_Diog_. His phantom! What then, can one half of any one be a God, and
the other half mortal?
_Her_. Even so. The God still lives. 'Tis I, his counterpart, am dead.
_Diog_. I see. You're a dummy; he palms you off upon Pluto, instead of
coming himself. And here are you, enjoying _his_ mortality!
_Her_. 'Tis somewhat as thou hast said.
_Diog_. Well, but where were Aeacus's keen eyes, that he let a
counterfeit Heracles pass under his very nose, and never knew the
difference?
_Her_. I was made very like to him.
_Diog_. I believe you! Very like indeed, no difference at all! Why, we
may find it's the other way round, that you are Heracles, and the
phantom is in Heaven, married to Hebe!
_Her_. Prating knave, no more of thy gibes; else thou shalt presently
learn how great a God calls me phantom.
_Diog_. H'm. That bow looks as if it meant business. And yet,—what have
I to fear now? A man can die but once. Tell me, phantom,—by your great
Substance I adjure you—did you serve him in your present capacity in
the upper world? Perhaps you were one individual during your lives, the
separation taking place only at your deaths, when he, the God, soared
heavenwards, and you, the phantom, very properly made your appearance
here?
_Her_. Thy ribald questions were best unanswered. Yet thus much thou
shalt know.—All that was Amphitryon in Heracles, is dead; I am that
mortal part. The Zeus in him lives, and is with the Gods in Heaven.
_Diog_. Ah, now I see! Alcmena had twins, you mean,—Heracles the son of
Zeus, and Heracles the son of Amphitryon? You were really half-bothers
all the time?
_Her_. Fool! not so. We twain were one Heracles.
_Diog_. It's a little difficult to grasp, the two Heracleses packed
into one. I suppose you must have been like a sort of Centaur, man and
God all mixed together?
_Her_. And are not all thus composed of two elements,—the body and the
soul? What then should hinder the soul from being in Heaven, with Zeus
who gave it, and the mortal part—myself—among the dead?
_Diog_. Yes, yes, my esteemed son of Amphitryon,—that would be all very
well if you were a body; but you see you are a phantom, you have no
body. At this rate we shall get three Heracleses.
_Her_. _Three_?
_Diog_. Yes; look here. One in Heaven: one in Hades, that's you, the
phantom: and lastly the body, which by this time has returned to dust.
That makes three. Can you think of a good father for number Three?
_Her_. Impudent quibbler! And who art _thou_?
_Diog_. I am Diogenes's phantom, late of Sinope. But my original, I
assure you, is not 'among th' immortal Gods,' but here among dead men;
where he enjoys the best of company, and snaps my fingers at Homer and
all hair-splitting.