expect him to be defeated.”
“No, I wait for the result, in order to see whether he wins or loses.”
“You would be glad if he lost?”
“I do not love Cleon, but as an Athenian I would mourn if he were defeated; therefore I would not rejoice at his overthrow.”
“You hate Cleon, but you do not wish his overthrow.”
“On account of Athens—no.”
“But except for that?”
“Except for that, Cleon’s overthrow would be a blessing for the State, for he has been unjust to Pericles, to Phidias, to all who have done anything great.”
“Here comes a visitor.”
“It is Alcibiades.”
“The wretch! Are you not ashamed to be on intimate terms with him?”
“He is a man; he has great faults and great merits, and he is my friend. I do not wish to be on intimate terms with my enemies.” Alcibiades knocked at the door, and rushed in. “Papaia! The pair are philosophising together, and talking of yesterday’s comedy! This Aristophanes is an ass! If one wishes to kill an enemy, one must hit him; but Aristophanes aims at the clouds. Hit, yes! Do you know that Cleon is defeated?”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Socrates.
“Is it a pity that the dog is unmasked?”
“I think Alcibiades is misinformed,” broke in Xantippe.
“No, by Zeus, but I wish I was!”
“Hush! here is Anytos coming,” said Socrates.
“The second tanner! It is strange that the destiny of Athens is guided by tanners.”
“The destiny of Athens! Who knows it?”
“I, Alcibiades, am the destiny of Athens.”
“[Greek: Hubris]! Beware of the gods!”
“I come after Cleon; Cleon is no more; therefore it is my turn.”
“Here is Anytos!”
Anytos entered: “I seek Alcibiades.”
“Here I am.”
“Must I prepare you....’
“No, I know.”
“Prepare you for the honour....”
“Have I waited long enough.”
“To go at the head....”
“That is what I was born for.”
“To take the lead....”
“That is my place.”
“And conduct the triumphal procession?”
“What procession?”
“Ah! you did not know. Cleon’s triumphal procession from the harbour.”
Alcibiades passed his hand downwards over his face, as though he wished to changed his mask, and it was done in a moment.
“Yes, certainly, certainly, certainly. I have in fact just come here to—announce his victory.”
“He lies,” broke in Xantippe.
“I jested with the pair. There will be a triumphal procession, then, for Cleon! How fine!”
“Socrates,” continued Anytos, “are you not glad?”
“I am glad that the enemy is beaten.”
“But not that Cleon has won a victory?”
“Yes, it is nearly the same thing.”
Xantippe seized the opportunity and struck in: “He is not glad, and he does not believe in Cleon.”
“I know you,” concluded Anytos. “I know you philosophers and quibblers! But take care!—And now, Alcibiades, come and receive the despised Cleon, who has saved the fatherland!”
Alcibiades took Socrates by the hand, and whispered in his ear. “What a cursed mischance! Well, not yet!—but the next time!”
ALCIBIADES
Kartaphalos, the shoemaker, sat in his shop by the Acarnanian Gate, and repaired cothurns for the Dionysian theatre, which was about to make a last attempt to revive the tragic drama, which had been eclipsed by the farces of Aristophanes. The Roman Lucillus lounged at the window-sill, and, since philosophy had been brought into fashion by Socrates and the Sophists, the shoemaker and the exiled Decemvir philosophised as well as they could.
“Roman!” said Kartaphalos, “you are a stranger in the city, as I am: what do think of the state and the Government?”
“They are exactly like the Roman. One may sum up the whole past history of Rome in two words—Patricians and Plebeians.”
“Just as it is here.”
“With the difference that Rome has a future. Hellas only a past.”
“What is known of Rome’s future?”
“The Cumaean Sibyl has prophesied that Rome will possess the earth.”
“What do you say? Rome? No, Israel will possess it; Israel has the promise.”
“I do not venture to deny that, but Rome has also the promise.”
“There is only one promise, and one God.”
“Perhaps it is the same promise, and the same God.”
“Perhaps Israel will conquer through Rome.”
“Israel will conquer through the promised Messiah.”
“When will Messiah come, then?”
“When the time is fulfilled, when Zeus is dead.”
“May we live to see it. I wait, for Zeus has gone to Rome, and is called there Jupiter Capitolinus.”
Aristophanes, who was easily recognised by his crane-like neck and open mouth, looked in through the window.
“Have you a pair of low shoes, Kartaphalos? A pair of ‘socks’? [Footnote: a low-heeled shoe worn by comic actors.] You have plenty of cothurns, I see, but the ‘sock’ has won the day.”
“At your service, sir.”
“We want them for the theatre, you understand.... Ah! there is Lucillus! … and of raw leather, not tanned.”
“What are you going to play in the theatre, then?”
“We are going to bring on
