Cratinus and the Art of Comedy

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CRATINUS AND THE ART OF COMEDY

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Cratinus and the Art of Comedy EMMANUELA BAKOLA

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York # Emmanuela Bakola 2010 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2010 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire ISBN 978–0–19–956935–9 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

For Saeed and my two Sophias


Acknowledgements This book is a revised and amplified version of my doctoral thesis of the same title, conducted under the supervision of Chris Carey. I wish to express my deep and sincere gratitude to him for his invaluable guidance and support from the time of our very first meeting. His generosity in knowledge, time, and insight far exceeded his duty as supervisor and mentor, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to have been the beneficiary. I am particularly indebted to the following people: Alan Griffiths, who as second supervisor encouraged and guided me in adventurous readings of the texts, shared his valuable ideas with me, and improved my work immensely; my examiners Oliver Taplin and Edith Hall, who were very supportive of this project and improved it with challenging and constructive comments; the readers of Oxford University Press S. Douglas Olson, Alan Sommerstein, and Angus Bowie, who provided me with invaluable guidance in improving this monograph from its original form; Cornelia Ro¨mer, who steered me in my research on papyri and helped me especially with the examination of the Dionysalexandros papyrus in Cambridge; and my supervisor during the first year of my doctoral studies, Richard Janko, who introduced me to the world of fragments and to in-depth and interdisciplinary research. Special thanks are due to Richard Rawles, Peter Agocs, and Lucia Prauscello for reading many parts of this manuscript and generously commenting on them, suggesting up-to-the-minute bibliography and sharing illuminating ideas as well as their valuable knowledge of ancient literature across time and genre. Many other scholars kindly gave up their time to read parts of this work and to provide constructive criticism: they include Colin Austin, Eric Csapo, Giambattista D’Alessio, Timothy Duff, Pat Easterling, Kalliopi Fouseki, David Harvey, Simon Hornblower, Stephen Instone, Massimiliano Ornaghi, Chyssanthi Papadopoulou, Jeffrey Rusten, Richard Seaford, and Melina Tamiolaki. I am also grateful to Jean-Michel Hulls and to Ita Hilton for their thorough work improving the style of the manuscript, to Theodora Hadjimichael for the bibliography,

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and to my mother Sophia Bakola for editorial work. All shortcomings of this book are naturally my own. Sincere thanks are due to Jeffrey Henderson for granting me the permission to use his selected fragments of Cratinus in translation; and to Jeffrey Rusten for letting me consult his forthcoming monumental work The Birth of Comedy: Texts, Documents and Art from Athenian Comic Competitions, 560–280 bce. The revision of my original thesis (November 2007–November 2008) was financially supported by the British Academy and the J. F. Costopoulos Foundation, which I am delighted to acknowledge. Thanks are due to the Dean of Arts and Humanities of UCL and to the Department of Greek and Latin for grants towards paying the costs of the copy-editing of the manuscript. The institutions, foundations, and councils to which I am grateful for their generous support of my doctoral research include Arts and Humanities Research Council, A. G. Leventis Foundation, S. Saripolou Bequest, University of London Academic Trust Fund, Wingate Foundation, British Federation of Women Graduates, Lilian Voudouri Foundation, and University College London Old Students Association Trust. The book incorporates revised versions of my articles published in ZPE 154 (2005), 46–58 and Cambridge Classical Journal, 54 (2008), 1–29. Thanks are due to the publishers Habelt-Verlag and CUP, and to the editors for their kind permission to include them. I would also like to thank the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Italian Ministry of Culture, Tu¨bingen University, Museés Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, the Syndics of Cambridge University Library, and to Adam Bu¨low-Jacobsen for the provision of images and the permission to publish them. I am very grateful to all the staff of the Department of Greek and Latin of University College London for creating a pleasant, warm and supportive environment. Finally, many thanks go to the library staff of the Institute of Classical Studies for their professionalism and helpful attitude throughout my doctoral and postdoctoral work. Final and heartfelt thanks go to my family: to my parents Sophia and Vissarion Bakolas and to my husband Saeed, to all of whom I owe more than I can ever acknowledge. EB November 2008

Contents List of Figures List of Plates Abbreviations Note to the Reader Introduction

xi xii xiii xv 1

1. Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice in Cratinus’ Comedy 1.1 Cratinus’ Poetic Persona 1.2 The Diffusion of Poetic Voice in Old Comedy 1.3 ‘Cratinus’ and the Chorus: Parabases, Parodoi, and Exodoi 1.4 ‘Cratinus’ in the Dialogue 1.5 The Poet’s Voice Dramatized: Pytine 1.6 Poetic Contests and Poetic Self-Definition: Aristophanes’ Frogs and Cratinus’ Archilochoi 1.7 Conclusion

13 16 29

2. Cratinus and the Satyr Play 2.1 Dionysalexandros and the Satyr Play 2.2 Crossing the Boundaries: Satyr Play in (Other) Fifth-Century Comedies 2.3 Interplay of Comedy and Satyr Drama in the Fifth Century; Cratinus’ place in the Process

81 82

112

3. Cratinus and Tragedy 3.1 Plutoi, the Prometheus Plays, and Aeschylus’ Oresteia 3.2 Drapetides and the Suppliant-Tragedy 3.3 Seriphioi and Tragic Performance 3.4 Nemesis and the Tragic Manner 3.5 Eumenides and Other Aeschylus 3.6 New Perspectives on Comedy’s Use of Tragedy

118 122 141 158 168 174 177

4. Myth, Politics, and Drama: Elements of Plot-Composition in the Comedy of Cratinus 4.1 Dionysalexandros: Allegory and Complexity

180 181

39 56 59 65 79

102

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Contents 4.2 Multiple Plot-Strands in Other Comedies: Plutoi and Unjust Wealth 4.3 Myth, Politics, and Tragedy in Nemesis 4.4 A Scene of Multiple Meaning in Seriphioi 4.5 Strands of Plot and Characterization in Cratinus

5. Production and Imagination 5.1 The Construction and Use of Space: Odysseis, Plutoi, and Other Plays 5.2 Costume and Disguise: Dionysalexandros 5.3 Imagery and Personification as Shapers of Stage Action: Pytine and the Beauty Contest in Dionysalexandros 5.4 Approaching Performance in Cratinus’ Fragmentary Comedy Appendix 1. The Parabasis Proper of Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros (POxy 663, ll. 6–9) Appendix 2. The Date of the Accusations against Phidias and his Trial Appendix 3. Papyrus fragments of Plutoi Appendix 4. Hypothesis to Dionysalexandros (POxy 663; text edited by K-A, iv. 140) Appendix 5. New Edition of the Papyrus Hypothesis to Dionysalexandros (POxy 663) References Index of Passages General Index

208 220 225 227 230 234 252

272 295 297 305 313 320 322 324 355 369

List of Figures 2.1. Attic calyx-krater (formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’, Malibu, the J. P. Getty Museum 82.AE.83), c.440 bc; Italian Ministry of Culture, Department of Archaeology 2.2. ‘Cleveland Dionysus’: Apulian bell-krater, c.390–380 bc; Cleveland, Cleveland Museum of Art 1989.73 5.1. Parody of the Judgement of Paris: Athenian black-figured lekythos, c.490–475 bc; Tu¨bingen University S.10.1294

105 111 289

List of Plates 1. Papyrus Fragments of Cratinus’ Plutoi, PSI 1212; Photo: AIP archive (Adam Bu¨low-Jacobsen) 2. Papyrus Fragments of Cratinus’ Plutoi, Pap. Brux. E 6842; Brussels, Museés Royaux d’Art et d’ Histoire 3. Papyrus Hypothesis to Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, POxy 663; by permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library

Abbreviations The abbreviations of the names of ancient authors and their works follow those in LSJ9. Abbreviations of journals are cited after L’ Anneé Philologique. APF CAH v

CGFP CPG

D-K FGrH HCT

IG IGD K-A Kock LIMC LSJ9

J. K. Davies, Athenian Propertied Families 600–300 bc (Oxford, 1971). J. B. Bury, S. A. Cook, and F. E. Adcock (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, v: Athens, 478–401 B.C. (Cambridge, 1927). C. Austin, Comicorum Graecorum Fragmenta: In Papyris Reperta (Berlin and New York, 1973). E. L. A. Leutsch, and F. G. Schneidewin, Corpus Paroemiographorum Graecorum, 2 vols (Hildesheim, 1958). H. Diels, and W. Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 3 vols (Berlin, 1974). F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Leiden, 1923– ). A. W. Gomme, A. Andrewes, and K. J. Dover, A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, 5 vols (Oxford, 1945–81). Inscriptiones Grecae (Berlin, 1893– ). A. D. Trendall, and T. B. L. Webster, Illustrations of Greek Drama (London, 1971). R. Kassel, and C. Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci, i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, and viii (Berlin, 1983– ). T. Kock, Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta, 3 vols (Leipzig, 1880–8). Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, 8 vols (Zurich and Munich, 1981–99). H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, and H. S. Jones, A Greek– English Lexicon, 9th edn. (Oxford, 1968).

xiv Meineke PA POxy RE TGrF

ThesCRA Wilson, OCT

Abbreviations A. Meineke, Fragmenta Comicorum Graecorum, 5 vols (Berlin, 1839–57). J. Kirchner, Prosopographia Attica (Berlin, 1901–3; repr. Chicago, 1981). The Oxyrhynchus Papyri (London, 1898– ). RealEncyclopa¨die der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart, 1893–1970; Munich, 1972– ). R. Kannicht, S. Radt, and B. Snell (eds.), (1971– 2007), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 5 vols (vol. ii, 2nd edn.; Go¨ttingen, 1971–2007). Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum, 6 vols (Los Angeles, 2004–6). N. G. Wilson, Aristophanis Fabulae, 2 vols. (Oxford, 2007).

Note to the Reader Editions and translations of principal texts: The fragments of the comic poets are cited after KA. The extant Aristophanic plays follow Wilson, OCT. The hypotheses of Aristophanic plays correspond with the editions of the Aristophanic scholia under the general editorship of W. J. W. Koster and D. Holwerda. Extant Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides are cited from Page, Lloyd-Jones and Wilson, and Diggle OCT respectively. All the tragic fragments refer to TrGF. Unless stated otherwise, the translations of the comic fragments are by Henderson in J. Rusten (ed.) (forthcoming), with occasional adaptations and additions. Only the translations of Eupolis’ fragments follow Storey (2003). The translated passages from Aristophanic comedies are cited from J. Henderson (1998–2007), unless otherwise indicated.


Introduction In the recent past the study of fragmentary texts has experienced a complete renaissance. In many fields of Greek literature, such as historiography, drama, lyric, epic, fiction, and philosophy, fragments are being collected, edited, and systematically explored, opening up a wealth of new material which greatly enriches our knowledge of Greek literary production, Greek cultural history, and society. In the last three decades, since the publication of the first volumes of Kassel and Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci (Berlin and New York, 1983– ), fragmentary comedy has become part of this picture, attracting ever increasing interest from scholars. This is especially true as far as old comedy is concerned, as the earlier tacit but pervasive assumption that the surviving Aristophanic plays are representative of the fifth-century comic production and constitute sufficient evidence for the study of the genre in that period is gradually being abandoned. Since the publication of Poetae Comici Graeci, scholarship has seen not only an ever growing number of articles on nonAristophanic fifth-century comedy, but also larger publications and a major international conference (The Rivals of Aristophanes, London, 1996). We are now in possession of no less than three large volumes on fragmentary old comedy: the amplified proceedings of the Rivals of Aristophanes conference (Harvey and Wilkins 2000), Storey’s comprehensive monograph Eupolis, Poet of Old Comedy (2003), and Telo`’s critical edition of Eupolis’ Demes (2007).1 We have now come a long way from the time when fragmentary comic texts were either used as a means of interpreting Aristophanes and proving his generic affiliations or overlooked altogether. These 1

Olson’s Broken Laughter: Select Fragments of Greek Comedy (2007) also engages in extensive study of fragmentary 5-cent. comedy.

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Introduction

developments have presented us with the opportunity to take a much larger view of Greek comedy. Above all, they have created the circumstances for us to understand one of the genre’s most striking features, namely its rapid development throughout the fifth and fourth centuries. As the Aristophanic texts themselves plainly suggest, poetic competition was a pervasive influence on fifth-century comic writing and production.2 The poetic activity of the dozens of fifth-century comic playwrights within a fiercely competitive culture rapidly pushed the genre in new directions, and is crucial for understanding its development. While Aristophanes will of necessity and for very good reasons continue to have a special place in scholarship on comedy, the availability of excellently edited texts means that it is now both important and timely to find out as much as possible concerning the qualities, preferences, and contributions of the other comic poets of the fifth century.

CRATINUS, POET OF OLD COMEDY Cratinus, whom antiquity canonized alongside Eupolis and Aristophanes as one of the triad of the greatest poets of old comedy,3 has attracted much of the current scholarly interest in the genre. There is no shortage of factors to make Cratinus an attractive case for study: he emerges frequently in the Aristophanic plays4 and what the younger poet says about him suggests that his standing in the fifth century was that of a highly successful poet who enjoyed great popularity with the audience (esp. Eq. 526–30; Ra. 357). This coheres well with the fact that nine victories (three at the Lenaea, six at the Dionysia) were recorded for him, one of the highest numbers for an

2 On competition as a vital aspect of old comedy, see Revermann (2006a: 5–7, 19–24, 99); Biles (2002); Ruffell (2002). 3 Hor. Sat. 1.4.1; Pers. 1.123–4; Vell. 1.16.3; Quint. 10.1.66. ( ¼ test. 27–30); [D. H.] Rh. 8.11 (test. 33); Platon. Diff. Char. (Proleg. de. com.), pp. 6–7 Koster and Diff. Com. (Proleg. de. com. 1) p. 3 Koster ( ¼ test. 17–18); for more sources, see K-A iv. 116–19. 4 Ach. 848–53; Ach. 1166–73; Eq. 526–36; Eq. 400; Pax 700–3; Ra. 357 (test. 9–14).

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old comic poet.5 Moreover, the fragments of Cratinus are in excess of five hundred and, alongside the fragments of Eupolis, amount to one of the two best preserved corpuses of old comic poets outside Aristophanes. The surviving material from the twenty-nine titles which are attributed to Cratinus6 includes gems such as the only near-complete summary of an old comedy outside Aristophanes, namely Dionysalexandros (POxy 663), as well as a generous account of Pytine ( Eq. 400a ¼ Suda Œ 2216), a highly original, ultra-metatheatrical comedy which was responsible for much of the poet’s fame already in antiquity. The chronological place of Cratinus’ work within the history of the genre and in relation to the extant Aristophanes also makes this playwright an especially exciting figure: Cratinus’ career started in the 450s,7 and he may have achieved success by the end of that decade—although one source suggests that he earned his first victory after the eighty-fifth Olympiad (440/39–437/6);8 either way, most of Cratinus’ poetic activity spanned the third quarter of the fifth century, ending, most probably, in the late 420s.9 In its largest part, therefore, Cratinus’ career developed at a time when

5

IG II2 2325.50 and IG II2 2325.121 (test. 5–6). Suda Œ 2344 and Anon. De Com. (Prol. de com. 3) p. 8 Koster (test. 1.3 and 2a.11) say twenty-one. However, none of the twenty-nine titles can be conclusively rejected. It is possible that some of the surviving titles were double titles (for a possible case see Ch. 2, p. 96). 7 For Cratinus’ debut, see test. 4. This information, however, is not entirely reliable because the same source suggests that Plato also produced comedies in the same period, which is inaccurate. 8 According to Anon. De Com. (Proleg. de com. 3) p. 8 Koster (test. 2a): a c ´ OºıØÆ. Meineke (I.45) corrected ´ into Æ, i.e. 456/5–453/2, which perhaps coheres better with test. 4, but is not certain. For Cratinus’ first victory in the 450s see also Olson (2007: 408), who cites IG II2 2325.50 (test. 5). However, although Cratinus is listed there as a Dionysia victor after Euphronius, the victor for 458, he is also listed after Ecphantides, for whom we do not have a first victory date. 9 On the available evidence, the end of Cratinus’ career is dated at the latest in 423/2 since (a) after Pytine of the Dionysia of 423 and Seriphioi (probably dated in 423/2, see K-A iv. 233), we do not know anything else about Cratinus’ poetic activity, and (b) in Ar. Pax 700–3 (Dionysia of 421) Cratinus is reported as ‘dead’. Paradoxically this passage may suggest that Cratinus was alive and perhaps sitting in the audience. However, in the absence of evidence that Cratinus was active in dramatic competitions at the time, this passage suggests that he had at least withdrawn from competitions. 6

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Introduction

the Athenian theatre was flourishing, but regarding which (since our earliest extant comedy dates from 425) our knowledge of comic production is limited. Furthermore, most of his career fell in the period before Aristophanes had entered his first comic competition. In relation to Cratinus, therefore, the only surviving poet can be seen as an heir.10 On the other hand, although Cratinus was largely a predecessor of Aristophanes, the brief overlap in the careers of the two poets generated one of the most fascinating cases of intertextual dialogue between authors which can be recovered in Greek literature. Intertextual rivalry on the basis of self-presentation dominated the comic poetics of the 420s, but in the case of Cratinus and Aristophanes it amounted to a continuous dialogue which spanned several years and even went so far as to inspire the plot of a whole play, namely Pytine. Cratinus’ plays were read and studied well into the Hellenistic and early Roman periods, at least until the late second or mid-third century AD.11 We have not only the scholarly hypotheses of Dionysalexandros and Pytine, but also testimonies for a monograph on the poet and a commentary to one of his plays, namely Thrattai (test. 39–41). The principal strand of Cratinus’ scholarly reception in antiquity portrays him as the representative of the abusive mode of old comedy; (suggested already by Aristophanes in Eq. 526–8),12 and

10 Although we cannot name many comedies firmly dated much before Aristophanes’ debut (the earliest that we can be almost certain about is Nemesis, dated with great plausibility to 431; see p. 223), it is unlikely that Cratinus wrote more than ten to twelve plays (from the twenty-nine we know about) from 427 until the end of his career—and this number would be so high only in the unlikely case that the poet participated in every comic competition from the Lenaia of 427). The three comedies which are securely dated are all in the 420s: Cheimazomenoi to 425, Satyroi to 424, and Pytine to 423. 11 This is the date of the papyrus hypothesis of Dionysalexandros. The papyrus fragments of Plutoi date from the 2nd cent. AD. For a survey of the sources that transmit Cratinus, see Luppe (1967b). 12 Cf. Ran. 357–8 ºÅæH ªaæ Ø ıæ f `ŁÅÆ ı K E æÆ Ø and 357g c çØº ØŒÆ ÆP F (test. 11); Platon. Diff. Char. (Proleg. de com. 2) p. 6 Koster ÆP Åæe b ÆE º Ø æÆØ K • . . . ªıfiB fi B ŒçÆºfiB ŁÅ Ø a ºÆ çÅÆ

ŒÆa H ±ÆæÆø . . . and ibid. 7 Koster æe f ±Ææ Æ e ç æe F ˚æÆ ı . . . (test. 17); Anon. De Com. (Proleg. de com. 5) p. 14 Koster . . . ŒÆd fiH åÆæØ B ŒøøÆ e TçºØ æ ŁØŒ f ŒÆŒH æ Æ ØÆººø ŒÆd S æ Å Æ fi ØªØ fi B ŒøøÆ Œ ºÇø (test. 19); D. T. p. 18 Hilgard

Introduction

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especially as a castigator of wrongdoers; accordingly, one source suggests that Cratinus’ invective drew on Archilochus (Platon. Diff. Char. 1 p. 6 Koster). Interestingly, Cratinus’ association with masters of the Athenian cultural past includes one more famous name, that of Aeschylus, whose poetic style is likened to that of Cratinus by the anonymous author of the relatively well-informed De Comoedia (Prolegomenon to Comedy 3). In the Augustan age and early Empire, the salient strands of Cratinus’ reception find their way into programmatic statements of the Roman satirists: in Sat. 1.4 Horace famously likens the satirical powers of Cratinus, alongside those of Eupolis and Aristophanes, to those of Lucilius. In a similar programmatic manner, in Sat. 1.123 Persius refers to Cratinus as ‘bold’, probably also alluding to the invective of the old comic style; finally, in Epist. 1.19.1 Horace evokes another strand of Cratinus’ reputation, namely intoxicated poetics, in order to place himself among the inspired ‘wine-drinkers’ of poetry.13 Despite the fertile ground offered to the scholar by the corpus of Cratinus, it is now more than half a century since the appearance of the last monograph devoted to him.14 Although the fragments have attracted much scholarly attention, especially since the publication of volume iv of Kassel and Austin (1983), the studies which have been published on Cratinus have generally confined themselves to the investigation of a particular play or specific, often technical, aspects of his work. Therefore, although they are illuminating on specific issues, they do not seek to present a larger picture of his comedy; the result is a perpetuation of the fragmentariness of the surviving material and consequently of our knowledge of the poet. The purpose which the present monograph hopes to serve is to offer a thorough exploration of the multifaceted art of this poet and his place in the genre of comedy; one which draws the corpus together as a

(Proleg. de com. 18a p. 71 Koster) K IæåB çÆæH Kºªå ı Æ . . . B b ÆºÆØA

ºº d ªªÆ Ø, K Å b ˚æÆE , › ŒÆd æÆ • (test. 22). 13 The relationship between Cratinus’ ancient reception and self-presentation is discussed in Ch. 1. 14 For Pieters (1946) and other earlier scholarship on Cratinus, see below.

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whole and takes into account recent developments in scholarship on drama more generally, specifically comedy.

MATERIAL AND METHODOLOGY: THE SHADOW OF ARISTOPHANES One of the most challenging issues which such a study faces is the overwhelming presence of Aristophanes, which, despite the current more inclusive attitude towards the other comic poets, still dominates the collective perception of the genre. Part of the problem is the tendency to consider Aristophanes the supreme master of the genre and (tacitly or openly) to assume that his virtues far surpassed those of his rivals.15 The fact that only plays of Aristophanes have survived is often justified on grounds of merit, although studies on the survival and transmission of the Aristophanic texts have emphasized the role of many different historical and literary developments.16 Sometimes the self-congratulatory claims which Aristophanes makes in his parabases are read at face value, reinforcing the conviction that he was the leading poet in the genre and ‘consistently an innovator’.17 However, these claims were part of a generic discourse shared by all the comic poets in the context of the comic competi-

15

For the distortion created by the Aristophanocentric reading of the history of comedy, see the insightful essay by Csapo (2000); see also Revermann’s subtle discussion (2006a: 95–106). For more traditional readings see Storey and Allan (2005: 173): ‘Aristophanes did win the acclaim of posterity and, when compared with what we know of the lost poets, does seem to have written comedy at a superior level’; Storey (2003: 6): ‘nobody did it better’; Sommerstein (2002a): ‘Minor Comedians’ (for all of Aristophanes’ contemporary comic poets); Silk (2000a: 6): ‘it seems clear that Aristophanes was consistently an innovator, so that “generic” might often only mean a feature popularised by Aristophanes himself ’. 16 Cf. Ko¨rte (1921: 1207–14); Dover (1972: 1–6). The influence of Plato’s Apology and especially Symposium must have been decisive for Aristophanes’ survival, as Storey (2003: 4) notes. More generally, on selection and survival of the ‘classics’, see Easterling (1985: passim, esp. 35–41). Csapo (2000) and Nesselrath (2000) have argued (independently of one another) that the plays we possess may have been selected to illustrate one particular preconceived view of comedy’s development. 17 See Silk (2000a: 6 and 45–6); cf. Bremer (1993: 160–3).

Introduction

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tion.18 In any case, any comparison between Aristophanes and the rest of the comic poets is inherently questionable by virtue of the fact that our evidence concerning Aristophanes is disproportionately larger. With our knowledge as it currently stands, it is best to allow for the possibility that the picture was more complex, both as far as the standing of Aristophanes among the other poets is concerned and in relation to the process of his survival. This is especially the case because, as many testimonia and fragments of old comedy help us realize, the surviving corpus of Aristophanes cannot be characterized as ‘typical’ of the whole of fifth-century comedy, since comedy was already from its early days written in a large variety of styles.19 The main challenge created by the omnipresent shadow of Aristophanes in combination with the belief in his superiority is the tendency to read other comic poets with an Aristophanocentric preoccupation, even when the aim is to expand our knowledge of old comedy beyond its only surviving poet.20 Aristophanes is, of course, our most secure foundation for an understanding of essential features of old comedy, such as formal structures, themes, metrical and linguistic usage, as well as basic generic trends. He is also important, given the limitations of the archaeological evidence, for the task of determining the physical potential of the theatre, as well as gauging audience tastes.21 Comparing fragmentary comic material with extant Aristophanic comedy is often unavoidable, as the fragments alone would yield little. However, using Aristophanic comedy as the only or even the main guideline when studying fragmentary comic poets brings with it the risk—in the absence of a firm interpretative framework—that qualities of his work and style might be superimposed on other poets at the cost of considerable distortion. Not only does this approach disregard the fact that there 18

See esp. Heath (1990: 152). Pointed out rightly and discussed by Csapo in (2000: 117–21), Henderson (1995: 178–9), and Revermann (2006a: 95–106). 20 This is made explicit e.g. on p. 368 of Storey’s generally excellent book on Eupolis (2003). Luppe’s work on Cratinus, in particular, is characterized by a strong Aristophanocentrism, since phenomena are often accepted or rejected on the basis of whether they appear in Aristophanes. Contrast the cautious remarks of Handley (1985: 356). 21 See the subtle essay of Revermann (2007b). 19

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is a great range of possible expressions within any genre—as we know, for example, from tragedy, where the same basic dramatic forms, myths, and theatrical space could be used by different poets to achieve strikingly different effects; it also fails to take into account that the pace and scale of change from the fifth- to the late fourth-century comedy testifies to an intense degree of experimentation in a fiercely competitive environment. It is the openness to the possibility of diversity within the genre which increases our chances of expanding our horizons on comedy and even tackling nagging questions concerning the Aristophanic works themselves. Unfortunately, Cratinus has often been subjected to readings which rely heavily on Aristophanes as the guiding principle.22 In order to avoid—as far as possible—the dangers of Aristophanocentrism, we require a reading strategy which will include the only surviving poet, but which will use him in a disciplined manner and within a broader framework open to diverse possibilities, and which is, above all, capable of unlocking them. To remove the shadow of Aristophanes entirely is perhaps a utopian vision; however, we can at least attempt to reduce its impact. The present monograph responds to the Aristophanic challenge by trying an approach distinct from those traditionally used in the study of fragmentary comic poets. In order to deliver an all-round and—as far as is possible—unprejudiced picture of Cratinus, instead of offering a play-by-play analysis, a commentary or a study which operates by lifting issues from Aristophanic scholarship and adapting them to Cratinus, the present project adopts a thematic approach. Moreover, since its aim is not only to shed light on the poet’s art, but also to use him as a fresh perspective for understanding important aspects of the genre in the fifth century, the hermeneutic frameworks used here have been selected to address larger literary questions concerning the genre. Issues which are explored include authorial voice and its diffusion in old comedy; construction of poetic personas and the way these inform the intertextual dialogue between the poets; reception of iambos and lyric poetry; literary criticism and the agonistic mode of old comedy (Chapter 1); modes of interaction

22

See the section on earlier literature on Cratinus, below.

Introduction

9

and cross-fertilization between comedy and the other dramatic genres, satyr play and tragedy, such as parody, generic play, and allusion (Chapters 2 and 3); modes of plot-composition and characterization; the discontinuous logic of the genre; comedy’s interaction with its political context (Chapter 4); larger production and performance questions, such as use of theatrical space and costume; ritual and comic drama; poetic language and imagery as shapers of stage action (Chapter 5). In each case, the theoretical perspective chosen was the one best fitted to allow a thorough interrogation of the fragments. Based on this perspective and with the aid of Aristophanes, who, as the only surviving poet, creates certain expectations, hypotheses about Cratinus were constructed. These hypotheses were tested on the primary material, interrogating it as closely and from as many aspects as possible: linguistic, metrical, syntactical, textual-critical, literary-critical, and cultural-historical. The recourse to fragments of other comic poets of the fifth century, Aristophanic plays and fragments, and contemporary visual evidence for drama helped in suggesting possibilities and enhancing or establishing emerging pictures. However, the final word remained with Cratinus’ own usage, as the process of testing the hypotheses paid special attention to the emerging picture of Cratinus’ trends. In order to contain some of the risks which inevitably attend the interpretation of fragmentary material, two methodological principles were pursued: economy and consistency. When one deals with fragments, if one is ever to get beyond the accumulation or evaluation of raw detail, one has to use a degree of conjecture. Conjecture of course involves risk. What minimizes the risks of conjecture, especially the common danger of superimposing one’s own presumptions on the material, is attention to economy. The testing of the hypotheses was based on examining the relevant material together in the most economical way possible in order to avoid unnecessary speculation, a danger which often befalls the study of fragments. The additional test of consistency, both internal and with parallel material, further disciplines conjecture. The systematic recourse to diverse sources within a firm interpretative strategy allowed the example of Aristophanes to be used in a disciplined manner. Accordingly, the evidence was not pressed beyond what is reasonable

10

Introduction

in a forlorn attempt to find answers to every problem, such as, for example, the complete reconstruction of plots or the exact dates of certain plays. Finally, since this monograph aims less at exhaustiveness and more at a thorough exploration of the cultural phenomenon that was Cratinus, certain plays and a large number of fragments which did not fit the enquiry posed through the theoretical perspectives described above have not been included. Much of the fragmentary corpus has come down to us through the medium of a secondary source.23 As secondary sources often pursue their own agendas, one must be constantly aware of the possibility that the process of citation may involve a degree of distortion. However, since most of the citations are advanced to illustrate formal features or to address matters of detail rather than to advance a larger argument, we can be reasonably confident about the content of the fragments. Frequently the citing source itself is useful for understanding the text in question. Moreover, material surviving in the direct tradition, such as the fragments of Plutoi, can help to gauge the accuracy of material which comes embedded in an intermediary context. The few cases where the source which transmits material has a potentially distorting agenda have been dealt with on a case-by-case basis.

EARLIER LITERATURE ON CRATINUS Until the third quarter of the twentieth century the vast majority of scholarly works on Cratinus concerned the editing of the fragments or treated isolated linguistic, metrical, or thematic issues, without much interest in their interpretation as pieces of literature or, even less, as theatre. The major editorial work of Bergk, Meineke, Kock, and Demianćzuk was followed by Luppe in his doctoral dissertation (1963), an edition with commentary of most fragments and testimonia of Cratinus. Luppe accomplished editing work which was much 23 Cratinus is cited most frequently by Photius (123 times), Pollux (64 times), Athenaeus (52 times), and Hesychius (32 times). Other sources include Phrynichus (17 times), Hephaestion (14 times), the Suda (13 times), Harpocration (10 times), and various ancient scholiasts (76 times).

Introduction

11

needed, exhibiting admirable philological and papyrological skill. A large part of it was subsequently published in a series of articles, many of which are still fundamental sources of reference for Cratinus. However, the validity of Luppe’s interpretations and emendations in the texts is often undermined by their relatively narrow scope, as, apart from the Aristophanic example, they rarely take into account larger literary issues of comic drama or drama in general. One of the few exceptions in Cratinus’ philological treatment in that period was Pieters’s monograph Cratinus: Bijdrage tot de geschiedenis der vroeg-attische comedie,24 a lively doctoral dissertation published in 1946, which until today constituted the only comprehensive literary study of Cratinus. It is unfortunate that the minority status of Dutch restricted its effect, especially since the author managed for the first time to see beyond the fragmentariness of the material and tried to create a complete picture of this poet. This book’s thematic structure, comprehensive scope, and impetus for originality are commendable. However, Pieters’s study lacks a clear and consistent methodology which is largely responsible for its main flaw, namely excessive speculation.25 While the flow of literature on specialized aspects of the fragments or the poet has never abated, from the 1980s onwards literary studies on rivals of Aristophanes, including Cratinus, which had a wider outlook, emerged more and more frequently. Rosen (1988) devoted a substantial chapter of his book on the generic relationship between old comedy and iambos to Cratinus. Sidwell (1993) initiated an innovative approach to fragmentary comedy by offering an interpretation of the intertextual dialogue between the comic poets. This approach and the debate that it sparked have ultimately generated three of the most fascinating studies on Cratinus to date, Rosen (2000), Biles (2002), and Ruffell (2002), which have opened new ways of understanding comedy, comic competition, and Cratinus 24 Another exception is the imaginative but largely descriptive chapter on Cratinus in Norwood (1931: 114–44). Of the entries on Cratinus in histories of Greek literature, Schmid’s (1946: 67–89) is the most thorough. 25 Another doctoral dissertation devoted to Cratinus is Amado-Rodriguez (1992), which is a combination of an index, a concordance, and a lexicon, based on K-A’s edn. of Cratinus’ fragments.

12

Introduction

himself. In a more traditional vein, Olson (2007) has recently produced an admirable commentary and translation of a selection of comic fragments, making them accessible to a wider audience.26 The present monograph picks up on these scholarly developments as well as on the lessons learnt by the opening up of old comic scholarship to broader hermeneutic frameworks,27 and hopes to contribute to our growing understanding of comedy and drama in general, both fragmentary and non-fragmentary. 26

Heath (1990), Mellero Bellido (1996), and Revermann (1997) are also among good recent scholarly work on Cratinus. See also, more recently, Wright (2007). 27 Especially Silk (2000a); Dobrov (1995a); Lowe (2000, 2006); Hall (2000, 2006); von Mo¨llendorff (1995).

1 Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice in Cratinus’ Comedy

Literary reflexivity is a characteristic of comic genres across many periods and cultures. It is an integral component of old comedy and, due its overt and explicit use, one of the features which distinguish this genre from its sister-genre, tragedy.1 In old comedy reflexivity takes many forms, one of which is metatheatre.2 Comedies articulate their status as dramatic creations by such means as references to the theatrical cast, costuming, props and other dramatic paraphernalia, acknowledgement of the presence of the audience, the external circumstances of the performance, and any other elements which constitute a production.3 On another level, old comedy extends its metatheatrical tendencies to an examination of its own poetics and becomes self-reflexively metapoetic. There are numerous passages in which a play comments on its own or an earlier production’s artistic merits. Rival comedies and poets are usually accused of banality, vulgarity, plagiarism, and questionable or reprehensible morality. Together with this form of literary critique, there are also metapoetic comic passages which 1

See esp. Taplin (1986: passim). Zeitlin (1980), Goldhill (1986: 244–64), Foley (1985: 205–58), Lichtenberger (1986), Segal (1993: 37–50; 19972: 215–71), Ringer (1998), and others have discussed aspects of metatheatricality in tragedy, but there is a vast difference in the explicitness and overtness of the references which they argue are ‘reflexive’ or ‘metatheatrical’, and those of old comedy. 2 For Aristophanes and metatheatre see most recently Slater (2002); see also Sifakis (1971: 11–14); Dover (1972: 55–9). 3 Examples from Aristophanes are listed and discussed in Chapman (1983) and Muecke (1977); examples from the other poets of old comedy are collected in Wilson (1978/9).

14

Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice

discuss a comedy’s civic merit, as well as elements such as metre, music and diction, dramatic structure, and modes of personal and political satire.4 Old comedy takes the ultimate step in reflexivity when it turns to its own poet and summons him in the play. We know this practice above all from the five earliest surviving Aristophanic comedies, which contain many quasi-biographical references. The main details of Aristophanes’ ‘biography’ as he presents it in the extant plays of the 420s are that he was embroiled in a personal feud with Cleon, that Cleon had prosecuted him after Babylonians in 426, that he strove for the refinement of the genre, and that he felt bitterness towards the Athenians for rejecting his Clouds a0 . These events are presented as historical and are ultimately employed by the poet in order to create the persona with which he chooses to fictionalize and present himself through his plays.5 The Aristophanic persona, or the fictionalized ‘Aristophanes’ (henceforth ‘Aristophanes’) is presented consistently as the ‘young but brave poet who single-handedly strives for the reform of both the city (and therefore heroically fights its most dangerous enemies, often enduring mistreatment by his own people and their misunderstanding of his mission) and comedy (and thus speaks against any kind of cheap and vulgar comedy)’. This was not a poetic strategy exclusive to Aristophanes: other comic poets also constructed fictional autobiographies and distinct poetic personas in order to advertise themselves and to compete with their rivals.6

4 For metapoetic references in Aristophanes and other comic poets see Sommerstein (1992). For Aristophanes separately see Bremer (1993) and Silk (2000a: 45–50). For the comic poets’ distortions of their competitors’ self-congratulatory claims see Bakola (2008). 5 Poetic self-presentation involves the construction and projection of an identity and a character in the course of a poem or an œuvre, known by the literary term ‘persona’. Construction of a persona entails a varying degree of ‘fictionalization’ of an author’s character, and the degree of correspondence between fiction and reality may consequently fluctuate. 6 For the comic personas of Aristophanes and Eupolis, see Bakola (2008: sect. I and III respectively); for earlier discussions of the Aristophanic persona on a different basis, see Rosen (2000: 23–4) and Hubbard (1991). For Cratinus’ persona see below. For the trend of poetic self-presentation as dominant in the 420s and its development in later years see ibid. pp. 3–4.


15

Until recently, authorial intervention and self-presentation in old comedy was associated exclusively with the parabasis proper, also known as the ‘anapaests’ or the ‘main parabasis’. In the last two decades, scholarly works on Aristophanic comedy have widened the scope of the discussion and shown that authorial self-presentation in Aristophanes’ plays is far more pervasive than this.7 However, with few exceptions, the focus has remained firmly on extant comedy8 and the phenomenon has not been explored in relation to the genre. This chapter revisits authorial self-presentation on a more generic level by analysing Cratinus’ rhetoric in relation to himself and his poetics and by comparing it to the practice of the other two best-attested comic poets, Aristophanes and Eupolis. The poet’s programmatic rhetoric, which according to the traditional view would be described as more appropriate for a parabasis, is found diffused in several parts of his plays—especially in the opening scenes. Yet the diffusion of the poetic voice is even more widespread across Cratinus’ „uvre: as we will see in the course of this monograph, certain poetic features in Cratinus’ comedy, such as his predilection for Aeschylus, his experimentation with satyr drama, and his engagement with Dionysiac ritual, can also be seen as part of his broader rhetoric concerning himself and the definition of his poetics. Poetic self-definition, in other words, is a fundamental and ingrained element across Cratinus’ „uvre. Since a similar tendency appears in other comic poets, this phenomenon should more appropriately be treated as generic.

7 See Hubbard (1991), who has expanded an earlier argument by Bowie (1982) concerning Acharnians. A very good discussion is Dobrov (1995a), which looks at the comic poet’s voice in light of the theoretical model of dramatic dialogism; see also von Mo¨llendorf (1995). 8 Cf. Dobrov (1995a: 50): ‘it is in the comedy of Aristophanes . . . that the fictional poet makes his boldest appearance, an entrance in which a long tradition of selfrepresentation reaches a climax’. For isolated exceptions, see e.g. Storey (2003: 361), who rightly pronounced Eupolis fr. 205 ‘parabatic-like’ and posited a quasi-parabatic parodos for Marikas. Fr. 203 of Cratinus has also been treated as programmatic (see K-A ad loc.) although its metre precludes its ascription to a parabasis. For Cratin. fr. 203, see below pp. 56–7.

16

Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice 1.1. CRATINUS’ POETIC PERSONA 9

1.1.1. Aristophanes, ‘Cratinus’, Inspiration, and Poetic Creativity In an article of 2002 which broke new ground in relation to the way in which we understand the role of competition in old comedy, Biles made a strong case concerning the nature and background of Cratinus’ poetic persona.10 By treating competition as a vital aspect of comic poetry, Biles showed how Cratinus constructed a stage biography to assert his own superiority over rival comic poets, especially Aristophanes. The thread through to Cratinus’ persona can be traced via the anapaests of Knights (424 BC), where Cratinus is famously portrayed by Aristophanes as a drunk and in a state of creative and mental decline (526–36): r Æ ˚æÆ ı Å , n ººfiH Þ Æ KÆø fi 526 Øa H IçºH ø ææØ, ŒÆd B ø ÆæÆ æø KçæØ a æF ŒÆd a ºÆ ı ŒÆd f KåŁæ f æ Łº ı • · · · · · · · · · · ıd E ÆPe ›æH ÆæÆºÅæ F PŒ KºE, 531 KŒØ ı H H ºŒæø ŒÆd F ı PŒ K

H Ł ±æ ØH ØÆåÆ Œ ı H• Iººa ªæø J æØææØ, S æ ˚ A , “ çÆ b åø Æy , łÅ fi I ºøº ”, n åæB Øa a æ æÆ ŒÆ Ø K fiH æıÆø fi , ŒÆd c ºÅæE, Iººa ŁA ŁÆØ ºØÆæe Ææa fiH ˜Ø ø fi . Then he remembered Cratinus, who once, gushing with your lavish applause used to flow through the honest plains, and uproot oaks, plane trees and rivals, sweep them from their places and bear them downstream. . . . And now you take no pity on him, though you see him drivelling, with his pegs falling out, his tuning gone, and joints gaping; in his old age he wanders about like Connas, wearing a garland old and sere, and all but dead with

9

Section 1.1 is a revised version of Bakola (2008: sect. II). See esp. pp. 169–88. Biles’ argument was anticipated to a degree by Rosen’s (2000) excellent analysis of the comic self in Aristophanes and Cratinus, and to a certain extent by Sidwell’s approach to poetic rivalry (1995: esp. p. 61) through ‘paracomedy’, an approach which, however, is problematic; see Storey (2003: 298–300). 10


17

thirst, when in honour of his former victories he ought to be drinking in the Prytaneum and instead of spouting drivel, should be sitting sleek-faced in the audience by the side of Dionysus. (Tr. Sommerstein, adapted)

In the Dionysia of the following year (423 BC), Cratinus produced Pytine, where he famously played up to Aristophanes’ mockery by portraying ‘Cratinus’ as a drunk married to Comedy and having problems with her due to his habit.11 Biles demonstrated that Cratinus’ self-caricature in Pytine as a drunk derived not merely from his mockery in the anapaests of Knights, but ultimately from his own self-presentation in his earlier plays. The intertextual exchange between Knights and Pytine was not a one-off, but was in fact the continuation and probably the climax of a dialogue in the context of comic rivalry which had originated in Cratinus’ own poetic claims about his art in previous plays. That is, the mocking comments which Aristophanes made about Cratinus in Knights were twisted distortions of Cratinus’ self-exalting rhetoric in comedies he had produced earlier. In particular, the Aristophanic jibe about Cratinus and alcoholism was, as Biles demonstrated, Aristophanes’ comic distortion of his rival’s ‘Dionysiac poetics’. Cratinus had earlier assumed the persona of the ‘Dionysiac poet’, one element of which was his claim that he drew his inspiration from intoxication. An indication for this is that Cratinus famously used the contrast between drinking water and drinking wine in his self-presentation (cf. fr. 203).12 The comic poet thereby associated himself with Archilochus who had described his composition of dithyrambs in terms of intoxicated mania in the celebrated fragment 120W: ‰ ˜Øø ı ¼ÆŒ ŒÆºe KæÆØ º

r Æ ØŁæÆ Yø fi ıªŒæÆıøŁd çæÆ

I know how to initiate a fine song for Lord Dionysus, a dithyramb, after my mind is struck with wine.

11

Cf. test. ii Pytine, cited, translated, and analysed below, 1.5. Further evidence is provided by the reception of ‘Cratinus’ as a wine-drinker: Hor. Ep. 1.19.1; Ath. Epit. 2.39c. 12

18


According to Biles, Cratinus’ adoption of the Archilochean image of a drunken poet is also suggested by fr. 38 from Didaskaliai.13 Beyond that, Archilochus surfaces in Cratinus’ work repeatedly, something which should be seen as part of the process of the comic poet’s selfassociation with the iambic poet.14 Most tellingly, Cratinus wrote a play entitled Archilochoi which dramatized a poetic contest between iambic and epic poets, giving the victory to the former (see below, 1.6). Furthermore, Cratinus’ constant allusions to and uses of Archilochean poetry reinforced the connection which he was making.15 The association with Archilochus was preserved in post-classical antiquity, as Platonius’ famous reference to Cratinus’ literary imitation of the iambic poet suggests (Platon. Diff. Char. (Prol. de com. 2) 1 p. 6 Koster=Cratin. test. 17): ˚æÆE . . . – c ŒÆa a æåØºå ı ÇÅº Ø , ÆP Åæe b ÆE º Ø æÆØ K . (Cratinus . . . in accordance with his emulation of Archilochus, is caustic in his abuse). Biles’ pattern of competitive, intertextual self-presentation is clear and convincing, and there can be little doubt that Cratinus wrote Pytine not only as a response to the parabasis of Knights but also as a reaffirmation of the competitive poetic stance which he had advocated earlier. This is despite the fact that no evidence which definitely predates Knights was offered. Yet two passages from Aristophanes’ Acharnians not only reinforce Biles’s conviction, but, more importantly, they also widen the interpretative scope of Cratinus’ rhetoric of self-presentation. The first is Ach. 1162–73, where Aristophanes’ chorus sang of a fictional nocturnal episode involving drunkards. In the punchline, Cratinus emerged as the ultimate victim of Aristophanes’ invective: F b ÆPfiH ŒÆŒe £, Œfi pŁ £æ ıŒæØe ª Ø . MØÆºH ªaæ YŒÆ K ƒÆ Æ ÆÇø, r Æ ÆØ Ø ÆP F Łø c ŒçÆºc ˇæ Å

ÆØ • › b ºŁ ºÆE

13

For this fragment, see below, pp. 48–9. See Biles (2002: 175–6), especially on Cratin. fr. 211 and 199. I explore the relationship in more detail below. 15 Frr. 102, 138, 211, 368, 387, 505 (allusions); frr. 32, 62, 225, 360, 363 (use of metre). Rosen (2000: 41–9) offers a useful discussion of Cratinus’ intertextual references to Archilochus. 14


19

ıº K Œø fi º Ø fiB åØæd ºŁ Iæø Œå • Kfi Ø ’ åø e æÆæ , Œ¼ØŁ’ ±Ææg º Ø ˚æÆE . That’s once curse for him [i.e. Antimachus] and here is another, to happen to him in the night. As he walks home shivering after galloping his horse, I hope some drunkard—mad Orestes—knocks him on the head; and when he wants to grab a stone I hope in the darkness he grabs in his hand a fresh-shat turd, and holding that glittering missile let him charge at his foe, then miss him and hit Cratinus!

In these lines Cratinus is envisaged being in close proximity to the drunkard Orestes, probably as a member of the same komos; nocturnal komoi of drunken men were not an uncommon sight in the streets of Athens, and this is the scene which is probably evoked here.16 For the invective against Cratinus to be effective, therefore, the audience had to be familiar with the poet’s rhetoric of drinking. Consequently, Acharnians 1162–73 can be used as concrete evidence that Cratinus had presented himself through Dionysiac, intoxicated poetics before 425. The other passage takes us away from the figure of the drunken poet, and suggests that before Knights Cratinus had also used the gamos as a metaphorical image with which to illustrate his relationship to his art and poetic creativity. Thus at Ach. 847–9, the Aristophanic chorus insinuated that Cratinus’ looks suggest that he is a habitual adulterer: æ Ø Ø ÆÇø ˚æÆE Id17 ŒŒÆæ

Øåe Øfi A ÆåÆæfi Æ

Cratinus strolling about always with an adulterer’s cut done with a straight razor.

It is generally thought that Aristophanes’ mockery in this passage is directed at Cratinus’ appearance and general style.18 While this is not impossible, we should emphasize that the specific act of shearing hair

16

Cf. Olson (2002: ad loc). I retain the reading of the coddices I (adopted by Henderson, Sommerstein— whose line division I also follow—and Olson) instead of Reisig’s emendation I ŒŒÆæ (Wilson OCT). It makes better sense, alluding to ‘Cratinus’ as a habitual adulterer. 18 Cf. Olson (2002) ad loc. 17

20


as a punishment associates Cratinus with ØåÆ.19 Aristophanes’ claim is less an attempt to undermine his rival’s morals (since comedy tends to treat ØåÆ as a source of humour rather than as a basis for disapprobation) than a means of scoring points in the area of poetics: as is shown in 5.3.1, imagery involving sex and reproduction was used by the comic poets to reflect on issues of poetic creativity and to antagonize each other on this issue. In the same sequence of comedies we have been discussing thus far, Knights and Pytine, Aristophanes and Cratinus presented themselves as lovers of the personified Comedy, suggesting different levels of commitment to her. In Knights 515–17, Aristophanes presented himself as the only poet with whom Comedy might agree to have a lasting relationship. In Pytine, Cratinus took a bolder step in the use of the metaphor and presented himself as the husband of Comedy, hence as the only man who had legitimate sexual rights and hence rights for procreation (artistic creation in poetic terms) with Comedy. Biles (2002: 184–5) suggested that this was in response to Knights 515–17. However, the element of legitimacy is crucial also for the interpretation of Ach. 847–9. Given Cratinus’ construction of a legitimate sexual and procreative relationship with Comedy in Pytine, and the long-standing (and ever-evolving) use of sexual imagery to denote poetic creativity in comic poetry, it is very likely that in Acharnians 847–9 Aristophanes presented Cratinus as an illegitimate erastes (and possible generator of illegitimate offspring) precisely because he had earlier described his poetic creativity and relationship to comic poetry using the same sexual metaphor. The latter passage and other elements which we will discuss below suggest that we should widen the scope of our interpretation of Cratinus’ rhetoric concerning his poetics. Although Archilochus and intoxicated inspiration probably constituted Cratinus’ dominant point of reference for the construction of his poetic ‘self’, his pool of images and allusions seems to have been even richer. Other than the sexual metaphor which is evoked at Ach. 847–9 and the responses to it, a further indication of a broader range of imagery can be found in the parabasis of Knights itself and in particular in the image of the 19

For this method of punishment and for other methods of punishing adulterers, see Carey (1993b : 54).


21

torrent which Aristophanes used to describe Cratinus’ poetic style (Eq. 526–8). On one hand, it has rightly been suggested that this evokes Archilochus and his satirical power.20 Yet, as the ancient scholiast to the passage ( Eq. 526a) suggests, this image was also a distortion of an earlier claim Cratinus had made; this claim did not concern poetic force, but inspiration and creativity: ŒE Ø æØ çÅ Iç z r ˚æÆE æd Æ F ªÆºÅª æH, Ie ø ŒÆd ÆPe c æ c NºÅçÆØ• › ªaæ ˚æÆE oø ø Æıe KÅ fi K fiB —ıÅ fi • ¼Æ ` ºº , H KH F æÆ , ŒÆÆå F Ø ÅªÆ• øŒŒæ ı Æ,

ºØ e K fiB çæıªØ. i Y Ø ; N c ªaæ KØ Ø Ø ÆP F e Æ, –ÆÆ ÆFÆ ŒÆÆŒº Ø ØÆ Ø. (Cratin. fr. 198) It seems to me that Aristophanes himself took the metaphor from the boastful things that Cratinus said about himself. This is how Cratinus [went on to] praise himself in Pytine: Good God, what a flow of words! streams splattering, mouth twelve-spouted, Ilissos in his gullet. Words fail me! If someone doesn’t shut his gob he’ll flood the whole place with his poetry! (Tr. Rosen 2000, adapted)

According to Rosen’s insightful interpretation of the scholiastic note,21 Cratinus had before Knights described his poetry as a stream.22 In responding to Aristophanes’ claim in Knights, Cratinus returned to the metaphor in the following year and restored it to its 20 Biles (2002: 178 n. 31) points to Ps.-Longinus, De subl. 33.5 `æåØºå ı ººa ŒÆd I ØŒ ÅÆ ÆæÆ æ ; cf. Rosen (1988: 39 n. 9). The image of the torrent picks up on Homeric imagery and suggests a powerful natural force, so it is partly positive, implying that Cratinus was a mighty rival. However, it also suggests that Cratinus’ style of ‘torrential’ satire was indiscriminate and somewhat unrefined. 21 Rosen (2000: 30–1). 22 The water stream and its variants as metaphor for inspiration were used by poets throughout antiquity. See Crowther (1979); Murray (1981: 95). See also Hor.

22


original laudatory meaning in the passage which has come down to us as Pytine fr. 198. Therefore, as well as relying on Archilochus and constructing the image of the intoxicated poet, Cratinus had before Knights probably used several different images to express his poetic inspiration and creativity, including sex, procreation, and streams. These images (as well as the poet’s self-association with Dionysus more generally) suggest that at the heart of Cratinus’ self-constructed poetic image was a nexus of complementary and interrelated ideas and metaphors which placed the emphasis on spontaneity, fluency, artistic fertility, and natural genius. This, as we will see below, appears especially striking in comparison with the more ‘intellectual’ and ‘technical’ kind of poetics with which Cratinus associates Aristophanes and with which Aristophanes to some degree associates himself. Cratinus’ images were in turn evoked (and distorted or contested) by Aristophanes in the parabasis of Knights (cf. Eq. 517, 526–8, 534–6); furthermore, as we will see in the next section, even Cratinus’ ‘pitiful old age’ in Eq. 533 can be read as a distortion of an earlier, selfcongratulatory claim concerning inspiration and poetic creativity. In constructing his rhetoric regarding himself and his poetics, therefore, Cratinus did not merely evoke a specific poetic model or a single image. More accurately, he drew on a well-established and widely adopted mode of poetic self-presentation which was based on a rich tradition reaching as far back as archaic Greek poetry. Archaic lyric, with its agonistic dimension, no doubt constituted an ideal source of inspiration and authorization for overt and competitive self-presentation in the construction of a poetic identity. Poetic inspiration and creativity had featured in Greek poetry from the earliest period; as a strand of the poet’s self-presentation in an agonistic context it is found in Hesiod and especially in the archaic lyric poets. The theme of poetic inspiration and creativity in all its varied and shifting forms—for example, as originating in (different degrees of) dependence on the Muse(s), in natural genius, in (temporary or permanent) intervention by a god, in intoxication and mania, in (prophetic) knowledge, learning, skill, or craft—was negotiated and adapted by the lyric poets in Sat. 1.4.11 (on Lucilius), where the poet famously refers to Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes.


23

order to claim pre-eminent poetic authority.23 Cratinus constructed his own agonistic rhetoric by placing his stakes especially on his genuine, natural, and flowing poetic inspiration and creativity, which had a special connection with Dionysus.24 The link with the practice of the archaic lyric poets can be explored further: Cratinus was not the only poet who evoked archaic selfpositioning in his self-presentation. Aristophanes’ persona of the isolated, single-handed poet-reformer was a reworking of Solon’s persona (frr. 1–11 and 31–7), and, like that of Cratinus, it also evoked wider strands of archaic self-presentation: the archaic didactic stance (especially the elegiac paraenetic mode), the iambic construction of poetic KåŁæ , and the healing-purification rhetoric associated with poets from Empedocles to Pindar. Similarly, Eupolis’ persona as the poet-teacher evoked the didactic-pederastic stance of many archaic poets—perhaps with a special reference to Solon too.25 However, while the comic poets retained the archaic agonistic element of poetic self-presentation, they also clearly stepped it up in degree and explicitness. The context of comic competitions of the fifth century was, after all, far more overtly agonistic than the performance contexts of archaic poetry, and probably than anything that had occurred before. At the same time, however, while evoking archaic self-positioning with a dominant (but not exclusive, as we have seen) focus on Archilochus, Cratinus’ stance also reflected fifth-century literarycritical discourses. These can be seen especially in the celebrated

23 For poetry through natural genius as opposed to learning, see Pi. O. 2. 86–8. For a survey of the poets’ different depictions of their relationship to the Muse(s), see Morrison (2007: 73–90). For an early polemical representation of poetry as artefact as opposed to product of divine inspiration, see Noussia (2001: 49–50), who cites Solon fr. 1.2, Alcaeus fr. 204.6, and Alcman 39 PMG. Lucas (1968: 177–8) discusses madness, intoxication, and poetic inspiration. For the opposition ‘poetry through inspiration’ and ‘poetry as art’ in general, see Nagy (1989: 18–29) and Finkelberg (1998: ch. 1). For the different ways of claiming inspiration in archaic poetry, see Murray (1981). 24 For Cratinus’ special relationship to the god Dionysus, see also the analyses of the quasi-parabatic parodos of Boukoloi below, pp. 42–49, and of the poet’s engagement with satyr play and Dionysiac initiation ritual in Ch. 2 and Sect. 5.2.1 respectively. 25 For both poets, see Bakola (2008: sects. I and III).

24


fragment 342. The analogy Cratinus evokes in this fragment corresponds to a developed stage of the traditional opposition between poetry composed through learning and poetry through genuine inspiration, under the new intellectual developments of the fifth century, especially the sophistic movement.

