_Tychiades._ Philocles, what is it that makes most men so fond of a
lie? Can you explain it? Their delight in romancing themselves is only
equaled by the earnest attention with which they receive other
people's efforts in the same direction.
_Philocles._ Why, in some cases there is no lack of motives for
lying--motives of self-interest.
_Tychiades._ Ah, but that is neither here nor there. I am not speaking
of men who lie with an object. There is some excuse for that: indeed,
it is sometimes to their credit, when they deceive their country's
enemies, for instance, or when mendacity is but the medicine to heal
their sickness. Odysseus, seeking to preserve his life and bring his
companions safe home, was a liar of that kind. The men I mean are
innocent of any ulterior motive: they prefer a lie to truth, simply on
its own merits; they like lying, it is their favorite occupation;
there is no necessity in the case. Now what good can they get out of
it?
_Philocles._ Why, have you ever known any one with such a strong
natural turn for lying?
_Tychiades._ Any number of them.
_Philocles._ Then I can only say they must be fools, if they really
prefer evil to good.
_Tychiades._ Oh, that is not it. I could point you out plenty of men
of first-rate ability, sensible enough in all other respects, who have
somehow picked up this vice of romancing. It makes me quite angry:
what satisfaction can there be to men of their good qualities in
deceiving themselves and their neighbors? There are instances among
the ancients with which you must be more familiar than I. Look at
Herodotus, or Ctesias of Cnidus;[126] or, to go further back, take the
poets--Homer himself: here are men of world-wide celebrity,
perpetuating their mendacity in black and white; not content with
deceiving their hearers, they must send their lies down to posterity,
under the protection of the most admirable verse. Many a time I have
blushed for them, as I read of the mutilation of Uranus, the fetters
of Prometheus, the revolt of the giants, the torments of hell;
enamored Zeus taking the shape of bull or swan; women turning into
birds and bears; Pegasuses, Chimæras, Gorgons, Cyclopes, and the rest
of it; monstrous medley! fit only to charm the imaginations of
children for whom Mormo and Lamia have still their terrors. However,
poets, I suppose, will be poets. But when it comes to national lies,
when one finds whole cities bouncing collectively like one man, how is
one to keep one's countenance? A Cretan will look you in the face, and
tell you that yonder is Zeus' tomb. In Athens, you are informed that
Erichthonius sprang out of the earth, and that the first Athenians
grew up from the soil like so many cabbages; and this story assumes
quite a sober aspect when compared with that of the Sparti, for whom
the Thebans claim descent from a dragon's teeth. If you presume to
doubt these stories, if you choose to exert your common sense, and
leave Triptolemus' winged aerial car, and Pan's Marathonian exploits,
and Orithyia's mishap, to the stronger digestions of a Coroebus and
a Margites, you are a fool and a blasphemer, for questioning such
palpable truths. Such is the power of lies!
_Philocles._ I must say I think there is some excuse, Tychiades, both
for your national liars and for the poets. The latter are quite right
in throwing in a little mythology: it has a very pleasing effect, and
is just the thing to secure the attention of their hearers. On the
other hand, the Athenians and the Thebans and the rest are only trying
to add to the luster of their respective cities. Take away the
legendary treasures of Greece, and you condemn the whole race of
ciceroni to starvation: sightseers do not want the truth; they would
not take it at a gift. However, I surrender to your ridicule any one
who has no such motive, and yet rejoices in lies.
_Tychiades._ Very well: now I have just been with the great Eucrates,
who treated me to a whole string of old wives' tales. I came away in
the middle of it; he was too much for me altogether; Furies could not
have driven me out more effectually than his marvel-working tongue.
_Philocles._ What, Eucrates, of all credible witnesses? That venerably
bearded sexagenarian, with his philosophic leanings? I could never
have believed that he would lend his countenance to other people's
lies, much less that he was capable of such things himself.
_Tychiades._ My dear sir, you should have heard the stuff he told me;
the way in which he vouched for the truth of it all too, solemnly
staking the lives of his children on his veracity! I stared at him in
amazement, not knowing what to make of it: one moment I thought he
must be out of his mind; the next I concluded he had been a humbug all
along, an ape in a lion's skin. Oh, it was monstrous....
"When I was a young man," said he, "I passed some time in Egypt, my
father having sent me to that country for my education. I took it into
my head to sail up the Nile to Coptus, and thence pay a visit to the
statue of Memnon,[127] and hear the curious sound that proceeds from
it at sunrise. In this respect, I was more fortunate than most people,
who hear nothing but an indistinct voice: Memnon actually opened his
lips, and delivered me an oracle in seven hexameters; it is foreign to
my present purpose, or I would quote you the very lines."