Diminutive dramas

Scene.—A room in Socrates’ house. Xantippe is seated at table, on which an unappetising meal, consisting of figs, parsley, and some hashed goat’s meat, is spread.

Enter Socrates

Xantippe. You’re twenty minutes late.

Socrates. I’m sorry, I was kept——

Xantippe. Wasting your time as usual, I suppose, and bothering people with questions who have got something better to do than to listen to you. You can’t think what a mistake you make by going on like that. You can’t think how much people dislike it. If people enjoyed it, or admired it, I could understand the waste of time—but they don’t. It only makes them angry. Everybody’s saying so.

Socrates. Who’s everybody?

Xantippe. There you are with your questions again. Please don’t try to catch me out with those kind of tricks. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a sophist. I know I’m not clever—I’m only a woman. But I do know the difference between right and wrong and black and white, and I don’t think it’s very kind of you, or very generous either, to be always throwing up my ignorance at me, and perpetually making me the butt of your sarcasm.

Socrates. But I never said a word.

Xantippe. Oh, please, don’t try and wriggle out of it. We all know you’re very good at that. I do hate that shuffling so. It’s so cowardly. I do like a man one can trust—and depend on—who when he says Yes means Yes, and when he says No means No.

Socrates. I’m sorry I spoke.

Xantippe. I suppose that’s what’s called irony. I’ve no doubt it’s very clever, but I’m afraid it’s wasted on me. I should keep those remarks for the market-place and the gymnasia and the workshops. I’ve no doubt they’d be highly appreciated there by that clique of young men who do nothing but admire each other. I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I was brought up to think a man should treat his wife with decent civility, and try, even if he did think her stupid, not to be always showing it.

Socrates. Have I by a word or hint ever suggested that you were stupid?

Xantippe. Oh, of course not—never. However, we won’t discuss that. We will change the subject, if you don’t mind.

Socrates. But really——

Xantippe (ignoring the interruption). Please give me your plate. I will help you to the goat.

Socrates. None for me, thank you, to-day.

Xantippe. Why not? I suppose it’s not good enough. I’m afraid I can’t provide the food you get at your grand friends’ houses, but I do think it’s rather cruel of you to sneer at my poor humble efforts.

Socrates. I promise you, Xantippe, nothing was farther from my thoughts. I’m not hungry. I’ve really got no appetite for meat to-day. I’ll have some figs, if you don’t mind.

Xantippe. I suppose that’s a new fad, not to eat meat. I assure you people talk quite enough about you as it is without your making yourself more peculiar. Only yesterday Chrysilla was talking about your clothes. She asked if you made them dirty on purpose. She said the spots on the back couldn’t have got there by accident. Every one notices it—every one says the same thing. Of course they think it’s my fault. No doubt it’s very amusing for people who don’t mind attracting attention and who like being notorious; but it is rather hard on me. And when I hear people saying: “Poor Socrates! it is such a shame that his wife looks after him so badly and doesn’t even mend his sandals”—I admit I do feel rather hurt. However, that would never enter into your head. A philosopher hasn’t time to think of other people. I suppose unselfishness doesn’t form part of a sophist’s training, does it?

[Socrates says nothing, but eats first one fig and then another.

Xantippe. I think you might at least answer when you’re spoken to. I am far from expecting you to treat me with consideration or respect; but I do expect ordinary civility.

[Socrates goes on eating figs in silence.

Xantippe. Oh, I see, you’re going to sulk. First you browbeat, then you’re satirical. Then you sneer at the food, and then you sulk.

Socrates. I never said a word against the food.

Xantippe. You never said a word against the food. You only kept me waiting nearly half an hour for dinner—not that that was anything new—I’m sure I ought to be used to that by now—and you only refused to look at the dish which I had taken pains to cook with my own hands for you.

Socrates. All I said was I wasn’t hungry—that I had no appetite for meat.

Xantippe. You’ve eaten all the figs. You’ve got quite an appetite for that.

Socrates. That’s different.

