Lines 1–217

DEMOSTHENES.
O! O! This Paphlagon, with all his wiles,
This newly-purchased pest, I wish the Gods
Would “utterly abolish and destroy”!
For since he entered, by ill-luck, our house,
He’s always getting all the household flogged.

NICIAS.
I wish they would, this chief of Paphlagons,
Him and his lies!

DEMOSTHENES.
Ha! how feel you, poor fellow?

NICIAS.
Bad, like yourself.

DEMOSTHENES.
Then come, and let us wail
A stave of old Olympus, both together.

DEMOSTHENES AND NICIAS.
[Sobbing]
Mumu! Mumu! Mumu! Mumu!
Mumu!

DEMOSTHENES.
Pah! What’s the good of whimpering?
Better far
To dry our tears, and seek some way of safety.

NICIAS.
Which way? You, tell me.

DEMOSTHENES.
Rather, tell me you,
Or else we’ll fight.

NICIAS.
By Apollo, no not I.
You say it first, and then I’ll say it after.

DEMOSTHENES.
O that thou said’st the thing that I would say.

NICIAS.
I’ve not the pluck. I wish I could suggest
Some plan in smart Euripidean style.

DEMOSTHENES.
Don’t do it! Don’t! Pray don’t be-chervil me
But find some caper-cutting trick from master.

NICIAS.
Will you say sert, like that, speaking it crisply?

DEMOSTHENES.
Of course I’ll say it, sert.

NICIAS.
Now, after sert
Say de.

DEMOSTHENES.
De.

NICIAS.
Yes, that’s very nicely said.
Now, first say sert, and then say de, beginning
Slowly at first, but quickening as you go.

DEMOSTHENES.
Aye; sert-de, sert-de, sert, de-sert.

NICIAS.
There ’tis!
Do you not like it?

DEMOSTHENES.
Like it, yes; but—

NICIAS.
What?

DEMOSTHENES.
There’s an uncanny sound about desert.

NICIAS.
Uncanny? How?

DEMOSTHENES.
They flog deserters so.

NICIAS.
O then ’twere better that we both should go,
And fall before the statues of the Gods.

DEMOSTHENES.
Stat-at-ues is it? What, do you really think
That there are Gods?

NICIAS.
I know it.

DEMOSTHENES.
Know it! How?

NICIAS.
I’m such a wretched God-detested chap.

DEMOSTHENES.
Well urged indeed; but seek some other way.
Would you I told the story to the audience?

NICIAS.
Not a bad plan; but let us ask them first
To show us plainly by their looks and cheer
If they take pleasure in our words and acts.

DEMOSTHENES.
I’ll tell them now. We two have got a master,
Demus of Pnyx-borough, such a sour old man,
Quick-tempered, country-minded, bean-consuming,
A trifle hard of hearing. Last new moon
He bought a slave, a tanner, Paphlagon,
The greatest rogue and liar in the world.
This tanning-Paphlagon, he soon finds out
Master’s weak points; and cringing down before him
Flatters, and fawns, and wheedles, and cajoles,
With little apish leather-snippings, thus;
O Demus, try one case, get the three-obol,
Then take your bath, gorge, guzzle, eat your fill.
Would you I set your supper? Then he’ll seize
A dish some other servant has prepared,
And serve it up for master; and quite lately
I’d baked a rich Laconian cake at Pylus,
When in runs Paphlagon, and bags my cake,
And serves it up to Demus as his own.
But us he drives away, and none but he
Must wait on master; there he stands through dinner
With leathern flap, and flicks away the speakers.
And he chants oracles, till the dazed old man
Goes Sibyl-mad; then, when he sees him mooning,
He plies his trade. He slanders those within
With downright lies; so then we’re flogged, poor wretches,
And Paphlagon runs round, extorting, begging,
Upsetting everyone; and Mark, says he,
There’s Hylas flogged; that’s all my doing; better
Make friends with me, or you’ll be trounced to-day.
So then we bribe him off; or if we don’t,
We’re sure to catch, it thrice as bad from master.
Now let’s excogitate at once, good fellow,
Which way to turn our footsteps, and to whom.

NICIAS.
There’s nothing better than my sert, good fellow.

