A Conversation with Cronus (32-35)

Oh yes, the dinners and their dining with you—they asked me to add this to my letter, that at present you gorge alone behind locked doors, and, if ever at long intervals you are willing to entertain any of them, there is more annoyance than good cheer in the dinner, and most of what happens is done to hurt them—that business of not drinking the same wine as you, for instance—goodness! how ungenerous that is! They themselves might well be condemned for not getting up and going during the proceedings and leaving the banquet entirely to you. But they say that even so they do not drink their fill, for your cup-bearers, like Odysseus’s companions, [*] have had their ears stuffed with wax. The rest is so disgraceful that I hesitate to mention their complaints of the way the meat is apportioned and

See to it then that they don’t accuse you any more, but respect and like you for their share in these few things; the expense is nothing to you, but they will never forget that you gave in time of need. Besides, you could not even live in your cities if the poor were not your fellow-citizens and did not contribute in thousands of ways to your happiness; and you would have no one to admire your wealth if you were rich in isolation, privately, and in obscurity. So let many see and admire your silver and your tables, and when you are pledging friendship let them, while they are drinking, examine the cup and estimate the weight themselves, determine the accuracy of the story told on it and the amount of gold that adorns the work. For as well as being called good and kindly you will stop being envied by them. For who would envy the man who goes shares and gives what is fair? And who would not pray for him to live as long as possible in the enjoyment of his blessings? As you are now, your happiness has no witness, your riches are begrudged you, and your life is unpleasant.

It certainly cannot, I am sure, be as pleasant to have your fill by yourselves, as they say lions and lone wolves do, as to mix with clever

I will ask you something. Let us suppose the poor went about with their eyes shut; wouldn’t you be cross when you had no one to show your purple clothes, your thronging attendants, the size of your rings? I leave aside the plots, the hatred you must stir up in the poor against you if you choose to enjoy your luxury alone. Terrible are the curses they threaten to utter against you. May they never be constrained to utter them! For then you will taste neither sausages nor cakes, except what the dog may have left, your lentil-soup will have salt-fish dissolved in it, your boar and deer while they’re being roasted will plan escape from the oven to the hills, and your birds, wingless though they be,—shoo there!—they will be flying at full stretch to the homes of the selfsame poor. And worst of all, the prettiest of your wine-servers will turn bald all at once, and that after breaking your jar.

Well, then, make plans that befit the festival and are safest for you. Lighten their great poverty for them, and at slight cost you will find friends who are far from despicable.