1.1.2. Cratinus on ‘Aristophanes’ and the Role of ‘Aeschylus’ in Cratinus’ Self-Presentation Like the parabasis of Knights, Cratinus fragment 34226 is a presentation by one poet of the persona of the other: b ; Œ ł Ø æ Ø ŁÆ

º ºª , ªøØØŒÅ , PæØØÆæØ çÆÇø ‘And who are you?’ some clever-dick spectator might ask; a micro-intellectualist, a hunter of subtle ideas, a euripidaristophanist.

There have been numerous interpretations of this passage.27 Although most of them provide valuable comments on the meaning of PæØØÆæØ çÆÇØ, they generally miss the importance of the direct question ‘ b ;’ and especially the fact that it is probably addressed to ‘Cratinus’. The imaginary situation acted out in this passage is that a spectator who has been nourished by the contemporary sophistic(ated) poets Aristophanes and Euripides, appears baffled by ‘Cratinus’, who, we may suggest in the light of the previous analysis, boasted that he had an entirely different, ‘inspired’ style. According to Cratinus, Aristophanes is a technician who uses mere intellect and makes poetry by quibbling about the meanings of words, so he is a far cry from the inspired poet. What leaves Cratinus the space to deny Aristophanes any genuine inspiration is the younger poet’s own selfpresentation, namely the advertisement of his poetry as sophisticated, 26 From an unknown play, but certainly post-427, because it refers to Aristophanes as a rival. 27 This fragment has been read in many different ways. For other recent interpretations, see Sidwell (1995: 62–3); Conti Bizzarro (1999: 91–104); Luppe (2000: 19); O’ Sullivan (2006: 163–9). Ornaghi’s interpretation in (2006: 87–93, which appeared at the same time as the present monograph was completed as a thesis) is the closest to the interpretation offered here.


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clever and novel, poetry capable of transforming both society and politics, and, to a degree, poetry affiliated with sophistic teachings.28 There are two important points to be made about what Cratinus does in fr. 342: first of all, as in the previous passages, he evokes his image of the inspired poet. Yet, here he does it specifically by evoking a binary approach to poetry which sets the ‘inspired’ against the ‘technical’ type. The opposition between poetry of divine inspiration and poetry as artefact is made early in Greek literary history, attested at least as early as Alcaeus fr. 204.6, Alcman 39 PMG, and Solon fr. 1.2 (where the poets espouse a stance opposite to that of ‘Cratinus’).29 It is famously used by Pindar, who in O. 2. 86–8 distinguishes himself as the poet of original genius from the poets of learning, a stance much closer to that of Cratinus.30 However, in the mid-fifth century, as a result—in part—of the sophistic movement and the increased emphasis on the importance of technique and learning in a wide spectrum of artistic and intellectual activity, this opposition has acquired new connotations.31 As Cratinus’ distancing of himself from the sophistic(ated) poets Aristophanes and Euripides suggests, his espousal of the old idea of divine inspiration was probably his own response to these developments. Cratinus’ stance should probably be seen in the light of the process which Finkelberg (1998: 18 n. 65) describes as ‘the doctrine of poetic enthusiasm in a state of possession, which did become extremely popular in the fifth century BC, [and] can be explained as a sort of polemical reinforcement of the traditional idea of divine inspiration against the new concept of poetry as an art’.

28

For these parameters of the Aristophanic persona, see Bakola (2008: 4–10). See n. 23 above, especially Noussia. çe › ººa Ng çıfi A• j ÆŁ b ºæ Ø j Æªªºø fi Æ, ŒæÆŒ S , ¼ŒæÆÆ ªÆæ . . . 31 Common sophistic doctrine was that poetry’s aim was to produce pleasure; cf. Gorg. B 23 D-K; Dissoi logoi 3.17 D-K; Pl. Grg. 502b–c), and skill, sophistication, and learning were the qualities which offered this kind of pleasure. Sophistic education often used poetry for the exhibition of virtuosity in the form of citing from a variety of poets and thereby displaying sophistication (see e.g. Hippias B 6 D-K, Pl. Lg. 810e– 811a). Dexiotes and kainotes, two terms associated by Aristophanes with both himself and Euripides, were closely linked with such exhibitions of learnedness (Ar. Ran. 1113–14, V. 1052–9; Hippias B 6 D-K). 29 30

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If we extend this train of thought, fr. 342 can be used as evidence that Cratinus evoked Aeschylus in his self-presentation in a manner which is analogous to the way we know Aristophanes had used Euripides.32 On close consideration, the rhetoric which Cratinus uses in relation to Aristophanes is clearly reminiscent of the criteria by which Euripides’ and Aeschylus’ poetic styles are distinguished in Aristophanes’ Frogs. Frogs is the play where the binary approach which Cratinus evokes in fr. 342 is most extensively used, especially for the contrasting portrayals of the two tragic poets. On one hand, Euripides is tellingly portrayed as a cold intellectual whose poetry lies in fancy dealings with words and crude reasoning (for example, Ra. 956–8, 971–9).33 In opposition to the intellectualism of the cartoonish ‘Euripides’, Aeschylus’ comic counterpart is presented as the embodiment of manic inspiration (Ra. 814–25), and he is even characterized as ´ÆŒåE , ‘possessed and inspired by Bacchus’, in Ra. 1259: ŁÆıÇø ªaæ ªøª’ ‹Å fi łÆ F e ´ÆŒåE ¼ÆŒÆ,34 ŒÆd Øå’ bæ ÆP F.

I simply can’t help wondering how he aims to criticize this Bacchic lord and I’m afraid of him.

In her discussion of Euripidean and Aeschylean style in Frogs, LadaRichards (1999: 244) points out Plato’s analogy between poets in trance and the Dionysiac bacchants in Ion 534a: so the lyric poets compose those fine songs when they are not in their senses ( PŒ çæ Z ), but when they embark on the music and the rhythm, they become frenzy-stricken (ÆŒåı ı Ø), and it is under possession (ŒÆå Ø)—as the bacchants draw honey and milk from the rivers when they are possessed . . . —that the soul of the lyric poets is doing the same thing.

32 Except from Aristophanes’ reservations towards the tragic poet. For the role of Euripides in Aristophanes’ self-presentation, see Silk (2000a: 48–52, 322–6). The association of a comic poet with a tragic authority is exemplified elsewhere: Cratinus’ coinage ØæØºŒçÆÅ (fr. 502), which associates the comic poet Ecphantides with the tragic poet Choerilus, suggests a similar relationship. 33 Cf. most recently, Lada-Richards (1999: 234–5). 34 For Aeschylus as ´ÆŒåE ¼Æ, see Lada-Richards (1999: ch. 6.2).


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We should connect this portrayal of Aeschylus in Frogs to the fact that he was associated with another mania, that of intoxication. Athenaeus reports a statement by Chameleon which associates Aeschylus with intoxicated inspiration and composition in an ecstatic state of mind: Łø b K Ø a æÆªø fi Æ `N åº , S çÅ Ø ÆÆØºø. ç ŒºB ª F TØÇ ÆPfiH ‹Ø, N ŒÆd a Æ ØE, Iºº’ PŒ N ª (Ath. 1.22ab). Aeschylus used to write his tragedies drunk, according to Chameleon. Sophocles, at any rate, found fault with him, saying that even if he used the right words, he did so unconsciously.35 (Tr. Olson 2006)

The portrayals of Aeschylus and Euripides in Frogs embody the contrast of ‘inspired’ against ‘technical’ poetry, while the former is associated with ‘old’ and the latter with ‘new’ (a ÆºÆØ - a ŒÆØ Ra. 1107). Tellingly, Cratinus has a place in Frogs, too: almost two decades after the end of Cratinus’ career, the poetry of the old master of comedy is presented as the embodiment of the Dionysiac and the poet as Dionysus himself: PçÅE åæc ŒI Æ ŁÆØ E æ Ø Ø å æ E Ø, / ‹ Ø . . . · · · · · · · · · · Åb ˚æÆ ı F Æıæ çª ı ªºÅ ´ÆŒåE Kº ŁÅ (Ra. 354–7) All speak fair, and the following shall stand apart from our dances: whoever . . . or has not been initiated in the Bacchic rites of bull-eating Cratinus’ language.

Furthermore, the image of the gushing stream, the other topos which (as argued above) Cratinus had used to represent his own inspiration and which had been distorted by Aristophanes (cf. Ar. Knights 526–8 and Cratin. fr. 198), is in Frogs attributed by Dionysus to Aeschylus (Frogs 1004–5):

35 The portrayals of Aeschylus and Sophocles in Chameleon are heavily evocative of comedy. Cf. Ath. 10.428f–429a; Plu. fr. 130; Plu. Mor. 622e and 715de; Luc. Dem. Enc. 15; Eust. Od. 1598.58.

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Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice Iºº’ t æH H ¯ ººø ıæª Æ æ ÆÆ a ŒÆd Œ Æ æÆªØŒe ºBæ , ŁÆææH e Œæ ıe IçØ.

Now then, you who were the first of the Greeks to rear towers of majestic utterance and adorn tragic rant, take heart and let the stream gush!

Aristophanes’ portrayal of the two poets in Frogs in combination with Cratinus’ consistent presentation of his Dionysiac, genuinely inspired poetics is certainly suggestive of a strong link between the two. The last piece of the puzzle comes from the anonymous author of the treatise On Comedy (Proleg. de com. 3). In that work (p. 8, 20 Koster¼ test. 2a), it is noted that Cratinus ªª b ØÅØŒÆ , ŒÆÆ ŒıÇø N e `N åº ı åÆæÆŒBæÆ (was highly poetic, composing his plays in the style of Aeschylus). This association is usually treated with scepticism by modern scholars as a post-classical overschematization.36 Nevertheless, if Frogs tells us anything about public perceptions of Aeschylus and Aeschylean poetry in the fifth century, and about the background against which these perceptions are viewed (i.e. the binary approach of ‘old and inspired’ against ‘new and technical’ poetry), it is that this evidence should be used to aid our understanding of the Anonymous author’s claim. Thus we can see that: (i) Cratinus was familiar with Aeschylean tragedy and in several cases alluded to it;37 (ii) Cratin. fr. 342.2 PæØØÆæØ çÆÇø and fr. 502 ØæØºŒçÆÅ (see n. 32 above) unambiguously attest Cratinus’ awareness of the comic strategy of self-association with a tragic authority; (iii) among Aristophanes’ audience Cratinus was viewed as a poet of the older generation (cf. Aristophanes’ mockery of him as an old man in Eq. 533),38 as was Aeschylus; 36

Silk (2000b: 304 and 310), rejects the possibility of any truth in the association of Cratinus with Aeschylus. Bowie (2000: 323) is also sceptical. Pieters (1976) reads the claim too literally. For the author of the treatise see Konstantakos (2000: 173), who argues that this work is ‘a comprehensive bibliographical compilation, composed by a scholar with access to a large library’. For earlier research on this source, ibid., n. 1. 37 Cratinus’ extensive engagement with Aeschylus, especially the Oresteia, Hiketides, and Theoroi or Isthmiastai is analysed below, in Chs. 2 and 3. 38 Cratinus’ reputation for his remarkable longevity (test. 3) may also derive from this perception. See also below, p. 284.


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(iv) the portrayal of Aeschylus in Frogs is consistent with Cratinus’ advertisement of his Dionysiac poetics and genuine poetic inspiration; (v) the contrasting portrayals of Aeschylus and Euripides evoke comedy’s distinction between inspired/old and technical/new; (vi) the association of Euripides with Aristophanes as poets of mere intellectualism was known and evoked by Cratinus himself in his PæØØÆæØ çÆÇØ passage. Therefore it seems likely that, in the context of comic competition, and in competition specifically with Aristophanes, Cratinus, as a poet of the older generation, expressed his own comic poetics with specific reference to the master of older tragedy, Aeschylus. A scholarly recording of this artistic claim was probably the source of what the anonymous author of the treatise On Comedy wrote.39

1.2. THE DIFFUSION OF POETIC VOICE IN OLD COMEDY

1.2.1. Multitude of Voices and Polyphony in Old Comic Theatre Thus far we have reconstructed and explored Cratinus’ poetic persona, but without touching specifically upon the notion of ‘voice’. Sometimes (either explicitly or implicitly) poetic voice and persona are treated as identical or largely overlapping concepts; however, although this may be useful for non-performative and especially non-dialogic literature, in theatre, on account of the plurality of voices involved, this concept and its use are more complex and require further qualification.40 Greek drama in particular is a

39

For ancient tradition concerning the lives and the careers of Greek poets ultimately deriving from what they themselves said in their plays, see Lefkowitz (1978) and (1981) passim. 40 An early and balanced discussion of poetic and other voices in drama is Eliot (1957: 89–102).

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peculiar category, since it involves not only the voices of several characters, but also gives special prominence to the choral voice. For practical purposes it might be useful to separate out three major manifestations of ‘voice’ in Greek drama: the choral (community) voice, the (individual) characters’ voices, and the poet’s voice (author-related and metapoetic statements). Admittedly, none of these categories has the fixity that the mere fact of the classification might imply: for example, the choral voice can shift and negotiate time and time again the point of view that it represents, from that of the chorus in dramatic character to civic community to festival or ritual chorus.41 Furthermore, the poet can occupy a number of roles or alter and develop his posturing according to his needs.42 As far as the characters are concerned, the voice of the comic hero might be worth separating out from secondary characters’ voices, since it would seem more suitable as a vehicle for authorial statements—an approach which, however, although valid to an extent, is not entirely representative of old comedy.43 Nevertheless, although a little schematic, this classification is useful for elucidating the authorial voice in Greek drama: in contrast to non-performative literature such as the novel—where the narrator’s voice can be more readily associated with the voice of the poet—in drama authorial voice can manifest itself by being merged with or carried by the characters’ voices or the choral voice or both.44 In this respect old comedy is a peculiar case, since unlike other Greek 41

For recent work on choral voice in tragedy see Goldhill (1996); Mastronarde (1998); Calame (1999). For the choral voice in Aristophanic comedy, see Calame, who remarks (2004a: 159) that in comedy ‘the question of the authority of the choral voice has scarcely been touched’. Bierl’s monograph deals with the issue only in passing (2001: 128 n. 50 and 334–5). 42 Nevertheless, the self-posturing of Aristophanes, Cratinus, and Eupolis in the 420s was characterized by relative consistency (Bakola 2008). So were the majority of archaic poetic personas: cf. Morrison (2007: 61–7). 43 See below. Contra Hubbard (1991), who attempts to show how Aristophanes sets up a ‘parallelism between the poet’s glorified persona and major characters involved in the dramatic action of each play: Dicaeopolis, the Sausage-Seller, Socrates, Bdelycleon, Trygaeus’ (220). For a more successful approach based on comic polyphony, see Dobrov (1995a: 50). 44 Non-verbal elements (such as set, music, etc.) can also be taken to carry the poet’s voice (cf. Carlson 1992: 319–20), but fall outside the scope of the present discussion.


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literary genres, the poet’s voice is explicitly associated with a specific formal section, the parabasis proper. However, this does not restrict the ways and places in which the poetic voice can manifest itself in comedy; quite the opposite. Paradoxically, as we will see, the close association of the choral with the authorial voice through the comic parabasis, and other features such as the striking nature of polyphony which characterizes the genre, facilitate the diffusion of poetic voice to a degree that makes the parabasis proper only part of the process of poetic self-presentation—and sometimes not even the main one. As Acharnians 627–9 and Knights 507–9 suggest, the use of the chorus in the parabasis proper for poetic self-presentation and advertisement was standard comic practice by 425.45 The standard use of the parabasis proper means that in comedy more than in any other dramatic genre, the poet’s voice had an established potential of being unambiguously associated with the choral voice. The explicitness and overtness of the identification of the poet’s voice with that of his chorus as found in the comic parabasis is unparalleled in tragedy or satyr drama. Only in choral lyric can an equivalent be found for choral and authorial voice converging in a fashion as explicit as in the comic parabasis. The convergence of the voices in both cases is so close that not only are the chorus able to say ‘I’ and explicitly mean the poet,46 they can talk about the poet in the third person and easily switch to the first or play with the ambiguity between the two.47 For a 45 Contra Hubbard (1991) 19. The matter-of-fact use of the terms E

IÆÆ Ø and of the idea hø ÆæÅ æe e ŁÆæ ºø ‰ Ø K Ø suggest that this was perceived as standard poetic practice. 46 e.g. Pi. Dith. fr. 75. In Ach. 659–64, Pax 754–67 and throughout the parabasis proper of Clouds (518–62) the chorus speak as ‘Aristophanes’ in the first person singular. Nevertheless, especially in choral lyric, rarely does the persona loquens represent a single viewpoint (see n. 47). It is constantly renegotiated and reconstructed according to an elaborate communication strategy. See D’Alessio (1994: passim); Currie (2005: 19–21). 47 In B. 5 the chorus praise the åæı ıŒ ˇPæÆÆ ŒºØe Łæ Æ and exalts him beyond his rivals, but in v. 31 the voice of the poet himself emerges in the forefront (K ). Often in epinician poetry first-person references can be ambiguously taken as coming from both the chorus (who are most probably performing the ode) and the poet, whereas other times either voice may override: cf. Carey (1981: 16–17). In the anapaests of Peace the comic chorus’ reference to the poet as ‘he’ is abruptly taken over by the Aristophanic ‘I’ in the middle of the syntactical unit (754), and momentarily and at a single instance in the whole of the Aristophanic corpus the

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fifth-century audience the choral lyric affiliations of Greek drama would make the convergence of choral with authorial voice easily penetrable. However, the formal association of the two in the parabasis of comedy would arguably make their connection far more explicit in this genre, and therefore, as we will see, prepare for a bolder overlapping of the two outside the parabasis. Another element which potentially facilitates the diffusion of the poet’s voice in comedy is the polyphonic nature of its characters and chorus. In recent years the model of Bakhtinian dialogism has been applied to Aristophanic comedy to illustrate its idiosyncratic lack of homogeneity between character and voice.48 It has been argued that what Aristophanic characters say does not contribute to a single characterization (as it generally does in more realistic genres such as new comedy), and a reason for this is that they often express more than one voice in a single context.49 This versatility of voice enables comic characters to merge identities or to switch between them. A voice’s viewpoint becomes even less easy to pinpoint as the characters or chorus, at times, speak extra-dramatically or alter their appearance—and therefore their character—through disguise. The polyphonic quality of dialogism can shed light on the use of authorial voice in old comedy, as one of the voices with which characters or the chorus sometimes speak is the author’s.

Choral and Authorial Voice in Aristophanes and Eupolis Before returning to Cratinus and his manipulation of the poetic voice, a brief survey of the same phenomenon in Aristophanes and Eupolis may provide an illuminating background. Aristophanes’ chorus switch from singular to plural while speaking in the voice of the poet (Pax 767 ÆæÆØ F, but 765 ’ K F and 769 K F). In Knights (507–50) there is no explicit ‘I’, but the chorus switch their viewpoint by speaking about their poet as cavalrymen (cf. Eq. 510) and intermittently as his ‘comic chorus’ (Eq. 507–9). 48 See Goldhill (1991: 167–201); Dobrov (1995a: passim); von Mo¨llendorf (1995: 222–66). 49 See Dobrov (1995a: 51–5). The most influential approach to character instability in old comedy is Silk (1990: passim; 2000a: ch. 5); see also Fisher (1993) on Acharnians; however, neither in Silk nor in Fisher is the phenomenon approached through ‘voice’.


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Acharnians illustrates a range of ways in which the voice of the chorus converges with that of the poet in and especially outside the parabasis. Throughout the play, the chorus speaks with several voices: that of the chorus speaking ‘in character’, a character which is typically unstable and which fluctuates between ‘Acharnian old men’ and ‘Athenian farmers’; that of the chorus speaking as ‘comic chorus’; and that of ‘Aristophanes’. The latter comes clearly to the fore especially when the chorus makes persona-related statements. In the parabasis proper the chorus of Acharnians start speaking as an advocate for the poet (626–58) but end up speaking as his mouthpiece, since their voice is suddenly overridden by the voice of ‘Aristophanes’ defending himself against Cleon in the first person (659– 64). Similarly, outside the parabasis the chorus merge their voice with that of the poet entirely when in a short invective song they say to Dicaeopolis (299–302): ‰ ÅŒ ˚º j ø Ø Aºº , ‹ K j ªg H E Ø ƒ j F Ø ŒÆÆÆ (for I hate you even more than Cleon, whom I intend to cut up as shoeleather for the Knights). This utterance clearly evokes a prominent aspect of the fictionalized ‘Aristophanes’, his single-handed battle against Cleon through his poetry and his plan to write the following year’s Knights. The same aspect of the Aristophanic persona is evoked in another case of absolute merging of the choral with the authorial voice outside the parabasis, this time in a lyric passage of invective against Cleon in Knights 400: ¯Y c Ø H, ª Å K ˚æÆ ı ŒfiØ (If I do not hate you, may I become a blanket in the house of Cratinus). The Aristophanic chorus, as Calame (2004a) has remarked, tend to merge their voice with the poet’s in the exodos songs as well, especially when they evoke their anticipation of victory (Lys. 1291ff., Ec. 1182, Th. 1229ff., Av. 1764). Wasps 1535–7 is suggestive: Iºº’ Kª’, Y Ø çØºE’, Oæå Ø, ŁæÆÇ A Æå• F ªaæ P ø æ æÆŒ, Oæå ‹ Ø IººÆ å æe æıªø fi H. Now lead us out of here dancing, if you please, and quickly; for no one has ever done this before, to take a comic chorus off in dance.

As Calame notes on this passage, ‘the author himself seems to intervene in his text. To say that “no one has yet sent off a comic chorus dancing” in effect refers both to the dancing on stage of the

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crab-master and his choreutai, and to an indirect intervention, in a sort of sphragis in the third person, of the man who undertook the training of the chorus.’50 An even more striking diffusion of the poetic voice through its choral equivalent can be demonstrated in Eupolis. According to a citation by Aristeides (—æd F ÆæÆçŁªÆ 28.91–2), early on in Marikas (fr. 205),51 the poet invited the audience to forget his rivals’ soporific nonsense and pay attention to his own play, which would make them wise and serious: Iºº’ ªøª Œøø fi Ø Ø F Ø XŒ ı Æ º ª ı ı ŁÆıÆ a x Æ . . . ŒÆ Ø ÆPH K Iæåfi B F æÆ ªÆºÆıå ‰ æ çÅ

æ Æª æØ Ø• IçıÇ ŁÆØ < > åæc Æ ŁÆc, Ie b ºçæø ÆPŁÅæØe ØÅH ºBæ IçÆ, S æ K KŒÅ fi fiB æfi Æ ººø –ÆÆ ç ŒÆd ıÆ ı Ø Ø But I have heard a passage where some comic poet uses wonderfully solemn phrases . . . and one of them, boasting at the beginning of his play, like a prophet makes this proclamation: every spectator must awake wiping from his lids the poets’ ephemeral drivel. As if on that day he were going to make them all wise and serious. (Tr. Behr 1981, adapted)

Aristeides attributes these verses to the beginning of the play (K IæåfiB F æÆ ); the anapaestic tetrameter verse suggests that the fragments should be attributed specifically to the parodos.52 K IæåfiB F æÆ can mean that Marikas opened directly with this formal section,53 and this finds parallels in Cratinus’ Odysseis, Boukoloi, and 50 Calame (2004a: 182). Calame also rightly notes (ibid. n. 53) that in V. 1515 the same wish is put in the mouth of a character, Philocleon. 51 For the attribution of this fragment to Eupolis’ Marikas see K-A ad loc., citing cod. Par. 3005 ¯h ºØ ºªØ F K fiH !ÆæØŒfi A. 52 This metre is used in the parodoi of Aristophanes’ Clouds and Frogs, Cratinus’ Odysseis (cf. fr. 143), and probably in Eupolis’ Aiges as well (cf. Macrobius 7.5.8, and Storey (2003: 352). Storey (2003: 350 and 361) takes Marikas fr. 205 as coming from the parodos on different grounds. 53 Contra Storey (2003: 206), who assigns fr. 201 to a prologue before the parodos, which is not impossible, but for which there is no conclusive argument. It could equally well have come from a section immediately after the parodos, so that the testimony of Aristeides is not cast in doubt.


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Plutoi (see below, 5.1.1, 1.3.2, and 1.3.3 respectively). The meaning of Eupolis’ boastful claim about making the audience wise and serious is clarified by a section in iambic tetrameters which came either before or after fr. 205 in the same parodos (fr. 192.1–41). This section constructs the audience as students and ‘Eupolis’ as the ‘poet-teacher’ (cf. fr. 192.14–19), Eupolis’ distinct poetic persona – at least during his rivalry with Aristophanes and Cratinus in the 420s.54 Eupolis’ Marikas, therefore, opened with the chorus speaking the poet’s voice, addressing the audience directly and offering a striking picture of ‘Eupolis’ and his poetic programme.55 Apart from an advocate, the chorus was perhaps also used as a mouthpiece, if the context of fr. 205 was a first-person utterance, as Aristeides seems to suggest. This may not have been the only one of Eupolis’ comedies where the poet’s voice emerged at the outset. Prospaltians fr. 259.1–38 could suggest that this play contained statements concerning the poet early on, and that early part could well have been the parodos (cf. l.13).56 Using the parodoi and the exodoi as vehicles for the poet’s voice can in part be understood in the light of rhetorical theory, which stresses the potential of beginnings and ends for the effect of a speech. Yet even more relevant for the description of this phenomenon in comedy is the literary convention which modern scholars call sphragis and which Calame aptly invokes in his discussion of Aristophanic exodoi.57 Such signature-sections in which the author, in the process of identifying himself, articulates his artistic principles and defines his poetic concerns, tend to appear especially at the beginning and end of compositions.58 Although the convention of sphragis concerns non-dramatic poetry, the author’s consciousness of his poem as a continuous composition makes the application of the term in this 54

See above, p. 23. Frogs 354ff. belongs to an anapaestic tetrameter parodos which contains quasiparabatic statements (but does not open the play). Like the chorus of Marikas, the chorus of Boukoloi also defended the poet’s persona at the outset (below, 1.3.2). 56 Storey (2003: 232–3) believes that fr. 259.1–38 comes from the prologue, as he does not consider the option of the parodos. The fragment is so mutilated that there is no possibility of deducing its metre. 57 2004a: 182–3. 58 For recent discussions see Hordern (2002: 228–9); Calame (2004b: 11–19); the most complete work on sphragis across time and genre, and with special emphasis on beginnings and endings, is Kranz (1961). 55

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case particularly apposite. Like the archaic poets, the comic poets were conscious of the potential of these sections for rhetorical effect.

Authorial Voice in the Dialogue The tendency to use beginnings and ends to advertise one’s poetic merits and make polemical statements against one’s rivals can be identified even outside lyric sections,59 where characters and chorus speak in the author’s voice and sometimes even share it in a dialogue. This is one of the ways in which the voice of ‘Aristophanes’ emerges in Frogs.60 In the opening scene, Dionysus and his slave Xanthias speak not only as characters and as actors, but also as ‘Aristophanes’, making polemical statements at the expense of the poet’s rivals (1–18). The scene is dialogic not only in format, but also in the Bakhtinian sense of ‘dialogic’, since the authorial statements are contradicted and undercut by self-irony (18–30) as is often the case in parabatic anapaests (cf. Clouds 537ff.). In the opening scene of Wasps the voice of the Aristophanic persona is also merged with that of a character (54–66), where the slave Xanthias claims that their comedy has nothing to do with the low, vulgar, or commonplace comedy of other poets and praises the audience for its sophistication. Fr. 201 from Eupolis’ Marikas can be read along similar lines: Ł• g ªæ, ¼æ , hŁ’ ƒ (you will hear; for, gentlemen, the two of us are neither knights . . . —or, are not doing Knights [again]; (tr. Storey 2003, adapted). suggests that these lines were not spoken by the chorus, but by a character referring to himself as one of a pair. This verse is a polemical comment at the expense of 59 In later periods, the practice of using beginnings and endings to make programmatic statements appears not only in Hellenistic and Roman lyric, but also in Roman comedy. All of Terence’s and many of Plautus’ openings (Cas., Poen., Amph., Capt.) were programmatic (and/or polemical) in content. Scholars have aptly pointed out the influence of rhetoric on their practice (cf. Parker 1996: 601–4; Goldberg 1986: 31–60). One example from middle comedy which is often mentioned as antecedent of the Plautine and Terentian prologues is Antiphanes, Poiesis fr. 189 (cf. Arnott 1986: 2; Parker 1996: 602). This is very likely—although absolute certainty is, unfortunately, impossible—to have come from the prologue. 60 See also the didactic parabatic epirrhemata (vv. 686–705 and 718–37) and the quasi-parabatic verses of the parodos 354ff. Section 1.6 discusses these sections and the role of the Frogs poetic agon in Aristophanes’ redefinition of his poetic persona.


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Aristophanes’ Knights, and possibly, as Ł suggests, part of an expository section early in the play (cf. Knights 36ff., Wasps 54ff.). Most probably, it belonged to a section just after the parodos discussed earlier.61 Further evidence suggests that, although there is a tendency to deploy authorial voice in more prominent sections such as beginnings and ends, there are in fact no boundaries as to where this can happen. As with the chorus, what allows the poet to use any character in any part of his plays as a vehicle for his own voice is the polyphony of comic dialogism. As Dobrov has aptly noted, ‘no distinct boundary protects the dramatis personae from invasion by (the fictionalized) “Aristophanes”’.62 The most striking example is again Acharnians, where the poet merges his voice with that of the protagonist; this merging, albeit intermittent and of varying degrees, is pervasive, extending almost from the beginning to the end of the play.63 Aristophanes merges his voice with Bdelycleon’s in Wasps who embodies (albeit more intermittently than the name of the character could perhaps suggest) his persona as the ‘reformer’, with emphasis on healing and purification.64 In fragmentary Aristophanes, the iambic trimeter verses from Women Claiming Tent-Sites (fr. 488) contains (according to the citation) the poet’s thoughts on his paradoxical relationship to Euripidean poetry, which was an issue raised in his intertextual dialogue with both Cratinus and Eupolis:65

61

For a recent discussion of Knights and Marikas in respect of their authors’ claims for ‘plagiarism’, ‘counter-plagiarism’, and ‘joint authorship’ see Storey (2003: 281–97). This exchange should probably be understood as an intertextual dialogue on the role of originality in poetry. 62 Dobrov (1995a: 50). 63 Cf. Bowie (1982); Hubbard (1991: 41–59); Fisher (1993). 64 The intermittent identifications of ‘Aristophanes’ with Bdelycleon are confirmed in retrospect at the delivery of the parabatic anapaests (1017–37). Several scholars have argued that there is an identification between ‘poet’ and Bdelycleon in Wasps: Russo (19942: 124 (1962: 194)); Paduano (1974: 71); Reckford (1987: 254–5, 273–5); Hubbard (1991: 114); Olson (1996: 143–5). 65 This and Cratin. fr. 342 are cited by Areth. (B) Pl. Ap. 19c KŒøø fi E ’ Kd fiH ŒØ b ¯PæØÅ, ØE ŁÆØ ’ ÆP. ˚æÆE ‘ b ; . . . PæØØÆæØ çÆÇø’ (fr. 342). ŒÆd ÆPe ’ K º ªEÆØ ŒÅa ŒÆÆºÆÆ ÆØ

‘åæHÆØ . . . ØH’. For Eupolis on Aristophanes and Euripides, see Eup. Autolykos fr. 60.1 and Storey (2003: 88–9).

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Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice åæHÆØ ªaæ ÆP F F Æ fiH æ ªªºø fi , f F ’ Iª æÆ ı w j ’ŒE ØH

I make use of his polished, compact style, but my ideas are less vulgar than his are.

In the absence of evidence that the poet made his ‘persona’ a character in that play, and in view of the parallels above, it seems likely that ‘Aristophanes’ ventriloquated through one of his characters or his chorus in the course of the dialogue and made a comment about his use of Euripides. The voice of ‘Aristophanes’ is heard from the mouth of a character as late as Wealth, and interestingly we have scholiastic comments which identify this phenomenon as ÆæÆ Ø ØÅ F.66 This is when the god Plutus refuses to be showered with sweetmeats while he enters Chremylus’ house, and soon it turns out that his objection concerns not this traditional custom of xenia, but, as in the Wasps passage discussed earlier, the vulgar practices of the comic poets to gain the favour of the audience (vv. 797–9): ˇP ªaæ æH K Ø fiH ØÆ Œºø fi N åØÆ ŒÆd æøªºØÆ E Łø Ø

æ Æº’, Kd Ø r’ IÆªŒÇØ ªºA. Our producer shouldn’t be tossing figs and munchies to the spectators in hopes of forcing their laughter.

Finally, along lines which we tend to think of as merely Aristophanic seems to be the iambic trimeter fr. 115 from the Perialges of Plato: n

æHÆ b ˚ºøØ º MæÅ (I, who first declared war against Cleon). Since there is no reason to suspect that this verse has been wrongly ascribed to Plato, it appears that ‘having a personal feud’ with Cleon and ‘fighting’ him in comedy could have been a claim made by other comic poets as part of the process of their own selfpresentation.

66

See . Pl. 4a 797a › b ºª æe f IØå ı , ŒÆd K E “çÅd” K (V. 58–9); cf. Pl. 4b 797a F , fiH b ŒE, Ie F —º ı K d, fiB IºÅŁfi Æ, Ææa F ØÅ F thPstr j ÆæÆ Ø ØÅ F Mt; Pl. 4b 797b [on fiH ØÆ Œºø fi ]: K , fiH `æØ çØ Cr2,ChisLNp1Par,Rs j K , fiH ØÅfiB Reg. On this passage, see below, Ch. 4 pp. 202–3.


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The range of the examples cited and analysed above suggests that authorial voice in old comedy is potentially a pervasive presence which can manifest itself in a variety of ways and come through with different ‘volumes’. It is best understood on a spectrum, which ranges from (at one extreme) third-person statements, where the chorus or a character speaks as an advocate for their poet, to (at the other extreme) firstperson statements, singular or plural, where characters or chorus speak as the mouthpiece of the poet. Between these extremes, the voices merge in varying degrees, blurring the boundaries of the authority of voice.

1.3. ‘CRATINUS’ AND THE CHORUS: PARABASES, PARODOI, AND EXODOI

1.3.1. ‘Cratinus’ in the Parabases There is enough material to suggest that in Cratinus’ comedy parabases proper are also associated with authorial, persona-related, and competitive statements. As in Aristophanes and Eupolis, so too in Cratinus the chorus adopt a range of viewpoints in order to speak for the poet. The chorus speak as ‘Cratinus’ in the celebrated fr. 34267 and evoke his persona as the inspired poet (above, pp. 24–9). Elsewhere they speak as ‘comic chorus’. This is the viewpoint they adopt, for example, in fr. 361,68 where they claim to endure and brave anything for their job—and presumably for the poetic victory: hØ ŒØ åÆE’ ¼Æ åÆEæ’, çÆ Œ’ ¯ ŒçÆÅ

Æ ç æÅ, Æ ºÅa fiH fiH å æfiH ºc ˛ ı Ø Ø ŒÆd å Øø , t æø Hail ivy-haired Lord Euios, as Ecphantides said. Everything’s got to be borne and dared by this chorus. Except from the ‘nomes’ of Xenias and Schoinion, O Charon. 67

It is now orthodox to treat fr. 342 as parabatic on account of its content and metre; cf. Quaglia (1998: 58). It is not impossible, however, that the verses come from elsewhere in the play, e.g. the agon or the parodos. 68 The metre is cratinean, which is common for parabases proper (cf. Sifakis 1971: 34; Quaglia 1998: 60–1).

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Although the voice is explicitly identified as choral (cf. v. 2), the competitive statement at the expense of rival poets suggests that fr. 361 contains an authorial intervention as well. By å Øø Cratinus means Callias (cf. Suda Œ 213). ˛Æ seems to be Aristophanes, who was mocked for his allegedly foreign ethnicity (Ar. test. 1.21; cf. Eup. fr. 392).69 Since these verses were probably not contiguous, it is difficult to be confident about their meaning. It is at least reasonable to suppose that the reference to Ecphantides’ invocation of Dionysus, perhaps in a hymn-like composition,70 is meant in a positive sense. This is not only because of the poet’s favour towards the god, but also because in this context Ecphantides, unlike the other two poets, is mentioned by his real name and not a nickname (contrast Cratinus on Ecphantides in fr. 462). On the other hand, in the third verse the songs of the other two poets seem to be excluded or rejected. The reason why Cratinus endorses Ecphantides’ lyric compositions and rebuffs the songs of two other comic poets is unclear. One possibility is that this rejection concerns religious, and more specifically, Dionysiac, associations which their poetry (unlike Ecphantides’ and, implicitly, unlike Cratinus’ own) is accused of lacking. Two more fragments which contain authorial statements, frr. 346 and 360, have been tentatively identified as coming from sections which constitute a unity with the parabasis proper. Fr. 360 (from an unknown play) seems to reflect Cratinus’ advertisement of his poetry as Dionysiac: åÆEæ’, t ª’ IåæØªºø ‹Øº ÆE KÆØ

B æÆ çÆ ŒæØc ¼æØ ø. PÆ ’ ØŒ Åæ NŒæø łçÅ Ø .71 Greetings, O mob of the great burst of laughter for no good reason! The day after you are the best of all judges of my artistic wisdom. Your mother, the pounding from the bleachers, has given you a blessed birth. 69 Another candidate (less likely) is Phrynichus ( Ran. 13). Both were suggested by Bergk (1838: 116); see K-A ad loc. 70 This is suggested by åÆEæ(), which is found in the conclusion of most Homeric hymns. 71 In archilochean metre, which in the extant fragments is almost always used in choral parts (cf. Storey 2003: 179). It has been suggested by Runkel that it comes from a parabasis (the kommation). For a commentary on this fragment (with a different interpretation), see Olson (2007: 108).


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Again in this passage the chorus speaks with the voice of the poet (cf. his claim for ‘artistic excellence’ B æÆ çÆ ). The address to the audience is initially constructed as if it were going to be complimentary, but ends up being far from that. This is because the poet seeks to present his poetry implicitly as misunderstood and unappreciated by the audience, a competitive strategy also used by Aristophanes in the parabases of Clouds and Wasps. The lack of appreciation is suggested by the sarcastic comments at the expense of the audience’s tastes and behaviour ª’ IåæØªºø

‹Øº and Åæ NŒæø łçÅ Ø . Even more so, however, it is suggested by the poet’s refererence to ÆE KÆØ , which seems to evoke the individual character of his poetry and the state of mind which it requires in order to be properly appreciated: KÆ, ‘the day after the festival ends’, as opposed to the days of the festival, denotes the ceasing of feasting, especially drinking (cf. Pi. P. 4.140 and Braswell 1988: ad loc.). #ÆE KÆØ , therefore, may suggest ‘not in a state of intoxication’ or ‘with a hangover’. As such, and like other references to drinking in Cratinus, KÆØ is likely to have a metapoetic dimension, suggesting that Cratinus’ intoxicationinspired poetry is liable to be misunderstood. By presenting his work as the ‘underdog’ in the competition, paradoxically Cratinus seems to aim at capturing the audience’s benevolentia.72 Although the author and his art were probably the most common theme of the parabasis proper, especially before the 410s, the evidence suggests that a number of main parabases, not only the extant ones from Birds and thereafter but much earlier, were not poetcentred. Fr. 105 from Cratinus’ Malthakoi (before 422/1 BC) almost certainly comes from the parabasis proper of that play on account of its eupolidean metre.73 In this passage the chorus speak about 72 In the other fragment, fr. 346 (also from an unknown play and possibly a parabatic pnigos), a rival’s art is undermined as vulgar: e ’ ˙æÆŒº ı ØH

¼ªØ j ŒÆd Œ ÆFÆ { P Øøe K Ø. It is not impossible that either 346 or 360 could have come from other sections of the play where the poet inserted authorial statements, such as the parodos or the exodos. 73 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 188), K-A ad loc., and Sifakis (1971: 34) with more examples. In his study of the eupolidean verse, while accepting the strong connection of eupolideans with the parabasis, Poultney (1979: 140–1) suggested that ‘Eupolidean metre may have spread to a slight extent beyond the bounds of the comic parabasis’.

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themselves in their dramatic character, anticipating parabases such as those of Birds and Thesmophoriazousae. Pherecrates’ Doulodidaskalos (cf. fr. 52) and possibly Telecleides’ Amphictyons (cf. fr. 2) may suggest that in parabases proper authorial themes were sometimes replaced for (or combined with) topical ones almost two decades before onomasti satire penetrates the anapaests of Thesmophoriazousae. In Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros the parabasis proper also focused on a topical issue, the legitimation of Pericles’ son which had caused public controversy in 429 (see Appendix 1). The flexibility in the poets’ use of the themes of the parabases may have partly been encouraged by the tendency to diffuse authorial interventions throughout the plays as well as the relentless desire to experiment on the part of the comic poets. It is not difficult to imagine that sections like the parodoi and the exodoi, which impacted on the first and final impressions of the audience and which involved a high degree of energy and spectacular effect, were particularly appropriate for authorial and competitive comment. This was even more apt than the use of the parabasis, which is positioned around the centre of the play, for similar interventions. The emergence of the poet’s voice in the beginnings and endings is a feature which we have already briefly explored in Eupolis and in Aristophanes, and which we will now explore in Cratinus.

1.3.2. ‘Cratinus’ in the Parodoi: Boukoloi The Primary Evidence Our knowledge of Boukoloi is at best sketchy, since what has survived from it (frr. 17–22) is too scanty to give any reliable picture of the plot. However, a close examination of this material, especially of the title and frr. 20 and 17, reveals important facts concerning the deployment of the authorial voice in Cratinus. As fr. 20, which constitutes the primary evidence, contains textual difficulties, before

This is possible, but undermined (although not refuted) by the fact that the only example given from old comedy, Cratin. fr. 75, is probably a trochaic tetrameter catalectic and not a eupolidean verse.


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we address the question of authorial voice, we shall first deal with establishing and making sense of the text: { ıææªåØ {• ˚æÆE Ie Łıæ ı K ´ ıŒº Ø Iæ

KØc å æe PŒ ºÆ b F ¼æå (Ææa F ¼æå K-A, Hansen) Ø y { MæØ (fr. 20 = Hsch. 4455).

This fragment has always been treated as corrupt, since none of the suggested solutions to its textual problems have been thought conclusive. However, even in its corrupt state, fr. 20 gives two important pieces of information for this play and contributes to the verification of a third: first, according to Hesychius, Boukoloi started with a dithyrambic song (˚æÆE Ie Łıæ ı K ´ ıŒº Ø

Iæ ). This in all probability would have been its parodos.74 Secondly, the song referred to the poet’s rejection by the archon to produce a play in an earlier competition (KØc å æe PŒ ºÆ b F ¼æå Ø). The third piece of information which this fragment helps to verify concerns the meaning of its title and thus the identity of its chorus. A literal reading of the word boukoloi suggests that the chorus were cowherds; however, the word can also mean ‘worshippers (or initiates) of Dionysus in bull-form’, as several passages from contemporary sources suggest, including Aristophanes’ Wasps 9–10 and Euripides’ Antiope fr. 203: ø: hŒ, Iºº’ o ’ åØ Ø KŒ ÆÆÇ ı. ˛Æ: e ÆPe ¼æ’ K d ıŒ ºE f Æ Æ.75 b ŁÆº Ø ( . . . ?) ıŒº ı ( . . . ?) Œ HÆ ŒØ HØ Fº P ı Ł F.76 74

Cf. Quaglia (1998: 29–30). ÆÇØ is identified with the Phrygian or Thracian Dionysus. From this passage Crusius (1889: 34–5) has inferred that the votaries of the Thracian Dionysus › Æıæ æç were called ıŒº Ø. Cf. MacDowell (1971) and Starkie (1897) ad loc. 76 Wilamowitz (1932: ii. 80 n. 3) conjectured ŁÆº Ø . . . ıŒºø, i.e. ıŒ ºE and Merkelbach (1988) 61 ŁÆº Ø ıŒº ı ; cf. Arist. Ath. 3.v › b Æ Øºf r å e F ŒÆº ´ ıŒ ºE , ºÅ F æıÆ ı• ÅE • Ø ŒÆd F ªaæ B F Æ Øºø ªıÆØŒe ØØ KÆFŁÆ ªªÆØ fiH ˜Ø ø fi ŒÆd › ª . . . (where the name ´ ıŒ ºE probably derives from the worship of Dionysus, cf. Rhodes (1981) and Sandys (19122) ad loc.). For the meaning of ıŒº see also Orph. 1.10, 31.7, 23.30 and Luc. Salt. 79.15. Cf. also the meaning of Å in E. Kretes (=Cretan initiates) fr. 472,11 ±ªe b K y j ˜Øe Æ ı Å ªÅ j ŒÆd ıŒØº ı ˘Æªæø Å . For Dionysus’ 75

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Whether or not the literal meaning of boukoloi was used during the play for the characterization of the chorus,77 the fact that the parodos of this comedy was a dithyrambic song strongly suggests that the primary identity of Cratinus’ chorus of boukoloi in this section was that of Dionysiac followers.

The Dithyrambic Parodos of the Play These three pieces of information are crucial for resolving the fragment’s textual problems and recovering the content of the parodos. First of all, the manuscript’s b makes acceptable sense and is consistent with what we already know from this fragment.78 The meaning it gives is clear: KØc å æe PŒ ºÆ æd F ¼æå

Ø ¼ ‘because he did not receive a chorus[;] it is about the archon’. With Casaubon’s modest correction of y { MæØ into y fi MŒØ,79 the last part of the fragment can be understood as ‘from whom he had requested it’. The exegetic part of the passage now becomes quite clear: ‘So (wrote) Cratinus, who in Boukoloi opened the play with a dithyramb, because he was not granted a chorus. The song is about the archon to whom he had applied.’ However, it is the lemma itself, the corrupt { ıææªåØ {, which sheds even more light on the nature of this song, which the ancient scholar called a ‘dithyramb’. The evidence suggests that the ancient source had good reason to pronounce this song thus. Within { ıææªåØ { two suggestive words can be distinguished, Fæ and ªå . Luppe corrected the lemma to ıæªåE, with the attractive explanation that the corrupted form came from a copyist’s ıæ misunderstanding of the reading æªåØ (where ıæ would have

ıŒº Ø in general see Crusius (1889: 34–5); Reitzenstein (1893: 204ff.) Cumont (1933: 247–8); Dodds (19602: 151); Merkelbach (1988: 61). 77 The poet may have played with the double meaning of the word, since in comedy the chorus is by no means required to have a continuous dramatic identity. Cf. Sifakis (1971: 32); Silk (1990: 167). 78 is the standard abbreviation for æ. Cf. Mu¨ller (1847: i. 456); Luppe (1987). K-A suggest Ææa, Crusius (1889: 34–5) Kd. 79 p. 908,40. Mu¨ller’s (1847: i. 456) n fi MÅŒØ is also possible.


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been another scribe’s correction).80 —ıæªå may have been an alternative form of Zeus’ epithet ŒæÆıªå (cf. Bacchylides 8.26 t ˘F Œ[]æÆıªå ), since Fæ was commonly used to signify ‘thunderbolt’.81 Whether or not Luppe is right about the existence of a word ıæªå , what should not be missed, as several parallels suggest,82 is that the combination of the words Fæ and ªå in a dithyramb readily lends itself to association with the thunderbolt. Besides, as Mendelsohn has shown,83 the thunderbolt was particularly associated with the dithyramb, on account of its connection with Dionysus’ birth, a stereotypical theme of dithyrambs.84 Therefore, the possible reference to the thunderbolt in this fragment suggests that the ancient source’s reference to this song as a dithyramb should be trusted.85 Another important element in support of this is the typically dithyrambic compound form of the word ıæªåE.86 All this reassures us that the ancient scholar who recorded this claim recognized dithyrambic elements in this song. Elsewhere in drama there are samples of dithyrambic or quasidithyrambic poetry, such as the parody of Cinesias’ dithyrambs in Birds 1372–1400 (cf. vv. 227–62), the parodos of Bakchai 64–169, and the ‘hyporchema of Pratinas’.87 The dithyramb was 80

Luppe (1987: 203–4). See LSJ9 s.v. Fæ. Cf. Luppe (1987: 203–4). 82 Cf. Birds 1744–51 t ˜Øe ¼æ ªå | ıæçæ , as well as the epithet of Zeus KªåØŒæÆı in Pi. O. 13.77 and P. 4.194. 83 1992: 114ff. 84 Cf. Pl. Lg. 700b ˜Ø ı ª Ø . . . ØŁæÆ ºª ; E. Ba. 520–9; ıªŒæÆıøŁ in Archil. 120W. Cf. Seaford (1994: 268 n. 148). 85 Another possibility which cannot be excluded for the restoration of the lemma is exemplified by S. fr. 535, where fire (Fæ) is called ªå , as G. B. D’Alessio pointed out to me. Similarly, we cannot exclude that the lemma was Fæ ıæd ªåØ (instead of Fæ Kd Fæ ªåØ, from the proverbial expression Fæ Kd Fæ, cf. Hsch. 4415), as Hansen prefers. However, the reference to the dithyramb would in all these cases remain unexplained. 86 Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 25); Seaford (1981: 270). For examples, see Seaford (1977/8: 88 n. 59). 87 For Birds 1372–1400 see Dunbar (1995) ad loc. For the parodos of Bakchai see Seaford (1996) ad loc., as well as Seaford (1977/8: 89; 1981: 270–1; 1994: 268 n. 149). As far as the nature of the famous hyporchema is concerned, recently D’Alessio (2007) offered further arguments that the hyporchema is a piece of dramatic rather than lyric poetry. The piece is delivered by satyrs, and Seaford (1977/8) earlier argued that it comes from a satyr play by Pratinas, which is the most probable interpretation. For 81

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originally a processional song,88 and this befits the fact that in the two latter cases and in Boukoloi it was used for the choral entry.89 Another lyric piece from drama which in performance may have had similarities with the parodos of Boukoloi (although it is not dithyrambic) is the parodos of Frogs: there the chorus of Eleusinian initiates, whose characterization has ‘a strongly Dionysiac flavour’,90 enters with a lyric song (324ff.) which invokes Iakchos, a deity often identified with Dionysus (cf. S. Ant. 1146– 54, E. Ba. 725–6). This song is also processional and its ionic rhythm seems to have had strong Dionysiac associations.91 Seaford compares it with the parodos of Bakchai, which is also ionic in rhythm. In the parodos of Bakchai the followers of the god are equipped with drums (vv. 59–60, 155–6), perhaps recalling one of the song’s themes, the birth of Dionysus with Zeus’ thunderbolt (88ff.).92 Thunder-like sound is also associated with mystic initiation, about which the thiasos sings (72ff.). Given its Dionysiac nature and perhaps specifically the reference to the thunderbolt, the parodos of Boukoloi, which opened the play, would have had great potential in respect of sight and sound; this is a particularly attractive possibility for Boukoloi, for the additional reason that in comedy the entrance of the chorus was usually a scene of great momentum and spectacular effect.

other views, see Zimmermann (1992: 124–5 a dithyramb of the late 5th cent.); Cipolla (1999: passim: a hyporchema); Napolitano (2000: passim: a late 6th cent. dithyramb); Wallace (2003: 84–6: a dithyramb by the mid-5th-cent. lyric poet named Pratinas). 88 Cf. Seaford (1981: 269–70 and 1996: 156) on the parodos on Bakchai, comparing A. fr. 355 and Pi. O. 13.18–19.; see also Thomson (19662: 161–2). 89 For the hyporchema see Seaford (1977/8: 85–6). 90 Seaford (1996: 156). See esp. vv. 316–17, 357, 368. 91 Cf. Seaford (1996: 156). For the ionic metre, cf. its pervasive use in Bakchai and in E. Cyc. 495–518. 92 Other examples suggesting that Dionysus’ thiasos could have produced the sound of thunderbolt and earthquake by the use of drums and dance are A. fr. 57 and Pi. fr. 70b. Cf. Seaford (1996: 195).


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The Poet’s Voice in the Parodos of Boukoloi From fr. 20 we know that the dithyramb was ‘about the archon, from whom Cratinus had requested a chorus’ on a previous occasion. It is not immediately clear how far the chorus expressed the author’s voice in this song, as the protest could have been by the ‘comic chorus’ for not having been appointed to perform on that occasion. However, the chorus’ identity as Dionysiac worshippers suggests that the protest expressed in this song was closely associated with the author and his poetics. Given Cratinus’ interest in advertising himself as (predominantly) a Dionysiac poet, there is a strong possibility that in the parodos of Boukoloi the chorus defended the poet’s cause not merely as his ‘comic chorus’ but in their dramatic identity, as ‘Dionysiac worshippers’. The hippeis of Aristophanes’ play also assume their dramatic role in their parabatic anapaests (albeit momentarily); that is, they speak as hippeis and claim to speak in support of Aristophanes on account ‘of their common enemies’ (510). Given the identity of the chorus of Cratinus’ play, the support of the boukoloi for their poet may have been expressed along similar lines: that is, the chorus justified their defence of the poet’s cause on account of their shared Dionysiac experience—perhaps presenting the archon who refused to grant the poet a chorus as undermining the Dionysiac spirit, and as an ‘enemy’ of Dionysus. This manner of defending oneself following a ‘failure’ would be comparable to Aristophanes’ defence in the anapaests of Clouds (518ff.) and Wasps (1015ff.), where the poet presents his poetry as important for the polis, but nevertheless undermined. The choice of the play’s opening passages, where sight and sound could have created great momentum (see above), may have been linked with Cratinus’ seeking to impress with his own self-defence and attack of the archon.93 The choice of a dithyramb and the reference to the thunderbolt seem to have been especially appropriate also for another reason: as Mendelsohn has argued persuasively, the character of the early dithyramb (‘in style, subject matter and even the circumstances of its performance’) was 93 For other references to the same archon and the possibility that he was presented as the poet’s KåŁæ , as Cleon was in Aristophanes, Lycambes in Archilochus, and Bupalus in Hipponax, see below pp. 58–9.

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essentially violent—perhaps as a reflection of the violence and disorder that lay at the heart of the Dionysiac cult itself.94 Cratinus’ employment of the motif of the thunderbolt may have also been in reference to Archilochean poetics, and in particular to poetic statements such as Archil. fr. 120W: ‰ ˜Øø ı ¼ÆŒ ŒÆºe KæÆØ º

rÆ ØŁæÆ Yø fi ıªŒæÆıøŁd çæÆ .

As Biles (2002: 176) has argued, the mention of the thunderbolt in Pytine fr. 199.4 may have also referred to dithyrambic poetics, since a character there may have tried to turn Cratinus’ poetic assertions on their head: H Ø ÆP, H Ø i Ie F ı Æ Ø, F ºÆ ı; KªtÆ• ıæłø ªaæ ÆP F f å , ŒÆd f ŒÆ Œ ı ıªŒæÆı ø H, ŒÆd pººÆ ’ IªªEÆ a æd e Œ P OÆç NÅæe Ø ŒŒ ÆØ How can, how can anyone stop him from drinking, from drinking too much? I know. I’ll shatter his pots and thunderbolt his little jars to smithereens, and all the other containers for his drink; he won’t have so much as a vinegar-saucer of wine left.

Cratinus’ association of his poetry with the dithyramb is found in another passage, too, according to a prevailing interpretation.95 In the only surviving fragment of Didaskaliai, a play whose title strongly suggests that it had a metapoetic content, a female entity is reminded of a time when ‘she ladled out fine thriamboi,96 but was met with enmity’: ‹ f f ŒÆº f ŁæØ ı IÆæ ı ’ IÅåŁ ı (fr. 38). Given that Cratinus did compose at least one dithyrambic song in his plays and that he generally prided himself on his Dionysiac poetics, it is possible that this address was made in a self-referential context. Although the trochaic metre precludes the possibility that this verse comes from a parabasis proper, it is particularly the ‘bitter’

94 95 96

See Mendelsohn (1992: 111–12); cf. Burkert (1985: 292). Cf. Biles (2002: 174); Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 8 and n. 1). Identical with dithyramboi, cf. Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 8 and n. 1).


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sentiment implicit in the contrast ŒÆº f —IÅåŁ ı which reinforces the possibility that this was an authorial, quasi-parabatic claim.97 If so, the addressee could have been Cratinus’ poetry, his Muse98 or one of his productions which did not fare well in a contest. The speaker could have been either the chorus or a character, since trochaic tetrameters are found in parodoi, in agones, and in the dialogue. Given Cratinus’ feud with the archon, IÅåŁ ı may have even evoked the rejection by the archon in the dithyrambic parodos of Boukoloi.99

1.3.3. ‘Cratinus’ in the Parodoi: Plutoi Cratinus’ Plutoi was probably produced at the Lenaia of 429.100 Our knowledge of this play, which until 1934 was restricted to a few scattered verses preserved through indirect tradition, was significantly enhanced by the publication of papyrus fragments by Norsa and Vitelli and by Mazon (PSI XI 1212 and Pap. Brux. E 6842 ‘P. Cumont’¼fr. 171).101 These fragments, which belong to the same papyrus roll and were discovered in Oxyrhynchus, contain parts of the opening scene, an episodic scene, and an agonal scene. In the opening scene of Plutoi, which is partially preserved on fr. a of PSI XI 1212 (¼fr. 171.1–28), a chorus of Titans arrives explaining that, since Zeus has fallen, they have come to visit their ancient brother: ( .) z oŒ’ Kç Æ [ Ł’ XÅ. 10 #ØA b ª K [ —º F Ø ’ KŒÆº Ł’ ‹’ [qæå ˚æ .