DEMOSTHENES.
But nought we do is hid from Paphlagon.
His eyes are everywhere; he straddles out,
One foot in Pylus, in the Assembly one.
So vast his stride, that at the self-same moment
His seat is in Chaonia, and his hands
Are set on Begging, and his mind on Theft.

NICIAS.
Well then, we had better die; but just consider
How we can die the manliest sort of death.

DEMOSTHENES.
The manliest sort of death? Let’s see; which is it?

NICIAS.
Had we not better drink the blood of bulls?
’Twere fine to die Themistocles’s death.

DEMOSTHENES.
Blood? no: pure wine, to the toast of Happy Fortune!
From that we’ll maybe get some happy thought.

NICIAS.
Pure wine indeed! Is this a tippling matter?
How can one get, when drunk, a happy thought?

DEMOSTHENES.
Aye,say you so, you water-fountain-twaddler?
And dare you rail at wine’s inventiveness?
I tell you nothing has such go as wine.
Why, look you now; ’tis when men drink, they thrive,
Grow wealthy, speed their business, win their suits,
Make themselves happy, benefit their friends.
Go, fetch me out a stoup of wine, and let me
Moisten my wits, and utter something bright.

NICIAS.
O me, what good will all your tippling do?

DEMOSTHENES.
Much; bring it out; I’ll lay me down awhile;
For when I’m drunk, I’ll everything bespatter
With little scraps of schemes, and plots, and plans.

NICIAS.
I’ve got the wine; nobody saw me take it.
Wasn’t that luck?

DEMOSTHENES.
What’s Paphlagon about?

NICIAS.
Drunk! Snoring on his back amidst his hides,
The juggler; gorged with confiscation pasties.

DEMOSTHENES.
Come, tinkle out a bumper of pure wine,
To pour.

NICIAS.
Here, take; and pour to Happy Fortune.
Quaff, quaff the loving-cup of Pramnian Fortune.

DEMOSTHENES.
O Happy Fortune, thine’s the thought, not mine!

NICIAS.
Pray you, what is it?

DEMOSTHENES.
Steal from Paphlagon,
While yet he sleeps, those oracles of his,
And bring them out.

NICIAS.
I will; and yet I’m fearful
That I may meet with most unhappy Fortune.

DEMOSTHENES.
Come now, I’ll draw the pitcher to myself,
Moisten my wits, and utter something bright.

NICIAS.
Paphlagon’s snoring so! He never saw me.
I’ve got the sacred oracle which he keeps So snugly.

DEMOSTHENES.
O you clever fellow you,
I’ll read it; hand it over; you the while
Fill me the cup. Let’s see: what have we here?
O! Prophecies! Give me the cup directly.

NICIAS.
Here! What do they say?

DEMOSTHENES.
Fill me another cup.

NICIAS.
Fill me another? Is that really there?

DEMOSTHENES.
O Bakis!

NICIAS.
Well?

DEMOSTHENES.
Give me the cup directly.

NICIAS.
Bakis seems mighty partial to the cup.

DEMOSTHENES.
O villainous Paphlagon, this it was you feared,
This oracle about yourself!

NICIAS.
What is it?

DEMOSTHENES.
Herein is written how himself shall perish.

NICIAS.
How shall he?

DEMOSTHENES.
How? The oracle says straight out,
That first of all there comes an oakum-seller
Who first shall manage all the State’s affairs.

NICIAS.
One something-seller; well, what follows, say?

DEMOSTHENES.
Next after him there comes a sheep-seller.

NICIAS.
Two something-sellers; what’s this seller’s fortune?

DEMOSTHENES.
He’ll hold the reins, till some more villainous rogue
Arise than he; and thereupon he’ll perish.
Then follows Paphlagon, our leather-seller,
Thief, brawler, roaring as Cycloborus roars.

NICIAS.
The leather-seller, then, shall overthrow
The sheep-seller?

DEMOSTHENES.
He shall.

NICIAS.
O wretched me,
Is there no other something-seller left?

DEMOSTHENES.
There is yet one; a wondrous trade he has.

NICIAS.
What, I beseech you?

DEMOSTHENES.
Shall I tell you?

NICIAS.
Aye.

DEMOSTHENES.
A sausage-seller ousts the leather-seller.

