Dialogues of the Dead (2.1-3.1)

Pay the fare, curse you.

Shout away, Charon, if that’s what you prefer.

Pay me, I say, for taking you across.

You can’t get blood out of a stone.

Is there anyone who hasn’t a single penny?

I don’t know about anyone else, but I am without one.

But by Pluto, I’ll throttle you, you blackguard, if you don’t pay.

And I’ll smash your head with a blow from my stick.

Then you’ll have sailed all this long way for nothing.

Hermes delivered me to you; let him pay.

Heaven help me, if I’m going to pay for the dead too.

I won’t leave you alone.

Then you’d better beach your ferry, and stay put; but how will you get what I don’t have?

Didn’t you know you had to bring it with you?

Yes, but I didn’t have it. What of it? Did that make it wrong for me to die?

So you’ll be the only one to boast of a free passage?

Not free, my good fellow; I baled, I helped at the oar, I was the only passenger who wasn’t weeping.

That’s nothing to do with a ferryman; your penny must be paid. No alternative’s allowed.

Then take me back to life.

That’s a bright remark! Do you want me also to get a thrashing from Aeacus for my pains?

Then don’t bother me.

Show me what you have in your bag.

Lupines, if you want some, and a meal meant for Hecate.

Where did you find us this Dog, Hermes? How he chattered on the crossing too, mocking and jeering

Don’t you know, my dear Charon, what sort of man you’ve taken across? He is absolutely independent and cares for nobody. This is Menippus.

But if ever I get my hands on you—

If you get your hands on me, my good fellow! But you won’t get them on me a second time.

Pluto, we can’t stand having this Dog, Menippus, for our neighbour. So put him somewhere else, or we’ll move ourselves.

What harm does he do you as a fellow-shade?

Whenever we moan and groan at our memories of life above, Midas recalling his gold, Sardanapalus [*] his great luxury, and I, Croesus, my treasures, he mocks and reviles us, calling us slaves and scum: sometimes he even disturbs our lamentations by singing. In short, he’s a pest.

What’s this they tell me, Menippus?

True enough, Pluto; I hate them; they’re low scoundrels, not content with having led bad lives, but even in death they remember their past and cling to it. That’s why I enjoy tormenting them.

You shouldn’t; they mourn great losses.

Are you a fool too, Pluto? Do you approve of their groanings?

Not at all, but I wouldn’t like you to be quarrelling.