97

(Cho.) But why we said [we have come102 you shall now hear. We are by birth Titans and used to be called Plutoi when [Cronus reigned.

For the motif of the misunderstood poet in old comedy, with special emphasis on Aristophanes and Cratinus, see above on fr. 361 and below, pp. 62–3. 98 For metapoetic female figures in old comedy see Hall (2000: passim). 99 Cf. Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 8 n. 1). 100 For the dating see 4.2.2. 101 Cf. Norsa and Vitelli (1934), Vitelli (1935), and Mazon (1934). The text (after K-A, unless stated otherwise) with a translation can be found in Appendix 3. Plates 2 and 3 contain images of the papyrus fragments. 102 Ko¨rte supplemented lŒØ. Herter suggested z’ KºŁE. The meaning ‘we have come’ is virtually certain.

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Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice ·

·

·

·

·

( .) ‰ b ıæÆ Iæåc º: [ºıÆØ B b ŒæÆE, Fæ K ŁÅ æe :: [103 ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØe ÇÅ F[ ]Œ: N ÆŁæe XÅ. _ ]ŒBłØ æÅ Æs] å IŒ Å fi .104

·

·

·

·

·

(Cho.) Since the tyrannical rule [is over and the people are in power, we rushed here to our [(?) kinsman and ancient brother 25 seeking him, though he’s now decrepit. ](our) first excuse on the other hand] you will soon hear.

The marching anapaestic rhythm of this passage and the similarity with the opening scene of Prometheus Lyomenos (see 3.1.1–3) leave little doubt that it comes from the play’s parodos. The last element suggests that it is more possible that there was no prologue, and that the play started with the Titans’ entrance. In the parodos, the characterization of the chorus is multiple and develops, as will be shown in the following chapters, a double paratragic, a mythical, and a topical dimension.105 Furthermore, in the first few surviving verses of the papyrus the chorus speak above all as ‘comic chorus’. Here the Plutoi speak extra-dramatically and show awareness of the fact that they are taking part in a dramatic competition. This is where their voice is clearly merged with that of the poet (fr. 171.1–6): :::: b ŒÆŒ [ ( .) Iºº IØØŒ [ I çÆØ[

103

. . . bad[ (Cho.) Well, even though revealing [106 deserving to win, [

Norsa-Vitelli supplement ‹: : [ÆØ Z . Whether or not there is a change of speaker after v. 26 (see Ch. 3, pp. 130–4), ]ŒBłØ probably refers to the chorus’ reason for coming. Cf. fr. 253 from Cheirones. 105 In particular, the Plutoi combine characteristics of the tragic Titans of Prometheus Lyomenos (see 3.1.1–3), the Erinyes of the Oresteia (3.1.5), and the Hesiodic Æ º ı ÆØ (4.2.1). For the topical dimension (the Plutoi are engaged in contemporary Athenian politics), see 4.2.2. The theme ‘unjust wealth and its punishment’ underlies all levels: see pp. 208–20. 106 Probably a reference to their entry in the competition, cf. IØØŒ . 104

Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice e ıåe æªØ[ c ııåÆØ Ø Ææı Ø d ŒæØÆd :: [

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to accept whatever comes; [and yet we fear107 that these judges, weighed down by events, 5 [will not be?]108 patient.

They express concern that external circumstances may undermine their play’s chances of winning. Presenting themselves as disadvantaged by factors beyond their control clearly has the intention of predisposing the audience to look favourably on their case. In classical theory of rhetoric the use of such aporia in the prologue is a topos aiming at the captatio benevolentiae of the audience. Implicit in the chorus’ expression of concern is the wish to be awarded the victory (vv. 2–4). Presenting oneself as in a difficult or unfair situation and expressing hope for victory is what the comic poet often does in parabases proper (cf. Wasps 1030–40 and 1051–60; Peace 751–60, 765–74; Cratin. fr. 361). Apart from that, two more elements make this parodos reminiscent of a parabasis proper and suggest that the chorus speaks with the poet’s voice. These are found in a passage which earlier commentators identified as a metatheatrical reference to a recent play about Cronus (171.13–15): ’ q çøBŁ ‹ ·[ ŒÆØ’ IŒÆØ

Œºøªe ºf ÆNe [E

The incomplete state of the first verse and the dense wording of the whole passage make precise interpretation difficult, and although different readings have been suggested,109 none has been accepted as conclusive. Kassel and Austin (on vv. 14–15) characterized the passage as ‘highly obscure’. Other scholars have proposed to obelize,110 despite the fact that vv. 13–15 are metrically and linguistically

Because of the following c . . . t Ø, the supplement should probably include a reference to fear, such as Iºº ç ŁÆ (ed. pr.) or Åb ç E ŁÆØ (Luppe 1967a). 108 Cf. e.g. Ko¨rte’s supplement ı [Øªø Ø. 109 _ _ see Totaro (1999). For a survey of the interpretations 110 e.g. Luppe (1975: 190); cf. Austin (1973) on IŒÆØ ‘non recte intelligitur’. 107

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sound. Although the passage does have difficulties, the key to making sense of it is to focus on the elements which suggest that its meaning has more than one layer.111 Vv. 13–15 contain at least two words which can be understood on two levels, ŒÆØ and Œºøª. As far as ŒÆØ is concerned, the Hesiodic echoes ÆEÆ f ŒÆØ and ŒÆd f b ŒÆØ ªÆ ˚æ (Hes. Th. 467 and 459 respectively), the Titans’ reference in this passage to the era of Cronus and the mention of IŒÆØ (a type of stone, about which see below, n. 119) strongly suggest that this word refers to the mythic episode of Cronus’ swallowing Zeus and his other children.112 However the sentence is supplemented,113 the lost part of the first verse must have contained a reference to Cronus’ children. At the same time, however, ŒÆØ may mean apart from ‘swallowed’ also ‘swallowed up, drowned out’, as the parallel e / Æåø › ªÆ [ÆPºe ] ŒÆÆØ (A. fr. 91) suggests. The second word with a double meaning, Œºøª , yields on the one hand ‘sound of gulping’, in apposition to the action of ŒÆØ.114 It also means ‘cry of disapprobation, hooting’.115 The text so far yields: ‘it was at that time that swallowed his children alive116 with a mighty gulping sound, swallowing up your hooting, and you (i.e. the audience)117 were happy with that’. Vv. 13– 15, therefore, refer not only to the mythic episode, but also to a past theatrical production involving Cronus. ˚ºøª is a negative comment at the expense of that production; in other words it suggests a literary polemic; the fact that Œºøª is presented as ‘swallowed up’ undercuts the final ÆNe [E, which ends up sounding ironic at the expense of both the production and the audience. Up to this point the surviving verses of the parodos of Plutoi have yielded four elements which are associated with authorial voice in the

111

Cratinus’ tendency to compose on multiple layers, and in particular to interweave myth, dramatic parody, and topical satire, is extensively analysed in Ch. 4. 112 Contra Lloyd-Jones (1991). 113 v. 13: [ÆE Æ F ed. pr.; [ÆEÆ Łe Goossens (1946: 104); but perhaps the plural is more fitting: [ŒÆ Æcæ (or Łe ) Pieters (1964: 189 n. 1); [Œ Æ F Luppe (1967a: 65). Cf. Austin (1973: ad loc.), ‘hic de Saturni infantibus agi videtur’. 114 Cf. Goossens (1946: 104). 115 Cf. Eust. Od. 1504.29ff. and LSJ9 s.v. Œºøª . 116 Cf. Hes. Th. 584, offered by Goossens (1935: 420). 117 Due to the metre, [E is virtually inescapable as a supplement.


53

parabasis and outside it:118 the self-presentation as disadvantaged by factors beyond one’s control, the concern about the fair judging of the victory (and the implicit appeal for it), the polemic with another play, and the ironic attitude towards the audience for accepting what they should have hooted off-stage. The mysterious IŒÆØ of v. 14 could be read in a way that supports this reading.119 It is unfortunate that we have lost what came before the first surviving lines of the play, so that we are not in a position to know what preceded these comments. In the lost part the chorus could, for example, have included an introduction to the play so that they ended up advertising it as IØØŒ (cf. the advertisement of the play’s quality in Wasps 55–66), and then confided their ‘uneasiness’ concerning the fair adjudication of the victory. However, even in their present state, these verses are invaluable for our study of the poetic voice in old comedy.

118 Sodano (1961: 52–3), following Pieters (1946: 27), also characterizes this parodos as ‘parabatic’; however, he only stresses the chorus’ reference to the judgement. 119 As already mentioned, IŒÆØ probably evokes the stone which Cronus swallowed instead of baby Zeus (Hes. Th. 497). Yet, since the passage in question has a double layer of meaning, it is worth examining whether IŒÆØ has a metatheatrical dimension as well. Given the dative case of the word and its position in the sentence, IŒÆØ seems to best qualify ŒÆØ . . . Œºøª as dative of instrument. In that passage, the chorus implies that the hooting was swallowed up by something; given the precise meaning of IŒÆØ (stones used for rubbing tools or other stones), it might be used in this passage on account of its ability to produce sound. Cratinus, that is, might suggest that the sound effects which were produced during that scene conveniently drowned out the audience’s reaction to the play’s alleged poor quality. Similarly, in the parabasis proper of Clouds (541–3) ‘Aristophanes’ claims that his rivals found slapstick noisy tricks to cover up bad comedy. There is some evidence that sound effects were produced in the classical theatre: PV 1082f. (cf. Griffith (1983) ad loc.); S. OC. 1456, 1460ff. (cf. Jebb (1903) ad loc.); Ar. Nu. 290 (cf. Dover (1968) ad loc.), Av. 1750ff. (cf. Dunbar (1995) ad loc.). For the existence of sound effects in 5th-cent. theatre in general see Arnott (1962: 89–90). For a different view on IŒÆØ

see Totaro (1999: 115–17), who reads it in the light of Frogs 1116 (ÆæÅŒÅÆØ). He suggests that the audience are referred to as ‘whetting stones’ (who ‘sharpen’ the art of the poets).

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1.3.4. ‘Cratinus’ in the Exodos: Cheirones The first person plural as spoken by the chorus but representing the poet is found in another passage, this time the exodos of Cheirones (fr. 255). The chorus of Cratinus’ Cheirones consisted of multiplications of the Centaur Cheiron or of Cheiron himself and other Centaurs.120 Although what survives of this play does not allow us a clear view of its themes and plot,121 two fragments are suggestive as regards the role of the chorus. Fr. 253 in dactylic hexameters contains the chorus’ self-presentation: ŒBłØ b æø Kººı, ‰

ŁŒÆ (The first excuse that we Cheirons have come was that the precepts . . . ). The manner of the choral self-presentation is very similar to that of Plutoi down to their mode of reasoning (cf. ŒBłØ

in Plutoi fr. 171.27). This similarity, as well as the metre and the content of the fragment, suggest that it comes from the parodos.122 Although we do not know whether in this parodos the chorus went on to make quasi-parabatic statements as in the parodos of Plutoi and Boukoloi,123 we are certain that they did so in their exodic song (fr. 255).

120

Plural titles are characteristic of Cratinus: Archilochoi, Dionysoi, Cheirones, Kleoboulinai, Odysseis, and Plutoi. The only title of this type elsewhere is Telecleides’ Hesiodoi. Not all titles have to be explained in the same manner, since e.g. Odysseis probably means ‘Odysseus and his crew’ (cf. fr. 151 and 5.1 below), whereas Plutoi refers (partly) to the Hesiodic daimones plutodotai (see below 4.2.1, pp. 208–9). For Archilochoi see below, p. 72. The possibility that a plural title refers to a chorus consisting of multiplications of one character is attractive, given the nature of the dramatic (especially the tragic) chorus as one entity consisting of many often identical parts. The scholarly views on this question are summarized in K-A iv. 121. 121 The chorus complained about the corruption of the art of music in frr. 247, 248, and 254. Solon returned from Hades (fr. 246). Frr. 256 and 257 suggest that the theme of utopia played some part, perhaps with specific reference to the age of Cronus. Fr. 258 mocked Pericles. 122 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 184); Bergk (1838: 225); Kock on fr. 235K; Quaglia (1998: 43). For the various ways the entry of the chorus is justified in Aristophanic comedy, see Zimmermann (1984: 29–31). 123 As Kaibel suggested (arguing that the verse came from the parabasis, see K-A ad loc.), if the chorus’s ŒBłØ for coming was ‘in order to articulate Cheiron’s ŁBŒÆØ’ the real reason might have been ‘in order to tell the audience what the poet thinks’. This is an attractive suggestion which makes use of the didactic dimension of the verse, but is otherwise purely speculative.


55

We know that fr. 255 comes from the end of Cheirones thanks to the testimony of its source, Aelius Aristeides in —æd F ÆæÆçŁªÆ 28.92: ØÆ b f æøÆ æ ÆæÆªæçØ ºØ Æs ºÆ æÅçø Kd ºıB

ÆFÆ ı E K Ø E ºØ K ŁÅ E ¼ºº Ø K –ÆØ ø fi æ ØŁÆØ çÅ d ØÅÆE ØE ŁÆØ, Åº Ø ‰

PÆ KçØ .

But when he produced The Chirons, again he added scornfully at the end: ‘We scarcely finished this in two years’. But he says that, ‘he challenges all the other poets to imitate him in a lifetime’, clearly because no one would succeed in doing so. (Tr. Behr 1981) Due to the dactylic metre of the verse, which survives intact,124 and the fact that this statement was made at the very end of the play, there can be little doubt that these claims were made in a choral section, which would have to be part of the exodos. The first person plural ‘we worked out this play’ unambiguously identifies the choral voice with the poet’s. At the same time, the choice of the word K ŁÅ with its connotations of ‘forming by instruction’125 evoke the dramatic character of the chorus as wise teachers. In the original context of fr. 255, therefore, Cratinus merged his voice with that of the chorus and closed this play with two quasi-parabatic remarks in his own favour: first, that he laboriously completed a masterpiece in two years126 (perhaps using it as an excuse for the fact that he had not produced any play in the previous year); secondly, that no one else could possibly repeat the same achievement, no matter how hard they tried, even in a period of a lifetime.127 This tour de force is the final impression with which the poet leaves his audience.

124 Cf. fr. 253 and its allusion to the epic poem æø ŁBŒÆØ, spoken by Cheiron. 125 Cf. E. IA 209: `åØººÆ, | e ± ¨Ø Œ ŒÆd | æø KÅ . . . 126 Cf. Aristophanes’ claims concerning the literary merits and the labour invested in his Clouds a0 in the parabases of the extant Clouds (esp. 522ff.) and of Wasps 1044ff. 127 Cf. Aristophanes’ claims for being cheaply and unsuccessfully copied by his rivals in Clouds 551ff.

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Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice 1.4. ‘CRATINUS’ IN THE DIALOGUE

Like the other comic poets, Cratinus also used his characters and chorus as his mouthpieces in the course of the dialogue. Here the situation is more complex, because there are many fragments in spoken rhythm which, due to (for example) their positive reference to alcohol, could have been meant as authorial statements.128 For the vast majority, however, since the context has been lost, there is no way of telling with certainty whether this was the case, because wine, revelry, and the symposium are such familiar themes in comedy.129 However, two fragments seem more than likely to have been statements by ‘Cratinus’ concerning his poetry. One is the celebrated fr. 203: oøæ b ø Pb i Œ Ø ç (You’ll never create anything brilliant by drinking water). #Œ Ø and ç strongly suggest that the verse can be associated with the production of art.130 This verse has come down to us not assigned to any play, but because the iambic metre precludes its ascription to a parabasis, and because in Pytine ‘Cratinus’ had to defend his drinking habit, this verse is usually ascribed to this play and in particular to the character ‘Cratinus’.131 However, as Biles (2002: 173) has argued, this verse could have been spoken during any play where the poet clarified his poetics. One might add that among Cratinus’ comedies a considerable number seem to have dealt with art and poetry,132 so this statement could have easily have been put in the mouth of one of their characters or their choruses. The character ‘Archilochus’ in Cratinus’ Archilochoi (cf. fr. 6), for example, would be suitable to make such a statement (cf. Archil. fr. 120W). Furthermore, the context of fr. 203 would not have to be straightforwardly metapoetic 128

e.g frr. 269, 299, 301, 319, 322. The theme of wine in comedy has been discussed most recently by Wilkins (2000: 202–56). 130 For Œø cf. E. Supp. 180–1, HF 767, Andr. 476; Ar. Ra. 1059; for ç cf. Sol. 13.52; Pi. O. 1.117; Ar. Ra. 882. 131 First argued by Meier and Scho¨mann (1883–72: i. 354 n. 428), and endorsed by all editors and scholars so far, with the exception of Biles (2002: 173). 132 Archilochoi, Didaskaliai, Euneidai, Kleoboulinai, Cheirones, and (at least in part) Boukoloi. 129


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to evoke the concept of intoxicated inspiration and the contrast between ‘wine-drinker’ and ‘water-drinker’. This is probably the case with Knights 85–140, which is not overtly metapoetic, but due to Aristophanes’ intense interest in Cratinus’ persona in the same play (vv. 400 and 526ff.) and elsewhere, it has been convincingly argued that the fragment has a metapoetic dimension.133 The other iambic trimeter fragment comes from Boukoloi (fr. 17): n PŒ øŒ’ ÆN FØ ç ŒºØ å æ, fiH ˚º å ı ’, n PŒ i M ı Kªg K d Ø ŒØ P’ i N `ØÆ Who didn’t grant a chorus to Sophocles when he applied, but did to the son of Cleomachos, whom I wouldn’t have trusted to do a play for me at the festival of Adonis!

Since these verses contain a satirical treatment of an archon who refused to grant a chorus, there is good reason to believe that they refer to the same issue as the dithyrambic parodos discussed earlier. ‘Cratinus’, through the mouth of a character or the chorus, suggests that the archon denied choruses to the most gifted poets and granted them to the worst.134 It appears possible that thereby he constructs the archon not only as harmful to the interests of good poets (like himself, cf. fr. 20), but also, given the perceived importance of the dramatic performances for the polis, implicitly as detrimental to the public good. This implication again evokes the Archilochean manner of self-presentation and specifically the character of Archilochus’ constructed feud with Lycambes, the KåŁæ whom the iambic poet repeatedly attacked in his poems using this feud as part of the construction of his literary persona.135 As Brown’s astute reading of the Archilochean fragments suggests, the iambic poet ‘treats his feud with Lycambes as a matter of public concern’, and ‘by subjecting his 133

Cf. Ruffell (2002: 148–50) and Biles (2002: 173 n. 9). Gnesippus is satirized along similar lines in Cratinus frr. 104, 276, Eupolis fr. 148, Telecleides fr. 36, Chionides fr. 4. For the point of Gnesippus’ satire and his literary identity see Prauscello (2006). The Adonia was a minor non-competitive occasion, a feast celebrated by women, not an official festival funded by the state: see Simms (1998). 135 For Archilochus’ feud with Lycambes and its role in his poetry and poetic selfpresentation see esp. frr. 172W–181W and Irwin’s discussion (1998: passim). 134

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enemies to invective . . . [Archilochus] seeks to protect the community’ (Brown 1997a: 69). This focus on the interests of the community, which appears in much of Archilochean iambos and is probably alluded to in Cratinus’ Boukoloi (fr. 17 and 20), seems to have been used by Cratinus elsewhere, too, namely in his Archilochoi (below, 1.6). That there is an Archilochean intertext in Boukoloi fr. 17 (as well as fr. 20) may be suggested also by Nomoi fr. 138. This fragment makes it likely that the feud with the archon was not only treated in Boukoloi, but may have constituted part of Cratinus’ rhetoric about himself and his poetry elsewhere in his „uvre. Fr. 138 tells us that in Nomoi Cratinus compared a certain magistrate to Lycambes: ¸ıŒÆd Iæå• › ˚æÆE K ˝ Ø , e ºÆæå ÅºH, æe n Iªæç a F Iæ Æ ı ŒÆ . ¸ıŒÆÆ b r c Iæå * * * (Hsch. º 1371 Hansen) ¸ıŒÆd Iæå• F ºæå ı• łıåæH • Kd K ºÅ `æåº å fiH ¸ıŒØ• Kd b ı I Æ ı ŒÆd KØŒºæø Æƒ ŒÆØ ª (Photius, ¸ 444 Theodoridis)

Although at first sight Cratinus’ ‘Lycambid magistracy’ seems to target a polemarch, a closer consideration of Photius’ comment suggests that there was more to Cratinus’ satire than mere invective against another Athenian official, as Kock observed.136 According to the same scholar, Photius’ negative evaluation łıåæH must refer to a joke; furthermore, the reason for this evaluation is given in the sentence Kd K ºÅ `æåº å fiH ¸ıŒØ. The bad joke, according to Kock, was calling the archon ºÆæå as an etymological pun from º and ¼æå ÆØ, meaning that the magistrate started a war against the poet. Therefore, although the term ºÆæå did appear in Cratinus’ text and led commentators to connect ¸ıŒÆd Iæå to the office of that magistrate, it does not have to be literally a polemarch whom Cratinus satirized in the original context of ¸ıŒÆd Iæå. This, in turn, allows us to connect this reference with the archon with whom the poet had a personal feud, namely the eponymous archon who denied him a chorus—

136

On fr. 130K. Cf. Rosen (1988: 48 n. 43).


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thereby starting a ‘war’—and was derided by the poet in Boukoloi. In other words, as Archilochus used a personal feud (largely fictionalized but probably based on a real event)137 as part of the process of his self-presentation, so probably did Cratinus;138 as in Archilochus’ case, so Cratinus’ KåŁæ may also have been portrayed as a malefactor for the public interest. This suggestion is further supported by the other parallels of poetic KåŁæ in comedy: notably, Aristophanes used his feud with Cleon in order to present himself as the reformer of the city and his fellow-citizens. Furthermore, as fr. 115 from Plato’s Perialges (above) might suggest, Plato could have also tried to rival Aristophanes in respect of his use of the same iambographic convention. Although impossible to prove, this reading of ¸ıŒÆd Iæå is likely, especially given Cratinus’ common references to iambographic poetry (particularly Archilochus), and above all, the informing of his persona by that of Archilochus.

1.5. THE POET’S VOICE DRAMATIZED: PY TINE Pytine (423 BC) is probably the most celebrated of all Cratinus’ comedies. It was composed in the context of intertextual dialogue between Cratinus and Aristophanes, and is probably the culmination of this dialogue and of Cratinus’ authorial self-presentation. In this play, far from having his characters or his chorus make authorial claims or present their poet in his persona, Cratinus turned that persona into a character whom he put on stage as the protagonist. Thanks to an ancient commentator on Knights ( Eq. 400a ¼ Suda Œ 2216 ¼ test. ii), we know a substantial part of Pytine’s plot: . . . ŒÆ Ø F IªøÇ ŁÆØ I a ŒÆd ıªªæçØ, ºØ ªæçØ æAÆ, c —ıÅ, N Æ ŒÆd c ŁÅ, NŒ fi Æ ŒåæÅ ØÆÅ fi . c ˚øø fi Æ › ˚æÆE Kº Æ Æ F r ÆØ ªıÆEŒÆ ŒÆd Iç Æ ŁÆØ F ı ØŒ ı F f ÆPfiH ŁºØ, ŒÆd ŒÆŒ ø ÆPfiH ŒÅ ºÆªåØ, çº ı

b ÆæÆıåÆ F ˚æÆ ı E ŁÆØ Åb æ b ØB ÆØ ŒÆd B

137 138

See Carey (1986: passim). Cf. Hipponax’s feud with Bupalus, for which see Rosen (1990a).

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åŁæÆ IæøA c ÆNÆ, c b ç ŁÆØ ÆPfiH ‹Ø c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ, å ºÇ Ø b fiB ŁÅ fi . . . . even though he had retired from competition and writing,139 he wrote a play once again, the Pytine, about himself and drunkenness (or Drunkenness),140 which employed the following outline: Cratinus made Comedy his wife; she wanted to get a divorce from him, and was lodging a lawsuit against him for maltreatment. But Cratinus’ friends happened by and begged her not to do anything rash, and asked the reason for her hostility. She complained that he was no longer involved with Comedy, but devoted himself to drunkenness (or Drunkenness).

The play focused on ‘Cratinus’ and his habit of drinking, which made his wife141 Comedy (the genre allegorized and personified) unhappy and eager to leave him. The poetic metaphor of intoxication with which Cratinus advertised himself in his earlier plays has in Pytine been given a domestic dimension. It has also undergone an unexpected twist, as it has been filtered through its mocking representation in the parabasis of Knights. Rather than being self-congratulatory, therefore, the way ‘Cratinus’ is presented in Pytine is downright unflattering: according to Comedy’s claims, he has recently been neither faithful nor very potent due to his drinking habit and his old age.142 In the realm of artistic production, ‘unfaithful’ to the personified Comedy and ‘not very capable sexually’ suggest ‘unsuccessful poet’. There have been numerous reconstructions and discussions of this play.143 Whereas all scholars have commended Cratinus’ genius in playing up to Aristophanes’ satire, most have also wondered about 139 There is no evidence that Cratinus had retired from the dramatic competitions. On the contrary, Aristophanes’ attacks on him in Knights, at the competition where Cratinus was producing Satyroi, suggest that he was still a mighty rival. Furthermore, Cratinus wrote Seriphioi c.423/2 (see Ch. 3 n. 135). The commentator has probably taken Aristophanes’ satire of his rival or Cratinus’ own pretensions at face value. 140 There is no need to choose between whether or not ŁÅ was a personification. As argued in 5.3.1 ŁÅ was probably focalized from different perspectives in the course of the play, being referred to both as a personification and as an abstraction. 141 For the exact nature of the marriage and Comedy’s reason for initiating divorce see below, 5.3.1. 142 Lack of ability to perform sexually is implied by c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ, but also by ŒÅ ŒÆŒ ø , as argued below, 5.3.1. Old age is blamed in fr. 193.4. 143 For discussions until 1954, see K-A iv. 219. To those scholars add Heath (1990: 150–1), Sidwell (1995), Luppe (2000), Rosen (2000), Hall (2000: 410–11), Ruffell (2002: 155–62), Biles (2002: 180–8), and Olson (2007: 80–7).


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the point and especially the outcome of this self-mockery, which seems to have been a pervasive element in the play. Until recently it was the norm to think that the play ended with ‘Comedy’ having managed to rehabilitate the poet, since it was inconceivable that Cratinus would have made his hero retain the habit which he presented in such an unflattering light.144 However, Rosen showed that ‘Cratinus’ did not have to become rehabilitated to enlist the audience’s sympathies. Presenting oneself as ‘abject’ is a common rhetorical strategy which, if used appropriately, can have the effect of captatio benevolentiae.145 Furthermore, in his discussion of Cratinus’ intertextual rivalry with Aristophanes, Biles too doubted that in Pytine ‘Cratinus needed to be and was reformed’, which would amount to an endorsement of his rival’s criticism. Biles, therefore, argued that ‘it makes more sense to believe that these attempts failed and that the character Cratinus ultimately reformed the theatre audience . . . thereby turning Aristophanes’ criticism on its head’.146 This reading of Pytine is entirely consistent with what we know about authorial self-presentation in the context of comic rivalry. In fact, what we have in this comedy is the most extreme development of the tendency for authorial intervention and self-presentation which we observed in some of Cratinus’ other works. Pytine is almost a dramatized version of a parabasis proper in itself. In its entirety it constitutes part of the intertextual dialogue between Cratinus and Aristophanes along with the parabatic and quasi-parabatic sections discussed earlier. The whole composition is, furthermore, focused on the creation of a fictionalized persona and relies, as parabatic sections do, on self-praise undercut by strategically employed self-deprecation. Pytine singles out its poet and his poetic accomplishments as unique by presenting him as the only one legally married to the personification of the genre,

144 For this approach see Norwood (1931: 117) and Luppe (2000: 18). It was thought that the method of rehabilitation suggested in fr. 199 was effective and the poet repented for his earlier ‘errors’ (fr. 200). Ruffell (2002) and Olson (2007: 81) argued that the poet was probably corrected in his excess. 145 Cf. Rosen (2000: 35 and n. 20), citing Bernstein (1992). 146 Biles (2002: 186). See also Sommerstein (2005: 164).

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leaving his rivals out as mere circumstantial suitors.147 This arrogant stroke is, on the other hand, undercut by Comedy’s unflattering presentation of ‘Cratinus’ as underproductive due to his addiction to drinking and his old age. The ‘reduced potency’ is probably a metaphor for Cratinus’ failings to win in at least two recent dramatic competitions.148 Further light is shed on Cratinus’ readiness to tackle head-on the failure of previous comedies by Aristophanes’ treatment of his failure with Clouds (in Clouds 0 and Wasps). In both passages, the fate of that comedy is presented by his poet as the result of misunderstanding by the public.149 The motif of the ‘misunderstood poet’, so central and recurrent in the rhetoric of Aristophanic parabases, was probably central to the concept of Pytine, too. It is important, first of all, that in the extant evidence ‘Cratinus’ is presented as a washed-out husband/ poet only from the point of view of another character, apparently Comedy.150 Neither the summary of the plot nor any of the fragments which present ‘Cratinus’ in a pejorative light suggest that the hero admitted that his drinking had become a problem.151 Arguably, therefore, Comedy’s criticisms, or more accurately, her focalization of the situation, embodied in a one-sided fashion the mockery that Aristophanes showered on Cratinus in the parabasis of Knights and in his earlier plays. This fact alone should warn us that the unflattering presentation of ‘Cratinus’ did not come through unchallenged. On the contrary, the evidence suggests that things were presented from a different point of view, since Cratinus’ comic counterpart clarified the situation concerning his drinking habit and his poetic abilities: for example, fr. 211 with its tone of apologia and specific

147

Cf. Rosen (2000: 28). See above, pp. 19–20 and below 5.3.1. Cf. Biles (2002: 186). Cratinus lost to Aristophanes at the Lenaia of 425 and 424 (test. 7). Since the scholiast’s claim about Cratinus ŒÆ Ø F IªøÇ ŁÆØ I a ŒÆd ıªªæçØ is historically inaccurate, we must assume that Comedy’s complaints about lack of productivity of ‘Cratinus’ refer to his recent failures to win. 149 For the motif of the ‘misunderstood poet’ see Hubbard (1991: 88–112). 150 Cf. the narrative of the summary and frr. 193, 194, 195, 196, 199, 201, 208. For the focalization of the situation from different perspectives, see below 5.3.1. 151 Fr. 202 is probably spoken by ‘Cratinus’, but it is not necessarily pejorative. This could well be his reaction to Comedy’s extreme and misinformed measure of taking away his source of inspiration. 148


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reference to Archilochean poetry (cf. Archil. 109W), could have come from a context where the poet reasserted his Dionysiac persona ‘under the auspices of Cratinus’ favourite literary model’:152 t ºØæB ºEÆØ, Ia c ı (You pusillanimous citizens, understand my (?words)). Alternatively, the self-defence could have taken place in a confrontation with Comedy153 or a trial scene (cf. fr. 197 c b ÆæÆ Œıc Y ø ªØª Œ), if Comedy’s threat to seek a divorce was carried through.154 It may be that by the end of the play both the poet and the source of his inspiration emerged as misunderstood, and Cratinus established that he was not a washed-out alcoholic old man, but the inebriated servant of Dionysus who represented the inspired past of drama; and ŁÅ (or !ŁÅ) not a gratuitous passion for alcohol, but his genuine passion for intoxicated inspiration.155

1.5.1. Poetic Voice, Poetic Personas, Lyric Poetry, and Iambos We saw earlier that in presenting himself as a poet, Cratinus, like Aristophanes and Eupolis, evoked strands of self-presentation which had earlier been used by poets of lyric and iambos. Even more so than in the other two comic poets, in Cratinus it is possible to see intense and recurrent engagement with iambographic tradition in a variety of ways, ranging from specific allusions to Archilochus to the

152

Biles (2002: 175). Thereby Cratinus also evokes Archilochus’ stance as a sociopolitical critic, which he probably imitated in other contexts, too, e.g. in fr. 17 (pp. 57–8 above) and in Archilochoi (1.6, pp. 77–8 below). 153 The fact that Comedy was made to spell out her complaints (cf. Eq. 400a çº ı b ÆæÆıåÆ . . . B åŁæÆ IæøA c ÆNÆ . . . c b ç ŁÆØ ÆPfiH ‹Ø c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ, å ºÇ Ø b fiB ŁÅ fi ) would have probably prepared for a reply by ‘Cratinus’. 154 For the possibility that ‘Cratinus’ faced a N ÆªªºÆ/ªæÆçc ŒÆŒ ø

KØŒºæø, see 5.3.1. 155 Since there is no evidence to determine what caused Comedy’s misunderstanding and misrepresentation of her husband in the play, we could suppose that it was the diabole by his rival Aristophanes. Diabole is another motif found in parabases, e.g. in Ach. 630.

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evocation and adoption of more generally iambic postures and modes of satire. Yet with his manipulation of authorial voice and persona in Pytine Cratinus took an even firmer and more imaginative step in the direction of iambic poetry. By expanding his references to ‘the poet’ to the point of making his fictionalized self a character in the narrative, by (almost certainly) naming that character ‘Cratinus’, and by presenting him (up to a point) in a deprecating way, the poet came very close to the form of iambic poetry exemplified—in the surviving material—by Hipponax in the late sixth century.156 Hipponax’s compositions which, as has been noted, have a pronounced dramatic dimension,157 are only a few steps away from the actual dramatization of Cratinus’ persona in Pytine. Furthermore, while our expectation would have been that a poet would normally present himself in a flattering light and as an authoritative figure, both Hipponax and Cratinus indulge in creating a less-than-flattering persona of themselves, one which could be seen as being at odds with social norms. In presenting themselves as mischievous or disreputable figures, both poets take a risk as far as audience perception is concerned. On the other hand, alongside his affinity with the Hipponactean manner, Cratinus’ way of presenting himself in Pytine can still be compared to that of Archilochus’, since his persona, like Archilochus’ and unlike Hipponax’s, can be related to the circumstances and background of the historical author. The features which Cratinus’ comedy, and especially his Pytine, shares with iambic poetry attest to a phenomenon which, as will emerge in the course of this monograph, was remarkably recurrent in Cratinus’ work, namely his interest in exploring genre, his readiness for generic cross-fertilization, and his capability of doing this in imaginative ways. Below we will explore one more mode of Cratinus’ engagement with genre, through a poetic krisis, and the manner in which that is used for poetic self-definition.

156

For Hipponax, see Carey (2003: esp. 222–3). Carey (2003: 223) aptly compares Hipponax’s compositions to the dramatic monologue. 157


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1.6. POETIC CONTESTS AND POETIC SELFDEFINITION: ARISTOPHANES’ FROGS AND CRATINUS’ ARCHILOCHOI

1.6.1. Comic Poets and Literary Criticism In the first part of this chapter (1.1), we saw that for the construction of his persona, Cratinus relied on literary-critical ideas about poetic inspiration reflected in the works of archaic poets as well as on literary-critical discourses of the fifth century concerning the same issue. Aristophanes and Eupolis also drew on archaic and contemporary literary-critical strands; the former emphasized his poetry’s capacity for political, social, and moral benefit, combining this traditional idea with more fashionable notions about sophistication, technical skill, and innovation in poetry and art. Eupolis postured as the poet-teacher, making reference not only to the common perception regarding the didactic function of poetry, but also to the idealized didactic eros evoked by some lyric poets and to aristocratic education.158 His poetic posture was not entirely traditional either, since in the fifth century the idea of the poet as teacher had been revitalized and now responded to new concerns.159 In other words, all three comic poets’ personas embodied ideas and strands of Greek literary criticism, both from the archaic period and as they had been developed in the fifth century. We can look at the relationship of the comic poets’ self-presentation strategies to literary criticism from another point of view, by focusing specifically on their agonistic dimension. Each poet competitively presented his persona as distinct from and superior to those of his rivals. Adopting a specific poetic stance in contrast to another equals advocating (or at least appearing as if advocating) a certain literary-critical position (or a combination of them) from a pool of potentially competitive positions. In other words, poetic self-presentation enacts a kind of literary krisis, the act at the heart of literary criticism (cf. its root kri-nein), since it involves selection, separation, 158 159

Cf. Bakola (2008). For the comic poets’ personas and literary criticism, see Bakola (2008).

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judgement, and exclusion or promotion of a certain literary discourse at the expense of others. From archaic times criticism was the process through which the literary discourses which were deemed appropriate for the culture and society were selected as superior and worthy of preservation. Naturally, it did not operate only in the aesthetic realm, but, as has rightly been pointed out, just as much on an ideological basis.160 So, a literary krisis concerned not only works and poets, nor critical ideas and literary currents, but also ideological positions. Such is the case in the discourse between the comic poets as well: as we saw earlier (1.1.2), in the 420s Cratinus and Aristophanes associated themselves and their work each with a certain tragic poet, their work and their style, which in current literary-critical perceptions were perceived not only as aesthetically, but also as ideologically opposite to each other: ‘Aeschylean’ evoked more the tradition and the elite status quo of Athenian culture and society, while ‘Euripidean’ suggested cultural, social, and political innovation and subversion. Aristophanes’ effort to protect himself from the controversial aspects of his Euripidean inclinations and their sophistic affiliations and to combine his stance with a more traditional discourse also highlights the importance of ideology in the poets’ self-presentation.

1.6.2. Comic Poets and Literary Kriseis Dramatized The comic poets’ exercise of literary criticism as means to competitive authorial self-presentation went as far as dramatizing poetic kriseis in their plays, as Cratinus did in Archilochoi and Aristophanes (probably appropriating his older rival’s poetic strategy) in Frogs. The comic poets were thereby again appropriating an older poetic strategy, because fictional poetic contests with a programmatic dimension had already been used by archaic poets; the clearest example is the contrast between ‘Homeric’ and ‘Hesiodic’161 which was 160

Cf. Too (1998); Most (1990). Traces of such a contrast may be detected as early as Hes. Th. 26–8 (cf. the possible intertextual relation with Od. 19.203. On both passages the literature is enormous; see, most recently, Stoddard (2004: 84–5) and Arrighetti (2006: 3–12 with bibliography)) and Hes. Op. 650–62 (see n. 162). Pindar Paean 7b.18–20 and Ibycus 161


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conceptualized as a contest as early as archaic times (Hes. Op. 650–62).162 This was accommodated to different ideological and aesthetic concerns, and used or evoked for programmatic purposes multiple times in antiquity.163 Interestingly enough, the contests of both Frogs and Archilochoi seem to be intertextually linked to the Contest of Homer and Hesiod.164

Aristophanes’ Frogs Frogs illustrates how a poetic contest can be used in a self-reflexive programmatic manner; since it is not generally read in this way and since it is also potentially illuminating for our approach to Archilochoi, it will be discussed briefly before Cratinus’ play. Furthermore, Frogs is connected to ‘Cratinus’ and to the concepts of krisis and poetic self-definition in a number of ways: as we saw earlier, the very S151 have also sometimes been taken to suggest that some sort of polarization between Homer and Hesiod existed in the archaic and early classical times; for discussions, see Rutherford (2001: 247–9 with nn., esp. 247 n. 7); Barron (1969: 134–5; 1984: 13–15); Kelly (2007: 9 n. 31). 162 The ‘autobiographical’ narrative of Hes. Op. 650–62 (where ‘Hesiod’ tells us that he won a poetic competition during the funeral games for King Alcidamas in Chalcis) and the excursus about sailing which accommodates it have long been noticed to construct an antagonistic stance towards Homeric poetry. See Rosen (1990b), which expands on Nagy (1982: 66); Graziosi (2001: 61–2; 2002: 168–71). 163 Based on Op. 650–62, the story of the Contest of Homer and Hesiod—now generally accepted to have been known in the 5th and possibly even in the 6th cent. BC: cf. O’Sullivan (1992: 63–6, 79–105); Graziosi (2001); Richardson (1981: esp. 1–3); Schadewaldt (1942: 64–6)—was used programmatically by Aristophanes (in Peace 1268–94, which evokes the main ideological polarity onto which the two hexameter poets were mapped in 5th-cent. Athens, namely ‘war vs. peace’, encapsulating the play’s—and arguably ‘Aristophanes’’—own rhetoric in favour of peace: cf. Hall (2006: 344–51); Compton-Engle (1999: esp. 328–9). In the 4th cent., the Contest and its favourable presentation of Homer provided the backdrop against which Alcidamas in his Mouseion contrasted his (and his teacher’s Gorgias’) style of speechwriting (lexis agonistike) with that of Isocrates and Prodicus (lexis graphike): see O’Sullivan (1992: 66–95); Richardson (1981). 164 As Rosen (2004) has shown, several thematic and structural elements in the Frogs suggest a strong intertextual link to the Contest. See also Ford (2002: 282); Cavalli (1999); Radermacher (19542: 30). Rosen’s reading of Aristophanes’ manipulation of the Frogs judgement as a response to the Contest judgement, i.e. as problematizing (rather than advocating) the belief in the civic significance of poetry, is possible. Here a different explanation is pursued, not necessarily incompatible with Rosen’s. For the relationship of Archilochoi to the Contest, see below.

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idea which lies at the heart of the Frogs contest, namely the krisis between the poetic styles of ‘Aeschylus’ and ‘Euripides’, was a reworking of the poetic krisis which had already been made (but not dramatized) by Cratinus in a programmatic context of his own, that of fr. 342. It was that poetic krisis which Aristophanes ultimately turned into a staged contest, albeit, as we will see, with the terms of the analogy modified. Cratinus and his constructed self, ‘Cratinus’, loom large in Aristophanes’ poetic contest in Frogs, and this is suggestive. Our understanding of Aristophanes’ definition of his poetic programme through Frogs depends on how we explain the most debated element of this play, his award of the poetic victory to ‘Aeschylus’ when he initially prepared us for the recovery from the Underworld of ‘Euripides’ (66–7, 71). The outcome of this poetic krisis appears even more mystifying since Aristophanic comedy is generally pervaded by a fascination with Euripides. There have been several excellent approaches to the question as to why Dionysus chooses Aeschylus. There can, of course, be little doubt that Dionysus’ choice can be read as reflecting the poet’s thoughts about the civic significance of poetry, especially in a polis in need of salvation.165 However, the fundamental compositional elements of Frogs suggest that the play’s and the contest’s concept is even more strictly self-reflexive than that. What supports this reading above all is the central metaphor driving the plot. Frogs dramatizes a journey in search of good dramatic poetry. Arguably this is telling imagery for a poet’s metaliterary quest, which in turn suggests a strong presence of the ‘poet’ himself.166 This reading is cued not least by the fact that in the very opening of the play the literary polemic put in Dionysus’ mouth at the expense of Aristophanes’ competitors in the same dramatic festival (vv. 1–20) clearly echoes ‘Aristophanes’ himself.167 It is also suggested by the 165 This is one of the most recent and widely endorsed approaches: see Bierl (1991: 41–3); Padilla (1992); Sommerstein (1996a: 18); Lada-Richards (1999: chs. 5–8). 166 Cf. Cucchiarelli (2001), whose excellent discussion of the striking parallels between Aristophanes’ Frogs and Horace Sat. 1.5 (the poet’s journey to Brundisium) suggests that in antiquity the comedy was read as a metaliterary quest. 167 Arguably, Dionysus’ voice is merged with that of ‘Aristophanes’ later on as well, when he expresses a passion for Euripides (66–105).


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unusually dense (for a play of the 400s) distribution of authorial intervention across the play.168 The reading of the Frogs journey as an Aristophanic metaliterary quest is further strengthened by the fact that it ends with Dionysus conducting a poetic krisis over an issue which hitherto had been paramount in the poet’s definition of his art: his relation to tragedy, and especially the aesthetics and ideology associated with Euripidean tragedy, which continually fascinated him.169 Across the Aristophanic „uvre, this relationship had constantly been reflected upon and renegotiated. And while in previous plays we could only discern some reservations towards Euripidean poetics and their sophistic associations,170 here the Euripidean (and Aristophanic) ‘clever and novel ideas’ are no longer advocated. Instead, when the chorus recites the quasi-parabatic anapaests of the parodos,171 they praise initiation in ‘the Bacchic rites of bulleating Cratinus’ language’ and dancing ‘in the rites of the first-class Muses’ (vv. 355–7). The Bacchic and mystic element, associated with manic inspiration, ‘Aeschylus’ and his poetry, amply inform Dionysus’ experience in the Underworld; in contrast, as the agon proceeds, Euripides’ intellectual and technical poetry gradually loses ground, especially since Aeschylus seems to emerge victorious round after round.172 Furthermore, on the ideological level, unlike Euripides, Aeschylus is shown to be the dramatist who promotes traditional values and culture, communality and civic virtue through nouthesia, which, along with the other Aeschylean virtues, is expected to save Athens.173 The old kind of nouthesia that Aeschylus advocates is of 168 Authorial intervention is gradually attenuated or becomes more oblique after the 420s; cf. Bakola (2008: 3–4). In Frogs, except from the literary polemic and the self-confessed obsession with Euripides in the prologue (above), note the authorial intervention in the anapaests of the parodos (354–71), the reference to Cleon (the KåŁæ of the Aristophanic persona of the 420s) as a threat of taking the hero to court (568–71), the chorus’ insistence on the poet’s didactic nouthesia (686–737), etc. 169 Explored in Silk (2000a: passim). 170 In Clouds e.g., Aristophanes satirizes the sophistic movement (with which he associates Euripides, cf. vv. 1369–78), but defines himself in terms that evoke both the sophists and Euripides: vv. 547–8. Cf. his treatment of Euripides in Thesmophoriazousae, on which see Silk (2000a: 322–4). 171 See above, nn. 55 and 60. 172 Cf. Sommerstein (1996a: 16). 173 The way Euripides understands nouthesia (954–79, 1009–10) is inconsistent with the more traditional kind of nouthesia provided by the comic poet in the

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course an element which, not only in Frogs but as early as the 420s, Aristophanes had appropriated in his persona.174 Therefore, by the end of the play and after the poetic krisis has been conducted, ‘Aristophanes’ seems to have revisited a large part of his earlier poetic stance, namely his penchant for ‘new’, ‘clever’ Euripidean poetics. By modifying that, adhering to his old nouthesia and adding the Bacchic element, he has endorsed a wholly ‘Aeschylean’ characterization, one which, as we have seen, had hitherto been the field of ‘Cratinus’ (at least as far as his Bacchic associations are concerned).175 ‘Aristophanes’ has, therefore, for the first time aligned himself with his rival of the past,176 to whom he openly pays homage in v. 357. The idea of the comic poet’s radical redefinition is at home with the Eleusinian mystic atmosphere of the play and the concept of spiritual renewal evoked thereby, as well as with the development of Dionysus’ characterization as a kind of mystic initiation.177 Whether this redefinition is final for ‘Aristophanes’ we do not know. Yet it is certainly relevant that this leap towards older values and poets such as ‘Cratinus’ and ‘Aeschylus’ forms the heart of a play which, as has been noted, shares many features with his earlier comedic style. It might have been that not only the city, but also the comic genre was felt by Aristophanes to be at a turning-point for a once-and-for-all change of character, and his reaction to that was a regression as homage to an earlier phase of comedy.

Cratinus’ Archilochoi Aristophanes’ debt to Cratinus may not have consisted merely of the appropriation of elements from his persona and the reuse of his fundamental opposition between ‘Aristophanes-Euripides’ and ‘Cratinus-Aeschylus’. Aristophanes may also have appropriated the very medium of poetic self-definition which Cratinus had used two parabasis, which is much closer to Aeschylus’ understanding of the concept (1039–88). 174 Bakola (2008: 4–6). 175 Upon completing this section, I was pleased to discover that Ornaghi (2006: 92–3) offers a similar approach to Frogs. I intend to return to this reading of the play in a future publication. 176 In the extant comic material. 177 Bowie (1993: ch. 10); Lada-Richards (1999: passim).


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to three decades before in his Archilochoi. In that play, produced sometime between 435 and 422, Cratinus had dramatized another poetic krisis which had a strong element of self-reflexivity, namely a contest between ‘Archilochus’ and the epic poets ‘Homer’ and ‘Hesiod’.178 Although the general plot of that play is not clear from the surviving fragments, we have some invaluable information regarding the scene of the poetic contest itself, which almost certainly constituted the agon.179 Fr. 6, probably from the antode, is particularly illuminating: r c ¨Æ Æ –ºÅ, x ¼Æ Æ'ÇØ; ‰ s ŒÆd Æåø I Æ ŒÆd ÆæÆåæBÆ. P Ø Ææa Œøçe › ıçºe ØŒ ºÆºB ÆØ.180 Have you seen what things the brine of Thasos is braying? How fine and swift and immediate was his payback! The blind man does not seem to have spoken to a deaf one.

These verses suggest, first of all, that the two competing parties were ‘Archilochus’ and ‘Homer’ (¨Æ Æ –ºÅ v. 1 and › ıçºe v. 3).181 Moreover, they also suggest that the iambic poet made his case after the epic poet. This, according to old comic conventions, would automatically make ‘Archilochus’ the victorious contestant.182 Furthermore, Diogenes Laertius 1.12 suggests that ‘Homer’ was associated with ‘Hesiod’ and the pair were treated as a unity: ƒ b ç d ŒÆd çØ Æd KŒÆº F • ŒÆd P , Iººa ŒÆd ƒ ØÅÆd çØ Æ, ŒÆŁa ŒÆd ˚æÆE K `æåØºå Ø f æd ( ˇÅæ ŒÆd ˙ KÆØH oø ŒÆºE.183

178 For the date see Luppe (1973). For bibliography on this play until 1980 see K-A iv. 121. For post-1980 scholarship see Pretagostini (1982); Rosen (1988: 42–8); Conti Bizzarro (1999: 17–18 and 39–50); Ornaghi (2004: 218–28). 179 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 185); this view has been accepted by all subsequent commentators. 180 There is play here with the proverb Ææa Œøçe I ÆæE ( 563 Phot. p. 385.14 Suda p 371) of wasted effort. 181 For Archilochus as ‘Thasia alme’ and for the acerbic style of Archilochean poetry (evoking grilling after dipping in sauce) see Pretagostini (1982: 47–50). That I Æ recalls Archil. fr. 126W is also suggested by Pretagostini (1982: 50–1). For Homer’s ‘blindness’ see h. Ap. 169–73 and Graziosi (2002: 125–63). 182 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 185) and all subsequent commentators. 183 Cf. Clem. Al. Strom. I. 24.1–2, who quotes fr. 2: x çØ H B

IØç Æ. As Conti Bizzarro (1999: 44–5) argues, IÆØçø may suggest that

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Wise men were also called sophists; and not only these, but also poets were called sophists, just as Cratinus in Archilochoi praising Homer and Hesiod and their followers calls them this.

It has been suggested plausibly that ‘Hesiod’ may have come in support of ‘Homer’; it is also possible (though unprovable) that he acted as a bomolochos during the agon.184 Moreover, if (as is most likely) Diogenes’ ƒ æd ( ˇÅæ ŒÆd ˙ is understood literally, it should refer to the two epic poets as well as a group of poets ‘around them’, namely poets who would have been presented as their supporters.185 The most convincing reading which has been offered for these lines is that during the agon this group would have formed a semi-chorus in support of ‘Homer’, and it would have been balanced by another semi-chorus of poets in support of Archilochus.186 This approach also gives the most satisfactory reading of the title of the play, ‘Archilochus and his followers’: for as soon as ‘Archilochus’ was declared the winner, the two semi-choruses would have united behind him and remained so during the rest of the play.187 The award of the victory to ‘Archilochus’ comes as no surprise, given Cratinus’ preoccupation with the iambic poet and his advocation of ‘Archilochean’ Dionysiac poetics (as we have seen throughout this chapter). However, the mere fact of the comparison of ‘Archilochus’ with ‘Homer’ and ‘Hesiod’ suggests that Cratinus’ treatment of the iambic poet in this play may have been different. In antiquity, Homer himself was perceived differently in his own right and differently in comparison with other poets.188 In order to deduce which aspect(s) of Archilochean poetry Cratinus would have emphasized in this play and how he would have positioned himself in relation to epic poetry, we need to form some idea about the issues which would have been at stake in the contest. Unfortunately, what survives from Homer, Hesiod, and the other epic poets were resurrected from the underworld; cf. Ar. Nu. 192 y Ø ’ Kæ ØçH Ø e e #æÆæ and ad loc. 184 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 185). 185 For this use of ƒ æd ØÆ see LSJ9 s.v. æ C2, especially X. HG 5.4.2 E æd

`æåÆ ºæå Ø ‘to Archias and his fellow polemarchs’, and X. An. 2.4.2 ƒ æd

`æØÆE ‘Ariaeus and his followers’. 186 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 185). 187 Cf. Pretagostini (1982: 45 n. 9); Ornaghi (2004: 218–19). 188 Cf. Graziosi (2002: 184).


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Archilochoi is frustratingly little to answer this question. However, other considerations may help us form a hypothesis which, although far from secure, constitutes a satisfactory interpretation while standing up quite well to examination. The intertextual environment of Archilochoi is, first of all, important: in two more agones sophias with which Cratinus’ play seems to be related, the Contest of Homer and Hesiod and Frogs, it is the civic role of poetry which determines the final judgement. Famously, in the Contest ‘Homer’ lost to ‘Hesiod’ on King Panedes’ view that the community would benefit more from a poet who advocated peaceful rather than warlike activities (Cert. 13 W), although he outperformed him on technical matters. The convergence between Archilochoi and the Contest is suggestive, since both works feature ‘Homer’ and ‘Hesiod’ in a dispute over poetic issues. If, as seems likely, Cratinus in composing the Archilochoi positioned himself in relation to the Contest, it is possible that he also presented the considerations concerning the polis as of ultimate importance for his krisis. Ultimately, in presenting the civic role of poetry as a significant criterion for the judgement in Frogs, Aristophanes might have drawn both on the Contest and on the Cratinean Archilochoi.189 Fr. 7 from Archilochoi might add some more weight to this hypothesis, since it could suggest that the krisis did not merely concern aesthetics, but was connected with issues of the polis: ŁÆ ˜Øe

ªº ı ŁAŒ Ø ŒÆº FÆØ (where are the so-called thrones and checkers of great Zeus). As Photius attests ( 659; cf. Hsch. 1925) ˜Øe . . . ŁAŒ Ø was known to be the location of the mythical dispute between Poseidon and Athena for the patronage of the city of Athens. In all surviving versions of the myth the contest was decided on the basis of what each side had to offer for the benefit of the newly founded city.190 It is an attractive possibility that ˜Øe . . . ŁAŒ Ø might have been evoked as the dramatic space of Cratinus’ contest, especially since comedy tends to be so Athenocentric in its choice of locations. If so, it also seems possible 189 The focus on the civic role of poetry in Frogs and in the Contest has been well argued by Rosen (2004); see above, n. 164; however, Archilochoi seems to have formed part of the equation, too. 190 Apollod. 3.14.1; Hdt. 8.55.1; Plu. Th. 19.3; Hyg. Fab. 164.

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that the conditions of the judgement and, in particular, the significance of each party for the polis of Athens were also evoked. A final consideration which should be taken into account is that Archilochoi would have reflected at least some of the salient contemporary and earlier strands of popular and intellectual receptions of Homer, Hesiod, and Archilochus.191 The focus on the pedagogical, moral, and general socio-political value (or lack of it) of their works, in line with the widely accepted belief that poetry interacts significantly with its socio-political context, suggests that such arguments would have played an important role in the Archilochoi agon. As far as ‘Homer’ and ‘Hesiod’ are concerned, in contrast to the Contest and the tradition which perceived them as alternatives to each other,192 in Archilochoi Cratinus presented them as a composite strand. In doing so, he seems to have drawn on another stream of tradition, in which Homer and Hesiod both represent the genre of epic as a whole: within this stream, the pair were well-known as founders of Greek religion and as sophoi,193 which would have probably been evoked during the contest (cf. fr. 2 and Diogenes Laertius above). On the other hand, these epithets would have also been contested, since both poets had come under criticism since archaic times: Xenophanes had criticized them for their scandalous representation of the gods, which derives from a naı¨ve anthropomorphism (B 11, 12, 14–16 D-K); he might also have blamed their poetry for propagating stasis and for hindering civic eunomia (B 1.19–24 D-K). Heraclitus had denied outright their alleged wisdom and breadth of knowledge (A 22; B 40; B 56–7; B 104–6 D-K). Furthermore, in the fifth century the problem of truth and credibility appears to have been a common concern expressed in relation to the Homeric epics (for example, Pi. N. 7.20–4; Hdt. 2.112–20). Alongside it, however, the civic value of epic laudatory poetry as commemoration of heroic deeds also persisted (Pi. N. 7.14–16). On the other hand, Homer’s image as a 191 For the reception of Homer and Hesiod see Graziosi (2002: 164–84); Richardson (1993: 25–35); Lamberton (1988: 146–9). For Archilochus, see Rosen (1988: 12–14) and Nesselrath (2007). 192 See nn. 161–3 above. 193 For Homer and Hesiod as founders of the Greek religion see Hdt. 2.53.2–3; Xenoph. B 10 DK; Pl. Ion 531a5–531b2; cf. Graziosi (2002: 180–4). For their early reputation as sophoi, see Heraclit. B 40, 56, 57, 105, 106 D-K (who denies it; see below).


