general, Greek or Scythian, we will not discuss just now: but that
we are more loyal friends than you, and that we treat friendship
more seriously, is easily shown. Now please do not be angry with me,
in the name of all your Gods: but I am going to mention a few points
I have observed during my stay in this country. I can see that you
are all admirably well qualified to talk about friendship: but
when it comes to putting your words into practice, there is a
considerable falling off; it is enough for you to have demonstrated
what an excellent thing friendship is, and somehow or other, at the
critical moment, you make off, and leave your fine words to look
after themselves. Similarly, when your tragedians represent this
subject on the stage, you are loud in your applause; the spectacle
of one friend risking his life for another generally brings tears to
your eyes: but you are quite incapable of rendering any such signal
services yourselves; once let your friends get into difficulties,
and all those tragic reminiscences take wing like so many dreams;
you are then the very image of the silent mask which the actor has
thrown aside: its mouth is open to its fullest extent, but not a
syllable does it utter. It is the other way with us: we are as much
superior to you in the practice of friendship, as we are inferior in
expounding the theory of it.
Now, what do you say to this proposal? let us leave out of the
question all the cases of ancient friendship that either of us
might enumerate (there you would have the advantage of me: you
could produce all the poets on your side, most credible of
witnesses, with their Achilles and Patroclus, their Theseus and
Pirithous, and others, all celebrated in the most charming verses);
and instead let each of us advance a few instances of devotion that
have occurred within his own experience, among our respective
countrymen; these we will relate in detail, and whoever can show
the best friendships is the winner, and announces his country as
victorious. Mighty issues are at stake: I for my part would rather
be worsted in single combat, and lose my right hand, as the
Scythian custom is, than yield to any man on the question of
friendship, above all to a Greek; for am I not a Scythian?
_Mne_. I have got my work cut out for me, if I am to engage an
old soldier like Toxaris, with a whole arsenal of keen words at his
command. Well, I am not such a craven as to decline the challenge,
when my country’s honour is at stake. Could those two overcome the
host of Scythians represented in the legend, and in the ancient
pictures you have just described so impressively,—and shall
Greece, her peoples and her cities, be condemned for want of one to
plead her cause? Strange indeed, if that were so; I should deserve
to lose not my hand like you, but my tongue. Well now, is the
number of friendships to be limited, or does wealth of instances
itself constitute one claim to superiority?
_Tox_. Oh no; number counts for nothing, that must be understood.
We have the same number, and it is simply a question whether
yours are better and more pointed than mine; if they are, of
course, the wounds you inflict will be the more deadly, and I
shall be the first to succumb.
_Mne_. Very well. Let us fix the number: I say five each.
_Tox_. Five be it, and you begin. But you must be sworn first:
because the subject naturally lends itself to fictitious treatment;
there is no checking anything. When you have sworn, it would be
impious to doubt your word.
_Mne_. Very well, if you think it necessary. Have you any
preference among our Gods? How would the God of Friendship meet the
case?
_Tox_. Excellently; and when my turn comes, I will employ the
national oath of the Scythians.
_Mne_. Zeus the God of Friendship be my witness, that all I
shall now relate is derived either from my own experience, or from
such careful inquiry as I was able to make of others; and is free
from all imaginative additions of my own. I will begin with, the
friendship of Agathocles and Dinias. The story is well known in
Ionia. This Agathocles was a native of Samos, and lived not many
years ago. Though his conduct showed him to be the best of friends,
he was of no better family and in no better circumstances than the
generality of the Samians. From boyhood he had been the friend of
Dinias, the son of Lyson, an Ephesian. Dinias, it seems, was
enormously wealthy, and as his wealth was newly acquired, it is not
to be wondered at that he had plenty of acquaintances besides
Agathocles; persons who were quite qualified to share his
pleasures, and to be his boon-companions, but who were very far
indeed from being friends. For some time Agathocles—little as he
cared for such a life—played his convivial part with the rest,
Dinias making no distinction between him and the parasites.
