“But, dearest mother, this may be an approved motive for such as you and for all nobles. But then—for the artisan, the herdsman, the slave, Push can’t be a principle of life to such as they.”
“My child, how odd you are! What need we consider them? They may have their own motives, I can’t tell; I never was a herdsman nor a slave—never did any useful work in my life. As to a slave, of course Push is a motive—he pushes to gain his freedom.”
“And when he has got that?”
“Then he strives to accumulate a fortune.”
“And then?”
“Then he will have a statue or a bust of himself sculptured, and when he gets old, erect a splendid mausoleum.”
“And so all ends in a handful of dust.”
“Of course. What else would you have?—Remember, a splendid mausoleum.”
“Yes, enclosing a pot of ashes. That picture teaches a sad truth. Pursue your butterfly: when you have caught it, you find only dust between your fingers.”
“Domitia! as the Gods love me! I wish you would refrain from this talk. It is objectionable. It is prematurely oldening you, and what ages you reflects on me—it advances my years. I will listen to no more of this. If you relish it, I do not; go, chatter to the Philosopher Claudius Senecio, he is paid to talk this stuff.”