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teacher of all types of ethical and practical subjects, especially in relation to war, was one of the most popular and long-lived strands of his reception (Xenoph. B 10 DK; Ar. Ra. 1033–42; X. Smp. 3.5, 4.6f.; Pl. Ion 537a–540a), as was Hesiod’s association with teaching peaceful activities.194 As far as ‘Archilochus’ is concerned, it is certain that despite his victory he would have also received his fair share of critique from the rival side. For one thing, as Peace 1295–301 suggests, on account of his sympotic elegy on the shield (fr. 5 W), he could have been accused of subverting traditional martial values. However, the primary strand of Archilochus’ reception in the fifth century concerns his blame poetry. Pindar famously distanced himself from Archilochus and his łª , which he presented as incessant and indiscriminate (Pi. P. 2.52–6).195 The same unilateral view regarding the direction of Archilochus’ blame at anyone, even himself (despite expressions such as Archil. fr. 23.14–15), is reflected in the criticisms of the Athenian fifth-century nobleman Critias (Ael. VH 10.13 = Critias B 44 D-K). These responses to Archilochean poetry reflect a perception of it as inappropriate for the community.196 This is consistent with polemical views such as that of Heraclitus, who, by alluding to purification rituals of expulsion, said that Archilochus (as well as Homer) should be ejected from the public competitions of poetry and flogged (B 42 D-K). Nevertheless, the fragments of Archilochus’ invective against Lycambes suggest that social concerns and the defence of the traditional structure of the community lay at the heart of Archilochean iambos, in line with the cultic roots of the genre.197 There is evidence that antiquity did also regard Archilochus’ blame

194

See esp. Ar. Ra. 1033–4. On the Contest and the long tradition behind it, see n. 163 above. 195 See, most recently, Brown (2006), who illustrates the semantic significance of gluttony in this passage. 196 Possibly by the late 6th cent. other iambic poetry, and in particular that of Hipponax (where invective is presented as a personal and not as a public concern), contributed to the association of the iambic genre as a whole with mere slander and scurrility. This, in turn, might have shaped perceptions of earlier iambos and especially that of its most famous exponent. 197 Brown (1997a: 55–69; 1997b: 87–8).

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poetry as constructive and socially helpful, the fullest expression of which can be found in D. Chr. 33.12f.:198

`æåº å b Kd c KÆÆ [i.e. ˇæ ı] wŒ, e łªØ, ›æH, rÆØ ı Aºº ı f IŁæ ı , ŒÆd æH Æe łªØ. . . . ( ) Ł › º Ø æE ƒŒÆe ŒÆd ŒÆŁ ŁÆØ ŒÆd çÆæa fiH ºªø fi ØE a ±ÆæÆÆ Bº ‹Ø Œæø K d ŒÆd æ ŒŒæØÆØ H KÆØ ø. But Archilochus went to the other extreme, toward censure—seeing, I imagine, that men have greater need of that—and first of all he censures himself . . . so, you see, he who is good at rebuking and upraiding, and at revealing by his words the sins of men, is evidently superior and preferred above those who praise. (Tr. Lamar Crosby 19512)

However, we do not have to look as late as Dio for evidence of this strand of Archilochus’ reception. The view which Dio reflects can be found as early as the fifth century, for example in the Aristophanic reflections of Archilochean poetry in V. 1029–37, Pax 603–4, and Ra. 703–5.199 Having presented the case of either party, by making a krisis in favour of ‘Archilochus’ Cratinus implicitly positioned himself in relation to the victorious poet, as Aristophanes did later in Frogs. With this gesture he most likely suggested, first of all, that comedy was more closely related to iambic invective than to epos. If so, Cratinus would have reflected a perception of comedy’s generic affiliations which was in existence at the time,200 and can be found in its clearest exposition in the fourth-century Poetics of Aristotle: —ÆæÆçÆ Å b B æÆªø fi Æ ŒÆd Œøø fi Æ ƒ Kç ŒÆæÆ c Å Ø ›æH ŒÆa c NŒÆ ç Ø ƒ b Id H Nø Œøø fi Ø d Kª , ƒ b Id H KH æÆªø fi Ø ŒÆº Ø . . . (1449a) And when tragedy and comedy had been glimpsed, those whose own natures gave them an impetus towards either type of poetry abandoned iambic

198 See Nesselrath (2007: 136–7), who discusses Lucian’s reception of this strand of Archilochus’ perception; also ibid. 137 n. 23. 199 See the excellent discussion of these passages in the light of Archilochean tradition in Rosen (1988: 18–21). 200 Rosen’s excellent monograph (1988) is the standard source which presents and analyses the evidence for the comic poets’ awareness of comedy’s generic relationship with iambos and their debt to the iambographic tradition. See also Zanetto (2001).

Poetic Persona and Poetic Voice lampoons to become comic poets, or epic to become tragedians . . . Halliwell 19952)

77 (Tr.

In the light of the popular reception of Archilochus as described above, it is relatively safe to suppose that Cratinus took the stance that, like its iambic counterpart, comic łª and especially his own comic łª

provided a social service by castigating villainy and rectifying evils. This is how later writers portrayed him, and it is likely that their potrayal ultimately derived from Cratinus’ own words: ˚æÆE › B ÆºÆØA Œøø fi Æ ØÅ , – c ŒÆa a `æåØºå ı ÇÅº Ø ÆP Åæe b ÆE º Ø æÆØ K • . . . ªıfiB fiB ŒçÆºfiB ŁÅ Ø a ºÆ çÅÆ ŒÆa H ±ÆæÆø. . . . (Platon. Diff. Charact. (Proleg. de com. 2) p. 6 Koster ¼ test. 17.1–6) Cratinus, the poet of old comedy, in accordance with his emulation of Archilochus, is caustic in his abuse . . . he simply heaps his abuse on the wrongdoers “with uncovered head”. › ˚æÆE . . . fiH åÆæØ B Œøø fi Æ e TçºØ æ ŁØŒ f

ŒÆŒH æ Æ ØÆººø ŒÆd S æ Å fi Æ ØªØ fiB Œøø fi fi Æ Œ ºÇø. (Anon. De Com. (Proleg. de com. 5) p. 14 Koster ¼ test. 19.5–8) . . . and to the pleasure of comedy [Cratinus] added usefulness, by abusing evildoers and punishing them with comedy as with a public whipping.201

Archilochoi, then, might have represented Cratinus’ own positioning within the ancient polarity of praise and blame, suggesting that poetry of blame was of more value to the polis than poetry of praise.202 Among other things, this could have been justified on the basis that iambos and comedy concern the ‘here’ and ‘now’, since they are about real people and designed to address specific social issues; epic, on the other hand, can be perceived as detached, since it is tied to the past and to mythical lands.203 If Cratinus was indeed 201 Authors such as Platon. Diff. Com. (Prol. de com. 1) p. 3 Koster, Hor. Sat. 1.4, and Pers. 1.123 associate the entire triad of comic poets with satirical treatment of public malefactors. Both Aristophanes and Eupolis surely made similar claims in their comedies. However, it is notable that only Cratinus is presented as the straight abuse poet in all ancient sources, whereas the portraits of the other two vary. 202 For the ancient Greek poetic traditions of praise and blame, see Nagy (1979: 222–64). For praise and blame in Archilochoi, see also Conti Bizzarro (1999: 17–18). 203 Cratinus’ own Odysseis, which, according to Platonius, Pe KØÅ Ø å ı Ø, ØÆ ıæe b B ˇı Æ F ˇæ ı (Platon. Diff. Com. (Proleg. de

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concerned with this aspect of iambic poetry, then it would have not been the entirety of the iambic tradition that he defended in Archilochoi, but specifically the strand of iambos which makes invective a matter of public concern, as represented most clearly by Archilochus (but not, for example, by Hipponax).204 In the same context, Cratinus might have distanced himself not only from apolitical epic, but also from apolitical lampoonery, as represented in the mock-epics Kerkopes and Margites, both of which were ascribed to Homer. Thereby he might have (implicitly or expliticly) rejected apolitical comedy as well. Such an expression might have been the context of Archilochoi fr. 13 (a reference to the Kerkopes as having been mentioned in this play), and of another fragment which is sometimes attributed to Archilochoi, fr. 368: ÆæªØ (Arist. p. 1141a 14) . . . ŒÆ ØÆ Å Ø !ÆæªÅ O ÆÇ Å ˇæ ı. Å Ø ÆPB P ÆPe `æØ ºÅ K fiH æø fi æd ØÅØŒB (4 p. 1448b 30) Iººa ŒÆd `æåº å ŒÆd ˚æÆE (Iººa ŒÆd

`æåØºå Ø ˚æÆE Bergk ad Archil. fr. 153)205 ŒÆd ˚ÆººÆå K fiH KØªæÆØ ŒÆd Ææıæ F Ø r ÆØ ˇæ ı e ÅÆ.206 He (i.e. Aristotle) cites a certain poem of Homer’s called Margites. Not only does Aristotle himself mention it in his first book of Poetics, but also Archilochus and Cratinus (Cratinus in Archilochoi Bergk ad Archil. fr. 153) and Callimachos in his epigram, and they attest that the poem is by Homer.

Furthermore, given the epic poets’ widespread association with Greek religion, another question which should be considered in relation to Cratinus’ judgement of the two poets is that of the gods. Whereas Archilochean poetry could have been claimed to be utterly solemn in respect of religious matters, epic poetry, as we have seen, was perceived to present the gods in an irreverent manner. Besides, the origins of iambos associated the genre with religious cults,

com. 1) p 5, 51–2. Koster) might have been a paradoxical and experimental example of the kind of apolitical comedy which might be generated from purely epic material. 204 Brown (2007b: 87–8). 205 Proposed in the 2nd edn. of PLG, reinforcing Meineke’s earlier suggestion in Meineke i. 188. In the 3rd edn. of PLG, however, Bergk added ‘sed nihil omnino tentandum’. 206 Cited by Eustratius In Ethica Nicomachea Commentaria VI, p. 320, 36 Heylbut (Comm. in Arist. Graeca xx 320.36).


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especially those of Demeter and Dionysus. In antiquity Archilochus almost embodied this aspect of the genre, as in the biographical tradition which has come down to us he is associated with different religious functions of the community.207 This is especially important for Cratinus’ self-presentation, since his comedy so frequently flags its Dionysiac affiliations, which (as we will see below, in 5.2.1) at least in one play, Dionysalexandros, extend into engagement with Dionysiac mystic initiation ritual.208 As presented and endorsed by Cratinus, therefore, iambos could lay claim to a different kind of solemnity and seriousness than that with which epic had been traditionally associated. Since in classical times epos was widely considered to have been the literary ancestor of tragedy,209 and since comic expressions attest to a vibrant literary rivalry with the tragic genre, it might have been that, ultimately, Cratinus’ argument was looking towards the sister genre. Cratinus, that is, might have implicitly or explicitly suggested that comedy was ultimately more serious and solemn than tragedy, on account of the same qualities in their poetic ancestors. Archilochoi, therefore, might have been Cratinus’ own response to the serious/high versus nonserious/low dichotomy which characterized popular and intellectual perceptions of epic and tragedy on one hand and iambos and comedy on the other.

1.7. CONCLUSION A systematic exploration of Cratinus’ fragments suggests that the active involvement of the authorial persona is remarkable in both extent and complexity. While there are indications that parabases may occupy the role traditionally attributed to them by scholarship,

207

See Brown (1997a: 45–7). In fact, fr. 16 from Archilochoi, a reference to NŁçÆºº , might suggest that Dionysiac cults were discussed in the play. 209 Several times Plato calls Homer the first tragedian, who leads and teaches the tragic poets (Rep. 595b–c; 598d–e; 605d–e; 607a; Tht. 152e). The matter-of-fact way in which Plato presents this concept suggests that it was a widely accepted view. 208

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it is also clear that Cratinus’ experimentation with the formal sections of his medium and his bold handling of the potential of the authorial voice—amplified, as it appears, by the conditions of strong competition—result in a dynamic, ever-evolving self-reflexive poetic technique. Developed certainly before Aristophanes, Cratinus’ manner of self-presentation is informed by poetic expressions and strategies of the archaic lyric poets, though intensified in overtness and in its agonistic element. Whereas other comic poets, especially in the 420s, also gave authorial voice a prominent role and informed their constructions of themselves from archaic lyric personas, Cratinus’ chronological place in relation to them must mean that his role in the development of authorial voice in old comedy was a defining one. Despite the multifaceted ways in which Cratinus’ poetic voice manifests itself, it is in essence consistent, constructing the distinct persona of the ‘Dionysiac poet’. The elaborate nexus of interrelated ideas and metaphors with which Cratinus associates himself, namely genuine, natural, and flowing poetic inspiration and creativity which has a special connection with Dionysus, as well as Archilochean poetry and poetics, all contribute to that poetic characterization. Even Cratinus’ construction of himself as the iambicist who is unforgiving towards evildoers coheres well with the other facets of his Dionysiac persona, on account of the ritual origin of aischrologia. The consistency in Cratinus’ self-presentation becomes even more striking as one gradually discovers that several other aspects of Cratinus’ „uvre contribute to it. As will emerge in the course of this monograph, Cratinus returns repeatedly to his Dionysiac persona by delving into themes and concepts which evoke it, such as satyr drama, Aeschylus, and Dionysiac initiation ritual. Finally, a major aspect of Cratinus’ poetic technique which has emerged thus far and which, as will be seen, is central to his art, is his interest in genre and his readiness to experiment in imaginative ways with other poetic forms. As we saw from Cratinus’ engagement with lyric poetry and epic, it is not quotation and specific allusion which interests the poet, but engagement with essential components, trends, as well as popular and intellectual perceptions of other genres. Cratinus explores the other poetic forms and locates comedy in relation to them in the same creative manner that he explores, defines, and redefines his own medium.

2 Cratinus and the Satyr Play The papyrus summary of Dionysalexandros (POxy 663) is one of the most valuable pieces of evidence for the study of Cratinus’ art.1 It contains information on fundamental aspects of his comedy, such as plot construction, characterization, satire, use of myth, as well as stagecraft practices, which mere fragments of actual plays, however long, rarely provide. It is also a unique resource for scholars of Athenian comedy, not only because it provides an account of a mythological comedy, but also because it is one which incorporates elements of political satire in a manner unparalleled elsewhere in the genre.2 Many aspects of Dionysalexandros have been subject to debate since the papyrus hypothesis was published in 1904. One of these is the passage summarizing the parabasis (ll. 6–9), which was discussed briefly in the previous chapter. What emerges from a close reading of that passage (offered in Appendix 1) is that Cratinus’ treatment of this formal element of comedy deviates from our (Aristophanocentric) expectations, yet is very much consistent with his and other poets’ practice elsewhere in their uvre. It is a clear example of how comic poets treated traditional elements of comedy in alternative ways, but kept within the possibilities of the genre. This conclusion is particularly useful for our approach to another controversial and extensively debated aspect of Dionysalexandros, the identity of the chorus, which has also been connected to issues surrounding the play’s title. This chapter attempts to offer some 1 The text of the hypothesis and a translation are provided in Appendix 4. A photograph of the papyrus can be found in Pl. 3. 2 For plot construction, characterization, satire, and use of myth in Dionysalexandros see 4.1.1–9. For stagecraft practices (use of costume and disguise) see 5.2.

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Cratinus and the Satyr Play

solutions to these questions, and these will lead to an exploration of something even more essential: Cratinus’ engagement with other dramatic production of his time and satyr drama in particular. As regards Cratinus’ engagement with other poetic forms, we have already seen that fundamental aspects of his comedy were shaped by his use of earlier lyric and iambic poetry (Chapter 1). In the following Chapter (3) we will explore his engagement with tragedy and in 5.1 his adaptation of Homeric epic for the stage. Comedy’s engagement with satyr drama, on the other hand, has never been a favourite of classical scholarship. Even in Aristophanic studies where, for example, engagement with tragedy has been well-documented and thoroughly explored, there is still some uncertainty regarding comedy’s relationship with the third dramatic genre. It has even been argued that comic poets avoided ‘intertextual contact with satyr play’.3 Given that comedy is by nature a highly allusive genre and that comedy and satyr drama shared extensive generic ground, their relationship merits reinvestigation.

2.1. DIONYSALEXANDROS AND THE SATYR PLAY 4

2.1.1. The Problem of the Chorus In the first edition of the papyrus and for many decades thereafter, it was argued that the chorus of Dionysalexandros was a group of satyrs.5 More recently, scholarly opinion has tended to read the satyrs

3

Dobrov (2007: 259 and passim). Dobrov postulates a ‘firewall’ (253) between the two genres with only one exception: Aristophanes’ Peace 426–526. Although commentators (such as Sutton 1975; Dunbar 1995: 613–14; Scharffenberger 1995) have pointed to certain intertextual allusions between the two genres, no systematic discussion of their interaction has been made, which has perpetuated the impression Dobrov reflects and theorizes. Storey (2005: passim) shows that satyrs have a place in comedy, but his discussion does not distinguish between thematic overlap and deliberate interaction between comedy and satyr play. For a discussion of the nature and the rationale of comedy’s use of satyr play (alongside other genres) in Peace, see now Hall (2006: 340–1 and 351–2). 4 A shorter version of sections 2.1.1–4 was published as Bakola (2005). 5 Grenfell-Hunt (1904: 69); Ko¨rte (1904: 483); Croiset (1904: 299); Norwood (1931: 118); Meáutis (1934: 464); Schwarze (1971: 21).


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as a subsidiary chorus, and posit a main chorus of shepherds.6 The first section of this chapter will deal with the problem of Dionysalexandros’ chorus, arguing that the evidence suggests that there was only one and that it consisted of satyrs. In the papyrus hypothesis, the only unambiguous reference to the play’s chorus is ll. 6–12 Œ(Æd) y Ø (b) æ(e ) f ŁÆ ØÆ (æd) H ØÅ(H) ØÆºª ÆØ Œ(Æd) ÆæÆçÆÆ e DØı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø). The technical diction and the content of these lines leave no doubt that they describe the chorus’ activity during and immediately after the parabasis.7 This single certain reference to the chorus does not explicitly indicate its identity, presumably because this was mentioned earlier, in the part of the hypothesis now lost. The original editors deduced the identity of the chorus from the plural ƒ ı(æ Ø) in ll. 42–3. The definite article ƒ here only makes sense if the satyrs have already been mentioned. Therefore, the y Ø of l. 6, who certainly formed the main chorus, were identified with ƒ ı(æ Ø) of l. 42. Lines 42–3 almost certainly describe the play’s exodos (given the similarities to typical Aristophanic exodic scenes in Peace, Birds, Acharnians, and Frogs, where the chorus escorts the actor(s) off stage in procession, while expressing strong emotions about the play’s outcome) and this provides further impetus to the suggestion that the satyrs were the main chorus. Even when it was generally accepted that the satyrs were the main chorus, the presence of such a chorus was treated as a curious element. Another feature of the play requiring further explanation is the substitution of Dionysus for Paris. This substitution has often been explained away as a comic variation of a traditional myth, suited to Dionysus’ common portrayal in comedy as a buffoon, as he is in Aristophanes’ Frogs and Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi. On the other 6 Most recently Casolari (2003: 100–1); Rosen (1988: 55 n. 59; 2003: 384 and n. 30); Lerza (1982: 193–4). This view was first argued by Schmid (1946: 77 n. 8) and then by Luppe (1966: 184–92), for whose argumentation see below. Storey (2005: 211) believes that the chorus of Dionysalexandros consisted of satyrs, but his argument seems inconclusive. 7 Compare the diction of hypotheses of Aristophanic plays where a parabasis is certainly described: hyp. Ach. I 14–15, hyp. Eq. A1 9–11, hyp. Nu. A5 18, hyp. Pax A3 20–1, hyp. Ra. I 14–16 (the text is quoted in Appendix 1, n. 3). Cf. Ko¨rte (1904: 495–6). For the reading (æd) H ØÅ(H) see Appendix 1.

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hand, it has been suggested that Dionysus’ character constitutes a satirical assault on the (allegedly) philandering character of Pericles whom, according to ll. 44–8 of the hypothesis, this play attacked.8 However Dionysus’ involvement had been explained, the satyrs were then presumed to be the band of his followers who accompanied him in his revels on Mt Ida, where Dionysus was assigned the Judgement of the Goddesses.9 The first scholar to question this view was Schmid (1946: 77 n. 8), who suggested that the y Ø who mock and jeer at Dionysus after the anapaests of the parabasis were not the satyrs, but more appropriately a chorus of shepherds from Paris’s sheepfold, who laughed at Dionysus’ disguise as Paris. Luppe (1966: 184–92) developed this suggestion further and pointed to two more passages which in his view supported the existence of a main chorus of shepherds. Lines 35–6 assume that (the shepherd) Paris gave orders to his men, who would have been shepherds like himself: ÆæÆª `

ºÆ(æ ) Œ(Æd) çøæ Æ Œæ () ¼ªØ Kd a ÆF

æ( )Ø ‰ ÆæÆ ø E `

åÆØ E( );

and fr. 39 refers to shearing of sheep, an activity normally done by shepherds: Ø Ø KÆıŁ E åÆØæÆØ Œ ıæ , Æx Œæ a æÆÆ ŒÆd f ØÆ .10

Luppe’s argument had one particularly attractive point, that the chorus of shepherds accompanying Paris on Mt Ida could have given this play a second title ÆE Ø. This title is among those recorded for Cratinus, and is undeniably appropriate for this play. A double title 8 Cf. Schwarze (1971: 13–15); Rosen (1988: 52–3). In fr. 47 from Hermippus’ Moirai, a contemporary play which also makes fun of Pericles and his defensive strategy in the Peloponnesian war, Pericles is called Æ Øºf Ææø. In Dionysalexandros, when Dionysus is handed over to the Achaeans, the satyrs promise Dionysus that they are not going to desert him, and according to Schwarze and Rosen, they are meant to recall Pericles’ associates. For a detailed discussion of the technique of political satire in Dionysalexandros, see 4.1.1–9. 9 e.g. Croiset (1904: 299–300, 309–10); Norwood (1931: 120, 123–4); Schwarze (1971: 9–14, 21–4). 10 ‘And over in here are shears; with them we shear the sheep and the shepherds, too’.


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DØ ı ÆºÆæ j ÆE Ø would be consistent with the physical evidence of the papyrus hypothesis and would offer an attractive Earlier scholars had read the H of the play’s reading of the title’s H. title as a numeral, with Ko¨rte (1904: 485) suggesting that it meant ‘8th in an alphabetic sequence’. However, this would require that the numeral be oddly placed in the title, in terms of both layout and syntax (see Pl. 3). Reading the letter as the disjunctive particle X (cf. Edmonds 1957: ad loc.) could solve this difficulty. Furthermore, the arrangement of the words and the spacing between them, with would restore a symmetry in the title’s layout D`ˇ added after H, which the summarist may have tried to create. Double titles are attested for most poets of old comedy and it is entirely possible that some of Cratinus’ plays also had second titles. According to Luppe, this could explain why later sources attest a smaller number of plays for Cratinus than the number of titles we have.11 Later Rosen added another argument as to why the Idaean shepherds should have been the y Ø of l. 6 by invoking the wording and tone of KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø): he argued that these words imply that the chorus was engaging in more serious invective against Dionysus rather than teasing him about, for example, his new appearance.12 Rosen therefore suggested that they were followers of the real Paris, who had discovered the impostor disguised as their master. Mocking Dionysus would hardly seem appropriate to a chorus of satyrs, who are Dionysus’ loyal followers, as ll. 42–3 seem to suggest. Although the argument for a chorus of Idaean shepherds appears attractive, it is purely conjectural and is based on a highly tendentious interpretation of some pieces of evidence.13 Thus, although it is reasonable to take the first person plural in fr. 39 as referring to the chorus, the fragment can be used as evidence for exactly the opposite of what Luppe argues: the object ØÆ in the second verse, as distinct from the first person plural subject of the verb, would most naturally suggest that some group other than the shepherds delivered these verses. Furthermore, associating the scene of invective between 11 12 13

Cf. Luppe (1966: 191). Test. 1 and 2 give 21, but we know 29 titles. Rosen (1988: 54–5, esp. n. 59); cf. Rosen (2003: 384 and n. 30). Cf. Handley’s scepticism in (1982: 115 and nn. 29–32).

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the chorus and Dionysus with the invective lyric elements of parabases14 ignores the fact that the parabasis is an actor-free zone. When the lyric parts of the parabatic epirrhematic syzygies are satirical, they are not directed against characters present on stage, but usually against individuals known to the public or against the audience as a whole.15 Above all, an economical reading of all the relevant evidence suggests that there is no need to assume that the play had a second chorus. There are four pieces of evidence which have been used in the discussion about the identity of the chorus: (a) ll. 42–3 ıÆŒ º ıŁ( F Ø) ƒ ı(æ Ø) ÆæÆŒÆº F Œ(Æd) PŒ i æ Ø ÆPe ç Œ

(b) ll. 6–12 Œ(Æd) y Ø (b) æ(e ) f ŁÆ ØÆ (æd) H ØÅ(H) ØÆºª ÆØ Œ(Æd) ÆæÆçÆÆ e DØı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø) (c) fr. 39 Ø Ø KÆıŁ E åÆØæÆØ Œ ıæ , j Æx Œæ a æÆÆ ŒÆd f ØÆ

(d) ll. 33–7 ÆæÆª `

ºÆ(æ ) Œ(Æd) çøæ Æ Œæ () ¼ªØ Kd a ÆF æ( )Ø ‰ ÆæÆ ø E `

åÆØ E( ).

It is not beyond doubt that passages (c) and (d) can be taken as evidence for the identity of the chorus. For both, however, this is a valid hypothesis, well worth examining against the other evidence. In passage (c) it is the first person plural form of the verb which suggests this. In passage (d), Luppe correctly suggested that Paris’ order would have naturally been directed somewhere, but failed to note that these lines describe the initiation of an action which would have been highly unconventional for a chorus to perform. The choreutai would not normally make physical contact with the actors,16 and therefore it would be more natural to suppose that the orders were given to mute attendants of Paris. Although this latter suggestion remains possible, such an approach would miss the suggestive information of ll. 37–9, where the execution of Paris’ order is interrupted because of Helen’s objection. This technique, the interruption 14

See Rosen (1988: 54). Cf. Sifakis (1971: 41). Cf. Arnott (1962: 35–41) and below, n. 17. For comedy, see Av. 1205–67, where the birds do not end up seizing Iris, despite being ordered by Peisaiteros to do so. 15 16


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of an unconventional action, has several parallels in drama.17 It is this interruption which ultimately suggests that the recipients of the order were the chorus.18 If we accept the hypothesis of a single chorus, the parabasis was delivered by the satyrs and the arrival of the actor Dionysus marked its end.19 Then the satyrs turned to Dionysus and mocked him (passage (b) above, ll. 6–12), perhaps, as has often been supposed, for his disguise as the shepherd Paris.20 However, Rosen pointed out that the phrase KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø) denotes much more than the innocuous jokes a ridiculous disguise would provoke.21 Although he rightly drew attention to the ritual element of aischrologia which underlies the verb åºıÇ ı( Ø),22 his assumption that the invective scene is inappropriate to the satyrs because they are traditionally Dionysus’ loyal followers ignores the obvious possibility that the preceding (now lost) part of the hypothesis explained why the chorus were estranged from Dionysus. Their loyalty at the end of the hypothesis (used as evidence by Rosen) is no obstacle to this view, since we could as easily infer reconciliation after estrangement as unswerving loyalty. Whatever their reason for jeering at Dionysus, this passage unambiguously attests that the verbal attack on the god was part of an episodic scene between the god and the chorus after the parabasis. In other words, it was part of the action proper. 17 On orders and their execution in drama, see Bain (1982: ch. 3, esp. pp. 15–16), where this issue is discussed in relation to physical contact between chorus and other characters. It is entirely possible that the new scene, with Helen resisting and Paris being finally persuaded to keep her as his wife, changes the circumstances and generates a modification in Paris’ order. See below p. 88. 18 It may seem paradoxical that Paris should order the satyrs to arrest Dionysus, but we shall presently see that he may well have had good reason to believe that they were at odds with him. 19 Pace Rosen (1988: 54), Handley (1982: 112–13), and Ruffell (2002: 152 n. 51), this is what the phrase ÆæÆçÆÆ e DØı clearly implies. 20 One more reason, in line with this comedy’s play with genre, is offered below, (pp. 89–93). 21 Rosen (1988: 54–5). 22 For the ritual connotations of KØ Œ( ı Ø) and åºıÇ ı( Ø), see below, 5.2.1, p. 335. The ritual aischrologia which is alluded to thereby is important, and, in my opinion, should be read in the context of the play’s engagement with initiation ritual.

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If the satyrs were estranged from their master during the action of the play, we may also question the usual assumption that they came with him to Mt Ida. Nothing in our evidence makes this assumption necessary. Yet if they did not come with Dionysus, how could their presence around Paris’ sheepfold be explained? The answer to this question may be found in passage (c), fr. 39. It was noted earlier that this fragment suggests a pastoral activity for its speakers, but it seems not to have been spoken by shepherds as it refers to them as a third party. However, the two seemingly contradictory facts which emerge from the wording of this fragment, that the speakers are and are not shepherds at the same time, could be resolved and remain consistent with our initial hypothesis if the speakers are satyrs who have assumed the occupation of shepherds at Paris’ sheepfolds. This reading lends credence to the possibility that it is the satyrs again who take orders from Paris (passage (d), ll. 35–7). If the satyrs are temporarily estranged from Dionysus and working as shepherds on Mt Ida, they may be working for Paris. In this part of the play, Paris may have ordered the shepherd-satyrs to throw Dionysus, who had got him into trouble, off his land. This, as pointed out earlier, would be a highly unconventional action for a chorus, so here the satyrs are distracted from Paris’ order when Helen objects and finally convinces Paris to keep her as his wife (ll. 37–9). Given the need to avoid a breach of convention, we should not assume that the order would be executed in the same manner after this scene either. Dionysus is ultimately sent to the Greeks, but in a new twist in the story, the satyrs decide not to desert their original master and follow him into captivity. The play seems to end with their reconciliation with Dionysus, whom they now encourage and assure of their support in his new troubles. The pieces which seem to refer to the chorus of Dionysalexandros may fit together now, so that the hypothesis of a single satyric chorus is sustainable. Although the evidence is limited, reading a single chorus in this manner seems to make best use of the material we have available. However, the reconstruction of the play offered thus far does not have parallels in the extant evidence from old comedy. Instead, we will see a number of striking parallels in satyr play.


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2.1.2. Dionysalexandros as Satyr Play A comparison between Dionysalexandros and satyr play makes good sense. A number of important generic elements within the play suggest a close association with satyr play, including (i) its mythical plot, (ii) the burlesque treatment of myth, and (iii) the presence of satyrs.23 In addition, the fundamental motif of satyr plays of estrangement from Dionysus and Dionysiac activities at the beginning and reunion with the god at the end also runs throughout Dionysalexandros. The invective scene at ll. 10–12 Œ(Æd) ÆæÆçÆÆ e DØı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø), is invaluable evidence for this. The scene described in these lines resembles closely one in Aeschylus’ satyr play Theoroi or Isthmiastai.24 In that scene, preserved in a long papyrus fragment (POxy 2162, ed. pr. Lobel 1941), we learn of a quarrel between the chorus of satyrs and a character whom the satyrs had mocked. In the surviving verses, the character bitterly complains about the satyrs’ derision of himself and his activities (fr. 78a.65–71): æØ b FŁ [].[ ŒÆd ÞÅÆÇØ Ø _KŒæ..[ __ ØÅæEØ[ __ ‰ P NØ c ªØ _ ¼ÆºŒØ PØ.[ _ ÆØ[ ŒÆd F ¼ººÆ ŒÆd __ åŁØ Æ ø ø[ ºØ ÆPe [ and you spread this story . . . and let loose a spate of words against me . . . saying that I am no good (at work) in iron, but am a cowardly, womanish creature and not . . . And now you accuse me of these other things . . . the most detestable of all . . . And you abuse me and . . . 25

23 This is how a satyr play is broadly defined in handbooks, e.g. Sutton (1980: 134): ‘The play normally occupying the fourth place of a tetralogy was termed a ‘satyr play’ because its chorus invariably consisted of satyrs. In every known instance . . . these plays were comically grotesque travesties of traditional myths.’ 24 Fr. 78a–c. For bibliography and interpretation of this play, see Wessels and Krumeich (1999b). 25 The translation of the fragments of Theoroi is by Lloyd-Jones (1957), adapted.

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Scholars have long identified the speaker as Dionysus.26 The situation between the satyrs and Dionysus here seems to have striking similarities with what the evidence suggests for Dionysalexandros: we supposed that the satyrs have abandoned their service to their original master Dionysus and find themselves on Mt Ida as shepherds in the service of Paris. Earlier in Theoroi, when Dionysus first appeared in the scene, he complained about a very similar situation, that the satyrs had left him and abandoned their usual activities, and had assumed the uncongenial and unaccustomed occupation of sports. When he realized that they had gone, he set off to look everywhere for them (fr. 78a.23–35): ºº æ Ø ¼æ’ A , TªÆŁ [. P F KæH • ‘ P Bº q Ł’ › Ø [æH • ÆP[c] ŒºıŁ ÆF Ø æ [Ø, _ _ _ ].æHÆ ºÅ [Ø] ç[ ].ÆFÆ, ŒÆd ÆçH ªE [Ø. ].Æ.ø[.]Å[.]fiø Æ[ _ _ _ ›æH ıæÆ ŒÆd æÆåÆ a ç[Æºº]Æ _‰

_ _KæØ

_ _

ŁØÆ ØŒc [_. . . .] _ Œ PŒ MºÅ Æ , Iºº KªıÇ[ ı ŒÆ]ºH . N s K fiÇ ı c ºÆØ Ææ [ØÆ], _ hæåÅÆ Aºº NŒe q .[ _: : : : : ]Ø. _ f N ŁØÇØ ŒÆd æ ı ŒÆØ[ f ]ÆŁg æÆå [ _ I] ŒE , åæÆÆ çŁæø K_ _ __ __ I knew I would find you, my good fellows! I won’t apply to you the words ‘I could not see that you were on your way’. The road itself tells me this, . . . seeing these close . . . these, and told me clearly . . . seeing that your phalluses are short and like tails of mice. You have practised hard for the Isthmia; you haven’t been slack but have trained properly. Well, if you have been loyal to the old saying,27 you might (have seen to) your dancing instead. But you are playing the Isthmian competitor, and having learnt new ways; you are keeping your arm-muscles in trim and wasting my money . . .

26

Cf. Snell (1956: 2–6); Lloyd-Jones (1957: 545). This saying is probably æ Ø Ø m *ŒÆ N Å åÅ ‘one should stick to the art they know’; cf. Lloyd-Jones (1957: 554 n. 3). 27


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These words and fr. 78c (especially vv. 5, 7, and 43–8) make clear that the satyrs reproach Dionysus and have turned to a new activity because they are unhappy serving him. The same motif of the satyrs seeking to leave their service with Dionysus is found in other satyr plays. At the beginning of Sophocles’ Ichneutai,28 when Apollo announces a reward for anyone who helps him find his stolen cattle, Silenus, the satyrs’ father, promises his aid and that of his sons. In return they are promised their freedom (fr. 314.62–3): F ; H[ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]Ø ; KºŁæ f [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]ø.

Freedom from whom? Doubtless from Dionysus, their usual master.29 At a later stage of the play, the tracker-satyrs find a cave in which, they believe, the thief of Apollo’s cattle hides. The nymph of the mountain Cyllene emerges from it, annoyed by the uproar and baffled at the sight of the satyrs’ novel roles; like Dionysus in Theoroi, she comments on the contrast between the satyrs’ earlier and present activities (fr. 314. 223–8): l åÅ; Æ Ø ø, o æ Ł r å fi Å åæØ çæø, o Ø ÆNd æfi Å ŒÆŁÅ[ ]

_ _A_ åæ E Łæ [ ] PÆºB çæø æfi _ _ _ Içd _ _ _ e Łe ZØ Ł PÆÇ

f Kªª Ø çÆØ Ø ŒÆNºø Zåºfiø; What tricks are these? What is this change from the task with which you used to please your master? Drunken always, clad in hide of fawn, bearing the light thyrsus, you used to utter that bacchic cry in the god’s train, together with the nymphs of your family and the company of your children. (Tr. Lloyd-Jones 1996)

As Seaford notes, ‘the contrast between the old service of Dionysus and some newly adopted activity seems to have been a feature of the genre’.30 There were variations in the reasons which generated this change in the satyrs’ state. In Aeschylus’ Theoroi and in Sophocles’ 28 POxy 1174, ed. pr. Grenfell and Hunt (1912) and POxy 2081a, ed. pr. Hunt. See Scheurer and Bielfeldt (1999a). 29 Cf. Martino (1987/8); Lloyd-Jones (1996: 141–3). Contra Seaford (1984: 34–5). 30 Seaford (1984: 35).

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Ichneutai, the satyrs sought to escape the service of Dionysus themselves. In others, such as Euripides’ Kyklops, the satyrs lose their master, while a new activity is imposed upon them. In the prologue speech of Kyklops (1–40), Silenus says that a tempest threw the satyrs’ ship on the island of Sicily while they were chasing the pirates who had abducted their master Dionysus. On that island lived the Cyclopes, and when the satyrs fell into their hands, they became slaves and had to work as shepherds in Polyphemus’ sheepfold. In Silenus’ speech, the contrast between the old service to Dionysus and the new activity is again exploited at length: Silenus first complains of the pains he has suffered for the god in the past (3–9). Now, because he was trying to help Dionysus in his troubles (10–20), he has become engaged in an even greater labour: . . . ˚Œºø NŒ F ¼æ æÅ Iæ Œ Ø. ø e ºÅçŁ K b K Ø

Fº Ø• ŒÆº F Ø ÆPe fiz ºÆæ — ºçÅ • Id Pø ÆŒåıø Æ ˚Œºø I ı ØÆ . ÆE b s Ø ŒºØø K K å Ø

ı Ø BºÆ Æ Ø çıŒ , Kªg b ºÅæ F æÆ ŒÆd ÆæØ ªÆ

ø ÆªÆØ , fiH ı E ˚ŒºøØ ø I ø ØŒ . (22–31) . . . the man-slaying Cyclopes dwell in their remote caves. One of these has caught us and keeps us as slaves in his house: the master we serve is called Polyphemus. And instead of our bacchic revels we now herd the flocks of this godless Cyclops. And so my sons, being young, are shepherding the young sheep on the distant slopes, while my orders are to remain behind, fill the watering troughs, and sweep this house, assisting this godless Cyclops in his unholy meals.31

Kyklops is the only satyr play we have preserved in its entirety. Unfortunately, the evidence from other plays is too scanty to show how often this theme appeared in satyr play. In Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, from which we have a long passage on papyrus

31

The translations of Kyklops are by Kovacs (1994).


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fragments which gives the play’s title,32 we are still not able to understand how the presence of the satyrs on the island of Seriphos was justified. It has been suggested that they were serving Polydectes.33 Apart from Diktyoulkoi, Theoroi, and Ichneutai, we have many more titles which suggest that the satyrs assumed a certain activity in that play, other than their usual Dionysiac revelling:34 Aeschylus’ Kerykes, his Trophoi, Sophocles’ Pandora or Sphyrokopoi, Euripides’ Theristai, Pratinas’ Palaistai, Iophon’s Auloidoi, an anonymous poet’s Mathetai, and others. They were shepherds, as in Dionysalexandros, in Euripides’ Kyklops, and probably in Sophocles’ Poimenes.35 What is important here is that even when we do not know why the satyrs assumed this new activity and even when we are left only with a title as an indication of what the activity might be, it is reasonable to assume that the contrast between old and new activity is maintained, even if not explicitly stated. Naturally, one would expect that the satyrs as Dionysus’ followers would normally be engaged in Dionysiac activities. While Dionysalexandros shares with all these satyr plays the theme of ‘estrangement from Dionysus and Dionysiac activities’, its scene where the satyrs mock the god is probably a direct reference to the similar scene in Aeschylus’ Theoroi. Moreover, as we will see below (3.2), generic allusion with special emphasis on one play was typical of Cratinus, and can be detected in at least one more of his works, Drapetides. This contrast may also suggest that the satyrs’ estrangement from Dionysus was a disruption of the natural order. Would this disruption have to be restored at the end of the play? Kyklops is the only satyr play whose ending we possess. As soon as Polyphemus is blinded, Odysseus and the satyrs are free to sail home. In the last two verses of the play, we read that they rejoice because they are returning to the service of their old master, Dionysus (708–9): 32

Frr. 46–7. See Wessels and Krumeich (1999a). Lloyd-Jones (1957: 532). 34 Cf. Guggisberg (1947: 50–1). On vases, satyrs, both theatrical and non-theatrical, are represented as participating in a wide variety of occupations: see the examples discussed by Simon (1982: passim) and Brommer (19592: nos. 6, 7–8, 10, 24–6, 32, 36–7, 40–3, 46, 56–9). 35 Rosen (2003: 373–86) argues convincingly that Sophocles’ Poimenes was not a tragedy, but a satyr play. 33

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Cratinus and the Satyr Play E b ıÆFÆ ª F ˇı ø

Z e º Øe ´ÆŒåfiø ıº .

As for us, we shall be shipmates with Odysseus and ever after serve in Dionysus’ train.

This theme also appears in Dionysalexandros: the satyrs are rejoined with Dionysus, albeit in captivity (ll. 41–4).36 Thus far we have noted several fundamental similarities between Cratinus’ play and satyr dramas, namely (i) the mythic theme, (ii) the burlesque treatment of myth, (iii) the presence of a chorus of satyrs, and (iv) the motif ‘estrangement of the satyrs from their master Dionysus—engagement in some unaccustomed and un-Dionysiac activity—reunion with Dionysus’. Moreover, the resemblance to satyr play is even more extensive, as this comedy uses several more plot motifs usually found in satyr plays. It is generally accepted that, as a genre, satyr plays possessed a number of wellestablished themes and motifs that were constantly reused and reworked.37 Thus we may also recognize the following motifs: (v) Captivity and bondage.38 In satyr plays, satyrs are not only servants of Dionysus, but they often also become captives, in most cases to an ogre. Their state of servitude commonly justifies their presence in an alien mythical setting. However, in plays such as Euripides’ Kyklops, Bousiris, and Eurystheus, it is the main hero who is captured. In Dionysalexandros, Dionysus is captured by the real Paris after getting him into trouble with the Greeks by masquerading as Paris and carrying away their Helen.39 Yet whereas in other plays captivity is followed by escape or 36 In their hypothetical reconstructions of satyr plays such as A. Theoroi and S. Ichneutai, scholars usually suppose that the satyrs eventually rejoined Dionysus: cf. Wessels and Krumeich (1999b: 148); Di Marco (1992: passim); Lloyd-Jones (1996: 143). 37 Cf. Seaford (1984: 33–44); Sutton (1980: 145–59); Seidensticker (1999: 28–32); Krumeich et al. (1999: 666–7). 38 For this motif and examples, see Seaford (1984: 33–6); Sutton (1980: 147); Seidensticker (1999: 28–9). 39 The motif of captivity is characteristic not only of satyr dramas, but more broadly, of Dionysiac myths. It is found, for example, in Euripides’ Bakchai (cf. the Lykourgeia of Aeschylus), where both Dionysus and the chorus of the bacchant women are captured, and in the Homeric hymn to Dionysus 7.


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rescue, the hero here remains in bondage, since he is sent to the Greeks. At the end of the play, the motif is reversed once more, and the satyrs, instead of being freed themselves, decide to enter captivity by willingly following their master. (vi) Trickery and fraud.40 This motif has a prominent place in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, Euripides’ Kyklops, and Achaeus’ Hephaistos. We can infer from titles and fragments that notorious tricksters of Greek mythology, such as Sisyphus, Odysseus, Autolycus, and Hermes appeared frequently in satyr dramas. In Dionysalexandros, Dionysus assumed Paris’ role at the Judgement of the Goddesses, and although the exact circumstances of this replacement are not clear, the fact that the Greeks came to Troy looking for Paris and not for Dionysus, as well as Paris’s rage against Dionysus suggest deliberate fraud. This certainly seems consistent with the characters of Dionysus, Hermes, and heroes of other mythic tales which involve trickery. (vii) The rural setting.41 Later antiquity associated satyr plays with countryside settings in contrast to the city settings of comedies and the palaces of tragedies.42 Although this categorization has many exceptions in fifthcentury drama, satyr plays tended to have an association with the countryside through the myths they dramatized. (viii) A god’s amorous adventure with a mortal woman43 and/or a gamos of a god or hero.44 Dionysalexandros dramatizes both the amorous adventure of Dionysus with Helen and the gamos of Paris with her (ll. 37–9). (ix) The theme of a contest.45 In satyr plays, athletic contests in particular are especially common, but other types of contests (such as cottabus games, suitor contests, riddle games) appear, as well. In Dionysalexandros, we have the 40 41 42 43 44 45

Cf. Sutton (1980: 149–51, 169–70); Seidensticker (1999: 29–30). For this motif, see Sutton (1980: 153–4). Cf. Vitr. 5.6.9. Cf. Seaford (1984: 39 and 105). Ibid. 39 n. 111 with examples. Cf. ibid. 39; Sutton (1980: 148–9).

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beauty contest between the three goddesses, the same myth which was dramatized by Sophocles in his Krisis. Unfortunately we do not know the date of the latter play and cannot, therefore, postulate any connection between the two. (x) The Dionysiac motif of disguise and transformations.46 In Dionysalexandros, Dionysus changes form twice. (xi) The theme of hospitality and its abuse.47 Dionysus undertakes the role of Paris, the abuser of hospitality par excellence in Greek mythology. In the light of this cross-generic play, we may reconsider Luppe’s attractive argument for the alternative title D`ˇ. Provided that D`ˇ stands for D`ˇ , his suggestion remains plausible.48 Sophocles’ Epitainarioi means Epitainarioi Satyroi and Timocles’ Ikarioi is found cited both in this form and as Ikarioi Satyroi.49 However, unless new evidence comes to light, there is no point in being categorical on this issue, as Ko¨rte’s reading ‘8th in an alphabetical order’ is also entirely possible.50 Yet if Luppe is right in his suggestion, this would be another component to be added to the genre-bending scheme of Dionysalexandros. Given the pervasive presence of satyr play motifs in this play, what makes it comedy and not satyr play? We will deal with this question once we have discussed the immediate implications of the crossing of generic boundaries for our overall understanding of the play. It has so 46

Cf. Sutton (1980: 154–7). Cf. ibid. 146–7 and for examples Krumeich et al. (1999: 666). 48 As far as the two citations of Idaioi are concerned, they could be accommodated in Dionysalexandros. The ancient scholion mentioned in fr. 90 might have referred to one of Dionysus’ disguises (for the central role of Dionysus’ costume and disguise see 5.2). In fr. 91, the ŁEÆØ æçÆ might have been the competing women in the scene of the Judgement, for which see 5.3.2. However, the fact that the women, according to that scholion, appeared K Iæåfi B would be a problem (but Luppe’s correction KÆæªE

is not impossible). 49 Sophocles’ play (fr. 198a–e) was also known as Epi Tainaro <Satyroi>. Timocles’ play was probably a comedy, cf. Constantinides (1969: passim). 50 There are traces of decorative lines above and below D and ˚, embellishing the title, whereas there is a much longer bar only above H and nothing below it. This may suggest that H was not a word of the title, but a numeral (but see Luppe 1966: 190). Symmetry and syntax, on the other hand, weigh against this possibility and favour Luppe’s double title. 47


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far shed light on the use of a satyric chorus, the substitution of Dionysus for Paris, and the invective scene after the parabasis. It will be argued here that it is also key to reconstructing the lost part of the hypothesis.

2.1.3. The Lost Section of Dionysalexandros It is, first of all, crucial for our reconstruction to have an idea of how long this part of Dionysalexandros was, both as a summary on papyrus, and in terms of the actual play. Scholars have offered different suggestions on this matter. The first editors and Ko¨rte believed that the hypothesis text did not begin in the same column, but at least one more complete column preceded it, because generally the ‘exposition’ requires more space than the subsequent action.51 Handley supposed that ‘the first column must have been much higher and not slightly higher than the second or another column may have preceded it’.52 On examination of the original papyrus, I noticed that there is clearly ink visible on the twisted fibres, about one centimetre below the top of the papyrus sheet (on the left; see Pl. 3). Because the fibres are twisted, the ink is visible on the verso and not on the recto or on the photographic reproduction of it, but if they are properly straightened, it is clear that the ink belongs to the writing of the recto. Certainly, then, the left column of the hypothesis text was at least as long as the point indicated by the ink. This means that the missing part of the left column would be at least around 22–3 lines or 80 words long, approximately one-third of the whole hypothesis, which would therefore be at least 230 words in length. Even if there was no other column preceding the left-hand one, the length of the hypothesis text would be comparable to the size of most Aristophanic hypotheses of the same period and style.53 It will be argued here on 51 Grenfell and Hunt (1904: 70); Ko¨rte (1904: 483); cf. Luppe’s discussion in (1966: 191–2). 52 Handley (1982: 114). 53 In particular, hyp. Eq. A1, hyp. Nu. A5, hyp. Pax A3, hyp. V. II, hyp. Ach. I. Linguistic, stylistic, and structural similarities between these hypotheses make them datable to the same period and perhaps even ascribable to the same author; see below,

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the basis of evidence from the hypothesis and of parallels from the Aristophanic plays that the lost part of the Dionysalexandros hypothesis contained the summary of the prologue, the parodos, and the agon. The summary of these sections could have been as long as the missing part of the first column, namely a third of it, as is the case with the prologue, parodos, and first agon of Knights and their summary in hyp. Eq. A1. Furthermore, there is evidence suggesting that the agonal scene took place before rather than after the parabasis. Scholars have always held that the agon of Dionysalexandros was the scene of the Judgement, but there are formal difficulties with this view which make it less likely. First and foremost, if the Judgement scene were the agon, the contest would have to involve not two, but three competing positions, if not three antagonists; the evidence we have (from Aristophanes and tragedy) makes this unlikely.54 Secondly, although we do have evidence of post-parabatic agones, the evidence weighs in favour of its appearing before the parabasis.55 The element of resistance to the hero’s plans which is the essence of agonal scenes is, as a rule, found pre-parabatically. Thirdly, what is described in the lines of the Judgement (ll. 13–19), namely a series of individuals ‘coming along’ to the central figure, is arguably compatible with the ‘possenhaft’ scenes in the typical Aristophanic structure, where individuals enter and leave trying to win the favour of the central figure. A good parallel would be Acharnians 719ff., where several people enter to get a share of the hero’s peace, only one of whom receives anything (cf. Peace 1052ff., Birds 1199ff.). On these grounds, therefore, it is much more likely that the Judgement was an episodic scene that immediately followed the parabasis. The agonal scene must, therefore, have appeared before it.56 Ch. 4 n. 28 and cf. Ko¨rte (1904: 494–7). To this end, one might compare the different style of, e.g. hyp. Eq. A2, hyp. Nu. A1, A2, hyp. Av. A5, hyp. Ra. Thomas Magister. 54 Because of this difficulty, Whittaker (1935: 187) argued that it was unlikely that the Judgement constituted a typical agon scene, so the play, in her opinion, may have not had one at all. 55 Cf. Handley (1985: 361); Dover (1972: 66); Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 200). 56 The agonistic element is quintessential in old comedy. In the three Aristophanic plays where there is no ‘formal’ agon, there is nevertheless an agonal scene: Ach. 280ff., Pax 361ff, Th. 531ff., in each case before the parabasis.


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The content of this scene would be determined by the previous sections, and in particular, the prologue. The satyr play theme of ‘estrangement from Dionysus, engagement in an unaccustomed activity and reunion with Dionysus’, which runs through Dionysalexandros, is likely to be the key to the reconstruction of this part of Cratinus’ play. Given this theme, the invective scene in ll. 10–12, and the similarity with Aeschylus’ Theoroi, it is probable that the beginning of Dionysalexandros involved Dionysus arriving on Mt. Ida to look for his satyrs, who had quit his service. This type of opening scene would also be consistent with the journey motif at the beginning of some old comedies; in Frogs, Peace, and Birds, as well as (most likely) in the Demoi of Eupolis the comic hero goes on a journey to accomplish a mission. Thus, it is likely that Dionysus’ project to find his satyrs and bring them back to his own service was the launchpad for the plot of Dionysalexandros. The function of comic prologues is generally to allow the audience find out the dramatic situation and understand the main character’s role,57 although this process is often not straightforward. Aristophanic prologues use various means to convey this information to the audience, and the release of information is usually gradual, not immediate, so that the audience’s expectation is maintained. There is evidence elsewhere that Cratinus also employed such practice.58 It is possible that, in the opening scene of Dionysalexandros, the spectators would initially be puzzled to see Dionysus in a pastoral setting. In the fashion of opening scenes such as those of Acharnians, Clouds, and Ecclesiazousae, for the first few dozen verses they may have enjoyed a ‘warm-up scene’ with strings of jokes, and amusing comments from the hero about the inconvenience of his present location. Then the audience would find out what this situation concerned, either in an expository monologue (cf. Acharnians, Clouds), or, in order to avoid any monotony, in a dialogue following an encounter with another character (cf. e.g. Frogs). That character in Dionysalexandros may have been Hermes, who we certainly know played a part before the parabasis (l. 5). 57

See Dover (1972: 53–5). See 5.1, where this feature is examined in relation to the construction of dramatic space in Odysseis. 58

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At some point, most probably after the expository section, the chorus of satyrs would enter the orchestra and deliver the parodos. This song might have concerned their new activity and life as shepherds, as it does in Kyklops (41–81), and it would dramatically justify their presence on Mt Ida. In Cratinus’ Ploutoi (fr. 171.9–12 and fr. 171.22–8), Boukoloi (fr. 20), and Odysseis (fr. 151) the chorus entered the orchestra in this way, by announcing their identity and reason for being there. The element of resistance to the hero’s plans, which is usually central to the agonal scene, may have been Dionysus’ effort to persuade Hermes to let him conduct the Judgement and, perhaps, Hermes’ initial reluctance. The matter-of-fact way in which the hypothesis has Dionysus take up his role as the judge after the parabasis strongly suggests that arrangements between Hermes and Dionysus for the Judgement of the Goddesses were made before the parabasis. The agonal scene proposed here would be in the fashion of Birds 451–626, where one contestant tries to persuade the incredulous or reluctant opponent (cf. the agon-like scene of Peace 361ff., where Trygaeus strives to persuade Hermes not to tell Zeus about his plan to raise the goddess).59 The fact that the consequences of the agon would be illustrated in the events which follow the parabasis, both in the invective scene and the Judgement (as is normally the rule with the agones of Aristophanic plays) makes this proposal more appealing.60 The agon may have been preceded by a dialogue between Dionysus and Hermes, in which the rivalry of the goddesses was described. Frogs 757–829, in which the contest between Aeschylus and Euripides is described before it is staged, would be a good parallel. Thus the competing females need not have appeared with Hermes before the contest, as has sometimes been argued.61 As subsequent events suggest, the intervention of Dionysus may have been triggered by the fact that Hermes had been unable to get Paris to conduct the judgement. This is probably where the motif of trickery would come in and 59

Cf. Pickard-Cambridge (19622: 200). Cf. Dover (1972: 66). 61 e.g. Croiset (1904: 299); Norwood (1931: 120). Luppe (1966: 171–3) disagrees with this view for different reasons. 60


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eventually lead to the agon: the adventurous spirit of Dionysus and his effort to accomplish his aim with his satyrs would encourage his involvement and conducting of the Judgement of the Goddesses, whilst pretending to be Paris.62

2.1.4. Dionysalexandros as Satyr-Comedy Earlier we raised the question as to what makes Dionysalexandros a comedy rather than a satyr drama, given the number of quintessential ingredients of satyr dramas found in the play. This question may have, in part, been answered: as far as the hypothesis indicates, we have a parabasis, followed by episodic ‘possenhaft’ scenes. This is typical of the structure of old comedy. The evidence suggests, furthermore, that there was an agon before the parabasis, whose consequences would be realized after the parabasis and in the following episodic scenes. Above all, what keeps this play firmly in the field of old comedy is the presence of political satire, unambiguously attested in the last lines of the hypothesis (44–8).63 Although topical allusions have occasionally been detected in satyr plays, only in comedy is this a major component. Finally, the play’s complexity of action and its apparently considerable length are both elements found in old comedies but not, as far as we know, in satyr plays. Naturally, other old comic elements, whose existence we can only assume (such as epirrhematic structures, onomasti komodein, etc.), as well as the occasion and staging of the production, may have left the audience in no doubt that they were watching a comedy. Nevertheless, the cross-generic play would have been a strong part of the experience: even the mere image of the stage being occupied by a chorus of satyrs and Dionysus, the hero of satyr plays par excellence, would be a constant visual teaser. Dionysalexandros is an unparalleled case of interaction between two dramatic genres. Thus far the dramatic material has provided us with numerous instances where comedy uses themes and motifs 62 Dionysus’ most famous role as a trickster is in the myth of the return of Hephaestus, dramatized by Achaeus in Hephaistos. 63 For an analysis of the manner of political satire in Dionysalexandros, see 4.1.1–9.

