Nigrinus (35-38)

When he had said this and much more of the same sort, he ended his talk. Until then I had listened to him in awe, fearing that he would cease. When he stopped, I felt like the Phaeacians of old,[*] for I stared at him a long time spellbound. Afterwards, in a great fit of confusion and giddiness, I dripped with sweat, I stumbled and stuck in the endeavour to speak, my voice failed, my tongue faltered, and finally I began to cry in embarrassment; for the effect he produced: in me was not superficial or casual. My wound was deep and vital, and his words, shot with great accuracy, clove, if I may say so, my very soul in twain.

For if I too may now adopt the language of a philosopher, my conception of the matter is that the soul of a well-endowed man resembles a very tender target. Many bowmen, their quivers full of words of all sorts and kinds, shoot at it during life, but not with success in every case. Some draw to the head and let fly harder than they should: though they hit the target, their arrows do not stick in it, but owing to

with a mere fret o’ the skin,

But a good bowman like Nigrinus first of all scans the target closely for fear that it may be either very soft or too hard for his arrow—for of course there are impenetrable targets. When he is clear on this point, he dips his arrow, not in venom like those of the Scythians nor in vegetable poison like those of the Curetes, but in a sweet, gently-working drug, and then shoots with skill. The arrow, driven by just the right amount of force, penetrates to ghe point of passing through, and then sticks fast and gives off a quantity of the drug, which naturally spreads and completely pervades the soul. That is why people laugh and cry as they listen, as I did— of course the drug was quietly circulating in my soul. I could not help quoting him the well-known line:

Shoot thus, and bring, mayhap, a ray of hope!

A What a noble, marvellous,—yes, divine tale you have told, my dear fellow! I did not realise it, but you certainly were chock-full of your ambrosia and your lotus! The coysequence is that as you talked I felt something like a change of heart, and now that you have stopped I am put out: to speak in your own style, I am wounded. And no wonder! for yeu. know that people bitten by mad dogs not: only go mad themselves, but if in their fury they treat others as the dogs treated them, the others take leave of their senses too. Something of the affection is transmitted with the bite; the diseage multiplies, and there is a great run of-madness.

B Then you admit your madness?

A Why, certainly; and more than that, I ask you to think out some course of treatment for us both.

B We must do as Telephus did, I suppose.

A What’s your meaning now?

B Go to the man who inflicted the wound and beg him to heal us! [*]