Character I: Dissembling
Dissembling, in general terms, is the calculated pretense of wrongdoing in word or deed. A Dissembler is someone who would rather approach his enemy and chat than show his hatred. He will speak praises to a person’s face whom he was mocking behind his back. He will show concern, as though sympathetic, for the bad luck of an adversary he himself defeated in court.
Beyond that, he “forgives” those who insult him and even laughs along with things said against him. If others are mistreated and express anger, he offers them gentle words. If anyone rushes to see him, he tells them to go home. He never admits he is really doing something; he always says he’s “still thinking about it.” He might claim he only just arrived on the scene, or that he joined the group late, or that he was sick in bed.
Should you try borrowing money from your friends and approach him for a share, he’ll say he’s just a poor man. If he really wants to sell something, he insists it isn’t for sale; but if he does not want to sell, he’ll claim that it is. He pretends not to hear when in fact he hears, or claims he hasn’t seen things right before his eyes. If he concedes that you are correct, he still claims not to remember doing so. He’ll say, “I’ll look into that,” or “I’m not sure,” or “I’m surprised,” or “That’s exactly what I once concluded myself.”
He’s always repeating lines like, “I don’t believe it,” “You have me confused,” “You amaze me,” “If that’s so, he must have changed,” “That’s not at all what I heard,” “I never would have guessed,” “Don’t tell me,” “I’m not sure if I should disbelieve you or call him a liar,” and “Don’t be so quick to trust.” Such is the manner of the Dissembler.
Character II: Flattery
Flattery may be described as dishonorable conversation designed to profit the flatterer. The Flatterer is the person who, while walking at your side, says, “Notice how everyone’s staring at you? Nobody else in town gets that kind of attention.” Or: “You were the center of attention yesterday in the Stoa! Out of more than thirty people sitting there, once they started wondering who was the finest of them all, they began with your name and ended with it too.”
Meanwhile, he might pick a piece of lint off your cloak. If a bit of chaff blows onto your beard, he plucks it out, then smiles and says, “Look at this—just because we didn’t meet for a day, your beard is suddenly all gray, even though your hair is so remarkably dark for your age.”
He’ll ask everyone else to be silent while you speak, or he’ll praise them for hearing you out; and as soon as you stop, he exclaims, “Exactly!” If you crack a stale joke, he alone laughs, biting his cloak so he seems unable to hold back his mirth. If other people come along, he tells them to wait until you pass by.
He’ll buy apples or pears for your children, bringing them in while you watch. He’ll kiss the children and say, “They’re the fine offspring of a good father.” When the two of you go to buy shoes, he’ll say your foot is more shapely than the shoe. Or if you’re off to visit a friend, he’ll run on ahead to announce you and then turn back to say, “I’ve let him know you’re coming.”
He’s the one who eagerly makes errands to the women’s market without even stopping to catch his breath. Among dinner guests, he’s first to praise the wine and will lean over to you and ask, “Aren’t you eating anything?” Picking up something off the platter, he’ll add, “Wow, this is good, isn’t it?” He’ll fuss over whether you’re cold, or if you’d like a wrap, or want to hitch your cloak up a bit—whispering all this in your ear while casting glances at you and then making small talk with the other guests. If you bring a cushion for your child at the theater, he’ll snatch it from the attendant and spread it out himself. He’ll say how well designed your house is, how nicely your land is planted, and how exactly your portrait resembles you. This is a typical Flatterer.
Character III: Garrulity
Garrulity is the tendency to speak at length or irrelevantly without thinking. A Garrulous person will sit down next to a stranger and start praising his own wife, then he’ll tell the dream he had last night, then itemize every dish he had at dinner. Pressing on, he’ll say we “aren’t the men we used to be,” that the price of grain is down, that the town is full of strangers, and that the ships will all set sail after the festival. Next, he’ll speculate it would be better if Zeus sent more rain, detail which crops he plans to sow next year, complain how hard life is, tell you Damippus put up the biggest ceremonial torch, how many pillars are in the Music Hall, how he threw up yesterday, and ask you, “What day is it today, anyway?” Then he’ll add that the Mysteries are in a certain month and the Apaturia in another, and the rural Dionysia in yet another.
And if you allow him to keep going, he’ll never stop. He roams the schools and gyms, stopping children from rehearsing their lessons because he’s so busy talking to their teachers and trainers. If someone tries to leave, he’ll follow them, insisting on accompanying them to their door. Then, upon hearing about something that happened in the Assembly, he’ll relate all he’s heard plus any famous “battle of the orators,” plus a summary of the speeches he himself once made “to great acclaim,” and weave in his diatribes against democracy—until his audience either forgets what he was talking about or grows drowsy or just slips away and leaves him. As a juror, he prevents a verdict from being reached; as a theater companion, he ruins the show by talking; at dinner, he keeps you from eating because, “It’s just too hard for a chatterbox to stay quiet,” or “My tongue’s got a mind of its own,” or “I couldn’t be silent even if I beat all the swallows at chattering.” If even his children tease him when bedtime comes—he’s saying “Go to sleep, kids!”—they’ll ask him, “Daddy, talk to us so we can drift off.”