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which tend to characterize tragedy and a considerable number of cases where tragedy fertilizes itself with comic elements. In tragedies such as Alkestis and Helen, scholars have also recognized themes and moods of satyr drama, while the latter genre is commonly referred to as æÆªøÆ ÆÇ ı Æ (Demetr. Eloc. 169) in order to denote its overlapping with tragedy,64 but its maintaining of a difference in outlook. We shall discuss below some individual satyric elements in extant and fragmentary comedies. Amidst these cases of generic interaction, Dionysalexandros is unique, as it contains the most sustained engagement with satyr play in surviving comedy.

2.2. CROSSING THE B OUNDARIES: SATYR PLAY IN (OTHER) FIFTH-CENTURY COMEDIES There is evidence that, as a cross-generic work, Dionysalexandros was part of a larger process of comedy interacting with satyr drama. The evidence, which includes fragmentary comedy, extant Aristophanic plays, and vase-painting, is substantial and suggests that, just as comedy was constantly interested in tragedy, so it maintained a consistent interest in satyr play as well. Given the number of features shared by comedy and satyr play—the tendency towards humour, the comastic element, the element of subversion, and comedy’s inclination towards myth, even a tendency for metatheatricality65— comedy’s interplay with satyr drama would have arguably been an even more natural process than paratragedy. In his experiment with Dionysalexandros therefore, Cratinus was looking back to predecessors as much as he anticipated successors. There is a group of fifth-century comedies entitled Satyroi, which were written before or soon after Dionysalexandros. Their titles leave 64 They were written by the same dramatist in the same language and metre, with the same cast of characters and were enacted by the same performers (cf. Easterling 1997b: 38 and n. 11). 65 Kaimio et al. (2001: passim) have shown that metatheatricality was a frequent element of satyr plays. We know even of parabasis-like elements in the genre of satyr play: D’Alessio (2007) discusses the polemic-programmatic aspects in the hyporchema of Pratinas and convincingly shows that it comes from a satyr play.


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little doubt that, like Dionysalexandros, these plays had choruses of satyrs.66 The earliest comedy entitled Satyroi we know of was by Callias and was produced in 437 (IG XIV Urb. Rom. 216.4). Ecphantides’ Satyroi (frr. 1–2) might also have preceded Dionysalexandros if Ecphantides is taken to have been an older rival of Cratinus.67 On the other hand, fr. 5 (from an anonymous play) suggests that he competed at least until the early 420s, so we cannot exclude the possibility that his Satyroi came soon after Dionysalexandros. As frr. 361, 462, and 502 indicate, Cratinus was familiar with the work of both Ecphantides and Callias. Unfortunately, we do not know anything else about the Satyroi of these poets, and we cannot tell whether like Dionysalexandros, they also had mythical plots.68 Despite this lack of knowledge, however, Ar. Th. 15769 makes it fairly certain that even the title satyroi would have connoted ‘satyr drama’ and hence that these comedies deliberately employed some level of cross-generic play. Cratinus himself produced a Satyroi five years after Dionysalexandros, at the Lenaia of 424, but we know nothing about the content of that comedy beyond the fact that its chorus consisted of satyrs. The only comedy entitled Satyroi about which we can say something more is that of Phrynichus, which was probably produced between 425 and 420.70 Satyric themes seem to be present in fr. 46: ›Øc æd KºŁE ÆPe N ıºc Ø ŒÆd ÆF IÆªªºÆÆ ºØ æe e Łe lŒØ· Kªg IæÆ KŒE { ıæØÆe E { . . . because before he comes to the Council j I (?) had to announce these things too and return j to the god; but I escaped him . . .

The speaker has just escaped from someone, possibly from the god of v. 2, to whom he admits he should have returned. Kaibel (cited in

66

Cf. Storey (2005: 201–4). IG II2 2325.48–50 (test. 1) places him after Euphronius (whose sole victory, we know, was in 458) and before Cratinus. 68 This is entirely possible since of Callias’ nine known comedies at least three had mythical content. Of Ecphantides we only know of two such plays. 69 ‹Æ Ææ ı ı Øfi B . . . Cf. Austin and Olson (2004: ad loc), who note that the reference is clearly to satyr drama. LSJ9 s.v. ıæ II gives ‘satyr drama’ as a sense of the plural. 70 Cf. Geissler (1925: 35); Storey (2005: 201). 67

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K-A ad loc.) suggested that the god meant here is Dionysus, which is a potent suggestion, given the title of the play. Fr. 50 is a citation of the word ŒŒÅ ‘master’ (usually of slaves); and the speaker of fr. 47 refers to a double-thonged whip as unable to impose something. These fragments can be read in the light of the satyr-play motifs of slavery, bondage, and escape. It is possible, therefore, that Phrynichus’ Satyroi employed cross-generic play of the sort found in Dionysalexandros. Perhaps fr. 46 was spoken by the chorus of satyrs, who had arrived in Athens after escaping from the service of Dionysus. Fr. 49 contains a topical reference, and it is entirely possible that this comedy, like Dionysalexandros, combined mythical and contemporary elements as often happens in Aristophanes and in Cratinus (see Chapter 4). It may be suggestive that Phrynichus had also written a play entitled Tragoidoi, that is, Members of a Tragic Chorus.71 This title suggests that Satyroi, besides being cross-generic, may have been overtly metatheatrical, if the title is taken to mean The Chorus of Satyrs. More evidence comes from an Attic red-figured calyx-krater dated to the second half of the fifth century (Fig. 2.1). This vase was first published in 1985 by Green, and the illustration on its obverse side has ever since been a subject of debate. It depicts an aulos-player in action with two dancing men dressed as ithyphallic birds on either side. The presence of the aulos-player, the masks, and the theatrical costume of the birds (discussed in more detail below) suggest that this is a scene representing drama. Since the dancers are theriomorphic, there can be little doubt that this is a comedy. Green (1985) dated the vase to the late fifth century and argued that this painting represents a scene from Aristophanes’ Birds. This view was soon challenged by Taplin, who showed that the identification is hardly sustainable, and put forward the alternative suggestion that the birds illustrated are the competing Logoi of the first Clouds.72 There were problems concerning that view as well, in particular that

71

Cf. LSJ9 s.v. æÆªfiø and Ar. V. 1498, 1505. Phrynichus, in the surviving fragments, seems to have had a special interest in themes of poetry and music: cf. Harvey (2000a: 117; n. 17 with citations). 72 See Taplin (1987a, 1987b) for the problems of Green’s identification and Taplin’s alternative suggestion.


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Figure 2.1. Illustration formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’: Attic calyx-krater, c.440 BC; Italian Ministry of Culture, Department of Archaeology

two similarly costumed figures with a piper could only represent a choral scene.73 A curious feature of this painting which both scholars tried to explain is that the costume of the birds-choreutai is a combination of comic and satyr-play costumes. The choreutai are fully dressed as birds, but as Green observed, they also wear trunks just like those shown on the actors of satyr plays, except for the bird tail substituted for the horse tail. Particularly telling is the decorative circle on the hip, apparently a traditional element in satyr-play costume.74 Furthermore, the birds are 73

Cf. Green (1991: 30) and Taplin’s concession in (1993: 101–4). Csapo (1993) supports Taplin’s identification, but does not address the question of the birds’ satyrcostume, for which see below. 74 For these trunks, see e.g. plates 1b–6b in Krumeich et al. (1999), and Krumeich (1999: 54).

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ithyphallic like the satyrs of vase-paintings. Green suspected crossgeneric play,75 but the elements he pointed out as satyric in Birds, namely the nature of the chorus as animals who sometimes pretend to human fashion and the characterization of the Hoopoe as Silenuslike, make for rather tenuous connections. Green’s dating of the vase has also been questioned, and some scholars have dated it to 450–440.76 In fact, none of Green’s arguments for the late date were conclusive;77 on the contrary, there are reasons to suggest that, if this vase really is Athenian,78 it should be dated at least two decades earlier, most likely to around 440. The most important of these are the shape of this calyx-krater, which is less elongated, with less curved and shorter handles, a less overhanging mouth, and thinner base than canonical late fifth-century calyx-kraters;79 the theme of an aulos-player with a chorus, the latest certainly dated example of which belongs to the 470s;80 and elements which, although not absent from fifth-century vases, are much more frequent in earlier examples than later ones, such as the frontal posture of the aulos-player81 and the theme of the departure of a warrior, depicted on the reverse.82 All these make identification with 75

Cf. Taplin (1993: 103–4), followed by Revermann (2006a: 218–19). Himmelmann (1994: 124); Fo¨rtsch (1997: 62); Krumeich (1999: 42, n. 8). None of them, however, has offered detailed argumentation. Krumeich says only ‘die stylistischen Charakteristika der Figuren sprechen jedoch fu¨r ein Datum um 450/440 v. Chr.’. 77 For the arguments, see Green (1985: 95–8). He himself admits that it is his own assumption that white has been added to the painting (p. 98). Pace Green (p. 98), the decoration of the piper’s chiton (described in p. 95) seems to be a motif of earlier works; cf. Boston Museum of Fine Arts 03.788 (a. 470/60) and Ferrara Museo Archeologico Nazionale 3031 (a. 450). Green’s argument concerning the laurel around the vase’s lip is also inconclusive, as this ornamental motif is also used on calyx-kraters in the early classical period (cf. New York 07.286.66 from Agrigento). Finally, Green’s comparison with the style of the Painter of Munich 2335 is also quite tentative (p. 96 n. 3). 78 Taplin (1987a: 102 n. 7) mentioned that Trendall remarked on the provincial style of the painting and expressed some doubt whether it could have emanated from Athens. M. L. Hart, assistant curator at the J. P. Getty Museum (where the vase was kept until 2007) has assured me that the clay is Athenian. 79 See, in Richter and Milne (1935: figs. 57 and 59), the juxtaposed calyx-kraters and their descriptions. 80 These examples are depicted and discussed in Green (1985: 98–111; 1995: 28–34), and Sifakis (1971: 73–5). 81 Cf. Boardman (1989: 145). 82 Cf. Pemberton (1977: 65), cited by Green (1985: 99), who also admits that ‘by the later fifth century, a scene with departure of a warrior is an old-fashioned one’. 76


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the Aristophanic Birds of 414 BC far less likely. On the other hand, there is evidence of plays with bird-choruses before Aristophanes, including a comedy entitled Birds by Magnes. Beyond that we have two Attic vase-paintings from the early fifth century showing choruses of men dressed as birds.83 These certainly depict choral performances, but not necessarily dramatic ones.84 However, chorus-types were repeated and bird-choruses are likely to have been used in other fifthcentury comedies as well.85 Therefore, the vase may well depict a comedy earlier than Aristophanes with a bird- or a cock-chorus. Once the identification with a specific Aristophanic play has been abandoned, it seems likely that the comedy depicted on the vase indeed employed cross-generic play like that we have seen in Dionysalexandros and Satyroi. The disguise and transformation conventions of comedy strongly suggest that the birds were dressed as satyrs because they behaved like them:86 that is, they either resembled satyrs in characterization and attitude, or reproduced themes, motifs, or actions which in satyr plays were enacted by the chorus of satyrs, or both. That there was a practice of reproducing visual patterns of satyr plays, as was the case with certain visual patterns of tragedies,87 is attested by two examples in Aristophanic plays, Peace and Birds. In both plays the reproduction concerns a single scene, whose effect is far better understood when the allusion to satyr play is taken into account. In Birds 1196–1261, Iris lands among Peisetairos and the birds and is molested. Dunbar writes: ‘especially relevant to the tone of Aristophanes’s scene is the possibility that the audience would also remember seeing Iris in a satyr-play, being threatened by the chorus with the sexual assault which theatrical satyrs seem regularly to have contemplated against females landing among them’.88 Although we

I am obliged to Dr. K. Fouseki for guiding me in the dating of this vase. M. L. Hart communicated to me that she would be comfortable with dating the vase around ten to fifteen years before the production of Aristophanes’ Birds. 83 London, British Museum B 509 and Berlin Antikenmuseum 1830. See above, n. 80. 84 Sifakis (1971: 77–9). 85 Cf. Green (1994: 30–2); Sifakis (1971: 77–9). 86 On costume and its role in characterization, see Robson (2005b). 87 For Cratinus’ use of this practice, see 3.2 on Drapetides and 3.1 on Plutoi. 88 See Dunbar (1995: 613–14), with discussion of relevant evidence and bibliography. Cf. also Scharffenberger (1995), who produces a similar argument and deals more extensively with the myth and the visual evidence.

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do not know any satyr play which definitely dramatized this theme,89 a number of vase-paintings which depict Iris being molested by theatrical satyrs suggest the existence of one or more such plays.90 Dunbar discusses the evidence and concludes that: ‘it is possible that Iris threatened with sexual assault, as here by Peisetairos (1253–6), was a familiar theatrical spectacle. Any parody of satyr play metre and style . . . is indistinguishable to us from paratragedy, but Peisetairos could suggest the satyric genre by satyr-like gestures.’ The fact that it is Peisetairos who threatens Iris with sexual assault should not be thought to weaken the parallel. Aristophanes has substituted birds for satyrs, and Peisetairos is dressed as a bird, so he is affiliated with the chorus of birds in the same way as Silenus is with the chorus of satyrs. By taking the leading role in Iris’ harassment, he may have acted like the coryphaeus or Silenus in the corresponding scene of satyr plays. Furthermore, in a series of sexual double entendres, Peisetairos suggests ways in which the other birds could have molested Iris (1212–16). He also orders them to seize her (1205), which would have logically made the chorus move towards the goddess, thereby reproducing the visual moment of the satyrs attacking Iris. It is important to note that the allusion of the Birds scene above to satyr play would still not be enough to support Green’s identification of the vase-painting formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’ with Aristophanes’ play (discussed above), even if the arguments against his late dating of the vase are ignored. The reason is that in Birds the chorus reproduces a familiar satyric pattern only in a single, relatively short scene; having the chorus dressed in a combination of a comic with a satyric costume would be superfluous for the rest of the comedy. Furthermore, there is no evidence that the chorus of Birds altered their costumes before v. 1196. Finally, Peace 459–519 also reproduces a scene from a satyr play. The chorus of Panhellenes haul Peace out of her enclosure, thereby visually and thematically re-enacting the scene of Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi where the satyrs haul a chest containing Danae and baby

89

From Achaios’ Iris we have meagre fragments (frr. 19–23) which tell us little about the plot. 90 A complete list of the fifteen black- and red-figured vases depicting this theme can be found in Kossatz-Deissman (1990: 751–2). Most important is London E 65, the famous Brygos Cup, for which see Simon (1982: 125–9); Buschor (1943: 103–4).


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Perseus out of the sea.91 This allusion has been prepared by the satyric topos of vv. 296–300, where Trygaios summons the chorus for help: Iºº , t ªøæª d Œ¼ æ Ø ŒÆd Œ

ŒÆd ÅØ ıæª d ŒÆd ØŒ Ø ŒÆd Ø ŒÆd Å ØHÆØ, Fæ Y , t ºfi You farmers and merchants and carpenters and craftsmen and immigrants and foreigners and islanders, come here, all you people.

The cry for help from the chorus in an accumulative formulation is a satyric topos and is found in a number of satyr plays, including Diktyoulkoi (fr. 46a, vv. 18–20):92 ] ªøæª F | ŒIº Œç Ø _ ]_ Ø Y K |[K]ªåæØ

] Ø ŒÆd Æ|[æ]{}[Øº]ıH Ł

_ _ __ _ _ __ Come here, all (you) farmers and vine-diggers, and any shepherd who may live here, . . . and any tribe of charcoal-burners. (My tr.)

It can be argued, therefore, that in this section of Peace a satyric topos introduces a reminiscence of satyr play, which the ensuing scene of the hauling and the emergence of Peace (anodos) develops into a specific allusion. Some scholars have argued that the anodos scene of Peace alludes to another satyr play, Sophocles’ Pandora or Sphyrokopoi.93 A number of vase paintings which depict a female figure rising out from the earth and satyrs carrying hammers and watching her in amazement have been linked with this play.94 This suggestion is not impossible, 91 Cf. Adrados (1973/4: passim); Sommerstein (1985) on Peace 296–8. Contra Olson (1998: ad loc.). 92 In Ichneutai fr. 314.38ff., adesp. fr. 681.13 (Satyroi?), and another satyric passage of Aeschylus, preserved in POxy 2256, fr. 72 (attributed to Diktyoulkoi as fr. 46c by Radt, but see Taplin 1977: 419). The formulations in all cases used are very similar. For this topos cf. Steffen (1965); Sutton (1975: 354); Seaford (1984) on 477; Taplin (1977: 220 n. 1, 419 n. 1). 93 Robert (1914: 37); Sutton (1975: 352; 1984: 123); Dobrov (2007: 261–5). 94 Certainly theatrical are Paris Louvre C10754 and Ferrara, Museo Nazionale 3031, which are illustrated in Krumeich et al. (1999), plates 1b–c and 10. For all relevant bibliography concerning this disputed suggestion, see Krumeich (1999: 56–7, n. 69–74); Heynen and Krumeich (1999: 378–9 and n. 9).

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but difficult to substantiate, in particular because we know almost nothing about Sophocles’ play and the association of the vases with it is purely hypothetical. Fr. 482 suggests that Pandora may not have emerged from the earth in that play. Indeed, the identity of the female figure on the vases is disputed.95 Another problem which weakens this theory is the fact that the story pattern in which a goddess (for example, Pandora, Persephone, Aphrodite, Semele) emerges from the earth or the Underworld was widespread in Greece in the classical period, and not only visible in satyr plays.96 Therefore, although satyr plays which dramatized such anodoi were produced,97 it is likely that the associations of the anodos scene of Peace were much wider and included, but were not confined to, these satyr plays. In fact, the resurrection of figures from the earth or the Underworld was, by the time of Peace, a motif shared by comedy as well. In three plays of Cratinus, namely Plutoi (fr. 171), Cheirones (fr. 256), and possibly Archilochoi (fr. 2),98 the motif of anodos from the Underworld is a prominent plot element, as it is in Aristophanes’ Frogs, Gerytades (fr. 156 and possibly fr. 591.85), and Eupolis’ Demoi (test. i). Thus, since the anodos-motif was shared by comedy and satyr play, the transgeneric allusion of Peace to Diktyoulkoi seems to have landed ultimately on common ground. In fact, it is possible that the reference to Aeschylus’ satyr play was generated or at least encouraged by the fact that anodoi were a familiar theme of satyr plays. A last piece of evidence relevant to this discussion is a vase-painting on an early fourth-century bell-krater from Apulia (Fig. 2.2).99 95 Cf. the scepticism of Heynen and Krumeich (1999: 378–80), who list the problems and the objections to this identification. 96 Cf. Olson (1998: pp. xxxvi–xxxvii). 97 The two theatrical vase-paintings Paris, Louvre C10754, and Ferrara, Museo Nazionale 3031, date from c.500–490 and c.450 respectively. Furthermore, emergence from the Underworld is a well-attested motif of satyr plays. It was dramatized in Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi, Sisyphos, and Achaeus’ Aithon. The use of the motif in the prosatyric Alkestis of Euripides is telling. 98 See Ch. 1 n. 183. 99 See Neils and Walberg (2000: 50–1 and pl. 92–3); Revermann (2006a: 153–4). It is a welcome coincidence that at the same time as this monograph was completed (as a doctoral thesis), Revermann (2006a) discussed the same iconographic material as evidence for cross-generic play between comedy and satyr drama, with similar conclusions to the ones reached here (although there are some differences in details); see also his paragraph on the interaction between comedy and satyr play, ibid. 103–4.


Figure 2.2. ‘Cleveland Dionysus’: Apulian bell-krater, c.390–380 Cleveland Museum of Art 1989.73

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BC;

This painting seems to reflect contemporary dramatic practices concerning comedy’s infusion with elements from satyr play and the common ground between them. The scene depicted on the obverse of this bell-krater shows a bust of Dionysus with two actors, one on either side. The actor on the left, who picks a bunch of grapes from the vine coming out of the staff that leans on the god’s left shoulder, wears a typical comic slave costume (type B comic mask,100 belted short tunic, dangling comic phallus, and tights) and is crowned with laurel wreath. The other, who holds a large skyphos and is crowned with an ivy wreath, wears a white-tufted costume with a horse-tail attached to it, as well as a mask with white hair and beard, the typical costume of a Papposilenos.101 Curiously enough, however, this Papposilenos also has a 100

For the types of comic masks, see IGD 13. For the Papposilenos costume see Krumeich (1999: 55 and n. 61). For an example in vase-painting, see the ‘Pronomos’ vase in Krumeich et al. (1999: table 8/9). 101

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dangling comic phallus and a type E comic mask. This latter figure has sometimes been characterized as an actor from a satyr play. However, given the manner in which his phallus and mask are drawn, there can be no doubt that he is meant to be understood as an actor from comic performances. As in the case of the vasepainting formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’, Silenus’ costume suggests cross-generic play. Although we cannot be sure whether this painting represents a scene from or outside a performance (it could do either),102 it is certainly meant to evoke comic theatre. In particular, with its Dionysiac theme it brings to mind many scenes of old comedy where wine and revelry are celebrated. This suggests a plausible explanation for the role a Silenus could have served in a comic context, such as the one portrayed on this vase; indeed, his arrival in a comic celebration of wine and Dionysiac revelry would be very suitable, given that this is one of the great themes treated in satyr plays. As Revermann aptly notes on this vase-painting, ‘as Dionysus casts his spell over any ritual associated with him (drama included), so does comedy integrate the generic intruder’.103

2.3. INTERPLAY OF COMEDY AND SATYR DRAMA IN THE FIFTH CENTURY; CRATINUS’ PLACE IN THE PROCESS Generic interplay is a dynamic and complex process which involves a number of factors in an ever-changing relationship. These include the flexible and evolving nature of ‘genre’ itself; the conditions of 102

Green (1995: 103) believes that these actors are portrayed outside performance and cites some (later) parallels. He notes, however, that ‘the actors are in their roles . . . the slave and the papposilenos behave according to the character or role they would have if they were in a play’. Taplin (1994: 26) raises the question whether this painting could reflect a comic production where a gigantic bust of Dionysus served as a stage prop, comparing the giant statue hauled out in Peace. On the other hand, it is not impossible that the activity of the two actors reflects a scene from a comedy, while the portrayal of Dionysus shows a free interpretation of the scene by the artist, meant to accentuate its Dionysiac theme. 103 Revermann (2006a: 154); see also n. 99 above.


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artistic production of the time; the individual nature of each of the genres involved; the poetic agenda of the author; the audiences, their expectations, and literary competence. In the case of comedy and satyr play, the fragmentary nature of the material from both genres, and thus of our knowledge of the circumstances of its production, necessarily makes the exploration of this process tentative. Nonetheless, the picture which emerges even from the fragments is consistent both with what we know about the Greek concepts of genre and generic play and, as far as Cratinus is concerned, with the rest of his uvre. The example of Peace raises an important issue for the interpretation of this phenomenon, the common interests of comedy and satyr play. The overlapping of the genres in content and, to an extent, outlook must have played a substantial role in their dialogue and mutual influence.104 The most prominent of their common interests are myth and burlesque, which possibly encouraged their interaction early on. From the period when our evidence for comedy’s use of satyrical elements appears, namely the third quarter of the fifth century, the fragments and the titles of poets including Chionides, Magnes, Ecphantides, Callias, Crates, and Cratinus himself suggest a fairly strong trend towards mythical comedy. There are also indications that myths involving Dionysus were popular, perhaps to a degree under the influence of satyr play itself. We know, for example, of Magnes’ Dionysus Æ0 and Dionysus 0 , Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros and Dionysoi, the early Aristophanic Babylonians, and the early Eupolidean Taxiarchoi.105 It was not only the presence of Dionysus which might have encouraged (further) interplay with satyr drama; the motifs which accompanied his myths would have made any reminiscences even stronger. In Babylonians, for example, which 104 There is evidence that comedy also had an effect on satyr play. The topical references in satyr plays (e.g. the attack on athletes in Euripides’ Autolykos fr. 282, the parody of contemporary intellectual developments in Kyklops 316ff. and in Critias’ Sisyphos fr. 19, the ridicule of the Delphians in Achaios’ Alkmeon fr. 12) may have been a result of comedy’s influence; cf. Seaford (1984: 18–19). The paratragedy in Kyklops (vv. 2, 41, 80, 86, 89, 186–7, 206, 218, 222, 314, 424, 683, 687, 706–7; cf. Seaford 1984: 19n. 52) may have also been encouraged by the ubiquitous practice of old comedy. 105 For the date (c.428), see Storey (2003: 246–8).

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featured Dionysus (fr. 75; cf. frr. 68, 74) and a chorus of slaves (frr. 71, 81, 90, 95, 99), Dionysus was captured and taken to trial, but by the end he was freed (fr. 75). Captivity and liberation, therefore, as well as trickery and fraud, disguise and transformation, elements of folk tradition, even anodoi, which modern scholars have identified as motifs of satyr play, belong to the territory of comedy as well, and this shared set of themes is to some extent due to their common Dionysiac origins.106 Reinforcing the tendency for interaction is the fact that both genres drew much of their effect from and invested much of their energy in humorous and subversive situations, obscenity, and the komos. To a degree then, the interaction of the two genres may have been an unconscious process, due largely to common interests. The evidence, however, suggests that it was more often the result of self-conscious experimentation with well-established material. The practice of dramatic poets in the fifth century reflects a sophisticated and supple sense of the genres’ function. For Greek drama, the fifth century was a period of intense activity and rapid evolution, as dramatic genres were continuously revising and experimenting with their territories and their styles.107 These developments were partly a result of rapid changes in the ritual, social, and political functions of drama, but largely an exploration of the potential of the art. Comedy itself was a ‘mature’ genre by the second half of the century, and comic poets would by then have been actively aware of generic boundaries and the potential to play with these. That boundaries were perceived between the dramatic genres should not be questioned; in the dramatic festivals tragedy, satyr play, and comedy were performed, as far as we know, in separate slots. Comedy on one hand, and tragedy and satyr play on the other, were written by different poets; each genre possessed individual and different topoi and individual formal and thematic constants; each had a different outlook; to a degree each performance would have defined itself by resembling a past representative of the genre. However, 106 There is a Dionysiac background in all these motifs; for disguise and transformation see Lada-Richards (1999: ch. 4); for trickery see Segal (19972: 171); for anodoi see Seaford (1984: 41–3). 107 Cf. Easterling (1997b: 46); Green (1994: 12, 42, and 47–8).


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examples such as that of Alkestis of 438, which took the place of a satyr play, show that boundaries were not impermeable and tradition not inviolable. Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros seems to have been an experiment comparable to Alkestis. The individual nature of comedy must have also facilitated the process of interaction. Among the three dramatic genres, comedy is the one which exhibits the widest variety of themes and types, which modern scholars cast into categories such as political comedy, mythological comedy, domestic comedy, artistic parody, comedy of ideas, and so on. This variety shows that an inherent characteristic of comedy is flexibility. The ascending and descending trends of comedy in the fifth century suggest that the concept of the genre was far from finite.108 A degree of fixity was there, of course, but it was not absolute. This is especially true since there were not yet written descriptions of genres as sets of formal and thematic constants, as happened in later years.109 Comedy is also by nature strongly allusive, especially with regards to other literary and dramatic production. Even in early fragments we find evidence that comic poets played with themes and motifs brought up by other poets and playwrights, parodying them or modifying them. Part of the allusion is also created through metatheatricality, a tendency which may have been encouraged by the fact that the dramatic genres were going through a period of rapid development. So far the focus of our discussion has been on texts and genres, and only briefly have we touched upon the role of authors. Inevitably, each author’s handling of a genre adds individual dimensions to a common process. In the examples described above, there are indications that different poets used satyr play in different ways and to different degrees. The invention of a chorus of satyr-birds as attested by the painting formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’ is one version of generic play. Phrynichus in Satyroi cast a satyric chorus in a contemporary setting and dealt (at least partly) with contemporary politics. In Peace, Aristophanes’ engagement with satyr play concerns a specific model and

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Cf. Csapo (2000: passim). Rossi (1971) suggests that ‘rules’ concerning the different genres started being formulated in the classical period, but there is no evidence for consistency in this practice, especially as far as the genre of comedy is concerned. The rapid evolution of comedy throughout the 5th and 4th cents. actually suggests the opposite. 109

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the whole allusion concludes with a motif shared by both genres. In Birds, the poet alluded to satyr play only in a single scene, although it is possible that he had earlier hinted at the upcoming engagement with elements such as the cave setting. Dionysalexandros, on the other hand, is the most overt and sustained example of interplay between the two genres. As far as we can tell, it retains the entire set of characteristics which we would expect in a comedy of the time, amplified by almost the entire set of characteristics which we would look for in a satyr play. What Cratinus has done is taken earlier experimentation to its boldest extreme. It is solid evidence for the author’s quality of imagination, his adventurousness, and his readiness to push the potential of comedy to and through its limits. Audience response also has a role. In order to succeed, such experiments require an audience with a degree of literary competence, which is largely borne of previous experiences in the theatre.110 Experimenting with the boundaries of genre is therefore a two-way process. If the author pushes the genre unrecognizably beyond its boundaries, beyond the competence or tolerance of the audience, the composition may be ill-received. In the case of comedy and satyr play, common features eliminate the risk of a large breach with tradition. Dionysalexandros, which is the most extreme example, was produced when play with satyric genre seems to have become a trend popular with or at least familiar to the audience. Besides, the production of Alkestis in place of a satyr play indicates that the audience insisted on such experimentation. In the competitive atmosphere of the Dionysiac festivals and with the growing sophistication of the Athenian public, there seems to have been increasing demand for originality on the part of the dramatists. Comic poets repeatedly refer to these ‘requirements’ and praise themselves for their own response to them.111

110 For the competence of theatrical audiences in 5th- and 4th-cent. Athens, see Revermann (2006b). 111 Nu. 547–8; V. 1044–5 (cf. 1053), 1535–7; Ec. 576–87. Cf. Pherecrates fr. 84, Metagenes fr. 15. Aristophanes’ protest in the parabasis of Wasps, that the failure of Clouds Æ0 was due to the incompetence of the audience to understand and appreciate his original ideas, shows that there was an awareness of this factor, but should not be taken at face value. Since the comedy which defeated Clouds Æ0 was another profoundly bold composition by Cratinus, Pytine, Aristophanes’ words seem to be only a


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The continuity of the relationship between author and audience also had a role in the undertaking of such experiments. The audience of Greek theatre was much less fragmented than that of modern theatre. The Athenian dramatic festivals maintained an ongoing symbiosis between audience and authors. It seems likely that allusions to satyr play, either specific model or genre, were facilitated by the author’s reliance on the experience of the audience for its recognition. In the previous chapter, we saw that the ongoing relationship between author and audience facilitated another procedure, the comic poet’s construction and use of a poetic persona as a competitive strategy. It is very likely that Cratinus’ persistent projection of his Dionysiac poetics is relevant to the interpretation of his engagement with satyr play. His display of knowledge of the Dionysiac genre par excellence in at least two of his comedies, Dionysalexandros and Satyroi, and his self-association with it may have been part of a larger agenda as a Dionysiac poet.112 This connection seems especially apposite when we consider that (as will be shown in 5.2) in Dionysalexandros, Cratinus made Dionysiac initiation ritual one of the several plot-strands of this multi-faceted play (see also 4.1.9). Finally, it is worth mentioning that the satyr play to which Dionysalexandros seems to have had a direct reference, Theoroi, was a work of Aeschylus, another ‘Dionysiac’ poet, a central model for Cratinus and master of satyr play.113 If Cratinus defined his comedy in this way, this would be comparable to Aristophanes’ practice of defining his own brand of comedy by integrating and engaging with elements of Euripidean tragedy. The interest of Cratinus in the poetics of Aeschylus is one of the issues which we will explore further in the following chapter. literary pretence which ironically misrepresents the audience’s predisposition towards novelty. 112 There is evidence that Ecphantides had a similarly Dionysiac persona and he also produced a Satyroi. Cratinus, who refers to Ecphantides as a Dionysiac poet (fr. 462, 361), could have adopted his idea. 113 See above, 1.1.2. passim, esp. pp. 26–7.

3 Cratinus and Tragedy Students of old comedy have always known paratragedy as a fundamental component of Aristophanes’ art. The phenomenon of comedy’s engagement with tragedy has been extensively studied, most fully by Rau in his monograph Paratragodia (1967), but also in more recent studies,1 and always with the focus firmly on Aristophanes. Paratragedy has received its most thorough and influential treatment in M. Silk’s studies of Aristophanic comedy. These have made a major contribution to our understanding of the poet’s engagement with tragedy by illustrating the function of poetic language in his comedies and showing how essential paratragedy was to Aristophanes’ own exploration and redefinition of the genre.2 In interpreting Aristophanes’ pervasive preoccupation with tragedy, Silk (2000a: 52) put forward the essential question about the rationale of the phenomenon: ‘do we find it natural or inevitable for a comic writer to have such a response to tragedy?’ His theoretical discussion of the relationship, the overlaps and the interplay between the two genres 1

Dover (1972: 183–9); Handley (1985: 384–8); Goldhill (1991: 167–222); Taplin (1993: 79–88); Platter (2007: chs. 1, 2, and 5), and esp. Silk (see below, n. 2). Bowie’s study (2000: 322–4), which includes a discussion of paratragedy in other comic poets, yields little as far as the 5th cent. is concerned. A list of studies before Rau’s monograph can be found in Rau (1967: 1–5). 2 See Silk (1993: passim; 2000a: passim; 2000b: 302–3. A thorough exploration of Aristophanes’ use of tragedy has recently been offered by Platter in the light of Bakhtin’s carnival theory (2007); however, his single-theory driven interpretation, although astute, can hardly account for every mode of comic interaction with tragedy. Comedy’s use of tragedy (as of all other ‘high’ or ‘epic’ culture) is not always polemical, not even always ambivalent (contra Platter (2007: 41, 56, 68–9, 157–8, 162–4)). Often, as Silk shows (1993: 494–504; 2000a: esp. chs. 2 and 3), by fusing comedy and tragedy the poet creates a new texture, a hybrid.

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(2000a: ch. 2), is illuminating of Aristophanes’ engagement with tragedy and, potentially, of that of any comic author. Indeed, Silk (2000a: 6) acknowledges the importance of considering ‘how much of the portfolio of demonstrable Aristophanic qualities was actually unique to Aristophanes’. He also notes (ibid., n. 11) that: ‘it is obviously possible, even likely, that the large imbalance of evidence for Aristophanes, as against the rest of old comedy, serves to make us see as distinctively Aristophanic what was actually generic’. However, the inquiry into how far Aristophanes shares this practice with his predecessors and contemporaries or how much of it he owes to the genre itself receives relatively little space. Silk’s conviction (2000a: 6) is that ‘there is no sign elsewhere in old comedy of his underlying dynamic— of which his preoccupation with tragedy is one, main, diagnostic feature’. Concerning Cratinus, in particular, Silk elsewhere (2000b: 305) subscribes to the view that ‘throughout the remains of Cratinus’ work, what seems to proliferate is not paratragedy, as in Aristophanes, but para-lyric and, especially, para-epic’.3 Whereas Silk’s account of Aristophanes’ use of tragedy is convincing, this degree of exclusion of the other comic poets, Cratinus in particular, from paratragic discourse is problematic. The question which immediately arises is why the other poets of comedy would not be interested in engaging with the most dominant genre of the Athenian cultural scene. In Cratinus’ case we have thus far witnessed his engagement with iambos, lyric, epic and satyric drama (1.4–6, ch. 2 passim); later (5.1) we will explore further his use of epic. Can Silk’s conviction concerning the relationship of non-Aristophanic and especially of Cratinean comedy with tragedy be sustained? In Silk’s studies, paratragedy is treated as a predominantly linguistic phenomenon.4 Although the focus on the stylistic level constitutes a solid framework for the study of Aristophanes’ engagement with tragedy, the overall comparison with the other comic poets is thereby rendered questionable. This is not only because of vast differences in quantity between the Aristophanic plays and the other comic material. It is also because the survival of the extant fragments was determined by 3 Cf. Silk (2000b: 303–6). This was first argued by Dover (1972: 215); cf. also Bowie (2000: 323). 4 Cf. esp. (1993: 478; 2000a: 4–6; 2000b: 299). Likewise in Platter (2007).

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agendas different from those which determined the survival of the Aristophanic plays.5 A warning against such assumptions as Silk makes is the nature of comedy’s engagement with satyr play, as we demonstrated in the previous chapter. Unless new comic material comes to light, our knowledge of that relationship will be founded primarily on non-stylistic evidence and involve mostly thematic and visual elements shared by the two genres. Besides, paratragedy is not a purely linguistic phenomenon, and this is true for Aristophanic comedy as well. In all his comedies, Aristophanes engages masterfully with dramaturgic, scenographic, thematic, metrical, and (presumably) musical aspects of tragedy too. Although it is true that he did not direct many of his plays himself, this can still not be held as an argument to support an exclusive focus on language and style,6 as the composition of a script cannot have been a purely textual affair. Paratragedies such as those in Acharnians, Thesmophoriazousae, or Peace had a visual, metrical, and musical dimension and it is difficult to imagine how Aristophanes could have composed those scenes without having any conception of those dimensions. The possibility of dramaturgic, visual, and thematic engagement with tragedy in the rest of old comedy should be investigated in detail before any assumptions are made. Therefore this chapter seeks to shed light on Cratinus’ comic art from multiple perspectives and to make the first detailed contribution to the study of comedy’s engagement with tragedy from a non-Aristophanic point of view. This may help us to perceive how comedy as a complete genre engages with tragedy. A final note should be offered on the terminology of paratragic discourse: in his discussions of comedy’s use of tragedy, Silk distinguishes between ‘paratragedy’ and ‘parody (of tragedy)’, suggesting that ‘paratragedy is the cover term for all of comedy’s intertextual dependence on tragedy, some of which is parodic but some is not’, whereas parody, as ‘any kind of distorting representation of an original’, ‘is essentially negative: it works by recalling a more or less specific original 5 For the survival of the extant comedies cf. Csapo (2000: passim), who argues that the ancient scholars who filtered the Aristophanic corpus probably did so in order to confirm certain preconceptions about old comedy; see also Nesselrath (2000). The grammarians, lexicographers, and other scholars and authors who preserved the fragments had a variety of different agendas. 6 For this argument, see Silk (2000a: 5–6, esp. n. 9).


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and subverting it’.7 In Silk’s essays, parody has connotations of ‘criticism’ or even ‘polemic’.8 Whereas Silk’s distinction is valuable as a concept, we should take into account that modern literary theory has recognized parody as a flexible and inclusive term, whose semantics have changed constantly through the ages.9 Although the phenomenon can be on occasion ‘negative’ and ‘subversive’ (in Silk’s terms, critical or polemical), it is not necessarily or consistently so. Because parodies are often written in admiration, affection, or even in a playful spirit, taking ‘subversion’ as an essential principle of parody would be misleading, unless we read ‘subversive’ as something more than ‘critical’ or ‘polemical’.10 On the other hand, distortion is a fundamental feature of parody and is achieved by exaggeration, displacement, or transformation of either manner, matter, or both. In our discussion, the term ‘parody’ will have a wider and more inclusive application. Thus ‘paratragedy’ and ‘parody (of tragedy)’ are used as largely interchangeable terms, meaning the distortive representation of a tragic original with a humorous or playful effect without any preconception as to the intention underlying this representation.11 It is also taken into account that ‘parody’ is a term with wide and versatile semantics, and therefore it often overlaps with related forms, such as travesty, burlesque, and pastiche. In this discussion, ‘travesty’ and ‘burlesque’ are generally used when the imitation of the (tragic) original is used as a vehicle for bathetic content.12 ‘Pastiche’

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Silk (1993: passim, esp. 479–80). Like many other critics, Silk associates literary parody with literary critique, so in Aristophanic comedy he recognizes as ‘parodies’ only the imitative compositions where a poet’s style is in question (e.g. Ra. 1329–37, 1338–45, 1285ff. etc.; cf. Silk (1993: 482–93). On the other hand, he argues (1993: 494–5) that e.g. ‘the use of Euripidean drama in Thesmophoriazousae—Helen, Andromeda, et al.—is largely nonparodic’. For a similar distinction of terms see Pucci (1961). 9 Cf. e.g. Mu¨ller (1997: 3–6). 10 Old comedy makes fun of the seriousness and the cultural dominance of tragedy, but without necessarily being polemical. For reasons of clarity, ‘subversive’ is not used here for comedy. Other than Silk, modern critics including Dentith (2000: 9–38), Sage (1987: s.v. ‘parody’), and Platter (2007) follow the Bakhtinian approach to parody and take subversion as inextricable from polemic. 11 Most scholars use ‘parody (of tragedy)’ and ‘paratragedy’ interchangeably. For parody as not necessarily critical, see Dupriez (1991: s.v. ‘parody’); Murfin and Ray (1997: s.v. ‘parody’). 12 It is harder to distinguish between these two terms. Their difference is best seen in their relation to parody: ‘travesty is usually more savagely reductive than parody 8

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is used to denote a work cobbled together in imitation of several originals. Yet like parody itself, parody-related forms have flexible semantics and in the end are best taken as a spectrum of possibilities. Since there are numerous ways to engage with a tragic original, tragedyinspired plays are also best taken as a spectrum, ranging from close parody of specific models through to burlesque of tragic manner.

3.1. PLUTOI, THE PROMETHEUS PLAYS, AND AESCHYLUS’ ORESTEI A One of the most extensive uses of paratragedy in the corpus of Cratinus is in Plutoi, a play probably produced in the Lenaia of 429.13 There have been numerous discussions concerning all aspects of Plutoi.14 One of the most important observations for understanding this play was made soon after the publication of the papyrus fragments, when the affinity of Plutoi with the fragmentary Prometheus Lyomenos was recognized by Beazley (in Page 1942: 199). Since then, Mette, Pieters, West, Griffith, Bees, and Ruffell have also pointed out references in Plutoi to this tragedy.15 All these discussions are valuable, but treat the issue mostly in passing. As a result, many tragic aspects of Plutoi have not been considered. As our earlier discussion implied, scholarship on old comedy remains largely unaware of Plutoi as an example of comic engagement with tragedy.16 Here the fragments of Plutoi are revisited in detail, in order to demonstrate the extent of its relation to Pr. Lyomenos and burlesque is generally more broadly aimed at a literary form . . . rather than a particular author or work’ (Frye, et al. 1985: s.v. ‘pastiche’). 13 Cf. K-A iv. 204 and 206. For the dating of this play on the basis of its political content, see below, Ch. 4, p. 213. The whole text of the papyrus fragments of Plutoi and a translation can be found in Appendix 3. An image of the papyrus fragments is shown on Pls. 1 and 2. 14 All relevant bibliography is listed in CGFP 39 and K-A iv. 204. Scholarly work on the Plutoi fragments thereafter includes Lloyd-Jones (1991); Luppe (1995); Ruffell (2000: 475–81). 15 Mette (1963: 21–2); Pieters (1976: 258–63); West (1979: 141 n. 65); Griffith (1983: 288); Bees (1993: 26); Ruffell (2000: 476–8). 16 To date, only Pieters (1976) discusses the paratragic dimension of Plutoi. Ruffell (2000: 476–8) mentions it briefly, taking the Hesiodic intertext as more prominent.


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as well as to the Prometheus plays in general. What is more, while the subtext of the Prometheus trilogy operated mostly in the opening scene, Plutoi also had an intertextual relationship with Aeschylus’ Oresteia and especially Eumenides probably throughout the whole of the play. As far as the authenticity of the Prometheus plays is concerned, the premise of the present discussion is that, as Griffith and other scholars have shown, (a) Pr. Desmotes is probably not a genuine work of Aeschylus,17 (b) the other two Prometheus plays, Pr. Pyrphoros and Pr. Lyomenos, constituted a trilogy together with Desmotes,18 and (c) the trilogy was probably composed and produced between 440 and 430.19 Moreover, the audience knew the name of the author (which may or may not be in our records) or, according to West’s bold but attractive hypothesis, they at least thought they knew it.20

3.1.1. The Dramatic Situation in the Opening Scene Prometheus Lyomenos21 opened with the chorus of Titans entering while delivering an anapaestic parodos (cf. frr. 190–1). Prometheus was shown on stage, chained to his rock. Upon their arrival, the Titans explained that their reason for coming was to visit their brother Prometheus. This is attested by a fragment from the beginning of the tragedy, [A.] fr. 190 (quoted by Arr. Peripl. M. Eux. 19): 17 For the question of authenticity, see Griffith (1977: passim, for earlier discussions of the problem in particular see esp. pp. 1–7; 1983: 31–5); West (1990: 51–72). Recent discussions which defend the authenticity of Pr. Desmotes are Pattoni (1987) and Podlecki (2005: 195–200). Yet as West (1990: 50) notes, although no single feature of the play on its own can prove the play spurious, what counts essentially against its authenticity is the accumulation of such a large number of features diverging from Aeschylean practice, many of them, in fact, in the direction of Sophoclean or Euripidean practice. 18 Cf. West (1979: 130–1); Griffith (1983: 33 with n. 106 and 281–3). Contra Brown (1990), who argues that Prometheus Pyrphoros is just another name for the satyr-drama usually referred to as Prometheus Pyrkaeus. 19 Cf. Griffith (1977: 9–13, 252–4; West (1979: 146–8); Bees (1993: passim). 20 West (1990: 62–72) suggested that the trilogy could have been produced by Aeschylus’ son Euphorion in the name of his father, which would explain why no ancient authority questions the Aeschylean authorship of Pr. Desmotes. Cf. Sommerstein (1996b: 326–7). 21 The discussion of Pr. Lyomenos follows Griffith (1983: 285–305), the most complete reconstruction and analysis of this play.

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Cratinus and Tragedy . . . ºª ı Ø ª F ÆPfiH ƒ #ØA æe e —æ ÅŁÆ ‹Ø lŒ f f ¼Łº ı , —æ ÅŁF, F Ł K ł Ø,

At least the Titans say there to Prometheus: ‘We have come . . . to view your labours, Prometheus, and these chains which you endure . . . ’ (Tr. Griffith 1983)

Although in Prometheus Desmotes 219–21 we learnt that Zeus had imprisoned the Titans in Tartarus along with Cronus (cf. Hes. Th. 717 ff., 851), in this tragedy the Titans were free. Perhaps in the meantime Zeus had relented, as is foreshadowed at Pr. Desmotes 35 and 379–80. The similarities between this opening scene and the corresponding scene of Cratinus’ Plutoi are striking. Here too, at the beginning of the play a chorus of Titans arrive and, in anapaests, explain their reasons for coming: ( .) z oŒ Kç Æ [ Ł XÅ. #ØA b ª K [ —º F Ø KŒÆº Ł ‹ [qæå ˚æ . (fr. 171.9–12) · · · · · ( .) ‰ b ıæÆ Iæåc º[ºıÆØ _ b ŒæÆE, B

Fæ K ŁÅ æe :[23 _ ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØe ÇÅ F[ ] ŒN ÆŁæe XÅ. _ (fr. 171.22–6)

(Cho.) But why we said [we have come22 you shall now hear. We are by birth Titans and used to be called Plutoi when [Cronus reigned · · · · · · Since the tyrannical rule [is over

·

and the people are in power, we rushed here to our [(?) kinsman and ancient brother seeking him, though he’s now decrepit.

As in Pr. Lyomenos, as soon as the Titans are free from the tyrannical power of Zeus,24 they come to find their brother. The word 22 Ko¨rte supplemented lŒØ. Herter suggested z KºŁE. The meaning ‘we have come’ is virtually certain. 23 The first editors Norsa and Vitelli supplement ‹ [ÆØ Z . 24 Vv. 18–21 might have described how Cronus was_ _deposed, the ‘tyrant’ Zeus rose to power and the Titans were imprisoned. In Cratinus’ play, a tyrannis has been ended (22–3), whereas in Pr. Lyomenos Zeus has probably only relented. Cratinus seems to have used Pr. Lyomenos’ change of political climate and adapted it to suit a topical


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ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ (and ‹ [ÆØ in 24, if we accept the first __ editors’ supplement) echoes the idea of blood relations between the chorus and the ‘brother’ they have come to visit, an idea also prominent in Pr. Lyomenos.25 Furthermore, the chorus of Plutoi describe their brother as ÆŁæ (26), which is consistent with the Titans’ description of Prometheus in Pr. Lyomenos fr. 193.25–8: atque haec vetusta saeclis glomerata horridis luctifica clades nostro infixa est corpori; e quo liquatae solis ardore excidunt guttae, quae saxa adsidue instillant Caucasi. Indeed, this ancient, grievous pain, grown greater with the ghastly years, has become engrained in this body of mine, from which the drops, melted by the heat of the sun, constantly bespatter the rocks of the Caucasus. (Tr. Griffith 1983)

As an important element of the latter play, the enfeeblement of Prometheus was repeatedly foreshadowed already at, for example, Pr. Desmotes 22–3, 94, and 541.

3.1.2. Language and Style Apart from the similarity in dramatic situation in the two plays, in this scene Cratinus has used diction which was key to Pr. Lyomenos and the Prometheus trilogy in general: ŒºØ (16), [ (20) and (21), and ıæÆ Iæå (22).26 Furthermore, K ŁÅ reference, Pericles’ deposition from strategia, which was probably central to his play; for the political content of the play and the adaptation of its myth, see 4.2; for Pericles’ association with tyranny and Zeus, see Ch. 4 n. 7. 25 Cf. [A.] fr. 193, Cicero’s adapted translation of the Greek original in Tusc. Disp. 2.23–5, v. 1: Titanum suboles, socia nostri sanguinis. Cf. also P. Heidel. 185, which is sometimes attributed to this play, v. 14 Ø ıÆ[ . Oceanus in Pr. Desmotes, 289ff. is also obliged to visit on account of his kinship. Note that it is only in the Prometheus plays (and later texts deriving the idea from them) that Prometheus is a brother to the Titans. Normally, as in Hesiod (Th. 510), he is the son of one of them (Iapetos). 26 Pr. Desmotes makes much of the language and notion of tyranny; tyrann- words occur no less than thirteen times in the play. Thomson (1932: 6–10) and Podlecki (19992: 103–11) have argued that Zeus’ portrayal is meant to recall the traditional characterization of the bad tyrant (cf. Griffith 1983: 7).

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(24), whereby the chorus of Plutoi refer to their entrance, echoes the self-announcement of the Pr. Desmotes chorus ŁÅ . . . in the corresponding scene (135).27 It is of special importance that the counterparts of the tragic Titans, who speak sometimes ‘out of character’ as choreutai, and sometimes as Plutoi, use consistently elevated language. Saying that they are worried about the outcome of the dramatic competition, they promise nevertheless to accept it, but the concept and diction they use in doing so (e ıåe æªØ[, 4) evokes the common tragic notion of endurance of fate, found also at the beginning of Pr. Desmotes (11): ‰ i ØÆåŁfiB c ˜Øe ıæÆÆ æªØ. In tragic contexts outside the Prometheus trilogy, the idea is evoked, for example, in S. fr. 947 æªØ b IŒ Æ . . . æØ . . . Iººa c Ø åÅ; A. A. 1569–71 KŁºø Æ Ø . . . ‹æŒ ı ŁÅ b æªØ, ºÅ æ ZŁ ; S. Ph. 538 IªŒÅ fi æ hÆŁ æªØ ŒÆŒ. As the Titans give reasons for their uneasiness about the outcome of the competition, their expressions once more evoke tragedy: c ııåÆØ Ø Ææı Ø / d ŒæØÆd .. [(5–6). ´Ææ ÆØ is a word alien to comedy: it appears only once elsewhere (Ach. 220), to add grandeur to a choral utterance. In tragedy it appears several times. The adjective attributed to ŒæØÆ, , may on the other hand evoke (with paraprosdokian) the lofty idea of the gods being (namely, the gods are in no hurry), which goes hand in hand with the previous notion of æªØ[. The chorus’ subsequent self-presentation (9–12), this time ‘in dramatic character’, evokes in diction and structure the self-presentation of the chorus of Erinyes in the Eumenides:28 Å fi a Æ ıø , ˜Øe ŒæÅ• E ªæ K ˝ıŒe ÆNÆB ŒÆ, æÆd K YŒ Ø ªB Æd ŒŒºŁÆ . . .

(Eum. 415–17)

27 That Cratinus echoes both Pr. Desmotes and Pr. Lyomenos in the Plutoi adds weight to the suggestion that the plays are part of one trilogy. Contra Schmid (1940: 281–308) and Taplin (1977: 464), where only Pr. Desmotes is ejected from the Aeschylean corpus. 28 Cf. Pieters (1976: 256–7). For the similarities between the Plutoi and the Erinyes of the Oresteia, see below, 3.1.5.


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You shall learn the whole of it concisely, daughter of Zeus. We are Night’s eternal children, and in our home beneath the Earth we are called the Curses. (Tr. Collard 2002)

Furthermore, fr. 171.22 ff. includes words such as K ŁÅ, ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ , and ÆŁæ which are alien to comic speech, but are frequently found in tragic contexts.29 Besides, the chorus’ word for ‘excuse’, ]ŒBłØ , belongs predominantly to high poetry, whereas in extant comedy it is found rarely and only in lyric passages (Ar. Ach. 392, where the style is elevated; and Cratinus fr. 253, where there is play with the Hesodic æø + ŁBŒÆØ). In a scene which came later in the play, the agonal scene of fr. 171.58–76, the chorus sing an ode30 which combines elevated phraseology (63–5) with a distinct poetic mannerism, the self-address to their heart Łı (cf. Archil. 128.1; Ibyc. PMGF 317(b); Thgn. 695, 877, 1029; the Homeric ºÆŁØ , ŒæÆÅ in Od. 5.298), which here sounds paratragic, as it evokes tragic self-addresses such as E. Med. 1056 c BÆ, Łı . . . and 1242 Iºº r ›ºÇ ı, ŒÆæÆ . . . ; Alc. 837 t ººa ºA Æ ŒÆæÆ . . . ; S. Tr. 1260 t łıåc ŒºÅæ. . . . Aristophanes uses the self-address paratragically several times, for example at Acharnians 450–2 and 480–9 and at Knights 1194.31

3.1.3. Metre The marching anapaests of the parodos of Plutoi are consistent with the metre of the corresponding part of Pr. Lyomenos (fr. 190–2), and even the same metrical anomaly appears (there is no diaeresis in fr. 171.25 ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ| ; cf. Pr. Lyomenos fr. 192.4, and Pr. Desmotes 172, 295).32 The chorus in Pr. Lyomenos entered either with a continuous system of anapaests (and then lyrics, as for example, in Aeschylus’ Persai or Hiketides), or in a dialogic exchange with Prometheus (as in Pr. Desmotes 128ff.). As Griffith argues, Pr. Lyomenos 29 e.g. ø E. Hel. 1302, S. Aj. 294, A. Th. 941, A. Pers. 866, S. OC 119; ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ E. Ph. 136; ÆŁæe E. Hec. 1190, [E.] Rh. 639, E. Supp. 1064, E. Ba. 487. 30 That this is the chorus and not a character participating in the agon is argued in Ch. 4, pp. 212–13. 31 Cf. Silk (1993: 48–9); Rau (1967: 37–8); de Romilly (1984: 98–102). 32 Cf. Griffith (1983: 288 and nn. 14, 121, 142).