Finally, however, he took to finding fault with his friend’s
conduct, and gave great offence: his continual allusions to
Dinias’s ancestry, and his exhortations to him to husband the
fortune which had cost his father such labour to acquire, seemed to
his friend to be in indifferent taste. He gave up asking Agathocles
to join in his revels, contented himself with the company of his
parasites, and sought to elude his friend’s observation. Well, the
misguided youth was presently persuaded by his flatterers that he
had made a conquest of Chariclea, the wife of Demonax, an eminent
Ephesian, holding the highest office in that city. He was kept well
supplied with billets-doux, half-faded flowers, bitten apples, and
all the stock-in-trade of those intriguing dames whose business it
is to fan an artificial passion that vanity has inspired. There is
no more seductive bait to young men who value themselves on their
personal attractions, than the belief that they have made an
impression; they are sure to fall into the trap. Chariclea was a
charming little woman, but sadly wanting in reserve: any one might
enjoy her favours, and on the easiest of terms; the most casual
glance was sure to meet with encouragement; there was never any
fear of a repulse from Chariclea. With more than professional
skill, she could draw on a hesitating lover till his subjugation
was complete: then, when she was sure of him, she had a variety of
devices for inflaming his passion: she could storm, and she could
flatter; and flattery would be succeeded by contempt, or by a
feigned preference for his rival;—in short, her resources were
infinite; she was armed against her lovers at every point. This was
the lady whom Dinias’s parasites now associated with them; they
played their subordinate part well, and between them fairly hustled
the boy into a passion for Chariclea. Such a finished mistress of
the art of perdition, who had ruined plenty of victims before, and
acted love-scenes and swallowed fine fortunes without number, was
not likely to let this simple inexperienced youth out of her
clutches: she struck her talons into him on every side, and secured
her quarry so effectually, that she was involved in his
destruction,—to say nothing of the miseries of the hapless victim.
She got to work at once with the billets-doux. Her maid was for
ever coming with news of tears and sleepless nights: ‘her poor
mistress was ready to hang herself for love.’ The ingenuous youth
was at length driven to conclude that his attractions were too much
for the ladies of Ephesus; he yielded to the girl’s entreaties, and
waited upon her mistress. The rest, of course, was easy. How was he
to resist this pretty woman, with her captivating manners, her
well-timed tears, her parenthetic sighs? Lingering farewells,
joyful welcomes, judicious airs and graces, song and lyre,—all
were brought to bear upon him. Dinias was soon a lost man, over
head and ears in love; and Chariclea prepared to give the finishing
stroke. She informed him that he was about to become a father,
which was enough in itself to inflame the amorous simpleton; and
she discontinued her visits to him; her husband, she said, had
discovered her passion, and was watching her. This was altogether
too much for Dinias: he was inconsolable; wept, sent messages by
his parasites, flung his arms about her statue—a marble one which
he had had made—, shrieked forth her name in loud lamentation, and
finally threw himself down upon the ground and rolled about in a
positive frenzy. Her apples and her flowers drew forth presents
which were on quite another scale of munificence: houses and farms,
servants, exquisite fabrics, and gold to any extent. To make a long
story short, the house of Lyson, which had the reputation of being
the wealthiest in Ionia, was quite cleared out. No sooner was this
the case, than Chariclea abandoned Dinias, and went off in pursuit
of a certain golden youth of Crete, irresistible as he, and not
less gullible. Deserted alike by her and by his parasites (who
followed the chase of the fortunate Cretan), Dinias presented
himself before Agathocles, who had long been aware of his friend’s
situation. He swallowed his first feelings of embarrassment, and
made a clean breast of it all: his love, his ruin, his mistress’s
disdain, his Cretan rival; and ended by protesting that without
Chariclea he could not live. Agathocles did not think it necessary
to remind Dinias just then how he alone had been excluded from his
friendship, and how parasites had been preferred to him: instead,
he went off and sold his family residence in Samos—the only
property he possessed—and brought him the proceeds, 750 pounds.
Dinias had no sooner received the money, than it became evident
that he had somehow recovered his good looks, in the opinion of
Chariclea: once more the maid-servant and the notes, with
reproaches for his long neglect; once more, too, the throng of
parasites; they saw that there were still pickings to be had.