Character IV: Boorishness
Boorishness seems to be an uncouth ignorance. The Boor is the sort who’ll take a purge before the citizens’ meeting, then say thyme smells just as nice as fancy perfume, wear shoes too large for his feet, and talk in a booming voice. He distrusts his friends and relatives but confides his most important secrets to his servants, and he gives a full account of Assembly business to the hired field hands on his farm. He also sits in a way that exposes more of himself than is proper—his cloak pulled above his knee so the bare flesh shows.
Traveling in the streets, he doesn’t blink at most sights, but if he sees an ox or a donkey or a goat, he stops and stares. He’ll take things out of the pantry while he’s eating and drink his wine extra strong. He’ll secretly dally with the bakery-maid and then help her grind the grain for the household. He’ll throw feed to the pack animals while he has his breakfast. He himself runs to open the door when there’s a knock.
When he’s hosting a meal, he calls over the dog, grabbing its muzzle to say, “This one guards my estate and my house.” If he receives money from someone, he tests the coins, complaining they look too much like lead, then switches them out. If he has lent out a plow or a basket or some other tool, he’ll remember it in the middle of the night and jump up to get it back. If traveling into the city, he’ll ask passersby about the price of hides or salted fish, or whether it’s new-moon day, and if they say “Yes,” he’ll exclaim that he’ll go get a haircut immediately and pick up some herring while he’s at it. He’s known to sing in the public baths, or hammer hobnails into his shoes. That is Boorishness.
Character V: Self-Seeking Affability
We might define Self-Seeking Affability as a manner of pleasing people for one’s own advantage rather than for the good. Such a person will hail you from afar, call you “my fine fellow,” and lavish admiration on you, clasping your hands in both of his and refusing to let go until he’s walked partway along your route, asking when he can next see you, and then excusing himself with a compliment.
If he’s invited to arbitrate a dispute, he’ll try equally to please the opposing side along with his own friend so that he might be seen as impartial. He’ll also tell out-of-towners that they’re correct and that his fellow citizens are in the wrong. Invited to someone’s table, he makes sure the host summons the children, and as soon as they come in, he marvels how much they look like their father and kisses them, putting them on his lap. He’ll play with some of them, calling out “Wineskin!” or “Hatchet!” while letting others curl up asleep on him, despite his own discomfort.
Such are the ways of the self-seeking affable fellow.
Character VI: Wilful Disreputableness
Wilful Disreputableness is putting up with disgraceful words and actions. A truly disreputable man is quick to swear binding oaths, doesn’t mind being slandered by people who can insult him, and has a coarse, shameless, do-anything sort of temperament. He might even dance the indecent kordax dance while sober, or twist his comedy-chorus mask backward so it faces the audience the wrong way.
At a show, he’ll roam around collecting everyone’s entrance fees, then quarrel with the folks who bring their tickets and expect to see the performance free. He’d run an inn or a brothel, or collect customs taxes, or work any shady trade: crier, cook, gambler—no job is beneath him. He’ll drive his own mother out of the house, get arrested for theft, and spend more time in jail than he does in his own home.
He’s one of those who form crowds in the streets and gather them around with loud, cracked voices, hurling insults at them or arguing, so that some people wander up once he’s started, and others slip away before he’s done. He ends up addressing one person only from the beginning of the story, or another who only hears a snippet, or a third who catches the end, and calls it a good day if it’s a public fair for him to rant at. As for lawsuits, he can’t get enough: he’ll sue or be sued, he’ll refuse to give evidence or else appear to testify with a hamper of documents, and he’s not above playing ringleader to the rabble in the market, loaning them money at a ruinous rate, and personally collecting interest from their day’s profits. That sums up the Wilfully Disreputable type.
Character VII: Loquacity
Loquacity is a lack of self-control in speaking. The Loquacious person will say to a passerby—if the passerby so much as greets him—“You’re quite mistaken! I know the real story, and if you just listen to me, you’ll learn it.” Then, in the middle of the other’s reply, he cuts in: “Don’t forget what you mean to say,” or “I’m so glad you reminded me,” or “Conversation is such a useful thing,” or “I meant to tell you one more thing,” or “You understood that quickly,” or “I was waiting for you to come around to my way of thinking,” while always inventing new ways to keep the other from uttering a word.
