On Salaried Posts in Great Houses (26-30)

For your own part, poor fellow, now you run at his side, and now you forge about at a foot’s pace, over many ups and downs (the city is like that, you know), until you are sweaty and out of breath, and then, while he is indoors talking to a friend whom he came to see, as you have no place to sit down, you stand up, and for lack of employment read the book with which you armed yourself.

When night overtakes you hungry and thirsty, after a wretched bath you go to your dinner at an unseasonable hour, in the very middle of the night; but you are no longer held in the same esteem and admiration by the company. If anyone arrives who is more of a novelty, for you it is “Get back!” In this way you are pushed off into the most unregarded corner and take your place merely to witness the dishes that are passed, gnawing the bones like a dog if they get as far as you, or regaling yourself with gratification, thanks to your hunger, on the tough mallow leaves with which the other food is garnished, if they should be disdained by those nearer the head of the table.

Moreover, you are not spared other forms of rudeness. You are the only one that does not have an egg. There is no necessity that you should always expect the same treatment as foreigners and strangers: that would be unreasonable! Your bird, too, is not like the others; your neighbour's is fat and plump, and yours is half a tiny chick, or a tough pigeon—out-and-out rudeness and contumely! Often, if there is a shortage when another guest appears of

a sudden, the waiter takes up what you have before you and quickly puts it before him, muttering: “You are one of us, you know.” Of course when a side of pork or venison is cut at table, you must by all means have especial favour with the carver or else get a Prometheus-portion, bones hidden in fat. That the platter should stop beside the man above you until he gets tired of stuffing himself, but speed past you so rapidly—what free man could endure it if he had even as much resentment as a deer? And I have not yet mentioned the fact that while the others drink the most delectable and oldest of wines, you alone drink one that is vile and thick, taking good care always to drink out of a gold or silver cup so that the colour may not convict you of being such an unhonoured guest. If only you might have your fill, even of that! But as things are, though you ask for it repeatedly, the page “hath not even the semblance of hearing”![*]

You are annoyed, indeed, by many things, a great many, almost everything; most of all when your favour is rivalled by a cinaedus or a dancing-master or an Alexandrian dwarf who recites Ionics.[*], How could you be on a par, though, with those who render these services to passion and carry notes about in their clothing? So, couched in a far corner of the dining-room and shrinking out of sight for shame, you groan, naturally, and commiserate yourself and carp at Fortune for not besprinkling you with at least a few drops of the amenities. You would be glad, I think, to become a composer of

erotic ditties, or at all events to be able to sing them properly when somebody else had composed them: for you see where precedence and favour go! You would put up with it if you had to act the part of a magician or a soothsayer, one of those fellows who promise legacies amounting to many thousands, governorships, and tremendous riches; you see that they too get on well in their friendships and are highly valued. So you would be glad to adopt one of those réles in order not to be entirely despicable and useless; but even in them, worse luck, you are not convincing. Therefore you must needs be humble and suffer in silence, with stifled groans and amid neglect.

If a whispering servant accuse you of being the only one who did not praise the mistress’s page when he danced or played, there is no little risk in the thing. So you must raise your thirsty voice like a stranded frog, taking pains to be conspicuous among the claque and to lead the chorus; and often when the others are silent you must independently let drop a well-considered word of praise that will convey great flattery.

That a man who is famished, yes, and athirst, should be perfumed with myrrh and have a wreath on his head is really rather laughable, for then you are like the gravestone of an ancient corpse that is getting a feast to his memory. They drench the stones with myrrh and crown them with wreaths, and then they themselves enjoy the food and drink that has been prepared!

If the master is of a jealous disposition and has handsome sons or a young wife, and you are not wholly estranged from Aphrodite and the Graces,

your situation is not peaceful or your danger to be taken lightly. The king has many ears and eyes, which not only see the truth but always add something more for good measure, so that they may not be considered heavy-lidded. You must therefore keep your head down while you are at table, as at a Persian dinner, for fear that an eunuch may see that you looked at one of the concubines; for another eunuch, who has had his bow bent this long time, is ready to punish you for eyeing what you should not, driving his arrow through your. cheek just as you are taking a drink.

. Then, after you have left the dinner-party, you get a little bit of sleep, but towards cock-crow you wake up and say: “Oh, how miserable and wretched Iam! To think what I left—the occupations of former days, the comrades, the easy life, the sleep limited only by my inclination, and the strolls in freedom—and what a pit I have impetuously flung myself into! Why, in heaven’s name? What does this splendid salary amount to? Was there no other way in which I could have earned more than this and could have kept my freedom and full independence? As the case stands now, I am pulled about like a lion leashed with a thread, as the saying is, up hill and down dale; and the most pitiful part of it all is that I do not know how to be a success and cannot be a favourite. I am an outsider in such matters and have not the knack of it, especially when I am put in comparison with men who have ‘made an art of the business. Consequently I am unentertaining and not a bit convivial; I cannot even raise a laugh. I am aware, too, that it often actually annoys him to look at me, above all when he

wishes to be merrier than his wont, for Iseem to him gloomy. I cannot suit him at all. If I keep to gravity, I seem disagreeable and almost a person to run away from; and if I smile and make my features as pleasant as I can, he despises me outright and abominates me. The thing makes no better impression than as if one were to play a comedy in a tragic mask! All in all, what other life shall I live for myself, poor fool, after having lived this one for another?”