Dinias arrived at her house, by agreement, at about bedtime, and
was already inside, when Demonax—whether he had an understanding
with his wife in the matter, as some say, or had got his
information independently—sprang out from concealment, gave orders
to his servants to make the door fast and to secure Dinias, and
then drew his sword, breathing fire and flagellation against the
paramour. Dinias, realizing his danger, caught up a heavy bar that
lay near, and dispatched Demonax with a blow on the temple; then,
turning to Chariclea, he dealt blow after blow with the same
weapon, and finally plunged her husband’s sword into her body. The
domestics stood by, dumb with amazement and terror; and when at
length they attempted to seize him, he rushed at them with the
sword, put them to flight, and slipped away from the fatal scene.
The rest of that night he and Agathocles spent at the latter’s
house, pondering on the deed and its probable consequences. The
news soon spread, and in the morning officers came to arrest
Dinias. He made no attempt to deny the murder, and was conducted
into the presence of the then Prefect of Asia, who sent him up to
the Emperor. He presently returned, under sentence of perpetual
banishment to Gyarus, one of the Cyclades. All this time,
Agathocles had never left his side: with unfaltering devotion, he
accompanied him to Italy, and was the only friend who stood by him
in his trial. And now even in his banishment he would not desert
him, but condemned himself to share the sentence; and when the
necessaries of life failed them, he hired himself out as a diver in
the purple-fishery, and with the proceeds of his industry
supported Dinias and tended him in his sickness till the end. Even
when all was over, he would not return to his own home, but
remained on the island, thinking it shame even in death to desert
his friend. There you have the history of a Greek friendship, and
one of recent date; I think it can scarcely be as much as five
years ago that Agathocles died on Gyarus.
_Tox_. I wish I were at liberty to doubt the truth of your
story: but alas! you speak under oath. Your Agathocles is a truly
Scythian friend; I only hope there are no more of the same kind to
come.
_Mne_. See what you think of the next—Euthydicus of Chalcidice. I
heard his story from Simylus, a shipmaster of Megara, who vowed
that he had been an eyewitness of what he related. He set sail from
Italy about the setting of the Pleiads, bound for Athens, with a
miscellaneous shipload of passengers, among whom were Euthydicus
and his comrade Damon, also of Chalcidice. They were of about the
same age. Euthydicus was a powerful man, in robust health; Damon
was pale and weakly, and looked as if he were just recovering from
a long illness. They had a good voyage as far as Sicily: but they
had no sooner passed through the Straits into the Ionian Sea, than
a tremendous storm overtook them. I need not detain you with
descriptions of mountainous billows and whirlwinds and hail and the
other adjuncts of a storm: suffice it to say, that they were
compelled to take in all sail, and trail cables after them to break
the force of the waves, and in this way made Zacynthus by about
midnight. At this point Damon, being seasick, as was natural in
such a heavy sea, was leaning over the side, when (as I suppose) an
unusually violent lurch of the vessel in his direction, combining
with the rush of water across the deck, hurled him headlong into
the sea. The poor wretch was not even naked, or he might have had a
chance of swimming: it was all he could do to keep himself above
water, and get out a cry for help. Euthydicus was lying in his
berth undressed. He heard the cry, flung himself into the sea, and
succeeded in overtaking the exhausted Damon; and a powerful
moonlight enabled those on deck to see him swimming at his side for
a considerable distance, and supporting him. ‘We all felt for
them,’ said Simylus, ‘and longed to give them some assistance, but
the gale was too much for us: we did, however, throw out a number
of corks and spars on the chance of their getting hold of some of
them, and being carried to shore; and finally we threw over the
gangway, which was of some size.’—Now only think: could any man
give a surer proof of affection, than by throwing himself into a
furious sea like that to share the death of his friend? Picture to
yourself the surging billows, the roar of crashing waters, the
hissing foam, the darkness, the hopeless prospect: look at
Damon,—he is at his last gasp, he barely keeps himself up, he
holds out his hands imploringly to his friend: and lastly look at
Euthydicus, as he leaps into the water, and swims by his side, with
only one thought in his mind,—Damon must not be the first to
perish;—and you will see that Euthydicus too was no bad friend.