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fr. 192.8 with a paroemiac marking the end of the anapaestic period, suggests a change of speaker, so the latter case is more credible.33 It is therefore likely that the dialogic arrangement of the parodos of Plutoi, where there was certainly an exchange between the chorus and a character, corresponded to its model’s dialogic arrangement. Beyond the specific similarity to its model, it should be noted that the use of an anapaestic system at all in the parodos of Plutoi evokes tragic practice. Anapaestic systems punctuated by catalexis and set out (by later editors)34 in dimeters with occasional monometers, like the parodos of Plutoi, are common in tragedy.35 Apart from the parodos of Pr. Lyomenos, anapaestic systems are used in several other tragic parodoi.36 They are also used in duets between the chorus and one or two characters, serve to announce characters’ entrances, sometimes carry the reflections of the chorus on events, or close a play.37 In Aristophanic comedy, anapaestic recitative systems are uncommon, and are used invariably for parody, predominantly of tragedy, but also of other elevated contexts. Thesmophoriazousae (1227–31) and Clouds (1510–11) close in a tragic manner with such systems.38 Processional anapaests such as those of Knights 498–506 and Frogs 1500–33 have an elevated colour and contain specific parodic references to tragedies (Knights to S. Oicles fr. 469; Frogs to E. Polyidos fr. 638; A. Glaucus Potnieus fr. 441.5–6.M; A. Eumenides 1012–13.; cf. Rau 1967: 188, 205). In the parody of Bellerophon at Peace 81ff., Trygaeus chants in anapaests as the beetle carries him to Olympus. At Thesmophoriazousae 39ff., Agathon’s servant also chants in paratragic anapaests, while Lys. 954–79 parodies a ritual lament in the same metre (cf. E. Hipp. 1347–69). As Parker notes (1997: 56), anapaestic parodoi seem to have been predominantly Aeschylean. In Aeschylus’ Persai, Hiketides, Agamemnon, 33 The paroemiacs in the anapaestic systems of Pr. Desmotes are invariably used to signify change of speaker. Cf. Griffith (1983: 287). 34 This was also the practice in Hellenistic times; cf. Parker (1997: 56). This is confirmed by the colometry of the papyrus of Plutoi. 35 Cf. Parker (1997: 55–61); Stanford (1963) on Ajax 251; Masqueray (1892: passim). 36 See below. 37 Cf. Parker (1997: 56). 38 Cf. Austin and Olson (2004) on Th. 1227–31.


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and Myrmidones the chorus entered with anapaests and then lyrics.39 In the surviving Sophoclean corpus, only in Ajax did the chorus enter with anapaests (and then lyrics), after the prologue. In the entire Euripidean corpus, there are no anapaestic parodoi, and only Iphigeneia at Aulis, in the form we have it, begins with (a prologue in) anapaests, but these are probably not genuine.40 Other than these plays, Andromeda may have also started in anapaestic dimeters (according to an ancient scholion in Aristophanes, Th. 1065), but that was most likely a monody sung by the heroine (cf. Th. 1077). The predominance of Aeschylus in the use of anapaestic parodoi may suggest that this was a mode of writing and staging associated with the earlier fifth century, which was eventually typified by Aeschylus.41 If so, Cratinus (and probably the author of the Prometheus plays as well) would be aiming for an ‘archaic’ if not precisely ‘Aeschylean’ kind of tragic effect.

3.1.4. The Speaking Parts in the Opening Scene Considerable uncertainty surrounds the characters present in the opening scene of Plutoi, because no convincing arguments have been offered for the identification of the speaker (or speakers) of vv. 7–8, 16–17, and 27–8. The state of the material secures only the presence and the participation in the anapaestic dialogue of the chorus. Given that considerable evidence has emerged that the opening scene of Plutoi was modelled on Pr. Lyomenos, the possibility that in this scene the chained ‘Prometheus’ was present and perhaps speaking appears even stronger and merits re-examination. There are two obstacles to this hypothesis, although neither is prohibitive: first, we do not learn who the Plutoi mean by ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ . Different identities have been suggested, including Cronus, Plutus, Demos, or Prometheus.42 The first two suggestions do not take into account the paratragic dimension of this scene. 39

For Myrmidones, see Fraenkel (1950) on Agamemnon 40–103. For the contested authorship of these verses, see Ritchie (1964: 101–3). 41 The use of this practice in Ajax (as well as in the Prometheus trilogy) may have been in reference not only to Aeschylus, but to this archaic period more generally. 42 Cronus was suggested by Mazon and Prometheus by Pasquali, see Vitelli (1935: 110); for Plutus see Luppe (1967a: 69); Pieters (1976: 261–2) followed Kuiper in arguing for Demos. 40

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Although—given the state of our knowledge—they cannot be excluded, there is no positive evidence making either of them, or Demos, more plausible than any other. On the other hand, there is positive evidence for a Prometheus-character, namely the paratragic use of Pr. Lyomenos. A qualification needs to be offered here: as will be shown in connection with this and other plays in Chapter 4, Cratinus’ characters need not have straightforward or single identities, since his plots often function on multiple levels. The Plutoi of this comedy, for example, are a combination of the mythical Titans, the Hesiodic Æ º ı ÆØ, and, to a degree, evoke the Erinyes of Aeschylus’ Oresteia; they are also engaged in contemporary Athenian politics (4.2). Likewise, the brother’s identity would not have been straightforward either; it is likely that he was identified not as the mythical Prometheus of the tragic theatre, at least not exclusively so, but as a ‘Prometheus’ figure, namely a character who combined elements of the situation and characterization of the mythical Prometheus with another identity, such as that of a contemporary figure.43 In fact, Gomme has argued that the ‘Prometheus’ of Plutoi was meant to recall Thucydides son of Melesias, and his argument is consistent with and supported by numerous other features of his play (see 4.2.2). The second obstacle is that we cannot be certain of the scenic presence of the ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ , as vv. 24–8, which refer to the chorus’ brother, do not include any demonstratives. However, as will be shown, the surviving material can support the scenic presence of ‘Prometheus’. Verses 26–8 present a papyrological/textual problem which has not been adequately considered. Two different ways of reconstructing the scene and the speaking parts emerge, depending on how these lines are read. Kassel and Austin mark a change of speaker in v. 27, although there is no visible paragraphos in v. 26 (unlike in vv. 6, 8, and 15), because the papyrus is broken. Until Luppe’s study of Plutoi no editor had marked a change of speaker in that verse, but Luppe (1967a: 60) argued that the antistrophic correspondence of the parodos suggests it. Luppe demonstrated the balance in structure and metre of vv. 2–8 and 22–8, pointed to the fact that v. 26 is 43

Therefore, ‘Prometheus’ in quotation marks is a more accurate description than simply Prometheus.


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catalectic, and argued that, since v. 6 is followed by a change of speaker, v. 26 should as well. Luppe’s observation is attractive and supported by the presence of critical marks in vv. 1 and 21, whereby the ancient scholar may have attempted to mark metrical responsion.44 Luppe, however, did not take into account the fact that the anapaests of the parodos are marching, and in extant drama there is no example of marching anapaests arranged in strophes. On the other hand, catalexis in anapaestic systems marks periodend, but not necessarily change of speaker. Only in the Prometheus trilogy are paroemiacs of anapaestic systems invariably followed by a change of speaker. The Plutoi need not have followed the Prometheus trilogy in the use of that individual metrical feature. In the parodos of Plutoi, there is only one example of a catalectic verse followed by change of speaker, a fact which does not help Luppe’s argument. The catalectic verse of v. 26 could have merely marked a period-end (cf. A. Ch. 308, 311). The main advantage of this approach is that 27–8 would be spoken by the chorus, as the content suggests (cf. also Cheirones fr. 253 ŒBłØ b æø Kººı, ‰ ŁŒÆ . . . ). Both approaches to this papyrological and textual problem have their merits, although neither is entirely flawless. The advantage of Luppe’s argument is that it takes into account the balance between vv. 2–8 and 22–8 and the existing critical signs.45 The second approach is

44 In fr. 171, Kassel and Austin characterize the critical signs in vv. 1, 21, 30, and 65 (see Pls. 1 and 2) invariably as diplae, although they are in fact diplae obelismenae/diplae cum paragrapho. The diplae of vv. 30 and 65 open outwards, whereas the signs in vv. 1 and 21 open inwards. I have not been able to find a parallel for the diple obelismene that opens inwards on another papyrus (Barbis 1988, the standard piece on diple obelismene, does not mention it). However, Hephaestion Ench. 8.8 Consb. clarifies that ø ıŒıEÆ ØºB () marks a transition between strophes. An example of the ø ıŒıEÆ ØºB marking metrical responsion can be found in P. Teb. iii 692 col. iii.3, a papyrus contemporary with the Plutoi papyrus (2nd cent. bc). For this rare critical sign see also Turner (19872: 12 n. 58); McNamee (1992: 16 and nn. 37–9). If Luppe’s argument is accepted, it is best to treat the critical sign used at vv. 1 and 21 specifically as diple cum paragrapho, with the diple marking the responsion and the paragraphus the change of speaker (cf. Lobel 1968: 81; 1972: 43). The sign in vv. 30 and 65 should also be treated as diple cum paragrapho, marking transition between sections and change of speaker. 45 It should also be noted that the use of catalexis to denote change of speaker would be another, metrical point of contact with the Prometheus trilogy. In favour of Luppe’s interpretation one could argue that some passages in sung anapaests are

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more consistent with the content of vv. 27–8, but does not take into account the peculiar critical signs of vv. 1 and 21, and downplays the balance of vv. 2–8 and 22–8. There is no way of knowing for certain whether there was a change of speaker after v. 26 and therefore the presence of ‘Prometheus’ on stage will be tested in both versions. (A) In the first version, assuming changes of speaker after vv. 6, 15, and 26, v. 16 (with ŒºØ in historical present tense) can be taken to refer to the theft of fire and could have been addressed to ‘Prometheus’: r Æ b ŒºØ e ˜Æ.[

The second person singular suggests that ‘Prometheus’ may have also been the addressee of vv. 27–8: (Iºº ÆoÅ b ed. pr. e.g.) ]ŒBłØ æÅ (¼ººÅ Ø ed. pr. e.g.) Æs] å IŒ Å fi .46

If vv. 16–17 and 27–8 are indeed addressed to ‘Prometheus’, the question is by whom, since that cannot be the chorus as the speaker has changed. We therefore have to assume the presence of a third party on stage, who converses with the chorus while ‘Prometheus’ remains silent. Vv. 27–8 suggest that this was a character associated and affiliated with the chorus, since he/she seems to know who the chorus are and their reason for coming. One possible solution is that it was the comic hero. Main characters, especially in tragedy (e.g. Hecuba in Troiades), but also in comedy (e.g. Lysistrata), are often presented as being affiliated with the chorus. Besides, we usually expect the main character to be present in the opening scene of a play. scarcely distinguishable from recitative (Parker 1997: 57; West 1982: 122; Koster 1966: 146). Hence Cratinus here may have merged features of recitative with those of lyric anapaests. The recitative anapaests of Troiades 98–122, e.g. seem to follow a balanced pattern. On the other hand, even in this Euripidean passage, the responsion is only approximate (pace Tyrrell (1897: ad loc.) who emends it to underline the responsion; cf. Lee (19972: ad loc.)). 46 It is also entirely possible that in their original state vv. 17ff. also included a reference to a present ‘Prometheus’. For example, v. 24 Fæ K ŁÅ æe [ l y _ y / ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØ could suit another address to ‘Prometheus’,_such as Fæ K ŁÅ æe ‹[ÆØ Z / ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØ, although it is impossible to know this with certainty. For this supplement cf. Pr. Lyomenos fr. 190 lŒ . . . / f f ¼Łº ı , —æ ÅŁF, / F Ł K ł Ø.


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An objection to this reading may be that the transition to vv. 16–17 from vv. 13–15, which, as was argued in 1.2.2, was metadramatic, seems sudden and odd. This would perhaps be the case unless vv. 16–17 are also understood to be metadramatic. Like Cronus’ swallowing of his children (cf. p. 52), Prometheus’ theft of fire may not be referred to here only as a mythical event, but specifically as a dramatic event. In Birds 1546–7, it is Prometheus’ recent dramatic past, in particular the events of Prometheus Desmotes, which is evoked rather than any other mythical version.47 Similarly in Plutoi vv. 16 ff. the character may well refer to a play which dramatized Prometheus’ theft of fire. It has been argued that this mythical event and the enforcement of the punishment upon the hero were central elements of the plot of Prometheus Pyrphoros, another play of the Prometheus trilogy.48 It is possible therefore that in 16 ff. the character is using material from Pr. Pyrphoros and telling ‘Prometheus’ first about his offence and then about Prometheus’ one-time ally Zeus, who had won the Titanomachy with Prometheus’ help (vv. 18–20; cf. Pr. Desmotes 199–225).49 (B) If we assume no change of speaker after v. 26, the reconstruction of this scene becomes simpler and the parodic use of Pr. Lyomenos potentially even stronger, since the speaker of vv. 7–8 and 16–17. can be ‘Prometheus’ himself. According to this reconstruction, in vv. 7–8. ‘Prometheus’ could be evoking his own dramatic past as participant in a tragic performance in response to the chorus’ expression of anxiety over this performance. Furthermore, in vv. 16–17 he could be pointing out to the Titans that they have come without Zeus’ knowledge. ŒºØ could very well mean ‘cheat’ and

47

Cf. Dunbar (1995: ad loc.); West (1979: 132); Griffith (1977: 11–12). Earlier (vv. 1515–20) Prometheus reminds the audience of his tragic role by speaking in tragic register. Cf. also the opening of Acharnians (v. 6), where it is disputed whether the reference to Cleon disgorging the five talents suggests a historical event involving Cleon, or a dramatic event. The latter choice seems preferable, see Olson (2002: ad loc.). 48 Pohlenz (1930: 77–8); Fitton Brown (1959: 52–3); Griffith (1983: 283–5); West (1979: 131–5). Contra Thomson (1932: 32–8); Solmsen (1949: 146–68); Herington (1963: 185–97). 49 Griffith (1983: 284) has suggested that Prometheus’ role in Zeus’ victory in the Titanomachy was a central element of Prometheus Pyrphoros.

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not ‘steal’ (‘So, then, secretly from Zeus you . . . ’), without losing the potential to evoke Prometheus’ crime of stealing the fire. Thereby he may be also calling to mind the scene between Oceanus and Prometheus in Pr. Desmotes 284–396, where Oceanus visits his chained brother secretly from Zeus. The transitional r Æ may underline surprise of ‘Prometheus’ at the boldness of such an action. Both reconstructions make a strong case for the presence of the chained hero while taking into account every aspect of the material (although, given the state of the evidence, neither is perfectly secure). Besides the likely presence of ‘Prometheus’, we can also point to several more paratragic elements involved in the performance of the play. The mere fact that the chorus entered the stage so early might also have signalled paratragic play. Tragic choruses entered the stage earlier than comic ones, whose appearance (as we know from the extant Aristophanes and from fragmentary plays such as Eupolis’ Demoi)50 would be prefaced by an elaborate buildup. Play with genre is what explains the early choral entry in Eupolis’ Marikas (cf. the paratragic fr. 207, and fr. 205) as well as Cratinus’ Boukoloi and Odysseis (1.2.1 and 5.1.1). Apart from this, other elements which for us are impossible to document would have had a role in the generic play, such as the timbre of the characters’ voice, their costumes and their masks,51 perhaps the chorus members’ poise, physical movement, and gestures, and the music accompanying the scene. In Plutoi, as far as our material permits us to judge, the chorus’ language never drops to a low style, and we may link this with their paratragic status which may well have been signalled by their overall appearance. Although such elements cannot be demonstrated from the extant material, keeping them in mind as possibilities remains very important, since paratragedy was a phenomenon which functioned on multiple levels.

50

Cf. Telo` (2007: 37–43). Perhaps as figures of tragedy who have infiltrated comedy, their identity would have also been indicated by the different style of masks; cf. Aigisthos on the famous Choregoi vase (New York, Fleischman coll. F93) as a tragic actor among comic ones. 51


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3.1.5. The Chorus of Plutoi and the Erinyes of Aeschylus’ Oresteia In the other fragments of PSI 1212 and in Pap. Brux. E 6842 there are no clear signs for the development of paratragic play with the Prometheus trilogy. Yet even if the specific parody of the Prometheus trilogy was abandoned or (more probably) loosened after the opening scene, engagement with tragedy altogether was not. It has already been noted that in fr. 171.57–76, which preserves part of the ‘trial’ of Hagnon and in all probability comes from the agon, the chorus still uses a consistently elevated register (cf. vv. 58–65). As will be shown, this is part of an even larger paratragic scheme. Especially after the opening scene, the Plutoi evoke both in characterization and function the Erinyes of Aeschylus’ trilogy Oresteia. We have noted (pp. 126–7) that the way in which the Plutoi present themselves as a chorus (vv. 9–12) resembles the self-presentation of the Erinyes in Aeschylus’ Eumenides (415–17). Dramatic choruses, of course, frequently presented themselves to the audience and explained their role. Yet this resemblance is not the result of a common mode of choral self-presentation in drama. Cratinus certainly had an interest in the Eumenides of Aeschylus. He himself had written a play of the same name which presumably featured a chorus connected to the Erinyes.52 However, the intertextual relationship of the Plutoi and the Oresteia runs deeper, and becomes apparent on consideration of a central theme of the comedy, that of unjust wealth and its punishment. From the opening scene of the play, we can see that the Plutoi constitute an amalgamation of two distinct identities, that of the Titans of the Prometheus trilogy and, as will be demonstrated in detail in 4.2.1 (pp. 208–9), that of the Hesiodic daimones plutodotai, divinities who kept watch on men and the riches they amass (Op. 122–6). The reason why the chorus of Plutoi are associated with those

52 Cratinus’ Eumenides, its relationship to Aeschylus’ play on the basis of the title and the Aeschylean title Eumenides itself are discussed in 3.5. Nevertheless, the relationship of Plutoi to Oresteia demonstrated here depends only on Cratinus’ familiarity with the trilogy, not on the case that Eumenides was the original title of the final play. There is also a probable allusion to Eumenides at Drapetides fr. 55; see below, p. 151.

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Hesiodic divinities and their very function in this play become clear in fr. 171.57–76, where Hagnon is prosecuted by the Plutoi53 for having amassed riches unjustly (cf. v. 69 y P º ıE ØŒÆø KŁ u _ [ŒºÆ ÆØ).54 This passage strongly suggests that the chorus’ role was to inspect acquired wealth, prosecute and punish the IŒø

º ı FÆ .55 Moreover, although after the opening scene the Plutoi act mainly as watchers and avengers of ill-gotten wealth, their earlier characterization as Titans and brothers of Prometheus continues to inform their identity: their long imprisonment in Tartarus, which the chorus related in vv. 18–22, suggests that the avengers of unjust wealth appear after a very long time to execute their role. It is a common notion of archaic and early classical thought that wealth acquired unjustly brings punishment upon its owner, and moreover that, although the punishment may come late, it is inescapable. This theme appears especially in Hesiod (Op. 321–6) and Solon (frr. 4 and 13). In drama it is mainly explored by Aeschylus and, tellingly for the paratragic dimension of our play, throughout the Oresteia. A significant feature which often remains unnoticed is that punishment of unjust wealth is in several passages associated explicitly with the Erinyes: in the first stasimon of Agamemnon (362–84 and 461–74), it is suggested that both Paris and Agamemnon are culpable for the violation of justice in the name of wealth, but that the Erinyes punish such criminals (462–74). The idea is contemplated further in the second stasimon, in particular in vv. 750–80, which also points to the revenge of Dike and the daimon of the house (i.e. Erinys; Ag. 749 and 768–70 with Collard 2002 ad loc.). This stasimon climaxes with the contemplation of this idea and powerfully prepares the way for the carpet scene, Agamemon’s trampling on the luxurious tapestries, where this notion is articulated as a physical action (see Ag. 957–63 and n. 60). This concept surfaces again in Eumenides 538–57, where the chorus of Erinyes confirm that there is no escape for the man who disregards justice in order to amass riches. Even after their cult is admitted to Athens, as benevolent goddesses the Erinyes (‘Semnai 53

The role of the Plutoi as prosecutors in Hagnon’s trial is demonstrated in 4.2.1. A similar idea appears in fr. 171.46: º ı F ]Ø IŒø KŁ. Cf. Mazon (1934: 608); Norsa-Vitelli (1934: 252–6); Goossens (1935: 407–12); Page (1942: 196). 54 55


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Theai’ or ‘Eumenides’) still warn the Athenians to observe limits in their accumulation of wealth (996). It has often been noted that until the Erinyes appear as a live chorus in Eumenides, their image in the first two plays becomes progressively more active, thus foreshadowing their actual appearance. Indeed there is a remarkable continuity of the Erinyes’ image across the Oresteia56 and their attitude towards wealth should be regarded as a large part of that continuity. The fact that alongside their other roles57 the Erinyes were also associated with wealth is suggested by a strand of popular belief, reflected in Aristophanes’ Wealth (415–24), which also seems to be represented in the Oresteia.58 This quality was a product of their nature as chthonic deities, similar to the king of the Underworld (Hades or Plutos/Plouton), Persephone, and Hecate.59 As chthonic deities, the Erinyes are not only associated with material ‘wealth’, but also with the ‘wealth of the Earth’, the primary source of wealth. In Eumenides 778–87, for example, the Erinyes threaten Athens with infertility. It is as guardians of the ‘proper’ use of the Earth’s resources (and the natural order) that they are punishers of excess and of the injustices it breeds.60 This wider association with wealth and the wealth of the earth more generally explains why they are later endowed with the quality of granting prosperity and riches to humans. This is not a new acquisition but only complements their nature, which, as in all chthonic deities, combines both benign and malignant functions.61 That the 56

See Macleod (1982: 136–8); as Easterling (2008: 225) rightly puts it, ‘what we see is a dynamic development in performance of the associations already made by the language and imagery of the two previous plays and the earlier poetic tradition’. 57 For the multiple roles of the Erinyes, see Easterling (2008). 58 In Wealth 415–24, Penia is likened to an Erinys when she tries to stop Blepsidemus and Chremylus from giving Wealth back his sight, and hence his ability to grant riches to the poor and just. For Penia-Erinys, wealth certainly leads to injustice (475). 59 Cf. the chthonic origins of the Hesiodic daimones plutodotai (Op. 121–6, esp. 121 ÆPaæ Kd c F ª ŒÆa ªÆEÆ Œºıł). 60 I return to the Erinyes’ association with wealth in the Oresteia in Bakola (forthcoming). I argue that Ag. 957–63 (among several other passages) powefully illustrates the abuse of the Earth’s resources and the whole notion of ‘unjust wealth’ in the Oresteia. Crucially, the Erinyes’ role is paramount in the carpet scene. 61 On the whole, the positive and negative aspects inherent in the Erinyes’ ambivalent chthonic nature make it more likely that their association with ‘Semnai

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Erinyes have a continuous identity in the Oresteia is also underlined by the fact that, at the very end of the trilogy, they still warn the Athenians to observe measure in their acquisition of wealth (996).62 In Cratinus’ play, while the Hesiodic and the Solonian subtexts may be present, the Aeschylean intertext is the one evoked most closely of all. Not only is the Oresteia’s general theme of unjust wealth and late but unfailing punishment for it turned into the main theme of the comedy, but there are also striking affinities between the Plutoi of Cratinus’ play and the Erinyes of the Oresteia, or, to be more precise, several aspects of their specific dramatic role in that trilogy. Both the Plutoi (who combine the identities of the tragic Titans and of the Hesiodic daimones plutodotai) and the Erinyes (as we saw) are divinities who come from the depths of the earth and avenge the crime of unjust wealth. They also arrive late to execute their role, the Plutoi as Titans having been imprisoned for centuries and the Erinyes appearing on stage after an elaborate build-up throughout the trilogy (starting as early as Ag. 59). In the Eumenides, a new system of justice replaces the old one and it is suggested that all crimes which in the past drew upon themselves the retribution of the Erinyes will now be resolved under a new judicial system. The first prosecutors in the new system are the Erinyes. In Plutoi, as we will see (4.2.1) the chorus act as prosecutors in Hagnon’s trial during the agon of the play. The engagement with the Oresteia is sustained until the end, since Cratinus alludes even to its final scene in his comedy: as the Eumenides concludes with the Erinyes becoming benevolent divinities and promising to grant prosperity and riches to the Athenians, Cratinus’ Plutoi ends along similar lines, with the Plutoi granting the Athenians (as is generally accepted) a wealth of natural abundance, and creating a utopia.63

Theai’ (cf. Eum. 383) and ‘Eumenides’ was a traditional religious concept before Aeschylus and certainly before Euripides; see Lloyd-Jones (1990: passim) and Henrichs (1991: 163–9); cf. also MacLeod (1982: 136–8); contra Brown (1984) and Sommerstein (1989). 62 The Eleusinian associations of Erinyes/Eumenides (Henrichs 1984) make their functions concerning prosperity, fertility, and their opposites even easier to fathom. Given the pervasive Eleusinian tone of the Oresteia (Thomson 1935; Tierney 1937), it is possible that Aeschylus evokes this association, but further research is needed to confirm this. 63 See frr. 172, 175, 176 and most recently Ruffell (2000: 475–81).


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3.1.6. The Use of Tragedy in Plutoi It is clear from our discussion that the chorus retained a paratragic characterization beyond the opening scene and probably until the end of the play. This means that the play itself retained a continuous paratragic quality. In that sense, Plutoi could be compared with Aristophanes’ Clouds, where the chorus behaves in an individual and relatively sustained ‘tragic’ manner, especially at their first entrance and at the end of the play.64 As we mentioned in the introductory section of this chapter, the parodic use of tragedy in comedy can reflect a range of motives. Silk has argued that in Aristophanes paratragedy not undercut by satire of the tragic model often lends ‘authority’ to the comedy.65 Old comedy operated in a highly competitive context, and appropriating ‘authority’ from the sister genre seems to have been another way in which the poet sought to gain prestige for his play. By cloaking his ‘argument’ (whether pursued genuinely or at a more superficial level)66 with myth and an elevated style, the poet evoked the manner in which tragedy dealt with issues of the polis. In Clouds, which reflects popular anxiety about the rapid changes which the new intellectual movement brought, it is plausible that the consistent tragic characterization of the chorus underlines the seriousness of the moral and civic issues which this comedy

64

Cf. Dover (1968: pp. lxix–lxx); Silk (1980: 106–11); Silk (2000a: 168–80 and 351–60). Contra Platter (2007: 69–73); for earlier bibliography on this issue, Platter (2007: 205 n. 25). A comparison of the Cloud-chorus with the other Aristophanic choruses and especially the Aristophanic characters who combine ‘high’ and ‘low’ qualities suggests that the evenness of their tragic characterization (suggested by metre, language, style, appearance, behaviour, and treatment by male characters) is exceptional and merits explanation. 65 Silk (2000a: 350–65). 66 Regardless of whether genuinely or superficially, old comedies often appear to be engaged in an argument, usually with reference to an issue of concern to the polis. Part of the reason for doing this may have been to help the play’s appeal in the competition, hence the argumentation usually reflects a popular view. Thus e.g., Acharnians cannot be taken as a serious plea for peace on the part of the author (cf. Carey 1993a), but Dicaeopolis is still presented as if engaged in a serious argument. Clouds, on the other hand, not only reflects a current popular view, but also, because of its ending, reveals a more sombre mood.

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explores.67 In Acharnians, another play pervaded by tragedy, Dicaeopolis’ use of the tragic Telephos’ arguments reflects, at a metaliterary level, Aristophanes’ desire to claim tragic authority for his comedy.68 Internal evidence from Plutoi suggests that this play’s use of tragedy may be interpreted in a similar light. The tragic parody in this comedy does not satirize nor directs any critique towards its models or their qualities. There is humour, of course, arising from the incongruity of tragic elements placed against the old comic background of breached dramatic illusion and matter-of-fact metadramatic references, but nothing suggests that this is meant to criticize or satirize. By evoking the Titans of the Pr. Lyomenos and the Erinyes of the Oresteia, therefore, Cratinus’ Titans may have appropriated prestige for the argument they were about to make. Thus the tragic model could be standing in the background lending ‘authority’ to the emerging chorus of Wealthgods, the ‘mission’ they sought to accomplish and ultimately to the poet’s composition as a whole. Moreover, Cratinus’ use of the tragic model may have been perceived by the audience as a reminiscence of two much admired productions,69 or, if both trilogies were understood to be Aeschylean works,70 as a gesture in the direction of a generally admired predecessor. In Cratinus’ time, a special decree was passed, allowing Aeschylus’ works to be revived in dramatic competitions.71 As has already been demonstrated (1.1.2), Cratinus associated himself with Aeschylus, presenting himself and the tragedian as the old masters of truly inspired dramatic poetry, thereby implicitly appropriating for himself the status of a classic author. His use of Aeschylean works72 should also be viewed as part of this poetic strategy. Furthermore, Cratinus’ Plutoi is an invaluable source for the reception of Cratinus’ tragic models. Plutoi is thus far the only 67 See Silk (2000a: 351–60) for Aristophanic comedy in general; for particular reference to Clouds, ibid. 356–60. 68 Cf. Foley (1988: 39–40, 43, 47); see also Taplin (1996: 198) on Frogs. 69 For an attractive hypothesis regarding the success of the Prometheus plays, see Sommerstein (1996b: 326 n. 14). 70 See above, n. 20, for West’s hypothesis. 71 The decree was passed at some point between Aeschylus’ death and 425 bc (cf. Ar. Ach. 10). Cf. Philostr. VA 6.11.11, Vita Aeschyli 1.55. Cf. Pickard-Cambridge (19912: 86, 100). 72 For Cratinus’ use of Aeschylus’ Hiketides and Eumenides, see below (3.2 and 3.5). For his use of Theoroi or Isthmiastae, pp. 89–93.


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comedy for which we can establish a substantial connection with Aeschylus’ Oresteia.73 Another comedy where Cratinus seems to have used Aeschylus’ famous trilogy was his Eumenides (see below, pp. 174–6). It is likely that further research into the comic fragments will reveal that more comic poets alluded to the Oresteia, especially since tragic poets like Euripides continuously reworked it. Moreover, Cratinus was, as far as we know, the first comic poet to engage with the Prometheus trilogy. This was not one-off, for he probably returned to it in Seriphioi (423/2 bc).74 From 424 bc, Aristophanes also made parodic references to the trilogy; he certainly parodied Pr. Desmotes in Knights 758–9, 836, Peace 320, and Birds 1494–1552. The popularity of the Prometheus trilogy in comedy may reflect not only the popularity of the plays themselves, but also the success of Plutoi, which may have led to this concept being repeated.75 The example of Plutoi is thus highly suggestive of detailed, sustained, and above all, imaginative paratragic interactions being an active possibility for the other comic poets. Furthermore, the complex intertextual relationship visible between Plutoi, the Oresteia, and the Prometheus trilogy may have been exemplary in the fifth century; Cratinus, indeed, might have broken new ground in his engagement with tragedy.

3.2. DRAPETIDES AND THE SUPPLIANT-TRAGEDY Drapetides is one of Cratinus’ comedies which has attracted the least scholarly attention. A total of sixteen verses and ten words isolated from their contexts survive, yet on close examination this material emerges as very revealing in quantity and quality of information. This comedy seems to have been unparalleled in its use of tragedy. Although to a degree it can be compared to Aristophanic plays, the scale of the concept seems to have been quite extraordinary. 73 The arguments of Newiger (1961: 427–30) and Cantarella (1974: 424–5) for the intertextual relationship between Aristophanes’ Clouds and the Oresteia have not received general acceptance. 74 See below, pp. 162–4. 75 There is a ready parallel here in Aristophanes, who reworked the parody of Telephos in Thesmophoriazousae. Indeed, in the latter play it is difficult to say when Aristophanes is parodying Euripides and when he is reworking early Aristophanes.

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3.2.1. The Dramatic Situation Crucial evidence for the reconstruction of the paratragedy in this play is contained in the title itself. The convention concerning dramatic titles leaves little doubt that the plural Drapetides refers to the chorus. The members of this chorus, therefore, appeared as fugitives from something or someone.76 Furthermore, in this play a group of effeminate men seem to have played a part, as fr. 60 suggests: Æa A r ÆØ ç Œø, t æÆŒ , PŒ i ±æ Ø; Young ladies, if I were to say you come from which land would I not be mistaken?

Ancient philological sources attest that comedy commonly used the word EæÆ to satirize effeminate men: !ØæŒØ ŒÆd EæÆ ØÆçæØ• ØæŒØ b › ¼ææÅ . . . æÆ b ŁºØÆ. - ˙ ºåŁfi B Kd F ¼ææ K fi B Œøø fi Æ fi e B æÆŒ Z Æ, Bº ‰ Œøø fi EÆØ N ŒØÆØÆ › ¼ææÅ (Hdn. Philet. 107 Dain) There is a difference in the use of meirakion and meirax; meirakion is the masculine . . . meirax the feminine. In comedy if meirax is ever used for a male, it is clear that a man is being satirized for passive homosexuality.

Compare also: e EæÆ Kd ŁÅºıŒfiH ØŁ s i å Ø. PŒ Iª H b ‰ Ł ‹ ƒ ŒøØŒ d ŒÆd Iæ ØŒfiH ªØ c ÆØ Ø FÆØ• Iºº NŒe ÆP f ŁÅºıŒfiB æ Åª æÆ fi ŒØ f Æ åÅØHÆ (Hdn. —. Øåæ. II, p. 8.10–13 Lentz) If meirax is used for a female, it is correct. On the other hand, I know that sometimes the comic poets use it for a male. It is natural to use a feminine noun in order to mock passive homosexuals.

The plural address Æa . . . t æÆŒ makes it likely that the question of fr. 60 was addressed to the chorus, in which case the

76

The meaning of æÆÅ or æÆØ is not restricted to ‘runaway slave’, but can mean any runaway; cf. LSJ9 s.v. æÆÅ .


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drapetides were most probably a chorus of effeminates.77 Elsewhere in comedy, effeminate men constituted the choruses of Hermippus’ Stratiotides or Stratiotai, Eupolis’ Astrateutoi or Androgynoi, his Baptai,78 and Cratinus’ Malthakoi (fr. 105). The use of a feminine address to mock someone for lack of masculinity is found as early as Homer, Il. 2.235 and 7.96 åÆØ. PŒ åÆØ . Old comedy, given its tendency to portray aspects of language as literal, visual elements on stage,79 presents effeminate men on stage dressed as women, including Agathon and Cleisthenes in Thesmophoriazousae and the chorus of Eupolis’ Baptai.80 Therefore, if the members of the chorus of Drapetides were effeminates, they were very likely to have had women’s costumes. Since in fr. 60 they are asked where they come from, it is possible that their foreign origin was also reflected in their costumes. Furthermore, from fragment 6181 we know that one character in the play was a king of Athens, descendant of Pandion. The plural ºª makes it likely that the speaker addressing the king was the chorus: —ÆØ Æ ºø Æ ØºF B KæØºÆŒ , r Ł m ºª , ŒÆd ŒÆ ŒÆd ºØ m ÆÇ ı Ø O offspring of Pandion, king of the city with fertile fields, you know which one we mean, ‘the dog and the city’ that they are playing.

The dramatic situation of ‘women’ (æÆŒ fr. 60)82 runaways (cf. the title), newly arrived in a foreign place ( Æ fr. 60) and received by its king (Æ ØºF fr. 61), is strongly reminiscent of Aeschylus’ Hiketides. There the chorus of Danaids, fleeing from marriage with the sons of Aegyptus, arrive in Argos and seek sanctuary from the king of that land.83 Apart from the strong similarity in 77 So in all edns. and LSJ9 s.v. EæÆ. Also, see Rutherford (1881: 291) on Phryn. Ecl. 183. For the identity and characterization of the chorus, see also below, p. 156–7. 78 Cf. Juv. 2.91–2 and thereto ( = test. ii); cf. Storey (2003: 95). 79 Cf. Newiger (1957). This tendency in Cratinus is discussed in 5.3. 80 See n. 78 above. 81 The combination of metre (see below 3.2.2) and content makes it very likely that frr. 60 and 61 belonged together in the same context. 82 ‘Women’ includes men dressed as women. One example is Cleisthenes at Th. 571–3, who is addressed as a woman by the chorus-leader. 83 Pieters (1976: 256) also argues for a relationship between the two plays, but draws different conclusions.

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dramatic situation, the correspondence with Aeschylus’ play extends to details. For example, the manner of Pelasgus’ question to the Danaids (234–6) might be echoed in Drapetides fr. 60: Æe ‹Øº IººÅ º º Ø Ø Æææ Ø Ø ŒIıŒÆ Ø åº Æ æ çø F; (A. Supp. 234–6)

Moreover, the title Drapetides parodically mimics the title of Aeschylus’ Hiketides, in the way parodies commonly do with their originals.84 Although Cratinus may have signalled his engagement with that tragedy by his title, the audience would have understood the word-play as parodic probably only after seeing the paratragic play in the performance. The surviving fragments, therefore, suggest that Drapetides contained at least one scene with conspicuous and carefully constructed references to Aeschylus’ play. These were enhanced by the metre, which probably reproduced the metre of the parodos in Hiketides and other Aeschylean plays (see 3.2.2). However, as will be shown below (3.2.4–6), the intertextual properties of Drapetides were not restricted to the Aeschylean model, but included other tragedies of the same plot-type.

3.2.2. Metrics Fragment 61: —ÆØ Æ ºø Æ ØºF B KæØºÆŒ , r Ł m ºª , ŒÆd ŒÆ ŒÆd ºØ m ÆÇ ı Ø

seems to come from the scene where the chorus explain their case to the king.85 These verses are anapaestic dimeters and probably belong to 84 For use of titles as pre-performance signs to rouse the audience’s curiosity about the content of a play, see Sommerstein (2002b: 10–13). 85 There may be humour arising from misunderstanding here. The fugitives might have been asked specifically about their polis, but they either pretended to misunderstand or indeed misunderstood the question, so they went on to speak about the game of that name. For this game, see Poll. 9.98.99; Eust. Od. ch. 1397.44–5; Lamer (1927: 1973–5); Kurke (1999: 255–6). Cf. the same style of humour in Seriphioi fr. 222.


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the same dramatic context as fr. 60, namely the initial encounter of chorus and king. The metre suggests that these fragments may belong to the same metrical system. Though in most editions fr. 60 has been arranged as one tetrameter catalectic (in modern colometry conventions), it could with equal plausibility be arranged (with Leo 1878: 410) as two anapaestic dimeter verses of which the second is a paroemiac: Æa A r ÆØ ç Œø, t æÆŒ , PŒ i ±æ Ø;

The catalexis of the second verse signals the end of a dimeter run and is consistent with the change of speaker that the content of this fragment requires. Frr. 60 and 61, then, may have been parts of an anapaestic system of dialogue in recitative, located, as fr. 60 suggests, close to the start of the play. Within Cratinus’ corpus, this metrical system has a parallel in the parodos of his Plutoi, whose paratragic quality has already been demonstrated. As we mentioned earlier (pp. 128–9), anapaestic dimeters are used in the parodos of Hiketides and many other tragic parodoi, especially in the plays of Aeschylus. Both the content of frr. 60 and 61 and the parallel example of Plutoi suggest that these fragments belong to the parodos. Furthermore, it also appears likely that the parodos of Drapetides imitated a tragic—and predominantly Aeschylean—metrical practice. Thus this may have been a parodos which opened the play, as in Hiketides and Persai, or one that followed a prologos, as in Ajax and Pr. Desmotes.86

3.2.3. Register The paratragic effect is further enhanced by stylistic features evoking tragedy or other elevated poetry. Both frr. 61 and 60 feature a lofty register juxtaposed with a bathetic dramatic situation, as is commonly the case in paratragic passages of Aristophanes. In fr. 61, both

86 The parallel context in Hiketides would be vv. 235–353, namely the first encounter between chorus and king, which treats similar information to that given in the parodos. Parodies commonly abridge their originals.

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the epic word KæØºÆ87 and the papponymic —ÆØ Æ evoke Homeric poetry, the latter as far as the practice of naming heroes after their grandfathers and remote ancestors is concerned; thus in Homer Achilles is often named `NÆŒÅ (e.g. Il. 2.874, Od. 11.471), Nestor’s son Antilochus is called ˝Åºœ (Il. 23.514), Priam is named after both his father ¸Æ ØÅ and his great-great-great-grandfather ˜ÆæÆÅ ; likewise, Orestes is not only ªÆ Å (Od. 1.30) but also æÅ (Od. 1.40).88 Compare Euripides’ IA 217 /æÅØÆ , which is used in a lyric passage. Furthermore, the Doric vocative —ÆØ Æ might have been used purposefully instead of the Attic and, despite the fact that these are non-lyric anapaests, to emphasize the loftiness of the invocation.89 Besides, this sense of ºØ (in this mythic context it does not mean literally ‘city’, but ‘inhabited region’) is rare in prosaic contexts but common in serious poetry, for example, Od. 6.177 and Hes. Sc. 380.90 In comedy there is one parallel for this use of the word, in a pathetic scene at Peace 251. The address to the chorus in fr. 60 has a lofty register about it as well, principally because of the elevated mode of the question PŒ i ±æ Ø, which may evoke passages such as E. Med. 190. The peculiar ending of the optative ±æ Ø may also be reminiscent of tragedy. The only other occurrence of this ending is æç Ø in E. fr. 903, but Suda Æ 1499 ‘±æ Ø’ suggests that this form was common in the dramatists. Many scholars have argued that this form of optative would have been more frequent than this single occurrence suggests, since it can resolve syntactical anomalies in several passages.91 The passages which have been proposed are all from tragedy and examples such as Euripides 87

Cf. e.g. Il. 1.155, 3.74. What is perhaps most interesting, is that KæØºÆ never occurs in tragedy, in comic paratragedy, or in lyric poetry, so here the epic intertext is clearly predominant. 88 Cf. Higbie (1995: 6–7); but for an opposite view in Orestes’ case, see Heubeck et al. (1988: ad loc.) 89 Cf. Ar. Th. 58, where a Doric form is used in paratragic anapaests. Kock ad loc. argued that the Doric form of the vocative —ÆØ Æ cannot be used in non-lyric anapaests, so he suggested —ÆØ . In that case, the Attic form —ÆØ Å would also be possible; but the stylistic variation would be lost. Kassel and Austin print the preserved Doric form but in their commentary they favour Kock’s conjecture. 90 Cf. LSJ9 s.v. ºØ , II; Olson (1998) on Peace 251. 91 For this ending, see the detailed discussions in Schwyzer (1939: i. 660); Ku¨hner-Blass (1890: i/2. 52–3); Lautensach (1916: 110–11).


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fr. 360.6, where the form i º Ø could resolve the anomaly which the infinitive i ºÆE causes, lend credence to this suggestion.92

3.2.4. Further Intertexts for Drapetides Cratinus’ Drapetides was produced some time between the late 440s and the late 420s.93 Although the model which the opening scene of Drapetides follows most closely is probably Hiketides, this tragedy may not have been the only one invoked by Cratinus’ comedy. Around 430,94 Euripides’ Herakleidai also dramatized fugitives seeking refuge from the king of a foreign land. In this play, the land is Athens and the king a descendant of Pandion, Demophon, as is the case in Cratinus’ play (cf. fr. 61). Therefore, depending on when Drapetides was produced, Euripides’ Herakleidai is a further potential intertextual model. It should be noted, however, that the —ÆØ Å of Drapetides fr. 61 is probably not Demophon. Fragment 53 is evidence that Theseus was one of the dramatis personae of Cratinus’ comedy: e ˚æŒ Ł £øŁ I Æ F Kd E ºÆå Ø æg IØÆ I found Cercyon taking his morning shit in the vegetable patch, and I strangled him.95

An economical interpretation of the fragments is that the character addressed ‘—ÆØ Æ’ in fr. 61 is Theseus, Pandion’s grandson.96 92

Cf. Degani (1979: 135–6); Ku¨hner-Blass (1890: i.2. 52); Lautensach (1916: 111). Contra Diggle (1997: 103) who rejects i º Ø on the ground that ‘this form of optative is hardly admissible in tragedy’ and ‘if æç Ø is right at fr. 903, the line is probably by a comic poet’. In fact, the opposite seems to be the case, and this ending in a comic passage may be paratragic. 93 The terminus ante quem is the end of Cratinus’ career; an indication for a terminus post quem is the ridicule of Lampon in fr. 62 and probably fr. 66. Lampon was a target of comic satire over at least two decades, from 431 (Nemesis) to 414 (Birds), but he was prominent in Athenian political life as early as 444/3, when he was sent by Pericles as an oikistes to Thurioi. He is still a comic target in later 5th-cent. comedies such as Strattis’ Lemnomeda and Lysippus’ Bakchai. 94 Cf. Wilkins (1993: p. xxxiii). 95 For the myth, see D.S. 4.59.5; Apollod. Epit. 1.3; Plu. Thes. 11.1; and Gantz (1993: 252–3). 96 Cf. Leo (1878: 410). For this royal family of Athens (Cecrops > Pandion > Aegeus > Theseus > Demophon), see Gantz (1993: 233–5, 247–9). The addressee of

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This is supported by the fact that in tragedy Theseus was commonly assigned the role of the recipient and protector of exiles, of the weak and the oppressed. In Euripides’ Hiketides, another play which Cratinus might have known when he was composing Drapetides,97 Theseus receives the mothers of the Argives who were killed in the expedition against Thebes and Adrastos, and assists them in recovering the bodies of the seven commanders.

3.2.4. Theseus Theseus’ appearance in Drapetides deserves individual attention, because, as far as our evidence goes, he did not appear in any other contemporary comedy,98 whereas he was a prominent character in tragedy. Tragic poetry played a fundamental role in establishing Theseus as the just king who combined mercy and power, and made him the embodiment of an idealized Athens, a city which displays these very characteristics.99 The creation of this image for the mythical Athenian king in tragedy starts at least as early as Aeschylus, who at least three decades before Euripides’ Hiketides had dramatized Theseus’ assistance in the burial of the Seven in his Eleusinioi, as Plutarch’s testimony shows (Theseus 29.4): ıæÆ b ŒÆd æ ø fi [i.e. Theseus] c IÆæ Ø H e fi B ˚ÆÆ fi ø, På ‰ ¯PæØÅ K Å K æÆªø fi Æ fi , åÅ fi H ¨ÅÆø ŒæÆ Æ (Supp. 571ff.), Iººa Æ ŒÆd Ø • oø ªaæ ƒ ºE Ø ºª ı Ø• /Øºå æ b (FGrH 328 F 112) ŒÆd a æd ŒæH IÆØæ ø

ª ŁÆØ æÆ KŒÆ . . . . ÆçÆd b H b ººH K ¯ ºıŁæÆE

fr. 61 could also be Aegeus, since in D.P. 1024 he is called —ÆØ Å and in Str. IX 1,6 p. 392C —ÆØ ÆØ are all four Pandion’s sons. However, the economical interpretation of the material and the intertextual properties of the play analysed below make Theseus a more likely candidate. 97 On metrical grounds, this tragedy was probably produced between 428 and 422; for reasons of content the date was perhaps closer to the latter. For a discussion of the date of Euripides’ Hiketides, see Collard (1975: i. 8–14); Morwood (2007: 26–30). 98 Four plays of middle comedy are named after him, by Anaxandrides (4th-cent.), Diphilus (4th-cent.), Theopompus (post-390), and Aristonymus (uncertain date), whose fragments yield very little. Theseus might have also appeared in the 4th-cent. Aigeus of Phillilius. 99 Cf. Walker (1995) and Mills (1997); Morwood (2007: 8–11).


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ŒıÆØ, H ªø æd ¯ ºı EÆ, ŒÆd F ¨Å ø æ ø fi åÆæØ Æ ı. ŒÆÆÆæıæ F Ø b H ¯PæØ ı Œø ƒ `N åº ı

¯ ºı Ø Ø K x ŒÆd ÆFÆ ºªø › ¨Å f ÅÆØ.100 (Theseus) also aided Adrastus in recovering for burial the bodies of those who had fallen before the walls of the Cadmeia, not by mastering the Thebans in battle, as Euripides has it in his tragedy (Supp. 571 ff.), but by persuading them to a truce; for so most writers say, and Philochorus (FGrH 328 F 112) adds that this was the first truce ever made for recovering the bodies of those slain in battle. . . . And the graves of the greater part of those who fell before Thebes are shown at Eleutherae, and those of the commanders near Eleusis, and this last burial was a favour which Theseus showed to Adrastus. The account of Euripides in his Suppliants is disproved by that of Aeschylus in his Eleusinians, where Theseus is made to relate the matter as above. (Tr. Perrin 1914)

Since we have no evidence for the story of Theseus’ assistance in the burial of the Seven from any earlier source, it is conceivable that the tradition originated in early fifth-century tragedy or, if known by oral tradition, became established through it.101 Later sources suggest that this myth was commonly associated with the tragic theatre, but it was also known through encomiastic oratory, and had become one of the topoi in funeral speeches as early as the middle of the fifth century.102 Notably, however, the hero Theseus was generally absent from the mythical accounts in these speeches, and exploits such as the one against the Thebans were not attributed specifically to

100 See fr. 53a–54 Radt. For discussions of this play, see Mills (1997: 229–34); Jacoby on Philoch. (328) F.112/3, IIIb (Supp.) i. 442–8. 101 Cf. Gantz (1993: 295). We do not know any epic treatments of this myth: the lost epic Theseis may have included it, but there is no way of knowing; cf. Mills (1997: 232) and Jacoby IIIb (Supp.) i. 444–8. Jacoby (ibid. 447–8.) argues that ‘we obviously have in the Eleusinioi a specimen of creation of an Athenian myth’. Isocrates 12. 168–71, who has both Aeschylus’ and Euripides’ versions of the story in mind, and perhaps other dramatizations as well (cf. Roth 2003: on 199) does not mention epic or any other source. 102 Isoc. 12. 168–71 # ªaæ PŒ r j PŒ IŒŒ H æÆªø fi ØÆ Œºø ˜Ø ı Ø a æ ø fi ª Æ K ¨ÆØ ıç æ . . . ; cf. Paus. 1.39.2; Plu. Thes. 29.4; see also Herodotos’ account of the Athenians’ speech before the battle of Plataia (9.27). Herodotos’ account probably does not reflect the oratorical practice of 479, but of his own time. The influence of the funeral oration on this speech has often been noted. Cf. Loraux (1986: 65 and n. 290).

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him or any other king, but to the Athenian people as a whole.103 Before the end of the fifth century, at least two more dramas, Euripides’ Herakles and Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, attributed to Theseus similar acts of statesmanship, which were, as far as we can tell, unprecedented in earlier literature.104 Therefore, the presentation of Theseus with the runaways in Cratinus’ comedy would have immediately evoked tragedy,105 and, more specifically, as will be shown, tragedy of a particular and recurrent type, the (patriotic) suppliant play.

3.2.5. Drapetides as Suppliant Play In a considerable number of scenes in Greek tragedy, a character seeks refuge at an altar or in a sacred place in response to some threat. In many cases this constitutes one plot element among many in the play.106 However, five extant plays, Aeschylus’ Hiketides and Eumenides, Euripides’ Herakleidai and Hiketides, and Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, are largely built around the reception of suppliants by a virtuous city or ruler and the defeat of their aggressive pursuers. Two more plays of Aeschylus, Eleusinioi and Herakleidai, may also have involved the supplication motif.107 This plot type presents variations from play to play, as each dramatist adapts it to suit his purposes, but has enough recurrent elements to be considered a ‘story pattern’:108 103 Cf. Loraux (1986: 65–7); Schro¨der (1914: 10–18). Only Xenophon (Mem. 3. 5, 10) refers to the exploits of the Athenians in Theseus’ time as Æ [i.e. º ı ] f Kd ¨Å ø ºÅŁÆ . Loraux (1986: 66) explains this phenomenon as the ‘democratic reinterpretation of the myths’ in the context of the handling of democratic ideology in funeral oratory. 104 For Herakles, see Wilamowitz (1909: 110) and Mills (1997: 133–4). For OC, see Mills (1997: 163–4). 105 An idealized image of Theseus with these characteristics may also have been used in the Peirithous of Critias—or, less probably, Euripides (cf. Mills 1997: 257–62)—and in a play preserved in POxy 2452, sometimes identified with the Theseus of Sophocles (cf. Mills 1997: 245–52). 106 Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannos; Euripides’ Andromache, Herakles, Helene (at the tomb of Proteus?), Orestes, Diktys and Telephos. 107 Cf. Taplin (1977: 192 n. 3). 108 Cf. Taplin (1977: 192–3), to whom the above description of ‘suppliant plays’ is owed. See also Lattimore (1964: 46–7); Burian (1997: 188). For the dramatic motif of supplication, see Kopperschmidt (1971); Gould (1973: 85–90 = Gould (2001: 42–51)); Ae´lion (1983: 2.15–60); see also Grethlein (2003) on individual plays.


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in all cases there is a suppliant or, more often, a group of suppliants who are vulnerable and seek protection or help. The Hiketides of Aeschylus and Euripides are women, the Herakleidai children and women, Oedipus an old man. In most but not all cases they are fugitives, fleeing a pursuer (A. Hiketides, Eumenides, E. Herakleidai, and probably A. Herakleidai). The suppliants are always received by a foreign city, which in all but one case (A. Hiketides) is Athens. The virtuous ruler who becomes their protector is again in most of those cases Theseus (E. Hiketides, S. Oedipus Coloneus, A. Eleusinioi, and possibly A. Herakleidai). Finally, there is always an enemy who is repulsed by the end of the play. In Drapetides, while the model followed most closely seems to be Aeschylus’ Hiketides (at least in the opening scene), some basic plot elements of the original have been changed, so that the receiving city is Athens, not Argos, and the virtuous ruler is Theseus, not Pelasgus. Depending on the date of the comedy, we may draw one of two conclusions: first, and especially if it was an early play, Drapetides might have had a strong intertextual dependence on Aeschylean tragedies involving supplication. Apart from Hiketides, its models could also have been Eleusinioi (King Theseus), Eumenides (fugitive suppliant arriving in Athens), and possibly Herakleidai (?fugitives received by Theseus). In fact, fr. 55 is reminiscent of the scene of Eumenides where the chorus rouse themselves to action (cf. A. Eum. 124 þÇØ , Ø • PŒ IÆ Å fi å ; and 141 oØ ; I ø . . . ): y , ŒÆŁØ ; PŒ IÆ Ø { ø;

This allusion might have been highlighted by visual means. The dependence on Aeschylus could have been emphasized by the fact that the suppliants constituted the chorus109 and by the metre of the parodos (frr. 60 and 61). However, if by the time of the composition of Drapetides the suppliant play was a regular type (and the evidence favours this option), Drapetides was likely composed as a parodic pastiche of the ‘suppliant play’ type as a whole, enhanced by specific allusions to well-known models. This is supported by the fact that the thematic elements Cratinus used in

109

This is an archaizing element; cf. Taplin (1977: 193).

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Drapetides are the ones that appear most commonly in suppliant plays (women suppliants, fugitives, Athens, Theseus). The latter possibility coheres with Cratinus’ approach to satyr play, where it is more the generic than the specific features that he exploits, although specific reference (to Theoroi or Isthmiastai) is traceable in that case as well.

3.2.6. Paratragedy and Deconstruction of Ideology Considerable evidence suggests that parodying the tragic motif of supplication was popular comic practice. In Acharnians and Thesmophoriazousae Aristophanes employs extensive parodies of the Telephos and Helene suppliant scenes. He also makes comic use of the motif in scenes where one character requests a favour from another, for example in the scenes between Euripides and Agathon at Th. 179, between the Hoopoe and the comic heroes at Av. 120, and also elsewhere, for example at Th. 224. An obvious reason for this tendency is the abundance of supplication scenes in tragedy. Furthermore, the solemnity of the institution of supplication and the seriousness of the situations with which it is associated, both in dramatic and non-dramatic contexts, makes it ideal for such humorous juxtapositions leading to comic bathos. Aristophanes fr. 256 suggests that his Danaides also involved a supplication scene. The title of this play, frr. 270 (about Danaos) and 272 (about Lynceus), and the paratragic quality of fr. 256110 suggest that this play, like Drapetides, drew upon a tragedy, perhaps the Aeschylean trilogy on that theme.111 Danaides, in that case, could be an indication of the reception and the afterlife of Cratinus’ own play.112 However, by composing a pastiche suppliant tragedy and choosing Theseus for the role of the king and Athens as the receiving city, Cratinus may have sought another, more provocative effect. Suppliant plays are usually associated with the political agenda of Athens,

110

Cf. Rau (1967: 210). In fact, Aristophanes’ Danaides may have been a condensed version of the Aeschylean trilogy; cf. Kaibel in K-A iii 2. 148. 112 We are well informed about the earlier part of Aristophanes’ career, and it is more likely that Danaides was later than Drapetides. 111


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which the city advanced largely through its cultural production and life. Theseus, as mentioned earlier, was a key figure in this process. Even in the period before tragedy adopts Theseus as a representative of Athenian ideology, a considerable part of public art, vase-painting, and poetry venerated Theseus by associating him with heroic acts and celebrating his traditional exploits, thus identifying him with prowess and power.113 During the fifth century, Theseus was established as a national hero and although his image developed from a heroic young fighter to a wise adult king, his labours continued to constitute part of his characterization (in tragedy) at least until Oedipus Coloneus (564–5): . . . åþ x ºE Icæ Kd Å

XŁºÅ Æ ŒØıÆ K TfiH ŒæÆ fi • . . . [you know] also that in my exile I struggled against such dangers to my life as no other man has met with. (Tr. Lloyd-Jones 1996, adapted),

Compare Sophocles’ fr. 730c 16-22 (Theseus?):114 q [ª]æ [ : : :]æç ı Æ å[ _ _ _ ŒæÅ E Ø ç[_ åŁg Ł Ø

åT ıæÆıº ˚æ ıg[ F Kæø[] Åº m [ _ Æı Æ Ø[ ]: ŒIı [ Æı] Æ b Œ[æ]øÆ e_ŁÆ[ _ . : : :] ø [ : : :]æŁ [ ; _ _ _ For, in fact, the land . . . at the trenches of Isthmus which reared . . . and the nearby Crommyon . . . with the destroyer of travellers whom . . . I stopped . . . terrible and real . . . and I stopped Skiron the . . . in the sea below . . . (My tr.);

Sophocles’ Aigeus, fr. 22: H BŁ › ıæH { ‹ Ø { KÅ ºÆŁ; How, then, did you come out . . . escaping the highwaymen’s notice? Mills 1997); 113

(Tr.