NICIAS.
A sausage-seller! Goodness, what a trade!
Wherever shall we find one?

DEMOSTHENES.
That’s the question.

NICIAS.
Why here comes one, ’tis providential surely,
Bound for the agora.

DEMOSTHENES.
Hi, come hither! here!
You dearest man, you blessed sausage-seller!
Arise, a Saviour to the State and us.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
Eh! What are you shouting at?

DEMOSTHENES.
Come here this instant,
And hear your wonderful amazing luck.

NICIAS.
Make him put down his dresser; tell him all
The news about that oracle we’ve got.
I’ll keep an eye on Paphlagon the while.

DEMOSTHENES.
Come, put you down those cookery implements,
Then make your reverence to the Gods and earth,—

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
There! what’s the row?

DEMOSTHENES.
O happy man, and rich,
Nothing to-day, to-morrow everything!
O mighty ruler of Imperial Athens!

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
Good fellow, let me wash the guts, and sell
My sausages. What need to flout me so?

DEMOSTHENES.
You fool! the guts indeed! Now look you here.
You see those people on the tiers?

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
I do.

DEMOSTHENES.
You shall be over-lord of all those people,
The Agora, and the Harbours, and the Pnyx.
You’ll trim the Generals, trample down the Council,
Fetter, imprison, make the Hall your brothel.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
What, I?

DEMOSTHENES.
Yes, you yourself! And that’s not all.
For mount you up upon the dresser here
And view the islands all around.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
I see.

DEMOSTHENES.
And all the marts and merchant-ships?

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
I see.

DEMOSTHENES.
And aren’t you then a lucky man?
And that’s not all, Just cast your eyes askew,
The right to Caria, and the left to Carthage.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
A marvellous lucky man, to twist my neck!

DEMOSTHENES.
Nay, but all these shall be your—perquisites.
You shall become, this oracle declares,
A Man most mighty!

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
Humbug! How can I,
A sausage-selling chap, become a Man?

DEMOSTHENES.
Why, that’s the very thing will make you great,
Your roguery, impudence, and agora-training.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
I am not worthy of great power, methinks.

DEMOSTHENES.
O me, not worthy! what’s the matter now?
You’ve got, I fear, some good upon your conscience.
Spring you from gentlemen?

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
By the powers, not I.
From downright blackguards.

DEMOSTHENES.
Lucky, lucky man,
O what a start you’ve got for public life.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
But I know nothing, friend, beyond my letters,
And even of them but little, and that badly.

DEMOSTHENES.
The mischief is that you know ANYTHING.
To be a Demus-leader is not now
For lettered men, nor yet for honest men,
But for the base and ignorant. Don’t let slip
The bright occasion which the Gods provide you.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
How goes the oracle?

DEMOSTHENES.
Full of promise good,
Wrapped up in cunning enigmatic words.
NAY, BUT IF ONCE THE EAGLE,
THE BLACK-TANNED MANDIBLE-CURVER,
SEIZE WITH HIS BEAK THE SERPENT,
THE DULLARD, THE DRINKER OF LIFE-BLOOD,
THEN SHALL THE SHARP SOUR BRINE
OF THE PAPHLAGON-TRIBE BE EXTINGUISHED,
THEN TO THE ENTRAIL-SELLERS
SHALL GOD GREAT GLORY AND HONOUR
RENDER, UNLESS THEY ELECT
TO CONTINUE THE SALE OF THE SAUSAGE.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
But what in the world has this to do with me?

DEMOSTHENES.
The black-tanned Eagle, that means Paphlagon.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
And what the mandibles?

DEMOSTHENES.
That’s self-evident.
His fingers, crooked to carry off their prey.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
What does the Serpent mean?

DEMOSTHENES.
That’s plainer still.
A serpent’s long; a sausage too is long.
Serpents drink blood, and sausages drink blood.
The Serpent then, it says, shall overcome
The black-tanned Eagle, if it’s not talked over.

SAUSAGE-SELLER.
I like the lines: but how can I, I wonder,
Contrive to manage Demus’s affairs.

DEMOSTHENES.
Why nothing’s easier. Do what now you do:
Mince, hash, and mash up everything together.
Win over Demus with the savoury sauce
Of little cookery phrases. You’ve already
Whatever else a Demagogue requires.