against their kinsfolk among them, have but one cause, and that is not old age, Socrates, but men’s dispositions; for old age lays but a moderate burden on men who have order and peace within themselves, but ill-governed natures find youth and old age alike irksome.”
I was delighted with what he said, and, wishing to hear more, I tried to draw him out by saying: “I fancy, Cephalus, that most people don’t admit what you say, but consider that you find old age pleasant, not because of your disposition, but because of your great wealth; for the rich, they say, have many consolations.”
“True,” he said, “they do not admit it, and in a sense they are right; but not so right as they think. There is great force in that retort of Themistocles to a Seriphian who said sneeringly that his fame was due not 330 to himself but to his city. ‘Certainly,’ said Themistocles, ‘I should not have become famous were I a Seriphian, but neither would you were you an Athenian.’ The same applies to men who are not rich and cannot endure old age. A good man even would not easily endure old age and poverty conjoined, nor would the bad man, though he got riches, ever attain peace with himself.”
“Did you inherit the greater part of your wealth, Cephalus,” I said, “or have you made it?”
“What have I made myself, Socrates ?” he said. “In the matter of money-making I might be called the mean between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, Cephalus, inherited about as much wealth as I now possess, and increased it many times, while Lysanias, my father, reduced it to even less than it is now. But I am content if I leave these young men not less, but perhaps a little more than I inherited.”
“I asked,” I said, “because you seemed to me not excessively fond of money; and that is usually the case with men who have not made it. But those who have made their money are twice as much attached to it as others; for, as poets love their poems and fathers their children, just so money-makers value their money, not