Cf. Mills (1997: ch. 1, esp. pp. 19–41). ¼POxy 2452 fr. 3 16ff.; POxy 2452 has been ascribed to Sophocles and in particular to Theseus by Turner (1962: 1–20) and Diotti (1966). Carden (1974: 110–11) discusses this possibility with caution. On the play, see also Mills (1997: 245–52). 114

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and fr. 20, which probably refers to the dispatch of Procrustes:115 Œ æÆ fi ØÅæfi A ºıæa ŒÆd ŒÆa æåØ XºÆı Æø He struck and wounded him on the back and sides with his iron hammer (Tr. Mills 1997).

At Euripides Hiketides 113, King Theseus is reminded of his past heroic acts by being addressed as ŒÆººØŒ. Applying this epithet to Theseus (typically used of Heracles as founder of the Olympic Games and conductor of labours: HF 582, 1046) reflects the Athenian wish to project Theseus as the Athenian Heracles.116 At Hiketides 342, Theseus declares that it is not in his nature to refuse labours. In Drapetides, not only was Theseus’ glory as a king and champion of suppliants rendered vulgar, but his labours were stripped of heroism. Compare fr. 53: e ˚æŒ Ł *øŁ I Æ F Kd E ºÆå Ø æg IØÆ I found Cercyon taking his morning shit in the vegetable patch, and I choked him.

An indication that Theseus’ labours were not treated cursorily in Drapetides is Cratinus fr. 328, which refers to Sinis, another villain whom Theseus killed on his way to Athens:117 n c ı ŒÆ g åÆŁ ¼ŒæÆ

B ŒÅ ŒÆŁºŒø who twisted the pine from the ground, pulling it down from the foliage (My tr.)

Since we do not know of any other comedy of Cratinus which certainly involves Theseus and his labours, it is likely that this fragment comes from the same context in Drapetides. The metre, iambic

115

Cf. Wilamowitz (1880: 120 n. 35). Cf. Collard (1975: ad loc.). Fr. 65 also mentions the ƒæ › , and may well have referred to the route by which Theseus came to Athens after killing Cercyon in Eleusis. 116 117


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with syncopation (ia dim sync/ithyph/ithyph)118 is appropriate for tragic contexts119 and may have reinforced the lofty tone of the passage.120 It may have been sung by either a character or the chorus. It is possible that the fragments belonged to the same context, perhaps to an epirrhematic passage alternating between the king in spoken iambics (fr. 53)121 and the chorus in lyric metre (fr. 328), as we see for example in the kommos of A. Supp. 348 ff. Mocking Theseus at the time when the Athenian cultural media generally presented him in a guise which was most satisfying and reassuring for Athenian ideology is an impressively bold stroke. Cratinus’ mockery should probably be seen as a reaction to the process of Athenian self-eulogy, not least because it involves Theseus in his most important (from an Athenian ideological point of view) tragic role, as king and champion of suppliants. Nonetheless, even the tragic idealization of Theseus and his Athens was not a straightforwardly propagandizing trait; a number of Euripidean dramas do themselves exhibit ambiguous and ironic qualities, which are suggestive of this complexity. While Euripides’ Hiketides122 clearly functions as an encomion of Athens, scholars have identified ironic and ambiguous elements in the portrayal of Theseus in the play.123 Furthermore, Hippolytos presented Theseus as prey to error and especially to passion.124 It is suggestive that in Hippolytos Euripides 118 Cf. Leo (1878: 411). K-A iv ad loc. follow Nauck (with some doubt) in analysing the metre as ia ba / ia ba / cr ba, assuming that -ı and ¼Œæ- are long. 119 West (1982: 99); Parker (1997: 30–2). For the verse ia dim sync, cf. E. Andr. 139, Supp. 779 = 787, 73–5 = 81–3. It is also quite common in Aeschylus: cf. Parker (1997: 209). 120 Cf. Clouds 1207–8, which, according to Parker (1997: 209), may have a Euripidean ring. 121 Fr. 53 consists of a pair of comic iambic trimeters, which were probably spoken (anapaests are admitted in the first and second feet of the second verse). 122 Cf. e.g. Gamble (1970); Fitton (1961). More recent readings view the irony in less radical terms; e.g. Foley (1993b : 117–29) explores female disorder and lamentation and demonstrates the partial failure of Theseus, Athens, and the ideal they embody to control it. Tragedy is certainly able to recognize flaws and errors even in a figure like Theseus. 123 For a balanced reading of ideology and critique in this play, see Burian (1985a); Pelling (1997: 230–5). 124 Euripides’ Hippolytos Kalyptomenos probably had a similar portrayal. There is little to be said with certainty concerning the portrayal of Theseus in Sophocles’ Phaidra. For both plays, see now Talboy and Sommerstein (2006).

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has Theseus invoke his celebrated labours in a passage where he is portrayed as being wrong and unjust (976 ff.) and thus ironizes his heroism. Irony in the comic Drapetides clearly operates at a different level from these tragedies. As a pastiche, Drapetides captures the elements which are able to represent suppliant tragedy collectively and casts this subgenre into a diametrically opposed context, one which is not idealized and heroic, but vulgar and anti-heroic. ‘Anti-heroic’, that is, ‘having the effect of inverting or destabilizing the heroic’, is a theme not only enacted through the portrayal of Theseus, but also especially through the characterization of the chorus. Indeed, we saw that the members of the chorus were depicted as effeminates and runaways, but we did not ask from what or whom they were escaping. A useful clue is provided by the gender of the title Drapetides, which finds suggestive parallels in the titles of Eupolis’ Astrateutoi or Androgynoi and Hermippus’ Stratiotai or Stratiotides. In Cratinus’ comedy, the chorus consisted of effeminates, as did the choruses of Eupolis’ and Hermippus’ plays. In these two plays, the chorus are portrayed as such because they are evading military service (certainly in Eupolis’ play, almost certainly in that of Hermippus, cf. fr. 57).125 The gender play that must have been a key feature of all three plays is also visible in the joke made against Amynias at Clouds 691–2: ø. ›æfi A ; ªıÆEŒÆ c ıÆ ŒÆºE . . hŒ ı ØŒÆø , lØ P æÆÆØ; Soc. See? You are calling Amynias a woman. Str. Isn’t that appropriate, since she does not go out to battle?

Furthermore, Drapetides fr. 68 refers to the military bed, Ø , which in old comedy is often associated with the hardships of the military service which the characters long to avoid (e.g. Ar. Peace 347a, Eup. Taxiarchoi fr. 274). The chorus that Theseus receives in Drapetides is therefore likely to have been a group of Athenians who did not want to go to battle. As such, they were probably later threatened on stage by the persecutor (the third party commonly involved in suppliant plays), who in this case would be a military

125

Cf. K-A v. 585 and Zimmermann (2000: 275). Contra Harvey (2000b: 280–4).


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commander. This would also suit the motif of the military intervention which is typical in the suppliant plays. Cratinus’ Drapetides emerges as a case of deconstructive parody unparalleled in the comic corpus. The poet used the essential frame of the suppliant drama, but furnished it with content ironically and diametrically opposed to what one would expect from a play of this type. Hence Drapetides inhabits the structure of the suppliant play and exposes it ‘from the inside’.126 The language of exposure is more appropriate than that of criticism; deconstruction is, after all, a broad process that constitutes more than mere denigration. Drapetides does not repudiate its model, for the very reason that it is itself essentially composed as a suppliant play and implicated in that logic. Cratinus ironizes the suppliant play in Drapetides, and thereby ironizes Athenian collective self-representation and the sanitization of Athenian imperialism. With his deconstructive parody, Cratinus may have invited the Athenians to see what they normally perceived as patriotic self-eulogy in an entirely new light, and eventually laugh at their own pretensions. Such self-mockery was not new to the comic theatre of the time, if we may judge from Aristophanes’ recurrent comic remarks on Athenian fondness for collective selfpraise (Ach. 636–40, Eq. 1329) and the character of the Athenian empire (Babylonians esp. fr. 71; Av. 714, 1021–34, 1035–57, 1453–6). Yet in Cratinus’ case the mockery is remarkable, because he undermines carefully idealized and sanitized images and institutions. This is suggestive, not only of Cratinus’ comic boldness, but also, given that he was granted a chorus and the funding to produce his bold parody, of what the Athenian public and state would tolerate at the time. Finally, Cratinus’ bold stroke of presenting the foreign effeminates who turned out to be Athenian cowards is also remarkable. His transgressive handling of these ethnic stereotypes suggests that the author might have reflected the current discourses on ethnicity in Athens, which found their way particularly into some Euripidean tragedies.127

126 For these parameters of deconstruction, see Derrida (1976: 24). For the link between parody and deconstruction, see Phiddian (1997: passim). 127 See Hall (1989: esp. ch. 5).

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From both Plutoi and Drapetides, it emerges that (just as in Aristophanes) paratragedy in Cratinus takes various forms (including linguistic, metrical, and visual) and is directed towards both specific and generic models. In the play we will analyse next, Cratinus’ Seriphioi, we will find a different sort of engagement with tragedy which until now has been considered exclusively Aristophanic: paratragic metatheatre.

3.3. SERIPHIOI AND TRAGIC PERFORMANCE Seriphioi treated the story of Perseus, one of the myths most commonly used in tragedy. For the poet, therefore, there would have been considerable impetus to engage with dramatized versions of the story; as will be shown, there is evidence that this did indeed happen. Even fewer verses have survived from this comedy than from Drapetides, yet these can give us a good glimpse of the plot. The title (¼People of Seriphos) in combination with fr. 225 suggest that at least part of the play was set in Seriphos: åÆæ ‹ Ø ºø Æ æØç (greetings to all of you, [inhabitants] of fertile sea-washed Seriphos). Seriphos in mythology is the island of Dictys and Polydectes, where the chest of Danae and Perseus was fished up by Dictys. Frr. 222 and 223 suggest that a character in the play set out on a journey: K ıæÆ KŁ IçØŒfiB øæ ÆhæÆ . (—?) ƒØ åŁÅæ, ‹Æ ææA ŒÆÆ Å fi —Next you will come, raised aloft by the wind, to a Syrian . . . (?Perseus) That’s a meager cloak, when the north wind blows. r Æ Æ IçØŒfiB ŒÆd Ø ı ŒÆd ¯ æ , ºØ ºø, IæH º ı æø, ÆN åæH, æ Œºø, { ˜Ø ı Œ ıæø Then you come to the Sabae and the Sidonians and the Eremboi, and to the city of slaves, men who are newly rich and wicked, shameful, Androcleses . . .

Thanks to the reference to Andromeda at fr. 231, we may deduce that this was Perseus who, having grown to manhood, was sent by King


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Polydectes on his potentially fatal expedition. Our earliest and fullest account of the story is by Pherecydes (FGrH 3 F 11), who relates that when Perseus returned from his adventure to the island, he asked Polydectes to gather the people of Seriphos to see the Gorgon’s head, and used it to turn them all into stone. Seriphioi dramatized Perseus’ expedition and a part of the myth which took place on the island of Seriphos. This could have been the element either before his departure (Polydectes’ commission of the expedition) or after his return, or both, with that remarkable foreshortening of time familiar to us from extant old comedy and modern pastiche. That Seriphioi was not merely myth-burlesque, but had a paratragic dimension as well is suggested by a number of fragments. The strongest evidence for paratragedy, which has so far remained unnoticed, entails metadramatic play with tragic costume. This is fr. 218: Æræ Fæ f æØŒº ı .128

Ancient sources cite this fragment with the explanation that æŒº

is a type of tragic mask.129 With Fæ (¼hither), Æræ in this context means ‘hand over, give, bring’; this expression is used in Thesmophoriazousae 255: ¯PæØÅ : Æræ ı æçØ . ªŁø: N • Euripides: Now hand me a bra. Agathon: Here it is.

128 The metre seems to be trochaic: – k – k – kk –. A dactyl in place of – k is rare in trochaics, but in the extant Aristophanes it occurs in six passages: Av. 396, V. 407, V. 496, Ach. 318, Eq. 319, and Ec. 1156, all trochaic tetrameter verses. The fragment, therefore, may belong to a trochaic tetrameter or dimeter recitative verse. Hephaestion (p. 269 Consbruch) attests the existence of the phenomenon. See also White (1912: 205); MacDowell (1971) on Wasps 407 and 496. However, many scholars have questioned it. For example, see Platnauer (1951: 132–31), who suggests emending all dactyls in comic trochaics. However, none of the modern editions of Aristophanes does this in all instances. 129 Et. Gen. AB s.v. æŒº ; Hsch. 1134, 1152; Did. ¸. Œø. fr. 2 p. 29 Schm.; Eust. in Od. p. 1395. 49; Paus. 20. They draw the etymology from æ fiH YŒº or, less convincingly, from ´æØd YŒº , the Briges being a barbaric nation. Cf. æ ºıŒEÆ in Ar. fr. 130. However, neither of these explanations seems plausible, so the etymology of the word may be irrecoverable (see Chantraine s.v. æŒº Ø).

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It is also used at Peace 1, `ræ Æræ AÇÆ ‰ å fiH ŒÆŁæø fi , and 130 1227, `ºº Æræ Ø F ª B N øÆ . Therefore, we may translate Seriphioi fr. 218 as: ‘Hand over the tragic masks to me’. References to costume in extant comedy are always combined with overt metatheatricality.131 Among these examples, the scenes of Acharnians and Thesmophoriazousae are particularly suitable as parallels for reading this fragment of Seriphioi, since in all three cases a character asks for items of costume. Perhaps the definite article with æØŒº ı in fr. 218 suggests that the speaker asks for particular tragic masks, possibly those of a past production such as a recent Perseusplay. The most suitable parallel for this situation is Acharnians 406–80, where Dicaeopolis borrows items of tragic costume and accessories from Euripides, all taken from his production of Telephos. Just as when Dicaeopolis in Acharnians asks for a tragic costume in order to make himself the hero ‘Telephos’ and imitate his conduct, we may suppose that in Seriphioi a character, perhaps the comic hero Perseus himself (or whoever is going to play ‘Perseus’) shows an awareness of being a character in tragedy (or of having the potential to become one) and may be asking for the tragic masks in order to perform that role. The plural reference to the masks may suggest that ‘Perseus’ asks for the masks of other characters as well or even those of the chorus. If this interpretation is correct, it suggests that in Seriphioi Cratinus engaged with the tragic genre in a way that until now we knew only from Aristophanes, where the poet sets up a tragic performance within his comedy. Who could be the addressee of fr. 218? In both Acharnians and Thesmophoriazousae, a character dons costume and accessories borrowed from a playwright. In both cases, theatrical costume and accessories are possessed by the playwright and associated with his capacity for mimesis (Th. 148–52; Ach. 412–13, 464, 470). As tragic gear is piece by piece transferred from the playwright to the character, the character gradually acquires the playwright’s ability of mimesis 130

Cf. Il. 6.264; LSJ9 I.3. e.g. Ach. 415 ff., Th. 136 ff., Ra. 45 ff.; see Muecke (1977: 62–7). Separately, for Acharnians, see Foley (1988) and Robson (2005a: 174–7); for Thesmophoriazousae, see Zeitlin (1981) and Robson (2005a: 177–88); for Frogs, see Lada-Richards (1999: 159–60). For Cratinus’ use of costume and disguise in Dionysalexandros and its metatheatrical aspect, see 5.2.1. 131


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(cf. Th. 266–7; Ach. 447, 484). Robson (2005a: 175) notes that in Acharnians ‘Dicaeopolis is represented as changing in mood as he dons the clothes. The influence of clothes upon him is presented in terms of a drink or potion consumed.’ Hence in 484, Dicaeopolis says to himself: £ ÅŒÆ ; PŒ r , ŒÆÆØg ¯PæØÅ; In the corresponding scene in Thesmophoriazousae, Halliwell (1986: 114) notes Mimesis on the level of direct impersonation . . . shades here into the mimesis which is part of the dramatic poet’s art per se. The passage provides . . . evidence for two distinct but related concepts of mimesis, which could be concisely described as the actor’s and the playwright’s arts. Aristophanes’ parody involves, and deliberately confuses, both an ordinary usage of mimesis terms (for impersonation) and a newly developing application of the language of mimesis to the fictional status of dramatic poetry.

The fact that these scenes evoke contemporary views on artistic composition in turn raises the question whether in Seriphioi too the character asked to provide the masks and hence make the character capable of acting out a tragic role might be a tragic poet. As in Acharnians, the comic counterpart of Euripides would be a suitable candidate since one of his plays, the recent Diktys (431 bc), had dealt with the same part of the Perseus myth as Seriphioi.132 Although impossible to verify, a possible scenario is that the tragic masks the comic character asks for in fr. 218 are those of the recent production of Diktys, and that the character asked to provide them is ‘Euripides’ himself. On the other hand, Aeschylus had also dramatized the myth of Perseus. We know the titles of two tragedies and one satyr play with this theme, Phorkides, Polydektes, and Diktyoulkoi. These plays may have all belonged together to the same tetralogy (along with another tragedy whose title is now lost),133 which is another possible model for Seriphioi. So a comic ‘Aeschylus’ might also be the character who lends Perseus the tragic masks.134 132 Fr. 330b–348. For a discussion of the play and a commentary on the extant evidence, see Karamanou (2006: 119–224). 133 For the contents of the tetralogy, see Gantz (1980: 149–51); Howe (1953: 269–71). For the date (possibly 472–468bc), see Goins (1997). It is interesting that Wilamowitz (1914: 244) gives the third play the title Seriphioi, although there is no evidence for such a title. 134 It would be helpful—although impossible—to know whether any of these plays were revived during the 420s. If the character who provided the tragic masks was a poet, ‘Aeschylus’ is no less likely a candidate than ‘Euripides’, since his

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There is a reason why the Aristophanic shadow may have been more intense in the case of this play in particular. The evidence suggests that Seriphioi was produced around 423/2, at the latest two to three years after Aristophanes’ Acharnians.135 Given the chronological proximity of Cratinus’ and Aristophanes’ plays, it is possible that in composing a scene involving donning tragic costume, Cratinus was inspired by and responded to the younger poet. We know of several appearances of stage-poets in old comedy,136 and since none of these is certainly datable before Acharnians, the novelty might have been Aristophanes’ own. Perhaps Aristophanes’ decision to put ‘Euripides’ on stage and give dramatic inspiration to Dicaeopolis, the character who partly embodied Aristophanes’ fictional self, was sensational enough to elicit a response from fellow poets including Cratinus. This is especially likely in view of the latter’s intertextual rivalry with Aristophanes (see. 1.1 above). In another fragment sometimes ascribed to Seriphioi,137 we find a reference to a specific tragic locus. In fr. 343, a character is given directions for how to reach Cisthene: ŒIŁ Kd æÆÆ ªB lØ ŒÆd ˚Ø ŁÅ Zæ ZłØ From there you will go to the ends of the earth, and you’ll see the mountain of Cisthene.

This is an area at the eastern end of the world, which, according to Prometheus’ description to Io in Prometheus Desmotes, was where the Phorcides and the Gorgons lived (792–9): ı æH içº Ø , i KŒÅ fi æe ˆ æªØÆ Æ ˚Ø ŁÅ , ¥Æ Æƒ / æŒ Æ ı Ø, ÅÆØÆd ŒæÆØ

appearance in old comedy was not less frequent than that of the latter. Other than Frogs, comic ‘Aeschylus’ probably made an appearance on at least two other occasions, in Pherecrates’ Krapataloi (fr. 100) and in an unknown play of Aristophanes (fr. 696). 135 The satire of Amynias (fr. 227) and Cleon (fr. 228) suggest dating the play in this period; cf. Kaibel (1895: 445). 136 ‘Cratinus’ appeared in Pytine, ‘Eupolis’ in Autolykos, ‘Euripides’ and ‘Agathon’ in Thesmophoriazousae, ‘Euripides’ and ‘Aeschylus’ in Frogs. For ‘Aeschylus’ in comedy see above, n. 134. 137 Cf. Meineke (1823: p. xviii); West (1990: 65 n. 15).


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· · · · · · ºÆ IºçÆd H æE ŒÆæ Ø, æÆŒ Æºº Ø ˆ æª æ ıªE . . . Crossing the surging sea until you reach the Gorgonean plains of Cisthene, where the daughters of Phorcys dwell, ancient maids . . . And near them are their three winged sisters, the snake-haired Gorgons, loathed of mankind . . . (Tr. Weir Smyth 1922, adapted)

The common reference in the two passages to Cisthene and the fact that these are the only ones which locate Cisthene at the end of the world make Cratinus’ verse an almost certain echo of Prometheus Desmotes. We have already found unambiguous evidence in Plutoi that Cratinus was interested in that trilogy. It is likely, therefore, that the reference to Cisthene in fr. 343 concerned the Gorgones. Given that, as far as we know, none of Cratinus’ other comedies treated this subject, it is likely that this fragment belonged to Seriphioi, especially because in two fragments from Seriphioi, frr. 222 and 223 (quoted earlier), a character is given directions for his journey.138 Frr. 222 and 223 show that in the course of the play there was at least one scene in which a character was given directions by another on getting to a location on a long itinerary. This dramatic situation is reminiscent of two scenes in the Prometheus trilogy, namely between Prometheus and Io in Prometheus Desmotes (700–849), and between Prometheus and 138 K-A iv. 282, following Bergk and Kaibel, are sceptical on the assignment of fr. 343 to Seriphioi on grounds of metre, since fr. 343 is an anapaestic tetrameter whereas frr. 222–3 are hexameters. However, what we know about the use of the hexameter verse in comedy is mainly from Aristophanes, who makes very restricted use of it. The case, however, seemed to have been different in other poets, where the use of hexameter was neither as rare nor restricted to mockery of oracles or brief epic burlesque. In the Homeric parody Odysseis, Cratinus uses both anapaestic tetrameters and hexameters to allude to his hexameter model, the reason probably being that the two metres can easily recall each other: e.g. frr. 149 and 150 (hexameters) as well as fr. 144 and 145 (anapaests). See also fr. 77 from Thrattai, Ar. Av. 685ff. and Hermipp. fr. 48, where anapaests allude to specific hexameter passages. For the affinity of the two metres as exploited in drama, see Silk (2000b: 307 and n. 29). In Nu. 967 and V. 652, Aristophanes accommodates dactyls in lyric anapaests, and in Eq. 529 and Lys. 520 dactyls in recitative anapaests. Therefore, the fragments in question were neither incompatible nor did they have to belong to contexts very remote from each other on account of their metre alone. Perhaps we only have to assume a metrical break in the scene and a move from anapaests to hexameters, if not a more elaborate accommodation of the metres.

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Heracles in Prometheus Lyomenos (frr. 195–9), where the Titan describes their future wanderings for his interlocutors. Desmotes and Lyomenos may not have been the only works which used such descriptions,139 although their protracted and repetitious quality may have rendered them quite individual and memorable. Given the performed (not only narrated) nature of the scene, Cratinus’ unambiguous interest in the Prometheus trilogy, and fr. 343, which includes a verbal echo of Pr. Desmotes 792 ff., it is likely that this scene evoked the Prometheus plays and their repeated use of the motif. Furthermore, it is possible that the poet once more made a pastiche from more than one source. Both frr. 222 and 223 have Homeric resonances, the latter echoing the description of Menelaus’ itinerary in Od. 4.84 (`NŁ Æ Ł ƒŒÅ ŒÆd Ø ı ŒÆd

¯ æ ) and the former recalling passages in Homer which contain journey directions, such as Circe’s instructions to Odysseus (Od. 12.39– 141, esp. 12.39 ØæBÆ b æH IçÆØ, Æ¥ æ Æ . . . ; and 12.127 ¨æØÆŒÅ K B IçÆØ• ŁÆ b ººÆ . . . ). A further passage which has long been suspected as belonging to Seriphioi may imply more paratragic play. POxy 2742 ( = CGFP 74 = adesp. 1104 K-A) attests to use of the mechane, the theatrical device which in comedy was associated with paratragedy and in particular with Euripides.140 The papyrus contains parts of a commentary on an old comedy. The lemmata which survive from that comedy contain the names of both Perseus and Polydectes. The plot of Seriphioi went along the lines of the story of Perseus’ expedition, which in turn suggests that not only Perseus but also Polydectes were characters in the play. Here the ascription of this papyrus to Seriphioi will be re-examined with fresh arguments.141

139

So in Homer, e.g. Od. 12.39ff. The geo-ethnographical enumerations seem to have been a motif in Greek literature, from the Odyssey to Pr. Desmotes and Lyomenos. Cf. S. fr. 598. Aristeas’ Arimaspeia has almost certainly influenced the accounts of Io’s wanderings in Prometheus, esp. 790–815, where the extreme eastern and southern reaches of the world are described (cf. Griffith 1983 ad loc.). 140 Cf. Csapo-Slater (1995: 258). 141 Austin, CGFP 45–7 ascribed the fragment to Seriphioi, following the first editor Lobel (1968). See however Taplin’s cautious remarks in (1977: 445 n. 2). Other scholars who have discussed this fragment are Cergol (1969) and Luppe (1971: 1974a).


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The commentary preceding the passage in question explains and gives parallels (Stratt. frr. 4 and 46 and Ar. fr. 160) to a lost lemma which involved the mechane and suggests that in this comedy a character was suspended in the air. We know that Seriphioi dramatized Perseus’ journey. !øæ in fr. 222.1 suggests that the tradition that his winged cap and sandals gave him flying powers may have been visually exploited, so the hero might have been suspended in the air for a period of time by means of the mechane: K ıæÆ KŁ IçØŒfiB øæ ÆhæÆ

Next you will come, raised aloft by the wind, to a Syrian . . .

This is especially likely given old comedy’s readiness to materialize such notions; indeed, several times in Aristophanes when the adjective øæ is associated with the mechane, it takes a literal dimension (Pax 80 and 152; Nu. 228). The metre of the lemma which follows the references to the mechane is paroemiacs in stichic use and its sole parallel is Cratinus’ Odysseis fr. 151, a fact which supports the ascription of this fragment to Cratinus.142 The original text which the commentary has preserved from the play reads as follows:143 oø c e — ºıŒ[Å ººØ E ŒÆ Ø Ø [ _ —æ f ŒÆd F e ºŒØ

ŒÆd B æÆ , ¥ ¼Œæ YÅ fi

ª Ø Ø ŒÆa H æH

5

Iººa å æıc

y ç] ØA o Æ ÆNd _ _ _ [Kd E] 144 ºc

Verses 1–4 come from a lyric song addressed to a character who is being told how to deal with Polydectes. Up to the point where the papyrus breaks off, the meaning of vv. 1–2 is clear: ‘so then you pelt Polydectes with your gibes . . . ’. Verses 3–4, however, are obscure and

142

Cf. Lobel (1968: 76). The text printed here is by K-A viii fr. ades. 1104. The only difference is that I read the papyrus’ ØÅ (v. 4) as YÅ fi instead of ƒfiB . See below, n. 146. 144 The expression used in vv. 6–8 is also found in Cratinus’ frr. 46–7. 143

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their meaning has been disputed.145 There is a reference to a point ‘up high’ (¼ŒæÆ), where the character is told to fly (¥ ¼Œæ YÅ fi ).146 There is also a reference to a rope (æÆ) which the character is told to pull (*ºŒØ ).147 Given that this lemma is cited in a context where the use of the theatrical crane is discussed, the most economical solution is to take all these references as concerning the flying activity of the character on the crane. What we can therefore make out from the wording of vv. 3–4 is: ‘and (you pull) the rope, so as to fly up high’. The rest of v. 3 ‘ŒÆd F e *ºŒØ ’ seems to concern the treatment of Polydectes. Therefore, up to this point the excerpt may be understood as follows: ‘so then (=?from up there) . . . Perseus . . . you pelt Polydectes with your gibes and you grab him by his leg and (you pull) the rope so as to fly up high’. The character to whom these words are addressed is a character in the role of Perseus (see below, pp. 167–8). The fact that this passage contains a metatheatrical reference to the mechane would be consistent with what we saw in fr. 218, namely that in Seriphioi Cratinus set up a ‘play within a play’. An accurate understanding of this passage requires consideration of the mechanics of the theatrical crane, especially in view of the suggested use of the rope to ‘fly up high’. Despite a long debate on the mechanics of the mechane, the suggestions put forward are mostly hypothetical.148 What we know is that the mechane needed to carry out two types of movement: one was on a horizontal axis (bringing the suspended actor(s) into sight and sometimes carrying them across the stage) and one on a vertical axis (lifting and lowering

145 The problem starts with the end of v. 2 (Ø [), where the papyrus breaks off. _ This verse is a paroemiac and, provided that it belongs to the lemma, we should expect the last syllable to be long, hence to be the first letter of a diphthong. Although this appears to be the only solution to the problem, the assumption of a diphthong would create a hiatus which would be inadmissible in this position. We necessarily have to assume that the lemma has a corruption, which will be discussed below. Of course, the other solution is, as Luppe suggested (1971: 120), to assume that Ø.[ | —æ did not belong to the lemma, but was part of the ancient scholion. However, this seems unlikely as the rest of the sentence scans normally. 146 For r Ø meaning ‘fly’ cf. Od. 22.304, Il. 2.87, and LSJ9 s.v. r Ø IV. The reading ƒfiB cannot be excluded, but then the meaning would have to be ‘so that you send him up high’. 147 For *ºŒø with genitive cf. Pindar, P. 2.90. 148 See, most recently, Mastronarde (1990), who also discusses earlier bibliography.


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them). The references to the mechanopoios in comedy (Ar. Pax 174, Daedalus fr. 192, Gerytades fr. 160; Stratt. fr. 4) suggest that the suspended character depended on the crane operator for his movement. Yet if the character was lifted or lowered vertically with the aid of a pulley or a system of pulleys,149 it is not impossible that, in order to achieve a sudden movement upwards, the character himself would have pulled a rope appropriately set up with pulleys to make him ‘fly up high’. As far as the problematic part of the papyrus is concerned (vv. 2–3 Ø:[ / —æ , see n. 145 above), Austin CGFP 46–7 could be right in emending —æ to —æ F and suggesting that Ø:[ may be a corruption from e.g. ÆNd. His reason for emending in this manner was, following Lobel’s guess, to make Perseus a character in the play and hence make the ascription of this passage to Seriphioi even more likely. However, there is a more economical solution to the problem in these verses, which is also more faithful to the transmitted text. Unless we want to emend both vv. 2 and 3, the only way to supplement the broken part of the verse between the Ø of v. 2 and the nominative —æ in v. 3 is with a single syllable consisting of one -diphthong, hence with the second person of the verb ‘to be’: ‘N r / —æ ’, ‘if you are Perseus’.150 To avoid the hiatus thereby created, we could assume that the only corruption of the lemma concerns the hiatus. A particle ª between the two dipthongs151 is one possible solution to this problem. The fragment would then read as follows: oø c e — ºıŒ[Å ººØ E ŒÆ Ø, N ª r —æ , ŒÆd F e ºŒØ

ŒÆd B æÆ , ¥ ¼Œæ YÅ fi

so then (¼?from up there) if you really are Perseus, you pelt Polydectes with your gibes and you grab him by his leg and (you pull) the rope so as to fly up high. 149 Pulleys must have been part of the device’s mechanics, as Ar. fr. 192 æ å suggests; cf. Mastronarde (1990: 49). The compound pulley is described already in Aristotle, Mechanical Problems 18, which suggests that it was in use even earlier. See the drawing in Cotterell and Kamminga (1990: 91), where the compound pulley represented is inspired by Vitruvius’ description in Arch. 10.2.10. 150 This supplement was proposed by Luppe (1971: 120), who, however, read this phrase as an explanation to the rest of the lemma and not as part of it. See also Luppe (1974a: 139–41). 151 For the use of ª as limitative, see Denniston (19542: 142–3).

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The phrase N ª r —æ f suggests that there is an issue with the hero’s identity. It can be reasonably taken to suggest that the character in the role of Perseus was not the mythic Perseus himself, but another character impersonating him. In several places in Aristophanic comedy (Acharnians, Peace, Thesmophoriazousae), comic heroes get into costumes of mythic/tragic characters in order to reproduce their conduct: notably in Thesmophoriazousae where Euripides dresses in the guise of Perseus (vv. 1099–102) in order to perform the rescue of Inlaw-Andromeda. The suggestion offered here, therefore, is that fr. 1104.1–4 comes from a lyric song delivered by the chorus or a character while the character who plays ‘Perseus’ travels in the air mounted on the crane. The song seems to envisage his confrontation with Polydectes, a scene which may have been dramatized in the tragic theatre as well,152 but here is rendered slapstick and bathetic. One possible reconstruction of the dramatic context is that the character who embodies Perseus fears the confrontation with his enemy (cf. v. 5) and the deliverer of the song recommends safe ways of dealing with him.153 Although the state of our evidence precludes certainty, especially since the fragment seems to be corrupt, many aspects make it a strong candidate for ascription to Seriphioi. Yet even without it, the rest of the Seriphioi fragments and especially fr. 218 make a good case that this comedy contained metatheatrical paratragic play.

3.4. NEMESIS AND THE TRAGIC MANNER Another play of Cratinus which seems to have been at least partly inspired by tragedy is his Nemesis. According to ps.-Eratosth. Cat. 25 152

See Karamanou (2006: 136–7). A pun with the proverb ‘Içd c æÆ e Æ ØŒØ’ certainly underlies the combined use of f and æÆ in these verses. This proverb was used for those ‘who drop the substance to grab a shadow’ (LSJ9 s.v. æÆ), and depends on the double meaning of as sheet and æÆ as the brace of ships; cf. Knights 436 ‘let go hold of it’ with naval imagery. The scholiast, on the other hand, suggests that ŒÆd F e ºŒØ means ‘you hold on to the rhythm’, i.e. ‘you pelt him within the rhythm’. This may have also been part of the word-play, although it is difficult to see how the scholiast extracts this interpretation from the text. 153


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(= test. ii), this play dramatized Nemesis’ erotic pursuit by Zeus, the transformation of the two into birds, her seduction, and the production of an egg out of which Helen of Sparta was born.154 It will be argued that some fragments and the storyline of the play suggest that, apart from being mythological burlesque, Nemesis had a paratragic dimension as well. Interestingly, these elements suggest yet another mode of Cratinus’ engagement with tragedy. That is, although Nemesis seems (on the available evidence) not to have any specific tragedy as its model, it often adopts the manner of tragedy as regards some of its essential components. We should first note the elevated style of fr. 115, which mixes tragic and bathetic elements in a manner familiar to us from Aristophanes: ¸Æ, e æª • E ‹ø P åÅø

IºŒæı Åb Ø Ø f æ ı , Kd fiH KfiÇ ı , ‰ i KŒºłÅ fi ŒÆºe E Ø ŒÆd ŁÆıÆ e KŒ F Zæ .

e æª is common in tragedy as an independent expression (i.e. without an infinitive or a verb), particularly in Euripides (for example, El. 668; Hel. 830, 1288; Ba. 849; cf. also Pr. Desmotes 635; A. Eu. 734; S. Ph. 15). In comedy it is often used to elevate the tone: Birds 862 (ceremonially addressed to the priest); Clouds 1345, 1397 (katakeleusmoi from the tragically characterized chorus), 1494 (Strepsiades to the torch); Peace 426 (Hermes accepting the request to allow rescue of Peace, as the metre changes from trimeters to trochaic tetrameters); Lys. 381; Th. 1208 (in the mouth of Euripides).155 We may translate ¸Æ, e æª •=‘Leda, ’tis thy task!’.156 The following E ‹ø P åÅø . . . Åb Ø Ø . . . is odd syntax (E + accusative + ‹ø + indicative) and has parallels only in tragedy: S. Aj. 556, Ph. 54–5. The periphrastic form of the expression contributes to the lofty tone. E ‹ø P åÅø . . . Åb Ø Ø

154

For a discussion of the myth and its use in this play, see 4.3. Cf. Gomme and Sandbach (1973) on Men. Dysc. 630; Dunbar (1995) on Birds 862. Stevens (1976: 39–40) has argued that e æª is colloquial, which may be true for later drama or prose, particularly when it is accompanied by the verb K . Yet its use in comedy suggests otherwise, especially when the expression stands independently. 156 Tr. Norwood (1931: 125). 155

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f æ ı , therefore, can be rendered: ‘With grace and dignity let yourself be no different in your ways . . . ’. This solemn-sounding address is comically undercut by the bathetic IºŒæı (‘from a hen’) which stands in a prominent position at the beginning of the second verse. How bathetic such references sounded in an elevated context is suggested by two passages in Frogs: in the first (Ra. 1343ff.), ‘Aeschylus’ parodies ‘Euripides’ for lowering the tone of tragedy by suggesting that he composes about chickens, while in the second ‘Euripides’ pays him back by ridiculing the ‘poultry’ ‘Aeschylus’ used in his tragedies, a reference to the Hippalectryon (Ra. 935). Kd fiH KfiÇ ı ‘brooding [on?] this’ in the third verse, on the other hand, may not only function bathetically. Aeschylus used the imagery of a brooding hen to describe the pathos of the mourning heroine in Niobe: æØÆE] qÆæ KçÅÅ ç Œ Ø KfiÇØ –k E ŁÅŒ Ø (fr. 154a.6–7).

If the character speaking fr. 115 is Zeus addressing Leda about his offspring from Nemesis,157 the task he is asking of her (‰ i KŒºłÅ fi

ŒÆºe / E Ø ŒÆd ŁÆıÆ e KŒ F Zæ ‘so you can hatch us a beautiful and admirable bird from this one’) is also significant, because it has higher-than-comic associations. A similar situation is found in Odyssey 11.248–50 and Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women (fr. 30 Most), where Poseidon, after seducing Tyro, meets her and instructs her about their offspring: åÆEæ, ªÆØ, çØºÅØ• æØº ı KØÆı F Ø IªºÆa ŒÆ, Kd PŒ I çºØ Ø PÆd IŁÆø• f b f Œ Ø IØÆººÆ . Be happy, lady, in this love, and as the year comes round you shall bear glorious children, for not ineffectual are the embraces of a god. Tend and rear these children. (Tr. Murray 19952)158

157

E in that case would be a ‘royal’ plural, which suits the paratragic quality of these verses. The speaker is more likely to be a bird-character (like Zeus) because of the personification of IºŒæı through f æ ı (=a person’s ways, habits, character). 158 On the other hand, Kaibel (in K-A ad loc.), inspired by Pausanias’ description of the base of Nemesis’ statue (1.33.7) located a tragic pattern in the play’s storyline


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Furthemore, the storyline of Nemesis is based on a seduction, and seductions, erotic pursuits, and rapes form the background of many tragedies. Although no fragment can certainly be attributed to Nemesis, because of the title there is a strong possibility that she was a dramatis persona. Her pursuit and seduction was certainly part of the plot, since frr. 114 and 116 refer to Zeus’ transformation into a bird159 in order to copulate with her, and fr. 115, as we saw, to the egg laid by Nemesis as a result of their union. ZæØŁÆ ı E ªª ŁÆØ ªÆ

(fr. 114)

and so you’ll have to become a big bird ‰ K Łø E Ø Ø Ø l ÆØ• –ÆÆ r Æ ŒE Þ øØa ŒÆd BºÆ ŒÆd ºØÆ ŒÆd Ø æØÆ (fr. 116) How I enjoy my food as I eat it! The whole world seems full of rose-gardens, apples, celery, and mint.160

The Cypria describes the distressed Nemesis as she tries to avoid her union with Zeus (fr. 10.2–12 West): [i.e. ¯ ºÅ] ŒÆººŒ ˝ Ø çØºÅØ ØªE Æ ˘Åd ŁH Æ ØºBØ Œ ŒæÆæB IªŒÅ . çFª ªaæ P Łº ØåŁÆØ K çØºÅØ Ææd ˜Ød ˚æ øØ• Kæ ªaæ çæÆ ÆN E ŒÆd Ø• ŒÆa ªB b ŒÆd Iæª ºÆ oøæ çFª, ˘f KøŒ - ºÆE KºØºÆ ŁıfiH . . . ªª ÆNd ŁÅæ ‹ XØæ ÆNa æçØ, ZçæÆ çª Ø Ø.

based on the fact that it may have shown Nemesis as Helen’s mother and Leda as the Nurse. So in fr. 115, Zeus seems to be talking in a tragic manner to the Nurse Leda. 159 In the original version of the myth, that was probably a goose (Cypria F7 Davies, supplemented by Philodemus fr. inc. loc.=F8 Davies). The version where Zeus and Nemesis or only one of them turned into a swan (attested by ps.-Erat. 25 for Cratinus) was probably later; cf. Gantz (1993: 321–2, and 855 n. 8). 160 The speaker is certainly Zeus as vv. 2–3 contain double entendres for female sexual organs or suggest sexual desire (see K-A ad loc.). See also Henderson (19912: 135, 136, 149, 151).

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. . . whom [i.e. Helen] lovely-haired Nemesis once bore, united in love to Zeus the king of the gods, under harsh compulsion. For she ran away, not wanting to unite in love with father Zeus the son of Kronos, tormented by inhibition and misgiving: across land and the dark, barren water she ran, and Zeus pursued, eager to catch her; . . . and she kept changing into all the fearsome creatures that the land nurtures, so as to escape him. (Tr. West 2003)

If Cratinus dramatized the myth in this version (cf. Apollod. Bib. 3.10.7 ÆÅ ªaæ [i.e. ˝ Ø] c ˜Øe çª ı Æ ı ı Æ N

åBÆ c æçc ÆÆºE, › ØøŁÆ b ŒÆd ˜Æ161 ıºŁE•), its potential for paratragic associations was strong: in Aeschylus’ Hiketides the Danaids flee Egypt to avoid their union with the sons of Aegyptus. They are determined to guard their chastity, desperate and horrified by the idea of that union. Over and over again they turn to the story of their ancestress Io, who was also driven into exile and endless wandering because of Zeus’ desire. The plight of Io was dramatized in Prometheus Desmotes, where Io describes her fear at the prospect of her union with Zeus (655–6). Prometheus reveals that her wanderings will end only after she is impregnated by the god. Greek mythology abounds in tales of rape and seduction which tragic poets dramatized or used as background for their plays.162 In Aeschylus’ Kares or Europe, Europa related her encounter and union with Zeus, into which she was tricked (fr. 99). From Pr. Lyomenos fr. 202b (Philod. De piet. B 7241 Obbink) we learn that Zeus’ pursuit of Thetis on Caucasus was an element of the plot of that play. In Euripides’ Ion, Creusa described the distressing experience of her rape by the god Apollo. Tyro’s seduction by Poseidon lay, in all probability, behind one or both of Sophocles’ tragedies with that title (cf. fr. 657). The rapes or seductions of several other heroines (Danae, Antiope, Semele, Alope, Aerope, Alcmene) formed the background of many other tragedies. One last piece of evidence might suggest parody of tragic manner in Nemesis. This is a lyric verse in which Zeus himself is addressed with a lofty expression, perhaps by Nemesis or Leda (fr. 118). The

161 162

For the correction of the text at this point, see Luppe (1974b). See Sommerstein (2006); Scafuro (1990).


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fact that this verse is paratragic is suggested by its metre, which is resolved and syncopated lyric iambic: º t ˘F Ø ŒÆd ŒÆæÆØ163 Come, oh Zeus, patron of foreigners and head of state.

The form º is poetic and avoided in comedy, save for lyric (cf. Lys. 1263, 1298; Th. 1146, 1155) or deliberate stylistic elevation (cf. Lys. 743, probably religious register),164 but is common in Homer, Pindar, and tragedy. The cletic º, in particular, is used for invocations of gods or divine entities especially in tragic poetry (E. Ion 458, Ba. 553, 583, Or. 177, [E.] Rh. 226) and for invocations to people for help (E. Ph. 296, Andr. 508, fr. 74). Here, comically, it is an address to a god who in all probability is present or somewhere nearby. As such, it contains parody of the prayer motif.165 Often in Aristophanes direct conversations with gods or addresses to humans are rendered as prayers for comic effect as, for example, in the scene with Trygaios and Hermes in Pax 385–9, 392–9, 400–4, 416–24, in Eq. 148–9 (addressed to the Sausage-Seller), and in Ach. 566–71 (addressed to Lamachus).166 We may read similar parody in the cletic address to Zeus here. Parody of prayer may occur independently, as in the Aristophanic examples, or within parody of genre, whether tragedy or lyric. Examples of the latter are Ec. 1ff., V. 316 ff., V. 323–33 (cf. Ar. Ach. 404–6, 435–40).167 Although the parody of prayer in fr. 118 alone does not indicate paratragedy, what makes it more possible that this is prayer parody within paratragedy is the fact that the verse is in tragic lyric metre.

163 ŒÆæÆØ or ŒæØ was an epithet of Zeus in Boeotia. See LSJ9 s.v. ˚ÆæÆØ and ˚æØ . For the joke at the expense of Pericles and his head, see below, Ch. 4. p. 222– 3; cf. p. 184 with n. 9. 164 Play with dialect (as in Lys. 984, 1263, 1298) does not seem to be relevant here, since the rest of the verse is not in Laconian. 165 Cf. Ar. Lys. 743 and Stratt. fr. 42 (cf. Willi 2003: 27 n. 78). 166 Cf. Willi (2003: 19 n. 50, 38); Horn (1970: 46). 167 Cf. Horn (1970: 41).

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Cratinus and Tragedy 3.5. EUMENIDES AND OTHER AESCHYLUS

Given the wide and diverse engagement with tragedy which has emerged from our analysis of Cratinus, we may now reconsider further evidence which seems to suggest paratragic play, but has been neglected because of its scantiness. An obvious example is Eumenides, the comedy with which Aristophanes associated Cratinus when he made the celebrated reference to him in the parabasis of Knights 529f.168 At 3.1.5, it was demostrated that Cratinus engaged with Aeschylus’ Oresteia by modelling his chorus of Plutoi on one strand of the Erinyes’ characterization and function across the trilogy. In particular, he engaged with the last play, Eumenides, on a more detailed level by alluding to specific themes and scenes within it, in particular the trial scene and the ending. It appears very likely, therefore, that Cratinus’ Eumenides was one more case of his engagement with the homonymous play of Aeschylus and perhaps, if Eumenides was the later play, a reworking of his initial project.169 A title signifying engagement with a particular tragedy170 is something which we have already identified in the case of Cratinus’ Drapetides. As far as the last play of Aeschylus’ Oresteia is concerned, there is no serious reason to doubt that Eumenides was its original title.171 Eumenides appear in literature as identical with Erinyes in the fifth century, in Euripides’ Orestes and in Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, both in connection with Orestes’ trial, and more generally. Brown (1984: 265–6) argued that the Erinyes and the Eumenides were first identified either a few years before Euripides’ Orestes (408 bc) or in that play by Euripides himself, the main reason being that in 168 Cf. vet. 530a (for which codices VEˆ 3¨! preserve ŒÆd F KŒ H ¯Pø ˚æÆ ı. ¯PØH is a correction by later editors); see also vet. Tr. 530c. 169 Eumenides might have been produced closer to Knights, hence Aristophanes’ reference to it in Eq. 529–30. For a further possible allusion to Eumenides, see fr. 55 of Drapetides above (p. 151). 170 Sommerstein (2002b: 1 and 10–13) suggests that sometimes the titles of plays were designed to be ‘misleading’ for the people who tried to guess their content in advance of the performance. However, there is no Greek drama where the title is completely irrelevant to the content of the play. Cratinus could have engaged with Aeschylus’ Eumenides in a variety of ways, which for us are irrecoverable. 171 Contra Brown (1984) and Sommerstein (1989: 11–12).


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earlier references to Orestes’ tribulations in tragedy, the Erinyes are never called Eumenides. This argument, however, did not take into account the intertextual enagagement of Orestes with the Oresteia (cf. Zeitlin 1980: 53–60) which makes it conceivable that Euripides used the two names for the same divinities precisely because he was aware of Aeschylus’ identification of Erinyes with Eumenides in Oresteia.172 The fact that the word ¯P itself does not appear in the surviving text does not constitute an adequate reason to doubt the title altogether.173 An unprejudiced reading of the trilogy suggests that the Erinyes have characteristics which, on balance, make it more likely that their identification with ‘Semnai Theai’ (cf. Eum. 383) and ‘Eumenides’ was a traditional belief, evoked by Aeschylus in Eumenides, rather than an innovation by a dramatist, whether Aeschylus or Euripides.174 We should also not overlook the fact that at the end of Aeschylus’ tragedy, when Athena renames the Erinyes, she refers to them with an epithet synonymous with Eumenides, namely ¯PçæÆ (992). As Paley notes: ‘in this epithet . . . the new title of Eumenides is implied’.175 Therefore, in the absence of unambiguous evidence against the identification of Erinyes with Eumenides in Aeschylus,176 it is, in my view, wiser to retain the preserved title as the original.177 The use of the title Eumenides by Cratinus to allude to Aeschylus could in that case be paralleled by the use of Phoenissai by Aristophanes, where the homonymous Euripidean play was certainly parodied (cf. fr. 570 and K-A iii/2 ad loc.). It may also be of importance to this argument that Cratinus wrote a Thrattai, and the only other occurrence of this title is a tragedy by Aeschylus. It is even possible that before Cratinus, 172 Brown (1984: 266), nevertheless, raises the possibility that Euripides was influenced by another play in making the identification. 173 Hermann’s (1852) theory of a lacuna after 1027 is possible, but hardly a conclusive argument. 174 See Lloyd-Jones (1990: passim); Henrichs (1991: 163–9). 175 Paley (1870: ad loc.); cf. Podlecki (1989) on 992. 176 On the other hand, the name Eumenides appears in the hypothesis of Aeschylus’ play, in the list of dramatis personae and in a scholium to 761. Brown (1984) and Sommerstein (1989) argue that the ancient scholars have erred in each case, under the influence of the play’s (later) title. 177 It should be stressed, of course, that scholars remain divided on the question of the title’s authenticity.

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Chionides and Callias engaged with Aeschylus by writing comedies with the same titles as his tragedies, Persai and Atalantai respectively. Unfortunately, since we have so little of Cratinus’ Eumenides, we cannot reconstruct its plot. Thanks to the reference to the play in Knights, however, we can be sure that is was produced before 424 bc. To a degree, the revival of Aeschylean works at the time178 could explain Cratinus’ recurrent engagement with Aeschylus’ plays and the Oresteia in particular. Furthermore, we find in Cratinus’ corpus more evidence that the poet was familiar with the work of Aeschylus. This is due to a number of echoes of Aeschylean verses, words, and images, which independently would not amount to much, but collectively and in the light of our earlier discussion of Hiketides, Eumenides, and Theoroi may be suggestive. Fr. 316 is from an unknown comedy of Cratinus: ¼Œ ı F ŒÆd c KØ º

and seems to echo Aeschylus fr. 293, ¼Œ ı a Ka KØ º . In Eumenides fr. 70.2, the adjective PºÆ , which Cratinus uses in his lyric verse, Œ PÆºø oø, is found nowhere (until late epic) other than in Aeschylus, Agamemnon 1531. In the paratragic fr. 115 of Nemesis, we found the image of the brooding hen, which might be a comic reuse of Aeschylus Niobe fr. 154a. 6–7. Pollux X 64 attests that the rare word TºØ was used by both Aeschylus (fr. 205) and Cratinus (fr. 10) in their dramas, and as far as our evidence suggests, this word does not appear in literature until the post-classical period. All this evidence suggests Cratinus’ familiarity with works of Aeschylus and, in some cases, his engagement with them. Furthermore, it is certainly suggestive that Cratinus’ engagement with Euripides and Sophocles amounts to a few instances only.179 We saw earlier on, by exploring the points which connect Cratinus fr. 342, Aristophanes’ Frogs and the statement of the anonymous author of De Comoedia, ‘˚æÆE . . . ªª . . . ØÅØŒÆ , ŒÆÆ ŒıÇø N e `N åº ı åÆæÆŒBæÆ’, that part of Cratinus’ 178

See above, at n. 71. Fr. 299 (E. Stheneboea); fr. 17 (Sophocles having been denied a chorus); Seriphioi, as we saw (3.3), might have alluded to E. Diktys. 179


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self-presentation as the ‘inspired Dionysiac poet’ must have been to present himself as the ‘Aeschylus’ of comedy (1.1.2). Cratinus’ selfassociation with Aeschylus, like that with Archilochus, manifested itself—as we can now clearly see—in these two interrelated and complementary ways: in identification with the older master in terms of poetic style (or at least as that was perceived in his time), but also in engagement with his work. However, Cratinus’ choice of Aeschylus, unlike that of Archilochus, seems to be especially significant at this point in time. Athens had recently awarded Aeschylus the status of a ‘classic’, and the Aeschylean works to which Cratinus alluded may have been among the first to enter the Athenian tragic canon. For the Athenians who saw the reproduction of his plays, Aeschylus was almost the embodiment of canonical drama. Aeschylus, we must conclude, constituted Cratinus’ own ingenius claim to preservation and survival in posterity.

3.6. NEW PERSPECTIVES ON COMEDY’S USE OF TRAGEDY Plays such as Cratinus’ Plutoi and Nemesis give us reasons to believe that there was considerable engagement with tragedy in old comedy before Aristophanes. This conclusion is reinforced by evidence which suggests that others of Cratinus’ contemporaries, namely Callias, Ecphantides, and Telecleides, also engaged with the tragic genre.180 Cratinus certainly had a prominent role in that process. His simultaneous engagement with the Prometheus trilogy and the Oresteia in Plutoi shows his readiness to make much of famous tragic works. In terms of technique, Cratinus’ fusion of two trilogies in one comedy shows his ability to interweave several strands of tragic characterization and plot in one tapestry, a skill which will be examined more closely in the following chapter. On the other hand, Cratinus’ 180 Although this issue deserves further examination, some references which suggest paratragic engagement are: for Callias, test. 7 and his Pedetai fr. 14, 15, and 17; for Ecphantides, fr. 502; for Telecleides, fr. 15. Furthermore, Chionides probably wrote a Persai, but we do not know anything about this play.

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constant return to works of Aeschylus such as the Oresteia, Hiketides, Theoroi, and others (even if the Prometheus trilogy was not perceived as genuinely Aeschylean by the fifth-century Athenian audiences) was not only homage to the works of the old master, but also an act of poetic self-definition. Cratinus implicitly advertised himself as the classic poet of comedy in the manner Aeschylus was perceived as the classic poet of tragedy in the mid-fifth century. Drapetides, on the other hand, demonstrates a mode of interaction with tragedy which, both in terms of technique and in terms of comic boldness, is not attested in extant Aristophanes. Based on these findings, it appears almost certain that more extensive research on other comic poets will enrich further our knowledge of the reception of the tragic genre in comedy. As far as we can see from Cratinus, and especially his Seriphioi, Aristophanes’ use of tragedy may have had an impact on comic practice, which in turn generated further imitation and borrowing. This would have been part of a larger dialogue between the comic poets. As far as their engagement with tragedy is concerned, there was an ongoing interaction between Cratinus and Aristophanes, the most important aspect of which is that both poets associated their poetics with a tragic authority whose merits were a prominent subject of intellectual and artistic discourse at the time. Yet Cratinus differed from Aristophanes in that his interaction with tragedy was a less dominant feature of his poetics. The tragic genre probably did not have as pervasive a role in the comedy of Cratinus as it did in the comedy of Aristophanes. To put it in another way, Cratinus was probably not possessed by an obsession with tragedy of the same degree as was Aristophanes. Later antiquity saw Cratinus not only as the Aeschylus, but also as the Archilochus of comedy (see also 1.5). This is consistent with what the rest of his fragments suggest, that he engaged with a far broader spectrum of literary intertexts than we can see in the extant comedies of Aristophanes. This is primarily because—and this is unparalleled in Aristophanes— Cratinus focused on different genres in different comedies: in Dionysalexandros and Satyroi he engaged with satyr play, in Odysseis and elsewhere he parodied Homeric epic, in Archilochoi he contrasted iambic poetry with epic poetry, and in Pytine he explored comic poetics, while probably relying on techniques of self-presentation


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known from iambos and archaic lyric. In Euneidai, he probably engaged with the production of music. Despite these qualifications, tragedy did retain a significant role in Cratinus, as it probably did in other comic poets too. Indeed, it would have been curious if that were not the case, given the allusive nature of comedy and the overwhelming dominance of tragedy in Athenian cultural life. The evidence we have examined here supports this reading and suggests that we should discuss paratragedy as a phenomenon which occurs not exclusively in Aristophanes, but across old comedy.

