Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athens whose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but no worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. If anybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses. If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon was offended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he would be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to hold up his canvas in front of Timon to receive double its market price.  
Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life. When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly wine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself, “There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of those singers braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's yearly income a night;” and he would remember a terrible thing said by Apemantus, one of his master's friends, “O what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon sees them not!”
 
Please keep photo with html Of course, Timon was much praised.
 
A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfect till Timon wore it. “You mend the jewel by wearing it,” he said. Timon gave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and the lord exclaimed, “O, he's the very soul of bounty.” “Timon is infinitely dear to me,” said another lord, called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse; and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet.
 
But when Apemantus had listened to some of them, he said, “I'm going to knock out an honest Athenian's brains.”
 
“You will die for that,” said Timon.
 
“Then I shall die for doing nothing,” said Apemantus. And now you know what a joke was like four hundred years before Christ.
 
This Apernantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one, because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world anyone with a number of acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does not shun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches, and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like that.
 
Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apemantus, after the dawning of a day which we call Quarter Day.
 
Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, and the baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wise man has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not; and he did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels and horses and furniture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lenders, who expected him to pay twice as much as he had borrowed.
 
Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that day Timon was asked for a large sum of money. “Sell some land,” he said to his steward. “You have no land,” was the reply. “Nonsense! I had a hundred, thousand acres,” said Timon. “You could have spent the price of the world if you had possessed it,” said Flavius.
 
Please keep photo with html “Borrow some then,” said Timon; “try Ventidius.” He thought of Ventidius because he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor of this young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude. But not for all; so much did he owe! Servants were despatched with requests for loans of money to several friends:
 
One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. When he was announced Lucullus said, “A gift, I warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin last night.” Then, changing his tone, “How is that honorable, free-hearted, perfect gentleman, your master, eh?”
 
“Well in health, sir,” replied Flaminius.
 
“And what have you got there under your cloak?” asked Lucullus, jovially.
 
“Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on my master's behalf, I beg you to fill with money, sir.”
 
“La! la! la!” said Lucullus, who could not pretend to mean, “Ha! ha! ha!” “Your master's one fault is that he is too fond of giving parties. I've warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, Flaminius, you know this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose you act like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three solidares for yourself.”
 
“Back, wretched money,” cried Flaminius, “to him who worships you!”
 
Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them was Sempronius.
 
“Hum,” he said to Timon's servant, “has he asked Ventidius? Ventidius is beholden to him.”
 
“He refused.”
 
“Well, have you asked Lucullus?”
 
“He refused.”
 
“A poor compliment to apply to me last of all,” said Sempronius, in affected anger. “If he had sent to me at first, I would gladly have lent him money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now.”
 
“Your lordship makes a good villain,” said the servant.
 
When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage of a lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and Company to a banquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company, were not in the least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly in Timon's house, and said to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them.
 
“I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here,” said Lucullus; “but who could refuse Timon?”
 
Please keep photo with html “It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked for some,” said Sempronius.
 
“The same here,” chimed in a third lord.
 
Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologies and compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all.
 
In the banqueting ball was a table resplendent with covered dishes. Mouths watered. These summer-friends loved good food.
 
“Be seated, worthy friends,” said Timon. He then prayed aloud to the gods of Greece. “Give each man enough,” he said, “for if you, who are our gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you. Let men love the joint more than the host. Let every score of guests contain twenty villains. Bless my friends as much as they have blessed me. Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap!”
 
The hungry lords were too much surprised by this speech to resent it. They thought Timon was unwell, and, although he had called them dogs, they uncovered the dishes.
 
There was nothing in them but warm water.
 
“May you never see a better feast,” wished Timon “I wash off the flatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with your villainy.” With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces, and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet, he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever.
 
His next dwelling was a cave near the sea.
 
Of all his friends, the only one who had not refused him aid was a handsome soldier named Alcibiades, and he had not been asked because, having quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had left that town. The thought that Alcibiades might have proved a true friend did not soften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern the fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. He determined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude of Ventidius and the meanness of Lucullus.
 
He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to himself as he dug in the earth for food.
 
One day, when he was digging for roots near the shore, his spade struck gold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly, and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the gold vein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. “This yellow slave,” he said, “will make and break religions. It will make black white and foul fair. It will buy murder and bless the accursed.&rdq............