laborers on his
father's farm. All the wealth and luxury which he now enjoyed had been
bestowed upon him, he said, by Cyrus.
"How fortunate you are!" said the Sacian; "and it must be that you
enjoy your present riches all the more highly on account of having
experienced in early life the inconveniences and ills of poverty. The
pleasure must be more intense in having desires which have long been
felt gratified at last than if the objects which they rested upon had
been always in one's possession."
"You imagine, I suppose," replied Pheraulas, "that I am a great deal
happier in consequence of all this wealth and splendor; but it is not
so. As to the real enjoyments of which our natures are capable, I can
not receive more now than I could before. I can not eat any more,
drink any more, or sleep any more, or do any of these things with any
more pleasure than when I was poor. All that I gain by this abundance
is, that I have more to watch, more to guard, more to take care of. I
have many servants, for whose wants I have to provide, and who are a
constant source of solicitude to me. One calls for food, another for
clothes, and a third is sick, and I must see that he has a physician.
My other possessions, too, are a constant care. A man comes in, one
day, and brings me sheep that have been torn by the wolves; and, on
another day, tells me of oxen that have fallen from a precipice, or of
a distemper which has broken out among the flocks or herds. My wealth,
therefore, brings me only an increase of anxiety and trouble, without
any addition to my joys."
"But those things," said the Sacian, "which you name, must be unusual
and extraordinary occurrences. When all things are going on
prosperously and well with you, and you can look around on all your
possessions and feel that they are yours, then certainly you must be
happier than I am."
"It is true," said Pheraulas, "that there is a pleasure in the
possession of wealth, but that pleasure is not great enough to balance
the suffering which the calamities and losses inevitably connected
with it occasion. That the suffering occasioned by losing our
possessions is greater than the pleasure of retaining them, is proved
by the fact that the pain of a loss is so exciting to the mind that it
often deprives men of sleep, while they enjoy the most calm and quiet
repose so long as their possessions are retained, which proves that
the pleasure does not move them so deeply. They are kept awake by the
vexation and chagrin on the one hand, but they are never kept awake by
the satisfaction on the other."
"That is true," replied the Sacian. "Men are not kept awake by the
mere continuing to possess their wealth, but they very often are by
the original acquisition of it."
"Yes, indeed," replied Pheraulas; "and if the enjoyment of _being_
rich could always continue as great as that of first becoming so, the
rich would, I admit, be very happy men; but it is not, and can not be
so. They who possess much, must lose, and expend, and give much; and
this necessity brings more of pain than the possessions themselves can
give of pleasure."
The Sacian was not convinced. The giving and expending, he maintained,
would be to him, in itself, a source of pleasure. He should like to
have much, for the very purpose of being able to expend much. Finally,
Pheraulas proposed to the Sacian, since he seemed to think that riches
would afford him so much pleasure, and as he himself, Pheraulas, found
the possession of them only a source of trouble and care, that he
would convey all his wealth to the Sacian, he himself to receive only
an ordinary maintenance from it.
"You are in jest," said the Sacian.
"No," said Pheraulas, "I am in earnest." And he renewed his
proposition, and pressed the Sacian urgently to accept of it.
The Sacian then said that nothing could give him greater pleasure than
such an arrangement. He expressed great gratitude for so generous an
offer, and promised that, if he received the property, he would
furnish Pheraulas with most ample and abundant supplies for all his
wants, and would relieve him entirely of all responsibility and care.
He promised, moreover, to obtain from Cyrus permission that Pheraulas
should thereafter be excused from the duties of military service, and
from all the toils, privations, and hardships of war, so that he might
thenceforth lead a life of quiet, luxury, and ease, and thus live in
the enjoyment of all the benefits which wealth could procure, without
its anxieties and cares.
The plan, thus arranged, was carried into effect. Pheraulas divested
himself of his possessions, conveying them all to the Sacian. Both
parties were extremely pleased with the operation of the scheme, and
they lived thus together for a long time. Whatever Pheraulas acquired
in any way, he always brought to the Sacian, and the Sacian, by
accepting it, relieved Pheraulas of all responsibility and care. The
Sacian loved Pheraulas, as Xenophon says, in closing this narrative,
because he was thus continually bringing him gifts; and Pheraulas
loved the Sacian, because he was always willing to take the gifts
which were thus brought to him.
Among the other conversations, whether real or imaginary, which
Xenophon records, he gives some specimens of those which took place at
festive entertainments in Cyrus's tent, on occasions when he invited
his officers to dine with him. He commenced the conversation, on one
of these occasions, by inquiring of some of the officers present
whether they did not think that the common soldiers were equal to the
officers themselves in intelligence, courage, and military skill, and
in all the other substantial qualities of a good soldier.
"I know not how that may be," replied one of the officers. "How they
will prove when they come into action with the enemy, I can not tell;
but a more perverse and churlish set of fellows in camp, than these I
have got in my regiment, I never knew. The other day, for example,
when there had been a sacrifice, the meat of the victims was sent
around to be distributed to the soldiers. In our regiment, when the
steward came in with the first distribution, he began by me, and so
went round, as far as what he had brought would go. The next time he
came, he began at the other end. The supply failed before he had got
to the place where he had left off before, so that there was a man in
the middle that did not get any thing. This man immediately broke out
in loud and angry complaints, and declared that there was no equality
or fairness whatever in such a mode of division, unless they began
sometimes in the center of the line.