_Tox_. I tremble for their fate: were they drowned, or did
some miraculous providence deliver them?
_Mne_. Oh, they were saved all right; and they are in Athens
at this day, both of them, studying philosophy. Simylus’s story
closes with the events of the night: Damon has fallen overboard,
Euthydicus has jumped in to his rescue, and the pair are left
swimming about till they are lost in the darkness. Euthydicus
himself tells the rest. It seems that first they came across some
pieces of cork, which helped to support them; and they managed with
much ado to keep afloat, till about dawn they saw the gangway, swam
up to it, clambered on, and were carried to Zacynthus without
further trouble. These, I think, are passable instances of
friendship; and my third is no way inferior to them, as you shall
hear.
Eudamidas of Corinth, though he was himself in very narrow
circumstances, had two friends who were well-to-do, Aretaeus his
fellow townsman, and Charixenus of Sicyon. When Eudamidas died, he
left a will behind him which I dare say would excite most people’s
ridicule: but what the generous Toxaris, with his respect for
friendship and his ambition to secure its highest honours for his
country, may think of the matter, is another question. The terms of
the will—but first I should explain that Eudamidas left behind him
an aged mother and a daughter of marriageable years;—the will,
then, was as follows: _To Aretaeus I bequeath my mother, to tend
and to cherish in her old age: and to Charixenus my daughter, to
give in marriage with such dowry as his circumstances will admit
of: and should anything befall either of the legatees, then let his
portion pass to the survivor_. The reading of this will caused
some merriment among the hearers, who knew of Eudamidas’s poverty,
but did not know anything of the friendship existing between him
and his heirs. They went off much tickled at the handsome legacy
that Aretaeus and Charixenus (lucky dogs!) had come in for:
‘Eudamidas,’ as they expressed it, ‘was apparently to have a death-
interest in the property of the legatees.’ However, the latter had
no sooner heard the will read, than they proceeded to execute the
testator’s intentions. Charixenus only survived Eudamidas by five
days: but Aretaeus, most generous of heirs, accepted the double
bequest, is supporting the aged mother at this day, and has only
lately given the daughter in marriage, allowing to her and to his
own daughter portions of 500 pounds each, out of his whole property
of 1,250 pounds; the two marriages were arranged to take place on
the same day. What do you think of him, Toxaris? This is something
like friendship, is it not,—to accept such a bequest as this, and
to show such respect for a friend’s last wishes? May we pass this
as one of my five?
_Tox_. Excellent as was the behaviour of Aretaeus, I admire
still more Eudamidas’s confidence in his friends. It shows that he
would have done as much for them; even if nothing had been said
about it in their wills, he would have been the first to come
forward and claim the inheritance as natural heir.