Once he’s worn out individuals one by one, he’ll aim for groups of two or three, setting them all to flight in the midst of their business. He’ll invade a school or training gym, prattling so much to the teachers that he delays the students. Whenever someone says they have to go, he insists on accompanying them all the way home. If he hears news from the Assembly, he regales you with it from start to finish, adding some famous “battle of the orators” or boasting of his own speeches “which were highly praised,” plus plenty of negative commentary on the state. The upshot is his listeners either forget the original point, nod off, or slip away in mid-sentence. In a court he won’t let a verdict be reached, at a show he ruins people’s enjoyment, at a dinner he keeps them from eating, insisting, “It’s just too hard for someone like me to keep silent; the tongue’s in a wet place,” or “I couldn’t stop even if it made me more talkative than the swallows.” If you joke with him about it, he’ll take it in stride, and even his children tease him: at bedtime, when he says it’s time to sleep, they plead, “Tell us a story, so we’ll drift off.”
Character VIII: Newsmaking
Newsmaking is the concoction of imaginary happenings and speeches to suit one’s fancy. A Newsmaker is the type who, upon meeting a friend, instantly brightens, smiles, and asks, “Where have you come from? How are things? Any fresh news?” Before you can answer, he’ll exclaim, “Well, well, there is something new, and it’s good news!” Then if you admit you’ve heard nothing, he says, “Wait, I can treat you to big news!”
He claims to have it from some soldier, or from Asteius the flute-player’s servant, or from Lycon the contractor—someone apparently “just returned from the battlefield”—that some big event has occurred. He’ll pass off these sources in ways no one can verify.
He’ll tell how “Polyperchon and the King have won a huge victory” and “Cassander has been captured.” If asked, “Do you really believe this?” he’ll insist it’s definitely true, “everyone’s talking about it,” that the rumor is unstoppable, that “everyone agrees,” that “the casualty list is immense.” He can even “tell it from the looks on the officials’ faces—they’ve obviously changed.” He insists, “I’ve heard from someone who’s apparently been hiding in a certain house for days since coming from Macedonia.” He’ll spin the story with moans of pity: “Poor Cassander! Don’t you see how fortune shifts?—and yet he was so strong! Well, keep it quiet though,” after he’s already run around the city telling everyone the same story.
Character IX: Unconscionableness
Unconscionableness is ignoring one’s reputation for the sake of shameful profit. A truly unconscionable man might, for instance, borrow money from someone he already defaulted on. Having made a sacrifice, he might then eat dinner at somebody else’s place while salting away the sacrificial meat for himself. At a friend’s feast, he calls his personal attendant, hands him the bread and meat from the table, and announces in everyone’s hearing, “Eat up, Tibeius!”
In buying from the butcher, he reminds him of past favors, then stands at the scale trying to toss in an extra piece of meat—or if not meat, a bone. If nobody sees, great; if someone does see, he’ll just snatch up a bit of tripe and walk off, laughing. He’ll invite out-of-town friends to a show and pay for it, but then won’t hand over their shares to them, or else the next day brings his own children and their tutor to the same event for free. If you come home carrying something you bought cheap, he insists you share it with him. He’ll borrow barley from one neighbor one day and straw from another the next, then force them to deliver it to him when he returns it.
At the public baths, he might take someone else’s ladle, douse himself with water—despite the bathing attendant’s protests—and run off shouting, “I bathed, no thanks to you!” That’s Unconscionableness for you.
Character X: Penuriousness
Penuriousness is an over-the-top penny-pinching. The Penurious man is one who, before the month is even up, shows up at someone’s door trying to collect a half-cent of interest. If he’s in a dining club, he’ll count how many cups each person drank and then offer Artemis the stingiest “first portion” on behalf of the entire group. If a friend haggles over something with him, he rejects the arrangement by saying, “It’s easy to splurge on someone else’s dime.”
If a servant breaks an old pot or plate, he deducts its cost from the servant’s food allowance. Should his wife drop a three-cent coin, he’ll literally overturn everything—tables, couches, chests—to find it. If he sells you something, he sets the price so high there’s no profit for you. He won’t let anyone pick a fig from his orchard, or cut across his land, or pick up an olive or date that’s fallen from his trees. He checks his boundary stones daily to be sure they remain where they should.
He’s known to seize a debtor’s property on the slightest excuse, charge interest on interest, serve puny slices of meat when hosting his local townsmen, and return from the market empty-handed. He forbids his wife to lend out so much as salt, or wicks, or herbs, or barley, or a garland or any incense: “All these little items add up over the year!” In general, these scrooges keep moldy money boxes, rusty keys, and wear cloaks that barely reach their thighs. They grease themselves with tiny flasks of oil, cut their own hair very short, unlace their shoes midday to save wear, and demand their fuller use more and more chalky earth so the garment stays “clean” longer. That is Penuriousness.