Timon the Misanthrope (51-55)

Timon Good work that, considering that my name was not on the muster-rolls, because I could not afford a suit of armour.

Demeas Ah, you are modest; but it would be ingratitude in us to forget your services—‘and Whereas by political measures and responsible advice and military action he has conferred great benefits on his country Now for all these reasons it is the pleasure of the Assembly and the Council the ten divisions of the High Court and the Borough Councils individually and collectively THaT a golden statue of the said Timon be placed on the Acropolis alongside of Athene with a thunderbolt in the hand and a seven-rayed aureole on the head Further that golden garlands be conferred on him and proclaimed this day at the New Tragedies[*] the said day being kept in his honour as the Dionysia. Mover of the Decree Demeas the pleader the said Timon’s near relation and disciple the said Timon being as distinguished in pleading as in all else wherein it pleases him to excel.’

So runs the decree. I had designed also to present to you my son, whom I have named Timon after you.

Timon Why, I thought you were a bachelor, Demeas,

Demeas Ah, but I intend to marry next year; my child—which is to be a boy—I hereby name Timon.

Timon I doubt whether you will feel like marrying, my man, when I have given you—this!

Demeas Oh Lord! what is that for? ... You are plotting

Timon Why, you scoundrel, the Acropolis has not been set on fire; you are a common blackmailer.

Demeas You got your gold by breaking into the Treasury.

Timon It has not been broken into, either; you are not even plausible.

Demeas There is time for the burglary yet; meantime, you are in possession of the treasures.

Timon Well, here is another for you, anyhow.

Demeas Oh! oh! my back!

Timon Don’t make such a noise, if you don’t want a third. It would be too absurd, you know, if I could cut two companies of Spartans to pieces without my armour, and not be able to” give a single little scoundrel his deserts. My Olympic boxing and wrestling victories would be thrown away.

Whom have we now? is this Thrasycles the philosopher? sure enough it is. A halo of beard, eyebrows an inch above their place, superiority in his air, a look that might storm heaven, locks waving to the wind—’tis a very Boreas or Triton from Zeuxis’ pencil. This hero of the careful get-up, the solemn gait, the plain attire—in the morning he will utter a thousand maxims, expounding Virtue, arraigning self-indulgence, lauding simplicity; and then, when he gets to dinner after his bath, his servant fills him a bumper (he prefers it neat), and draining this Lethe-draught he proceeds to turn his morning maxims inside out; he swoops like a hawk on dainty dishes, elbows his neighbour aside, fouls his beard with trickling sauce, laps like a dog, with his nose in his plate, as if he expected to find Virtue there, and runs his finger all round the bowl, not to lose a drop of the gravy.

Let him monopolize pastry or joint, he will still criticize the carving—that is all the satisfaction his ravenous greed brings him—; when the wine is in, singing and dancing are delights not fierce enough; he must brawl and rave. He has plenty to say in his cups—he is then at his best in that kind—upon temperance and decorum; he is full of these when his potations have reduced him to ridiculous stuttering. Next the wine disagrees with him, and at last he is carried out of the room, holding on with all his might to the flute-girl. Take him sober, for that matter, and you will hardly find his match at lying, effrontery or avarice. He is facile princeps of flatterers, perjury sits on his tongue-tip, imposture goes before him, and shamelessness is his good comrade; oh, he is a most ingenious piece of work, finished at all points, a multum in parvo. I am afraid his kind heart will be grieved presently. Why, how is this, Thrasycles? I must say, you have taken your time about coming.