Xantippe. Oh, that’s different, is it? One can be hungry enough to eat all the fruit there is in the house, which I was especially keeping for this evening, but not hungry enough to touch a piece of meat. I suppose that’s algebra.

Socrates. You know I very rarely eat meat.

Xantippe. Really? I hadn’t noticed it. I always hear of your eating meat in other people’s houses; but my poor cooking is not good enough for you. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford those spicy, messy dishes. If I had a husband who had a real profession, and worked, and did something useful to earn his living and support his house and home, it would be different; only I think the least you could do is not to sneer at one when one is only trying to do one’s best.

Socrates. I very rarely eat meat anywhere now.

Xantippe. That’s why you’re looking so ill. All the doctors say it’s a mistake. Some people can do without meat. They don’t need it—but a man who works with his brain like you do ought to eat nourishing food. You ought to force yourself to eat meat, even if you don’t feel inclined to.

Socrates. I thought you said just now that I did nothing.

Xantippe. There you are, cross-examining me like a lawyer, and tripping me up. I’ve no doubt it’s very amusing for a professional philosopher to catch out a poor ignorant woman like me. It’s a pity your audience isn’t here. They would enjoy it. However, I’m afraid I’m not impressed. You can twist my words into anything you like. You can prove I meant black when I said white, but you know perfectly well what I mean. You know as well as I do that your eccentricity has made you thoroughly unpopular. And what I say is, it’s just these little things that matter. Now do put all that nonsense away and have some goat.

Socrates. No, thank you. I really can’t.

Xantippe. It’s excellent goat, and there’s some garlic in the sauce. I hate garlic, and it’s there on purpose for you——

Socrates. Oh!

Xantippe. Give me your plate.

Socrates. I’d really rather not.

Xantippe. It would do you all the good in the world.

Socrates. But I’ve had quite enough. I’ve finished.

Xantippe. I suppose you had dinner before you came here, or you’re going to have dinner somewhere else presently.

Socrates. I haven’t touched food since I left the house.

Xantippe. Then it’s quite ridiculous your not eating. Let me give you some goat at once.

Socrates. I couldn’t, really. Besides, I must go in a minute.

Xantippe. There! I knew it! You’re going out to dinner.

Socrates. You are mistaken, Xantippe.

Xantippe. You’d far better tell me the truth at once. I’m quite certain to find it out sooner or later. You can’t think how foolish it is to tell lies and then be found out afterwards. You can’t think how much a woman despises a man for that—you couldn’t do anything more foolish.

Socrates. I promise you by all the gods that I’m not going to dine elsewhere.

Xantippe. I suppose you don’t expect me to fall into that trap! Swearing by all the gods, when every one in Athens knows you are a professed atheist—when you do nothing but mock the gods from morning till night—and, what’s far worse, make other people mock them too; when I scarcely like to have a slave in the house because of your impiety—and your blasphemy.

Socrates. I really think you are rather unfair, Xantippe. You will be sorry for this some day.

Xantippe. Then may I ask where you are going?

Socrates. I’ve got an important engagement.

Xantippe. And with whom?

Socrates. I would rather not say, for your sake.

Xantippe. That’s very clever and ingenious to put it on me. But I’m tired of being bullied. Even a worm will turn, and I demand to be treated just for once like a human being, and with the minimum of courtesy and frankness. I don’t ask for your confidence, I know that would be useless. But I do ask to be treated with a grain of straightforwardness and honesty. I insist upon it. I have borne your sneers, your sarcasm, and your sulkiness, your irritability, your withering silence, quite long enough. I will not put up with it any longer.

Socrates. Very well. Since you will have it, I have been impeached by Lycon, Meletus, and Anytus on some ridiculous charge, the result of which, however, may be extremely serious—in fact, it may be a matter of life or death—and I am obliged to appear before them at once.

Xantippe. Oh dear, oh dear! I always said so. I knew it would come to this! This is what comes of not eating meat like a decent citizen!

[Xantippe bursts into tears.

Curtain.

THE END

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