Works of Lucian of Samosata, vol 2 | Page 5

your only chance of success.
And now, take it that you have succeeded--beyond all expectation.
Your words have found favour with the great man. Those friends, by
whose judgement in such matters he sets most store, have made no
attempt to alter his decision. His wife approves his choice; the steward
and the major-domo have neither of them anything against you. No
aspersions have been cast on your character; all is propitious, every
omen is in your favour. Hail, mighty conqueror, wreathed in the
Olympian garland! Babylon is yours, Sardis falls before you. The horn
of plenty is within your grasp; pigeons shall yield you milk.
Now, if your crown is to be of anything better than leaves, there must
be some solid benefits to compensate you for the labours you have
undergone. A considerable salary will be placed at your disposal, and
you will draw upon it without ceremony, whenever you have occasion.

You will be a privileged person in every respect. As for toils, and
muddy tramps, and wakeful nights, the time for those have gone by.
Your prayers have been heard: you will take your ease, and sleep your
fill. You will do the work you were engaged to do, and not a stroke
besides. This, indeed, is what you have a right to expect. There would
be no great hardship in bowing one's neck to a yoke so light, so
easy--and so superbly gilded. But alas, Timocles, many, nay all of these
requirements are unsatisfied. Your office, now that you have got it, is
attended with a thousand details insufferable to all but slaves. Let me
rehearse them to you; you shall judge for yourself whether any man
with the slightest pretence to culture would endure such treatment.
Let me begin with your first invitation to dinner, which may reasonably
be expected to follow, as an earnest of the patronage to come. It is
brought to you by a most communicative slave, whose goodwill it must
be your first care to secure. Five shillings is the least you can slip into
his palm, if you would do the thing properly. He has scruples. 'Really,
sir--couldn't think of it; no, indeed, sir.' But he is prevailed upon at last,
and goes off, grinning from ear to ear. You then look out your best
clothes, have your bath, make yourself as presentable as possible, and
arrive--in fear and trembling lest you should be the first, which would
wear an awkward air, just as it savours of ostentation to arrive last.
Accordingly you contrive to hit on the right moment, are received with
every attention, and shown to your place, a little above the host,
separated from him only by a couple of his intimates. And now you feel
as if you were in heaven. You are all admiration; everything you see
done throws you into ecstasies. It is all so new and strange! The waiters
stare at you, the company watch your movements. Nor is the host
without curiosity. Some of his servants have instructions to observe
you narrowly, lest your glance should fall too often on his wife or
children. The other guests' men perceive your amazement at the novel
scene, and exchange jesting asides. From the fact that you do not know
what to make of your napkin, they conclude that this is your first
experience of dining-out. You perspire with embarrassment; not
unnaturally. You are thirsty, but you dare not ask for wine, lest you
should be thought a tippler. The due connexion between the various
dishes which make their appearance is beyond you: which ought you to
take first? which next? There is nothing for it but to snatch a side

glance at your neighbour, do as he does, and learn to dine in sequence.
On the whole, your feelings are mingled, your spirit perturbed, and
stricken with awe. One moment you are envying your host his gold, his
ivory, and all his magnificence; the next, you are pitying yourself,--that
miserable nonentity which calls its existence life; and then at intervals
comes the thought, 'how happy shall I be, sharing in these splendours,
enjoying them as if they were my own!' For you conceive of your
future life as one continual feast; and the smiling attendance of gracious
Ganymedes gives a charming finish to the picture. That line of Homer
keeps coming to your lips: Small blame to Trojan or to greaved
Achaean, if such happiness as this was to be the reward of their toils
and sufferings. Presently healths are drunk. The host calls for a large
beaker, and drinks to 'the Professor,' or whatever your title is to be. You,
in your innocence, do not know that you ought to say something in
reply; you receive the cup in silence, and are set down