_Mne_. Very true. And now I come to Number Four—Zenothemis of
Massilia, son of Charmoleos. He was pointed out to me when I was in
Italy on public business: a fine, handsome man, and to all
appearance well off. But by his side (he was just driving away on a
journey) sat his wife, a woman of most repulsive appearance; all
her right side was withered; she had lost one eye; in short, she
was a positive fright. I expressed my surprise that a man in the
prime of manly beauty should endure to have such a woman seated by
him. My informant, who was a Massiliot himself, and knew how the
marriage had come about, gave me all the particulars. ‘The father
of this unsightly woman,’ he said, ‘was Menecrates; and he and
Zenothemis were friends in days when both were men of wealth and
rank. The property of Menecrates, however, was afterwards
confiscated by the Six Hundred, and he himself disfranchised, on
the ground that he had proposed an unconstitutional measure; this
being the regular penalty in Massilia for such offences. The
sentence was in itself a heavy blow to Menecrates, and it was
aggravated by the sudden change from wealth to poverty and from
honour to dishonour. But most of all he was troubled about this
daughter: she was now eighteen years old, and it was time that he
found her a husband; yet with her unfortunate appearance it was not
probable that any one, however poor or obscure, would have taken
her, even with all the wealth her father had possessed previous to
his sentence; it was said, too, that she was subject to fits at
every increase of the moon. He was bewailing his hard lot to
Zenothemis, when the latter interrupted him: “Menecrates,” he said,
“be sure that you shall want for nothing, and that your daughter
shall find a match suitable to her rank.” So saying, he took his
friend by the hand, brought him into his house, assigned him a
share of his great wealth, and ordered a banquet to be prepared, at
which he entertained Menecrates and his friends, giving the former
to understand that he had prevailed upon one of his acquaintance to
marry the girl. When dinner was over, and libations had been poured
to the Gods, Zenothemis filled a goblet and passed it to
Menecrates: “Accept,” he cried, “from your son-in-law the cup of
friendship. This day I wed your daughter Cydimache. The dowry I
have had long since; 60,000 pounds was the sum.” _“You?”_
exclaimed Menecrates; “Heaven forbid that I should be so mad as to
suffer you, in the pride of your youth, to be yoked to this
unfortunate girl!” But even while he spoke, Zenothemis was
conducting his bride to the marriage-chamber, and presently
returned to announce that she was his wedded wife. Since that day,
he has lived with her on the most affectionate terms; and you see
for yourself that he takes her about with him wherever he goes. As
to his being ashamed of his wife, one would rather 26 suppose that
he was proud of her; and his conduct in this respect shows how
lightly he esteems beauty and wealth and reputation, in comparison
with friendship and his friend; for Menecrates is not less his
friend because the Six Hundred have condemned him. To be sure,
Fortune has already given him one compensation: his ugly wife has
borne him a most beautiful child. Only a few days ago, he carried
his child into the Senate-house, crowned with an olive-wreath, and
dressed in black, to excite the pity of the senators on his
grandfather’s behalf: the babe smiled upon them, and clapped his
little hands together, which so moved the senators that they
repealed the sentence against Menecrates, who is now reinstated in
his rights, thanks to the pleadings of his tiny advocate.’
Such was the Massiliot’s story. As you see, it was no slight
service that Zenothemis rendered to his friend; I fancy there are
not many Scythians who would do the same; they are said to be very
nice even in their selection of concubines.
I have still one friend to produce, and I think none is more worthy
of remembrance than Demetrius of Sunium. He and Antiphilus of the
deme of Alopece had been playmates in their childhood, and grown up
side by side. They subsequently took ship for Egypt, and carried on
their studies there together, Demetrius practising the Cynic
philosophy under the famous sophist of Rhodes, while Antiphilus, it
seems, was to be a doctor. Well, on one occasion Demetrius had gone
up country to see the Pyramids, and the statue of Memnon. He had
heard it said that the Pyramids in spite of their great height cast
no shadow, and that a sound proceeded from the statue at sunrise:
all this he wished to see and hear for himself, and he had now been
away up the Nile six months. During his absence, Antiphilus, who
had remained behind (not liking the idea of the heat and the long
journey), became involved in troubles which required all the
assistance that faithful friendship could have rendered. He had a
Syrian slave, whose name was also Syrus. This man had made common
cause with a number of temple-robbers, had forced his way with them
into the temple of Anubis, and robbed the God of a pair of golden
cups, a caduceus, also of gold, some silver images of Cynocephali
and other treasures; all of which the rest entrusted to Syrus’s
charge. Later on they were caught trying to dispose of some of
their booty, and were taken up; and being put on the rack,
immediately confessed the whole truth. They were accordingly
conducted to Antiphilus’s house, where they produced the stolen
treasure from a dark corner under a bed. Syrus was immediately
arrested, and his master Antiphilus with him: the latter being
dragged away from the very presence of his teacher during lecture-
time. There was none to help him: his former acquaintances turned
their backs on the desecrator of Anubis’s temple, and made it a
matter of conscience that they had ever sat at the same table with
him. As to his other two servants, they got together all his
belongings, and ran off.