"Upon this," continued the officer, "I called to the discontented man,
and invited him to come and sit by me, where he would have a better
chance for a good share. He did so. It happened that, at the next
distribution that was made, we were the last, and he fancied that only
the smallest pieces were left, so he began to complain more than
before. 'Oh, misery!' said he, 'that I should have to sit here!' 'Be
patient,' said I; 'pretty soon they will begin the distribution with
us, and then you will have the best chance of all.' And so it proved
for, at the next distribution, they began at us, and the man took his
share first; but when the second and third men took theirs, he fancied
that their pieces looked larger than his, and he reached forward and
put his piece back into the basket, intending to change it; but the
steward moved rapidly on, and he did not get another, so that he lost
his distribution altogether. He was then quite furious with rage and
vexation."
Cyrus and all the company laughed very heartily at these mischances of
greediness and discontent; and then other stories, of a somewhat
similar character, were told by other guests. One officer said that a
few days previous he was drilling a part of his troops, and he had
before him on the plain what is called, in military language, a
_squad_ of men, whom he was teaching to march. When he gave the order
to advance, one, who was at the head of the file, marched forward with
great alacrity, but all the rest stood still. "I asked him," continued
the officer, "what he was doing. 'Marching,' said he, 'as you ordered
me to do.' 'It was not you alone that I ordered to march,' said I,
'but all.' So I sent him back to his place, and then gave the command
again. Upon this they all advanced promiscuously and in disorder
toward me, each one acting for himself, without regard to the others,
and leaving the file-leader, who ought to have been at the head,
altogether behind. The file-leader said, 'Keep back! keep back!' Upon
this the men were offended, and asked what they were to do about such
contradictory orders. 'One commands us to advance, and another to keep
back!' said they; 'how are we to know which to obey?'"
Cyrus and his guests were so much amused at the awkwardness of these
recruits, and the ridiculous predicament in which the officer was
placed by it, that the narrative of the speaker was here interrupted
by universal and long-continued laughter.
"Finally," continued the officer, "I sent the men all back to their
places, and explained to them that, when a command was given, they
were not to obey it in confusion and unseemly haste, but regularly and
in order, each one following the man who stood before him. 'You must
regulate your proceeding,' said I, 'by the action of the file-leader;
when he advances, you must advance, following him in a line, and
governing your movements in all respects by his.'
"Just at this moment," continued the officer, "a man came to me for a
letter which was to go to Persia, and which I had left in my tent. I
directed the file-leader to run to my tent and bring the letter to me.
He immediately set off, and the rest, obeying literally the directions
which I had just been giving them, all followed, running behind him
in a line like a troop of savages, so that I had the whole squad of
twenty men running in a body off the field to fetch a letter!"
When the general hilarity which these recitals occasioned had a little
subsided, Cyrus said he thought that they could not complain of the
character of the soldiers whom they had to command, for they were
certainly, according to these accounts, sufficiently ready to obey the
orders they received. Upon this, a certain one of the guests who was
present, named Aglaitadas, a gloomy and austere-looking man, who had
not joined at all in the merriment which the conversation had caused,
asked Cyrus if he believed those stories to be true.
"Why?" asked Cyrus; "what do _you_ think of them?"
"_I_ think," said Aglaitadas, "that these officers invented them to
make the company laugh. It is evident that they were not telling the
truth, since they related the stories in such a vain and arrogant
way."
"Arrogant!" said Cyrus; "you ought not to call them arrogant; for,
even if they invented their narrations, it was not to gain any selfish
ends of their own, but only to amuse us and promote our enjoyment.
Such persons should be called polite and agreeable rather than
arrogant."
"If, Aglaitadas," said one of the officers who had related the
anecdotes, "we had told you melancholy stories to make you gloomy and
wretched, you might have been justly displeased; but you certainly
ought not to complain of us for making you merry."
"Yes," said Aglaitadas, "I think I may. To make a man laugh is a very
insignificant and useless thing. It is far better to make him weep.
Such thoughts and such conversation as makes us serious, thoughtful,
and sad, and even moves us to tears, are the most salutary and the
best."
"Well," replied the officer, "if you will take my advice, you will
lay out all your powers of inspiring gloom, and melancholy, and of
bringing tears, upon our enemies, and bestow the mirth and laughter
upon us. There must be a prodigious deal of laughter in you, for none
ever comes out. You neither use nor expend it yourself, nor do you
afford it to your friends."
"Then," said Aglaitadas, "why do you attempt to draw it from me?"
"It is preposterous!" said another of the company; "for one could more
easily strike fire out of Aglaitadas than get a laugh from him!"
Aglaitadas could not help smiling at this comparison; upon which
Cyrus, with an air of counterfeited gravity, reproved the person who
had spoken, saying that he had corrupted the most sober man in the
company by making him smile, and that to disturb such gravity as that
of Aglaitadas was carrying the spirit of mirth and merriment
altogether too far.
* * * * *
These specimens will suffice. They serve to give a more distinct idea
of the Cyropaedia of Xenophon than any general description could
afford. The book is a drama, of which the principal elements are such
narratives as the story of Panthea, and such conversations as those
contained in this chapter, intermingled with long discussions on the
principles of government, and on the discipline and management of
armies. The principles and the sentiments which the work inculcates
and explains are now of little value, being no longer applicable to
the affairs of mankind in the altered circumstances of the present
day. The book, however, retains its rank among men on account of a
certain beautiful and simple magnificence characterizing the style and
language in which it is written, which, however, can not be
appreciated except by those who read the narrative in the original
tongue.