_Menippus. Tantalus_
_Me_. What are you crying out about, Tantalus? standing at the edge and
whining like that!
_Tan_. Ah, Menippus, I thirst, I perish!
_Me_. What, not enterprise enough to bend down to it, or scoop up some
in your palm?
_Tan_. It is no use bending down; the water shrinks away as soon as it
sees me coming. And if I do scoop it up and get it to my mouth, the
outside of my lips is hardly moist before it has managed to run through
my fingers, and my hand is as dry as ever.
_Me_. A very odd experience, that. But by the way, why do you want to
drink? you have no body—the part of you that was liable to hunger and
thirst is buried in Lydia somewhere; how can you, the spirit, hunger or
thirst any more?
_Tan_. Therein lies my punishment—soul thirsts as if it were body.
_Me_. Well, let that pass, as you say thirst is your punishment. But
why do you mind it? are you afraid of _dying_, for want of drink? I do
not know of any second Hades; can you die to this one, and go further?
_Tan_. No, that is quite true. But you see this is part of the
sentence: I must long for drink, though I have no need of it.
_Me_. There is no meaning in that. There _is_ a draught you need,
though; some neat hellebore is what _you_ want; you are suffering from
a converse hydrophobia; you are not afraid of water, but you are of
thirst.
_Tan_. I would as lief drink hellebore as anything, if I could but
drink.
_Me_. Never fear, Tantalus; neither you nor any other ghost will ever
do that; it is impossible, you see; just as well we have not all got a
penal thirst like you, with the water running away from us.