4 Myth, Politics, and Drama: Elements of Plot-Composition in the Comedy of Cratinus Thus far we have seen the engagement of certain mythological comedies of Cratinus with satyr play and tragedy (Chapters 2 and 3). The additional dimension of interpretative significance which has emerged changes our understanding of those plays considerably. Comedies like Dionysalexandros, Plutoi, and Nemesis have traditionally been read merely as mythical travesties with different degrees of political satire embedded in them. As a result, there has been a widespread impression that Cratinus wrote ‘political allegories’. The scholarship on Dionysalexandros has been crucial to this tendency, as the plotpattern of ‘political allegory’ has been applied from Dionysalexandros to the other mythical plays. Since we now know that many features of these comedies are explicable in terms of play with generic boundaries or dramatic parody, the widespread conviction that ‘political allegory’ is the key to understanding them requires reassessment. This chapter challenges the traditional approach to Cratinus’ mythological plays. By re-examining three elements which have a role in the composition and development of the plot, namely myth, politics, and drama, and by reassessing how these engage with one another, it presents a new model which seeks to shed fresh light on the interpretation of those plays. It also constitutes a new approach to two important aspects of Cratinus’ comic art: plot-construction and characterization. Since Dionysalexandros has been so influential for the traditional understanding of Cratinus’ mythical plays, this

Myth, Politics, and Drama

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comedy is used for the development of a model which is then tested on other plays.1

4.1. DIONYSALEXANDROS: ALLEGORY AND COMPLEXITY

4.1.1. The First Readings of Dionysalexandros Even before the discovery of the papyrus hypothesis of Dionysalexandros, fragmentary evidence, such as that pertaining to Nemesis, suggested that mythological burlesque could be used for political satire.2 However, since Nemesis seemed to stand alone, it could hardly make a difference to the general picture of the comic genre, which was dominated by the Aristophanic model. Yet what scholars had suspected of Nemesis seemed to be confirmed for Dionysalexandros by the discovery of its hypothesis. The concluding statement of the hypothesis suggests that there was covert political satire in this play, which would otherwise appear to be a mere travesty of the story of the Trojan war: Œøø fi EÆØ K fiH æÆØ —æØŒºB ºÆ ØŁÆH Ø Kç ø ‰ KÆªÅ åg E

`

ŁÅÆ Ø e º .3 (In the play, Pericles is satirized very felicitously by innuendo as having brought the war upon the Athenians.) Interestingly, in the first editions and studies of the play there was no use of the literary term ‘allegory’. The first editors and Ko¨rte merely assumed that Pericles ‘may well have been satirized in the principal character as Dionysus’ and that the ‘war’ of the last sentence apparently suggested the Peloponnesian war, but they did not see how the activity of Dionysus could be related to that of Pericles in any way.4 Ko¨rte (1904: 491), in particular, pointed out that the 1

In the case of Dionysalexandros, four plot-layers can de distinguished and these include a motif of ritual initiation; this extra layer is analysed in 5.2.1. 2 Cf. Bergk (1838: 130); Wilamowitz (1870: 29); Kock i. 47. 3 The full text and a translation are given in Appendix 4. 4 Grenfell and Hunt (1904: 71); Ko¨rte (1904: 491).

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evidence strongly suggested that the myth travesty was the main object of the play. Subsequent scholars soon drew attention to points in the plot which could allude to the historical war and the perceived behaviour of the Athenian leader. The most imaginative approach was offered by Croiset (1904: 308–10). He argued that the ravaging of the countryside which was inflicted by the Achaeans upon Troy (ll. 23–5) was meant to recall the recent invasion of Archidamos and the ravaging of the land and the demes around Athens in the summer of 431 (Th. 2.19.2 and 2.23.1). Furthermore, he suggested that the portrayal of Dionysus in Dionysalexandros as the one responsible for the invasion was a satirical hint at Pericles who, according to Thucydides’ and Plutarch’s accounts (Th. 2.21.3; Plu. Per. 33), was held responsible for the war in the minds of the Athenians. Moreover, the cowardly reaction of Dionysus to the news of the invasion and of his persecution (ll. 29–33) was read as an allusive caricature of (what was thought about) Pericles’ refusal to lead the Athenians into battle against the Peloponnesians ravaging their land (Th. 2.22.1; Plu. Per. 33). This seemed all the more likely since, according to Plutarch (Per. 33.6–7), there were repeated satirical attacks against Pericles for irresponsibility and cowardice regarding his handling of the first Peloponnesian invasion. In the same passage, Plutarch cites a fragment from Hermippus’ Moirai (fr. 47) which alludes to those public expressions of dissatisfaction. Æ ØºF Ææø was taken as an intertextual reference to the satire of Pericles in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros: Æ ØºF Ææø, PŒ KŁºØ

æı Æ ÇØ, Iººa ºª ı b æd F º ı Ø f ÆæåØ , łıåc b #ºÅ o Ø; (fr. 47.1–4) King of the Satyrs, why are you unwilling to lift a spear, but instead you offer clever arguments about the war, which really mask a cowardice worthy of Teles?

Finally, Dionysus’ amorous adventure with Helen was thought to correspond to Pericles’ affair with Aspasia, the more so because of the scandalous popular stories concerning her role in the outbreak of


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the war, used later by Aristophanes in his Acharnians (526–37) and by Eupolis in his Prospaltii (fr. 267). These broad similarities between mythical plot and contemporary events were unanimously endorsed by subsequent scholars. Rightly so, because the evidence put forward is unmistakably in favour of the statement in the hypothesis that there is a pronounced element of political satire in the play. However, both the concept and the terminology of sustained political allegory were still absent from the scholarly discussion. Norwood (1931: 122) made the cautious remark that: ‘in the present state of our knowledge it is best . . . to believe that Cratinus is primarily concerned with a riotous travesty of the legend, and works contemporary satire into the fabric purely as an undertone’.

4.1.2. Allegorist and Other ‘Allegorical’ Readings What gave a new twist to the readings of this play is that, with increasing zeal, scholars tended to look for a narrative much more precise in its engagement with politics.5 As a result, the argument for a broad correspondence between the plot elements of myth and politics was gradually turned into a strictly sustained reading in which every detail in the story was allegorized and argued to reflect a topical event or individual on a one-to-one basis. Although a considerable amount of information on the topical dimension of this play emerged through such arguments, the relentless search for allegorical meanings was to the detriment of other aspects of this comedy and above all obscured the fact that Dionysalexandros works coherently as a mythic narrative. The most extensive discussion of the ‘political allegory’ in Dionysalexandros was carried out by Schwarze in his 1971 monograph, Die Beurteilung des Perikles durch die attische Komo¨die und ihre historische und historiographische Bedeutung, which still constitutes a major reference work for the political content of this play. Apart from the points already discussed, other ‘allegorical’ identifications in his extensive discussion (pp. 6–21) were: 5

e.g. discussions as early as Thieme (1908: 7ff.) and Meáutis (1934: 465–6).

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(a) The scene where Dionysus surreptitiously undertakes to judge the beauty contest evokes Pericles’ assumption of decision-making powers on war and peace. Here the real Paris stands for the demos of Athens,6 for whom decisions are taken without his participation. (b) The ıæÆ that Dionysus was offered by Hera suggests the charge of tyrannical behaviour commonly aimed at Pericles by Cratinus himself and other comic poets.7 The other two gifts from the goddesses can also be related to Pericles: by reading the second gift as PıåÆ ŒÆa º ,8 Schwarze suggested that it refers ironically to the åÅ that Pericles’ defensive strategy would need. On the other hand, Aphrodite’s promise of supreme beauty, as an erotic gift, points to his affair with Aspasia. A more imaginative interpretation of this offer, put forward by Rosen (1988: 52 n. 49) was that the gift of supreme beauty was intended as a cutting jibe at Pericles’ allegedly misshapen head, which was often ridiculed by the comic poets, including Cratinus himself in Thrattai (fr. 73), Cheirones (fr. 258 ŒçÆºÅªæÆ), and Nemesis (fr. 118 ŒÆæÆØ).9 (c) Dionysus’ choice of Aphrodite’s gift satirizes Pericles’ alleged priorities at the beginning of the war.10 (d ) Helen may also symbolize the war which comes from Sparta. On the other hand, Luppe (1966: 183) proposed that in the scene where Helen is hidden in the basket she suggests the people of Athens, who had to stay inside the walls because of the war. (e) The surrender of Dionysus to the enemy by Paris suggests the Spartan demand for the banishment of Pericles as an inheritor of

6

Cf. Pieters (1946: 128–9). Cf. also Cratin. Thrattai fr. 73, Nemesis fr. 118, Cheirones fr. 258, Plutoi fr. 171.22–3; Hermipp. Moirai fr. 42; Telecl. Hesiodoi fr. 18 (cf. fr. 48); Ar. Ach. 530–1; Plu. Per. 8.3.3–4. The popular application of tyranny to Pericles is in line with the tradition which views it as a god-like licence to do with impunity whatever one wishes: cf. Sol. fr. 33 W; Pl. Grg. 469c, R. 343–4. See also Plu. Per. 16.1–2. (Pericles and Peisistratos) and 7.4.2. For the semantic content of tyrannos and related words see O’Neil (1986). 8 Austin in K-A iv. 140–1 corrected the Pıå(Æ ) of the 1st edn. to Płıå(Æ ), which is more faithful to the papyrus’ ıçıŒØ. He read the PłıåÆ ŒÆa º ‘bravery in war’ as an insinuation for Pericles’ perceived cowardice or hesitation in military matters; cf. Luppe (1975: 190). 9 Cf. also Telecl. fr. 47; Eup. fr. 115. Plutarch, who gives this information on Pericles’ physical abnormality and quotes the playwrights’ head-jokes (Plu. Per. 3.3– 7), says that the artists would always portray him wearing a helmet, because they did not want to reproach him for it. 10 Cf. also Croiset (1904: 308–9). 7


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the curse of the Alcmaeonids (Th. 1.126–7),11 whereas the fact that Helen stays with Paris implies that the war would be continued, this time without Pericles.12 (f ) The followers of Dionysus, the satyrs, who try to prevent his surrender to the enemy, stand for Pericles’ followers who would have striven for the same thing.

Although not all of these allegorical readings were accepted, Schwarze’s extreme allegorist position exercised perhaps the strongest influence on the reading and interpretation of this play and helped establish the increasing belief that Dionysalexandros derived all of its comic force from the political satire within it, almost to the exclusion of everything else. The conviction that ‘after seven decades of scholarship on this issue, there is little doubt that the whole play can be construed as a sustained allegorical attack on Pericles’13 is characteristic of the way a considerable part of scholarship still tends to view this play.14 Objections to the extreme allegorist identifications were raised by a number of scholars,15 but eventually these approaches perpetuated the classification of Dionysalexandros as ‘political allegory’ and of its technique as ‘allegorical’. Since then, the terminology of allegory has been used almost in every discussion on this play, even by those scholars who have been more cautious about making point-by-point identifications. Perhaps the most noticeable consequence has been that, even in more careful approaches, Dionysus has been taken to represent Pericles throughout the play. Before we go on to evaluate such allegorical readings, it may be helpful to consider what kind of theoretical framework might help us to define and discuss the concept of ‘allegory’. This is especially important as the scholars who have applied this term to Dionysalexandros do not all appear to understand its nature and function in the same way. The approaches described above presuppose an allegory of the 11

So Wilamowitz (1904: 665); Meáutis (1934: 466); Norwood (1931: 122). For slightly different readings, see Pieters (1946: 170) and Meáutis (1934: 466). 13 Rosen (1988: 52). 14 See, most recently, Casolari (2003: 98–109) and Wright (2007: 419–21). The latter expresses some caution, motivated by his discussion of the word emphasis (419–20), but his reading ultimately weighs towards the coherently allegorical interpretation of Dionysalexandros (420–1). 15 Cf. e.g. Melero Bellido (1997: 126); Bowie (2000: 324–5) and his critique of Schwarze at 334 n. 43; Ruffell (2002: 151). 12

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sustained type, ‘where the events of a narrative obviously and continuously refer to another simultaneous structure of events or ideas’,16 and where ‘each detail may require interpretation’.17 So, consistency and continuity of the allegorical references throughout the narrative is important for the fiction to be an allegory, and it is this continuity which ‘distinguishes [allegory] from ambiguity or simple allusion’.18 Allegory of this kind is found, for example, in works of Western literature like Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, Swift’s Tale of a Tub, and Orwell’s Animal Farm. On the other hand, scholars like Bowie, Ruffell and Melero-Bellido, while discussing the issue of political satire in Dionysalexandros in terms of ‘allegory’, do not presuppose the same degree of continuity and consistency. Ruffell’s remark (2002: 151) is characteristic: ‘the context here [i.e. in the concluding statement] is certainly one of “allegory” and çÆ Ø can certainly be associated with figured speech’; however, he also warns that ‘Cratinus’ use of allegory was . . . less allusive than many have argued’. The caution of Bowie, Ruffell, and Melero-Bellido towards such carefully plotted equivalences offers a more promising way of approaching Dionysalexandros. However, we need to go even further in challenging the unmodified application of modern notions of allegory to a complex ancient text like this comedy. If we suppose that Dionysalexandros worked in the same terms of ‘one-to-one’ correspondence as, for example, Orwell’s Animal Farm, we would have to expect the allegorical references to be easily recognizable and coherent, clearly to point towards their ‘real’ meaning and, above all, in their totality to constitute a sustained narrative. Judging by the evidence provided by the papyrus, in most cases in Dionysalexandros where such an approach is advocated, there is only a loose and vague similarity between the vehicle and the tenor of the alleged ‘allegories’, which greatly undermines one’s confidence in this kind of ‘hard’ allegorical reading. In (a), for example, although both the vehicle and the tenor are potentially true, the historical link between them is not specific enough to generate the association (as it would be, for example, if Pericles had acted as a judge). In (b), the offer of supreme 16 17 18

Frye (1975: 12). Davies (19732 & 19). Frye (1975: 12).


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beauty need not be taken as an erotic gift, and even if it is, it is hardly the case that an ‘erotic gift’ of supreme beauty would necessarily remind the audience of Pericles’ affair with Aspasia. On the extant evidence, the attempted correlation of the two is only approximately (or even remotely) suggested and hence uncertain. What goes most of all against the hypothesis of the ‘sustained allegorical attack against Pericles’ is that some of the specifics do not allow one to construct a coherent story about Pericles. Any attempt to fit Hera’s offer of tyranny into a coherent satirical narrative about Pericles would have to present him as accepting it. Reading the second offer allegorically would not encounter this difficulty, since ‘bravery in war’ was exactly what Pericles was thought to lack, but the problem would be that this time the ‘allegorical’ reading would work according to an entirely different narrative logic. Furthermore, even if we accept (in the absence of the primary text) that Dionysus stands throughout the play for Pericles, we should be wary of decoding other characters such as Helen in the same consistent way; such an approach is very difficult unless one forces the text. The Helen of the myth might ‘be’ Aspasia, and the charge made against her and Pericles may be of the kind made by Aristophanes in Acharnians 515–37, where Aspasia is linked to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war. However, beyond this first, reasonable impression, several points in the plot do not facilitate the continuous equation Helen ¼ Aspasia (as even Schwarze (1971: 16) acknowledges). Helen’s abduction from Sparta, for example, and marriage to the real Paris cannot be easily viewed as corresponding to anything in contemporary history and in themselves recall only the traditional myth. In that case, Helen’s allegorical character is only activated intermittently; but identifying Helen with ‘the war which came from Sparta’, apart from being odd in itself, seems impossible to reconcile with other plot details such as Helen’s hiding in a basket when Dionysus seeks to escape the real Paris. Luppe (1966: 183) thought that this amusing detail may have alluded to the confinement of the Athenian population inside the city walls, but in that case Helen would correspond allegorically to the Athenian people. All these allegorical possibilities constantly force us to choose between possible readings. As Bowie (2000: 325) aptly noted, ‘the very difficulty that we encounter in explaining

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Helen may tell us something about the nature of Cratinus’ allegorical method’. Therefore, if we insist in using the term ‘allegory’ for our interpretation of Dionysalexandros, we need to be clear on how much continuity and consistency we expect from the correspondences we identify in the play. However, especially in order to avoid the connotations of one-to-one equation that the term ‘allegory’ may evoke (and its dangers, as we saw), it might be best to develop a different model: one which is more suitable to the (fragmentary) evidence we have and more appropriate to the nature of Dionysalexandros as it emerges from this evidence. For although the presence of a political dimension in Dionysalexandros should not be questioned, it constitutes far from the totality or even the main essence of the play. Dionysalexandros is a complex work which operates at the same time on many levels: the level of satyr play, demonstrated in Chapter 2; the level of mythic burlesque, which was emphasized in the earlier period after the publication of the hypothesis (and which is reexamined here); and the level of political satire, which emerges from some of the evidence put forward by scholars in recent years. A fourth level, which will be demonstrated in 5.2.1, is the pattern of Dionysiac initiation which intermittently informs Dionysus’ activity until the end of the play.

4.1.3. Dionysalexandros as Myth-Burlesque That Dionysalexandros works coherently as myth-burlesque is something which was taken for granted in the earlier years after the publication of the papyrus, but later ignored or even distorted due to the overemphasis on political satire. Elements which undoubtedly belong to the original Trojan myth or to the mythic tales of Dionysus have been taken by the allegorist readers to have crossed the boundaries of mere myth travesty into portraying contemporary events or suggesting Pericles.19 The most telling example is the ravaging of the land surrounding Troy, which is an element of the original Trojan An exception is Bowie (2000: 324), who says ‘Ø Kç ø . . . suggests that the action remained firmly in the mythical world’. 19


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myth, but which scholars took to refer only to the Peloponnesian invasion of 431.20 This reading misses the fact that in the version used in the Cypria (as summarized by Proclus), the Achaeans establish their camp and then begin ravaging the country and the surrounding towns: ØÆ c åæÆ KºŁ æŁ F Ø ŒÆd a

æØ Œ ı ºØ (Procl. Chr. 11.1–2 West). In the Iliad too, although this element belongs to the prehistory of the Trojan war and hence is not explicitly narrated among the events of the epic itself, it is frequently brought up indirectly in the heroes’ narratives as they reflect on the first nine years of the siege of Troy, so knowledge of it must have been presupposed for the audience of the epic.21 So, for example, at Il. 9.328–9 we learn that Achilles sacked twelve towns by sea and eleven with his troops throughout the Trojan land: ŒÆ c f Åı d ºØ IºÆ IŁæø, Çe £Œ çÅØ ŒÆa #æ Å Kæøº .22 Twelve cities of men have I laid waste with my ships and by land I claim eleven throughout the fertile land of Troy. (Tr. Murray 19992)

Similarly, the episode of the Judgement also belongs firmly in the field of myth.23 First of all, the version of Hera’s offer hardly differs from that in more serious accounts of the Trojan myth.24 In the version of Euripides’ Trojan Women, Hera offered Paris ıæÆ

(E. Tr. 927–8), and, in Isocrates, the synonymous Æ ØºØ (Isoc. Enc. Hel. 41.6). In the Cypria she offered him Æ ØºÆ ø (Apollod. Epit. 3.2). As far as the other two gifts are concerned,

20

Cf. e.g. Norwood (1931: 122): ‘The inference is that Cratinus dwells on the devastation in a manner inappropriate to one alluding to the Iliad, but very appropriate to one with the Peloponnesian invasion in his mind.’ 21 Cf. Taplin (1992: 84–5); Kullmann (1960: 284–91). 22 See also Il. 2.688–93, 19.59–60, 19.291–300, 20.89–92, 20.188–94 (Lyrnessos), 20.89–92 (Pedasos), 1.366–9, 2.690–1, 6.414–28, 9.186–9, 16.152–4, 23.826–9 (Thebe), 9.128–30 9.270–2, 9.664–5 (Lesbos), 1.123–6, 2.226–8, 9.365–7, 18.339–42 (generally for cities around Troy). 23 Contra, e.g. Ruffell (2002: 152): ‘the offers made to the god-as-Paris seem less appropriate for the god, but more so for Pericles, his political circumstances and his caricature in comedy’. 24 For the Judgement of Paris in literature with special emphasis on Euripides, see Stinton (1965: passim).

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their correspondence to the mythical tradition has also been largely overlooked or understated in favour of topical allusiveness. Of the two, PłıåÆ is appropriately offered to Dionysus, because cowardice was often attributed to the god due to his effeminacy, which was also a standard characteristic of Dionysus in myth and cult. This is reflected in Aeschylus’ satyr play Theoroi or Isthmiastai, where one of the satyrs reproaches him for being ªØ . . . ¼ÆºŒØ ‘a cowardly, womanish creature’ (fr. 78a.68). In Aristophanes’ Frogs and Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi we find both effeminacy and cowardice pervasively exploited, while the ancient scholiast’s note on Peace 741 is suggestive on this matter: KºÆÇ ªæ ‰ ØŒ ÆFÆ, ˙ æÆŒºB ØH ŒÆd ˜Øı Øºe ŒÆd Øåe ˘ (‘for it seems that such portrayals were common at the time, namely hungry Heracles, cowardly Dionysus and adulterous Zeus’). Therefore, the version of Athena’s offer in Dionysalexandros is fundamentally a product of myth burlesque, which suits both the original version of the Judgement myth, since it concerns war (cf. the Cypria version º ı ŒÅ: Apoll. Epit. 3.2; Isocrates’ Enc. Hel. 41. 7 `

ŁÅA b ŒæÆE K E º Ø ; and Euripides’ Tr. 926 /æıd æÆÅª FŁ ¯ ºº KÆØ ÆØ) and the characterization of the mythical character used for it, namely the effeminate (and comically cowardly) god Dionysus. Tellingly the mythic Paris/Alexandros, whom Dionysus impersonates, is portrayed in the Iliad as lacking the bravery of other Homeric heroes.25 The nature of the third offer from Aphrodite, ŒººØ ŒÆd KæÆ ÆPe æåØ, is also very appropriate to Dionysus (cf. E. Ba. 453–9). The fact that in Greek mythology the combination of supreme beauty and attractiveness to women is also a firm characteristic of Paris/Alexandros, as for example in Iliad 3.39, reinforces the role of myth in shaping this scene. Consequently, Aphrodite’s offer can well be understood in terms of mythical parody. Even the fact that the god Dionysus acts in the guise of Paris/Alexandros can be read as a humorous exploitation of a motif commonly found in the Homeric epics, where gods take the form of Homeric heroes. At the same time, Dionysus’ tendency to disguise and change identities

25

Il. 3.30–52, 3.428–54.


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is coherent with the traditional perception of the elusive nature of the god. Dionysalexandros is, therefore, a play coherent in terms of myth and cult. The fact that the myth is told coherently, without distortion of the traditional mythical ‘facts’, means that any allegorical dimension is more difficult to penetrate because it is not drawn overtly to the attention of the audience, for instance by distortion of the basic elements of the myth. This is not to question the presence of political satire in Dionysalexandros, but to re-establish the largely disregarded dimension of myth in the composition. On the other hand, the concluding statement of the hypothesis should be seriously taken into account, inasmuch as the textual evidence sustains it and assuming that the ancient scholar, unlike us, had the entire play available to him. However, it should be understood properly and not used as evidence for something it does not say. As is shown below, even the words of the hypothesist do not sustain the assumption that political satire was the only or main objective of Dionysalexandros.

4.1.4. The Object of the Play The hypothesist’s concluding statement, Œøø fi EÆØ K fiH æÆØ —æØŒºB ºÆ ØŁÆH Ø Kç ø ‰ KÆªÅ åg E `

ŁÅÆ Ø

e º , is usually taken as indicating that the satire of Pericles is the play’s main object. Ruffell (2002: 151), for example, translates: ‘Pericles is the comic object in this drama . . . ’ Perhaps the position of the statement at the end of the hypothesis and the fact that it is the sole exegetic comment on the play are partly responsible for the appeal of this interpretation. However, the phraseology of the statement does not suggest this interpretation at all. A word-by-word translation would be: ‘In the play Pericles is very felicitously made fun of by innuendo as having brought the war upon the Athenians’.26 Linguistically nothing compels us to understand it as saying that ‘Pericles is the comic object in this drama’, as the case is, for example,

26

For the meaning of ØŁÆH , see below, pp. 197–8. The meaning of emphasis is discussed in 4.1.7–9.

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for Cleon in hyp. Knights A1:27 e æAÆ F ÅÆØ N ˚ºøÆ, e `

ŁÅÆø ÅÆªøª (This play has been composed as an attack on Cleon, the Athenian demagogue). The expression which the hypothesist of Knights A1 uses to denote the central object of satire in that comedy is the standard formula used by ancient scholiasts and literary critics; for example, Clouds 557a: ( ¯ æØ b æAÆ PŒ K Å N +æ º ; Clouds 558a: ŒÆd ªaæ —ºø ‹º æAÆ ªæÆł N +æ º . Sometimes the commentators indicate that a whole play has been written against an individual by simply saying so: ¥ , ‹Ø ›ºŒºÅæ N ÆPe [i.e. øŒæÅ] ıÆ æAÆ, Ø åŁæÆ Ç ı Ø ÆPe ØÅŒÆØ PŒ OæŁH Y ÆØ. æH b ªaæ ˜çØº N

´ Æ e çØº ç ›ºŒºÅæ ıÆ ÅÆ, Ø y N ıºÆ KæıÆ › çØº ç • P Øa F b KåŁæe q. ( Clouds 96d) Some believe that because Aristophanes composed a whole play against him [i.e. Socrates], he did it out of hostility, but they are not correct. For, first of all, Diphilus composed a whole work against Boidas the philosopher, in which the philosopher was mocked as a slave; but he was not hostile to him on account of this.

Consider also the following examples: YÅ i y (i.e. ˚ØÅ Æ ) › ØŁıæÆ Øe , y ÅÆØ ººŒØ ƒ ŒøØŒ d ŒÆd æØ ‹º æAÆ Ø Æ N ÆPe, ‹æ KªæçÅ ˚ØÅ Æ , K fiz ŒÆd c I ØÆ ÆP F Œøø fi E (Harp. 178,2 Dind.) He means Cinesias, the composer of dithyrambs, who is mentioned often by the comic poets and Strattis in particular. The latter composed a whole play against him, entitled Kinesias, in which he satirizes him for impiety.

And: › ˚ØÅ Æ , N n ŒÆd ‹º æAÆ ªªæÆç æØ (Athen. 12.551d: Cinesias, at the expense of whom Strattis wrote a whole play). The hypothesist to Dionysalexandros, however, does not indicate anything of the sort about this play. Whilst Pericles is a satirical subject of Dionysalexandros at some level, the concluding statement of the hypothesis certainly does not demand that we read Pericles as the main focus of the play.

27

The translations of ancient hypotheses, scholia, and literary treatises are my own, unless otherwise indicated.


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4.1.5. The Political Element in Hellenistic Hypotheses The impression that political satire might be the sole focus of this play is further undermined by a comparison of this hypothesis with the hypotheses of Aristophanic plays of the same period and style. The hypothesis to Dionysalexandros is not a unique text, but belongs to a (sub-literary) genre with clearly defined features and a considerable number of parallels which should be taken into account for its interpretation.28 Among the features many of these hypotheses share is a unilateral emphasis on the parts of the comedy which are mostly related to its perceived political background or which supposedly convey a political message, to the detriment or even exclusion of other dimensions. This is typical for Hellenistic scholarship, which looked back at old comedy as a democratic institution for controlling and admonishing the state and its officials, as well as a source of political biography or history (Olson 2002: 61). However, it should in consequence be treated with caution. The search for the political function of the play is probably what impels the author of hypothesis A2 to Birds to conclude (l. 11): › b Œ e F æÆ , ØÆ FæÆØ ºØ f `

ŁÅÆ ı ‰ çØº Œ ı

(the purpose of the play is once more to satirize the Athenians for litigiousness). Nevertheless, satire of Athenian litigiousness is only a minor component of this multi-faceted play and, what is more, whether it is intended seriously is disputable. The idea is used briefly as the motive for the heroes to leave Athens (vv. 39–48) and a few times in puns and word-plays (vv. 109–11, 145–7, 285, 1052, 1410–69,

28

Its similarities with other hellenistic hypotheses of Aristophanic plays, esp. with hyp. Ach. I, hyp. Pax A3, hyp. Eq. A1, hyp. Ra. I, hyp. Nu. A5, hyp. V. II, hyp. Av. A2, hyp. Lys. A1 have long been noticed (cf. Ko¨rte 1904: 494–8), but have not been adequately exploited for its interpretation. Van Rossum-Steenbeek’s recent book (1998) on this kind of subliterary compositions discusses the Hellenistic hypotheses to old comedies cursorily (37–8), so Ko¨rte’s discussion remains the best on this subject. The similarities of these hypotheses are primarily linguistic (e.g. the standard expression to indicate a parabasis, illustrated in Appendix 1, p. 297), stylistic (simple, terse, and unornamented style, based on participial constructions with plenty of genitive absolutes), and structural (short descriptions of the parabases or none at all, emphasis on the course of the action, aesthetic judgement at the end), and they appear even more striking in comparison with the different style of e.g. hyp. Eq. A2, hyp. Nu. A2 and A5, hyp. Av. A5, and hyp. Ra. Thomas Magister.

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1694–1705).29 Concluding statements of the same style, emphasizing a play’s political and didactic function to the exclusion of everything else in it, are found, as one would expect, in the hypotheses of plays which contain more conspicuous social or political commentary, such as Acharnians or Peace. For the author of the hypothesis to Acharnians I, for example, the play is from first to last an earnest plea for peace, and this is the assumption with which he concludes his aesthetic judgement of it (ll. 27–9): #e b æAÆ H s çæÆ ØÅø, ŒÆd KŒ Æe æ ı c NæÅ æ ŒÆº The play is very well made, and calls for peace in every way.

Besides, it is characteristic of his view of old comedy that in his description of Dicaeopolis’ first speech the hypothesist focuses solely on the responsibility of the Athenian authorities for all the city’s troubles (ll. 1–2), and from the whole Telephos-speech he summarizes only the ten verses on the role of Pericles and the Megarian decree (ll. 9–11). For the author of the hypothesis to Peace A3, this play cannot but have had a serious didactic function (ll. 27–33): e b ŒçºÆØ B Œøø fi Æ K d F • ı ıºØ `

ŁÅÆ Ø Æ ŁÆØ æe ¸ÆŒÆØ ı ŒÆd f ¼ºº ı ( ¯ ººÅÆ . The main point of the comedy is the following: it admonishes the Athenians to make peace with the Spartans and the other Greeks.

The festive mood of the play, which is its principal feature and which celebrated the imminent achievement of peace, does not seem to affect at all his conviction that Peace had a purely admonitory purpose. Instead, as in hyp. Ach. I, the author highlights the references to the political individuals satirized as responsible for the war,

29 Related perhaps to this tendency of looking for a comedy’s serious political intentions is the note the author of the hypothesis makes on the date of the Birds: KªæçÅ b a e `

ºŒØØÅ e B ÆºÆØÆ g ÆçŁBÆØ, Øa c æØŒ c H ¯ æH, ŒÆd çıªE N ¸ÆŒÆ Æ’. This reminds one of ancient and recent scholarly efforts to read Birds as an allusion to the Sicilian expedition and the character of Peisetairos as an allegory for Alcibiades. For a survey, see Dunbar (1995: 2–4, with n. 8).


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even at the cost of distorting the dramatic order (as in the second example): Kd b Æ ı F — º ı Ææa `

ŁÅÆø ıŒÆ ˚ºøÆ ŒÆd Ææa ¸ÆŒÆØ ø ´æÆ Æ Œæ Ø åæ Æ I ºøºŒÆØ N ¨æfi ŒÅ çÆ Æ (ll. 7–10; vv. 261–84 of the actual play) When War sent to ask the Athenians for Cleon the ‘pestle’ and the Spartans for Brasidas, both peoples responded that they had lent them in Thrace and had lost them.

And: æe F { ÅØ æ ØºŁ ÆP F ŒÆd æd B IæåB F º ı, ŒÆd Ø L ÆNÆ ı Å, /Ø ı ŒÆd —æØŒº ı Å Ł

He also tells her this (?), since Hermes had earlier narrated to him the beginning of the war and what caused it to break out, mentioning Phidias and Pericles (ll. 17–19; vv. 604–10, not vv. 657–705 of the actual play)

This reading climaxes in his general assessment of Aristophanes as advocate of peace not only in Peace and Acharnians, but also in Knights (ll. 29–30): P F b bæ NæÅ `

æØ çÅ e æAÆ ŒÆŁBŒ, Iººa ŒÆd f

`

åÆæE ŒÆd f Æ ŒÆd ˇºŒÆ 30 Aristophanes did not only compose this play for peace, but also Acharnians, Knights, and Merchant Ships.

Taking Peace and Acharnians as a plea for peace is somehow understandable, but the mention of Knights, where war and peace are not prominent elements (vv. 792–809, 847–9, 1388–95), is suggestive of the author’s approach to the plays. On careful examination it seems that this conviction reflects the same tendency to emphasize the

30 Aristophanes’ Merchant Ships was possibly the play which the parabasis of Wasps says attacked the sycophants (1037–42); if so, it was produced at the Lenaia of 423 (cf. MacDowell on V. 1038). Fr. 415 contains two verses addressed to a Spartan about past adversities, and is our only indication that this play contained an anti-war message. Merchant Ships probably contained satire of Cleon: if the reading in Ar. V. 1037 is correctly the ÆP F of the MSS, Cleon was attacked together with the sycophants (cf. Kaibel in K-A iii 2. 226; Platnauer (1949: 7); Sommerstein (1983) prints ÆP, although he accepts that the version of the MSS is also possible).

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political message to the exclusion of everything else. For, as the hypothesist’s own words suggest: ŒÆd ÆÆå F F K ÆŒ 31 ˚ºøÆ Œøø fi H e IØºª Æ ŒÆd ¸Æå e çØº º Id ØÆººø. And he strove for this everywhere, by constantly satirizing Cleon who spoke against (peace) and mocking warlike Lamachus (ll. 30–1)

Any satire in a comedy against political individuals commonly known as being pro-war, such as Cleon and Lamachus, was enough to persuade him that this comedy was anti-war, although the satire of these individuals varied significantly in extent and force from one play to the other.32 The hypothesist therefore superimposes on the play the supposed beliefs of its author. These parallel test-cases warn that the hypothesist to Dionysalexandros too might have paid disproportionate attention to the political element of this play. As far as we can tell from the concluding statement, the ancient scholar apparently recognized the covert satire of Pericles and his alleged responsibility for the outbreak of the war under the travestied myth of Paris and recorded it. However, although he probably had good reasons to make this remark, political satire was not the only, or perhaps even the main, focus of Cratinus’ comedy. The satyr-play dimension of Dionysalexandros (2.1) offers for us further strong evidence that such a belief pays unilateral emphasis to one aspect of a multi-layered play.

4.1.6. The Aesthetic Judgement in the Concluding Statement There is perhaps another reason why the information given by the concluding sentence about the political dimension of Dionysalexandros

31

e b, printed by Olson, creates a syntactical anomaly; this was corrected by Blaydes into , and printed by van Leeuwen, Platnauer, Holwerda, and K-A. 32 Peace: Cleon 269–70, Lamachos 304, 473, 1286–94; Acharnians: Cleon 6, 300–1, 659–64, Lamachus 269–70, 566–625, 722, 959–70, 1071–234; Knights: the whole play satirizes Cleon, but Lamachus is not mentioned at all.


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has been overemphasized, namely the disregard of almost every other element in that statement. There are two important points which have been missed in that statement, the phrases ºÆ ØŁÆH and Ø Kç ø , both pertaining to the ancient scholar’s aesthetic appreciation of the play. This was a standard feature of the Hellenistic hypotheses. Apart from the first discussion of the summary by Ko¨rte (1904: 490–1) and the recent one by Revermann (1997: 198), in all other discussions the phrase ºÆ ØŁÆH is translated as ‘very persuasively/convincingly’. However, the point here is not about persuasion, but skill. This is what numerous parallels from Hellenistic scholarship suggest, including two from Aristophanic hypotheses concerning the skill of certain humoristic effects: ŒÆd º Æ ºªå ŒÆd A Æ Æ PŒ IØŁø ŒÆæ ı ŒÆa B

ŁÆæ ı Ø ø æ ÆªÆª , ŒæÆ Ææa æ ŒÆ › ˜Øı e `N åº ØŒA (hyp. Frogs I 22–4) and in the end, after each poet has very effectively subjected the poetry of the other to every cross-examination and test possible, Dionysus against our expectation adjudges the victory to Aeschylus; ŒÆd çı Ø º ª Æ PŒ IØŁø F øŒæ ı

(hyp. Clouds A5 17–18)

after Socrates has effectively discoursed on natural phenomena.

And: Tæå Æ ªaæ ØŁÆH c ıææåÅ (Plu. Mor. 747b) because he danced the pyrriche very skilfully.33

In his concluding statement then, the hypothesist of Dionysalexandros not only records the political background of the play, but makes an aesthetic remark about it, much as the author(s) of the Hellenistic hypotheses to Frogs and Clouds do when they use the same term. The hypothesist’s point should not be missed, because aesthetic remarks on the skilfullness of a play were a typical feature of the Hellenistic

33 Cf. also Birds 1155 ºŒA : —Ææa e ºŒA a ºÆ, fiH OÆØ F ZæØŁ ØŁÆH ÆÇø Kåæ Æ ; Wasps 248a (t æ æ): Ææ ÆØ ÆP E

ÆE ºå çæ • ŒÆd ØŁÆH , ¥Æ Oæå æÆ ºÅæøŁfiB. LSJ9 does not include this meaning, either for ØŁÆH or for IØŁø .

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hypotheses, both in the main body and as concluding sentences, and with fairly standardized terminology.34 The aesthetic remark expressed by ºÆ ØŁÆH may concern the felicity of the satirical references themselves (Œøø fi EÆØ) or the technique by which the satire is accomplished (the phrase Ø Kç ø ) or both. It seems slightly more likely that it was meant to qualify more the phrase Ø Kç ø , because çÆ Ø in ancient literary criticism is usually praised as a virtue of style. Peripatetic literary criticism in particular (e.g. Demetrius, On Style 287–8), but also later criticism (e.g. Quintilian 8.3.83) viewed this technique as a virtue. Since the Hellenistic scholarly work of hypotheses derives from peripatetic scholarship (Pfeiffer 1968: 193), it may well be the case that the phrase Ø Kç ø in the concluding statement has the same connotations of virtue as in the peripatetic literary treatises.

4.1.7. The Meaning of Emphasis The term emphasis and its meaning has attracted the interest of scholars since the first edition of this papyrus. Understanding the term correctly is important, because it can help identify what technique of political satire the ancient scholiast recognized in Dionysalexandros. Unfortunately, it has mostly been employed to support allegorist readings. Even in more balanced approaches we saw the term being associated with allegory: ‘the context here is certainly one of “allegory” and çÆ Ø can certainly be associated with figured speech’ (Ruffell 2002: 151). 34 Hyp. Ach. I #e b æAÆ H s çæÆ ØÅø; hyp. Eq. A1 e b æAÆ H ¼ªÆ ŒÆºH ØÅø; hyp. Pax A3 27 e b æAÆ H ¼ªÆ KØıªø; hyp. Nu. A5 11 e b æAÆ H ı ıÆH ØÅø; hyp. Ra. I #e b æAÆ H s ı ŒÆd çØº ºªø ØÅø; hyp. Ra. I 22–4 ŒÆd º Æ ºªå ŒÆd A Æ Æ PŒ IØŁø ŒÆæ ı ŒÆa B ŁÆæ ı Ø ø æ ÆªÆª , ŒæÆ Ææa æ ŒÆ › ˜Øı ; hyp. Nu. A5 17f. ŒÆd çı Ø º ª Æ PŒ IØŁø F øŒæ ı ; hyp. Eq. A1 12 ‹ IººÆ ºÅ æØªªÅ K ıºfiB ºÆ ªº ø F ˚ºø ; hyp. Lys. A1 15f. a ÆFÆ ÆPH Ø

ÆP º F ÆØ ºÆ ªº ø Ø IŒæÆ Æ ‰ f ¼æÆ ±º Œ ÆØ; hyp. Ra. I 12f. Øa c KŒ B ŒıB ¼ª ØÆ, åæØ Ø PŒ Iªº ø åØÇ ÆØ; hyp. Ach. I 10 Ææø fi E e KŒ ı ºª , PŒ IåÆæø ŒÆŁÆ —æØŒº ı ; hyp. V. II 36 ÅÆØ ÆPfiH åÆæØø .


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However, not all types of figured speech are allegories. What is more, the ancient discussions of emphasis, from Demetrius [Phalereus] to Quintilian, Trypho, and Tiberius, present a variety of applications for this figure, but never identify it with what modern criticism normally defines as ‘allegory’. The use of the term in ancient literary criticism and rhetoric has been discussed by a number of modern critics,35 the most comprehensive discussion being by Rutherford (1988). Rutherford demonstrated the semantic variations of emphasis and distinguished three main applications. Two are ‘vividness, suggestiveness’ and ‘force, impact’ (i.e. ‘emphasis’ in the modern sense of the word), and probably do not apply to the use of emphasis in the Dionysalexandros hypothesis. The most common and earliest meaning of the term is related to figured speech. Rutherford summarizes its application as ‘signification of various types beyond the literal meaning of the word’.36 This definition would not make it manifest why the figured speech used in the political satire of Dionysalexandros need not be identified with allegory. One could argue that the allegorical reading of the play depends on the decoding of a series of emphaseis, as in the allegorist approaches. However, following this route would miss an important aspect of the function of emphasis; in the case of emphasis vehicle and tenor stand in a different relationship to each other from vehicle and tenor in allegory. In allegory, tenor and vehicle have a continuous relationship, given that the vehicle corresponds element by element to the tenor and stands for it. In emphasis, on the other hand, as will be shown, the relationship of tenor and vehicle is intermittent and interactive—resembling in this aspect the relationship these two parameters have in metaphor rather than in allegory. The vehicle of emphasis merely hints at the tenor, thereby activating it, but by no means represents it, especially since it is only briefly present. As in metaphor, and perhaps even more so, the activation of the tenor depends on the 35 Volkmann (19632: 445–6; Roberts (1902: 278)); Rutherford (1905: iii. 264–6); Grube (1961: 137–8); Schenkeveld (1964: 129–31); Rutherford (1988); Nesselrath (1995: 122–5); Chiron (2001: 201–4); Janko (20022: 202–3); and now Wright (2007: 419–20). All but Janko, Nesselrath, and Wright discuss the term independently from its use in the Dionysalexandros hypothesis. 36 Cf. Janko (20022: 202 ff.); Nesselrath (1995: 122–5); Bernays (1880: 149); Volkmann (19632: 445–6).

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creation of a mental image. This is suggested by the term emphasis itself, which in optics signifies an elusive appearance, such as ‘appearance in dreams’, ‘impression’, or ‘reflection (as of mirrors or water)’.37 Consider, first of all, the examples from the ancient discussions on emphasis ÆPaæ ‹ N ¥ ŒÆÆ (Od. 11.523) and ƒŁ KŒåı Ø (Od. 8.515) whereby Trypho illustrates his definition: çÆ K Ø ºØ Ø Æ ÆP ı Æ e Åº 199.15–20 Spengel)

(Trop. p.

emphasis is an expression [i.e. the vehicle] which amplifies the tenor by hinting.

On the first example he notes: K ªaæ fiH ŒÆÆ Åº FÆØ e ªŁ F ¥ ı ‘the size of the horse is suggested by the word katebainomen’, and on the second: c ªaæ IŁæÆ ›æc F ºŁ ı

Øa ØA K Æ ºø ‘he suggested the overwhelming onset of the crowd by one word’. The vehicles which activate the tenors are contained in ŒÆÆ and KŒåı Ø. Trypho implies that ŒÆÆ alone is understood not only as denoting the simple action of descending, but also as creating the mental impression of the horse’s enormous size. Likewise, KŒåı Ø alone suggests the whole vivid image of the Argives dashing out from the Trojan horse. The function of emphasis can be more accurately illustrated by its use in the treatise On Style by Demetrius.38 In }63, where the topic analysed is the effect of polysyndeton as conducive to grandeur, Demetrius notes on the sentence ‹Ø K æÆ ( ¯ ººÅ ŒÆd ˚Aæ ŒÆd ¸ŒØ Ø ŒÆd —çıº Ø ŒÆd /æª , that: F ÆP F ı ı Ł Ø KçÆØ Ø ¼Øæ ºBŁ ‘the use of the same connective suggests an army of infinite size’.39 The multiple use of the connective, which is the vehicle in this example, creates the impression of multitude (the tenor). Unlike in allegory, the vehicle of emphasis does not stand for the tenor in a simple substitutive way, but hints at it and thereby causes it to emerge. This is what the other

37

Cf. e.g. Arist. Div. Somn. 464b11–12, Mete. 345b15 ff. It is uncertain when exactly Demetrius [Phalereus], the author of this treatise, dates. It is as likely that he dates from the 3rd cent. BC as from the late Hellenistic period. See Grube (1961: 39–56); Roberts (1902: 49–64); Chiron (2001: 15–32). 39 Tr. Innes in Russell and Winterbottom (1972). 38


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examples from Demetrius suggest.40 The relation between tenor and vehicle whereby one is activated by the other seems to be reflected in Trypho’s definition çÆ K Ø ºØ Ø Æ ÆP ı Æ e Åº , as we saw above. The ŒÆ in ŒÆÆ of Trypho’s first example is a mere hint, but in the hearer’s mind it sets up a process which transforms ŒÆÆ into a forceful picture.41 That emphasis works by the creation of a mental image is also suggested by the importance of brevity in its function, as Quintilian suggests (8.3.83–6): Vicina praedictae [sc. æÆåıº ªÆ], sed amplior virtus est emphasis, altiorem praebens intellectum quam quem verba per se ipsa declarant . . . A virtue close to [brevity], but of wider scope, is emphasis, which offers a meaning deeper than that which the words declare themselves. (Tr. Russell 2001)

Demetrius also suggests that brevity is crucial in emphasis. For example, he praises as forceful emphasis the fact that Plato did not explicitly censure Aristippus and Cleombrotus for feasting in luxury on Aegina during Socrates’ imprisonment in Athens and for not sailing across to see him despite the short distance, but suggested all of the above by saying only ‘They were in Aegina’: Æ ªaæ a æ ØæÅÆ KçÆÆØ fiH ‘K `NªÅ fi q Æ’ (}288).42 Beyond treatises on literary criticism, it is important to look at the use of the term emphasis by ancient scholiasts, who are usually disregarded in modern discussions.43 It is noteworthy, for example, that nowhere in the ancient scholia to Aristophanic comedies is the term used to signify an allegorical insinuation about an individual or event as, for example, çÆ Ø F ˚ºø or KçÆØ e ˚ºøÆ.44 Instead, the term is often used to refer to simple, discrete suggestions, Cf. also Demetr. Eloc. }}47, 105, 140, 171, 274, 291. Rutherford (1905: 265). 42 Cf. the meaning of emphasis in Demetr. Eloc. }}130, 131, 259. 43 Except W. G. Rutherford in his edn. of the Aristophanic scholia (1905: iii. 264–6); he finds that emphasis there means generally ‘emphasis’ with the modern sense of the word. 44 The expression for translating the insinuations into the real point of the poet is usually ‘ ºªØ’; cf. Eq.132a (on æ Æ ºÅ ): e ˚ÆººÆ ºªØ ŒÆd c ºØÆ ÆP F. Øb b ‹Ø ¸ı ØŒºÆ ºªØ; Eq. 197d (on ıæ Æ

IªŒıº åºÅ ): e ˚ºøÆ ºªØ; cf. V. 35a. 40 41

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praising especially the brevity and the forceful effect of the poet’s style, as in Knights 344a (on N f ºªØ): . . . fi B b F åÆ Kç Ø e ØÆ ıæe Ø. çÅ d ªæ, IçæÅ K Ø N ŒÆd f æ øæ r ‘through the emphasis of the figure he suggests his ridicule of him. He means “it would be unendurable if you too are an orator”’; or Peace 470b (on £ºŒø ŒIÆæHÆØ): çÆ Ø ººc å ı Ø ƒ ºª Ø ÆP F KçÆ c ıc c æd e £ºŒØ ‘his words contain a lot of emphasis, suggesting the haste of pulling’.45 One use of the term emphasis in the Aristophanic scholia is particularly interesting as it shows that emphasis works by creating brief mental images. The scholion on Wealth 797 notes that the verse constitutes an çÆ Ø F `

æØ çÆ ı æ ı ‘emphasis of the Aristophanic persona’.46 The note is on the passage in which the god Plutus refuses to be showered with sweetmeats when he enters Chremylus’ house. Soon it emerges that his objection concerns not this traditional custom of xenia, but the practice of the comic poets of using sweetmeats to gain the favour of the audience: ˇP ªaæ æH K Ø fiH ØÆ Œºø fi N åØÆ ŒÆd æøªºØÆ E Łø Ø

æ Æº , Kd Ø r IÆªŒÇØ ªºA.

797

Our producer shouldn’t be tossing figs and munchies to the spectators in hopes of forcing their laughter. 45 Cf. the meaning of the verb KçÆø and of the adjective KçÆ()ØŒ as ‘suggest’ and ‘suggestive’ respectively in the scholia: Ach. 816a ‘K ºÆE’ , K æØŒ, æÆªÆıØŒ. › !ªÆæØŒe b ı ŒÆºH KçÆØ e ºf ºØ; Nu. 179d (on KŒ B ÆºÆ æÆ ): KçÆØ Øa ı e øŒæÅ ‹Ø Æø XæÆ; Pax 1 Øa b F ıÆ ı F Ææa H NŒH æe e ŒŁÆæ KçÆØ c æd ÆPe F ı ª Å çæ Æ; Av. 1081 KçÆØŒe b ºŁ ı e ‘KªåE’; Eq. 281 N æÆg b Id F æ ºŁg fiB ºØÆ fi • KçÆØŒfiB b fiB ºØ ŒåæÅÆØ, ¥Æ Å fi ÆPe KØÅÅŒÆ ØÆø ŒÆd IÆØ åø fiB ºØÆ fi ; Nu. 1214 (on r ¼æÆ H ÆP F d åæc æ œÆØ;) KçÆØŒfiB b ºØ Kåæ Æ . . . h ØÆØ ç Æ (› ªaæ Hæ Ø ºÆg r åÆ fiH ØØ åæØ) h åæB ÆØ N (› ªaæ Æ Æ K T fi : çºÆ fi ø ØØ) Iºº yæ Z Æ e æ œÆØ Påd c ÆØ F æØE ŒÆd Œ æÇØ å . 46 797a çÆ Ø F `

æØ çÆ ı æ ı• › b ºª æe f IØå ı , æe ØÆ ıæe• ¥ Øa H ÆPH º KØæH e B æe Æı f KªØ RVME¨NBarbAld; 797b ŒÆd K E çÅd K ‹Ø PŒ N d Ææ ÆPfiH “ h Œæı[Æ] RVE¨NBarbAld KŒ ç æ VE¨NBarbAld Fº Ø ØÆæ [ ] E

Łø Ø ” V. This passage is discussed in the context of authorial voice in p. 38.


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The scholion suggests that rather than the character Plutus, it is Aristophanes whose voice is heard. We find the same view clearly expressed in the scholia recentiora, in particular Pl. 4a 797a: F , fiH b ŒE, Ie F —º ı K d, fi B IºÅŁÆfi, Ææa F ØÅ F;47 and Pl. 4b 797b (on fiH ØÆ Œºø fi ): K , fiH `

æØ çØ.48 All this gives a clear picture of how the ancient scholiast understands the ‘emphasis of the Aristophanic persona’: the words of vv. 797–9 (the vehicle) suggest Aristophanes himself (the tenor). So we may understand emphasis here as an impression or a mental image enforced upon us (that we actually hear Aristophanes), created by the suggestive 797–9. These connotations and uses of the term emphasis should be taken into account to understand the covert satire in Dionysalexandros. Emphasis is not just anything short of outright naming; still less is it allegorical reference in the modern sense. Instead, as is apparent from our examples, it is the subtle technique of indirectly suggesting or hinting at one’s point, which is accompanied by the creation of a brief mental image. Although allegory and emphasis both concern figured speech, they are different figures.

4.1.8. The Emphasis in Dionysalexandros: A Case against Knights Old comedy provides us with several examples of true allegory. Take, for example, Knights 40–59, where the servant describes the situation in the house of his master Demos. The events of the narrative here ‘obviously and continuously refer to another simultaneous structure of events or ideas’.49 The master of the household is transparently the demos of Athens, and is even named ‘Demos of the Pnyx’ (42). The slaves are the politicians serving the demos and among them the Fº

ıæ łÅ is obviously Cleon. Besides, it is true that in this passage ‘each detail may well bear interpretation’.50 The characterizations 47 48 49 50

thPstr | ÆæÆ Ø ØÅ F Mt. Cr2,ChisLNp1Par,Rs | K , fiH ØÅfiB Reg. Frye (1975: 12), s.v. ‘allegory’. Davies (19732: 19), s.v. ‘allegory’.

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¼ªæ ØŒ Oæª, ŒıÆ æ, IŒæå º , . . . Œ º ªæØ Œøç ‘having a farmer’s temperament, a bean chewer, prickly in the extreme . . . a cranky, half-deaf little codger’ (41–3) for example, can be easily decoded as qualities of the Athenian people at the Assembly, and Paphlagon’s flattering behaviour g e Å fi XŒÆºº , KŁı , KŒ ºŒı , KÅÆ ‘he crouched before the master and started flattering and fawning and toadying and swindling him’ (47–8), as Cleon’s alleged demagogic attitude. All this transparent and obvious correspondence between two levels of discourse constitutes a technique which would hardly be perceived as emphasis by ancient grammarians and scholiasts. The correspondence is sometimes so transparent that in many places the literal situation takes over, for example when the two competitors go before the Council (475ff.). No wonder then that in none of the hypotheses has the main character, Paphlagon-Cleon, been referred to by the name he bears in the play, Paphlagon, but always by the name of the real individual he stands for, Cleon. In Dionysalexandros, on the other hand, Dionysus is primarily and always Dionysus and he is referred to as such by the author of the hypothesis. He comes to Mt. Ida to look for his satyrs and he is mocked and jeered at by them as Dionysus, their former master from whom they are now estranged. Furthermore, it is as (the trickster) Dionysus that he gets himself into trouble by being involved in the Judgement of the Goddesses, and even there, as we saw, virtually nothing could be plausibly argued to make him less than himself. Subsequently, Dionysus profits from the chance to get the most beautiful woman, which reflects a standard element of his characterization as prone to sensual pleasures.51 However, as one would expect from a comic Dionysus, he cannot handle the adversities caused by his actions. Towards the end of the play, he gets the fate he (as antihero) deserves, and is caught and punished for his fraud. At the same time, as the phrase Ø Kç ø suggests, there must be elements of Dionysus’ portrayal that intermittently evoke Pericles. In that sense, although he is Dionysus throughout the play, Dionysus is potentially the Athenian leader as well. What activates this

51

Cf. Ar. Ra. 291, 739–40, and Pentheus’ portrayal of the Stranger in E. Ba. 453–4.


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potentiality, or suggests to the audience that Dionysus sometimes is also Pericles, is the technique of emphasis mentioned by the author of the hypothesis. Elements which could be appropriately exploited to make him at times reminiscent of Pericles are the ones commented upon so often by the modern scholars: words like tyrannis,52 the offer of courage to carry out a war, the chance of becoming kalos, the fact that he caused war ‘for a woman’, the ravaging of the surrounding land, his perceived irresponsibility and cowardice at the hearing of the events. Likewise, Helen may have reminded the audience of the satirized Aspasia, especially in her alleged role in the outbreak of the war, an idea exploited later in Acharnians (526–37) and in Eupolis’ Prospaltii (fr. 267). Yet she does not have to represent Aspasia all the time—this is impossible, as we saw—and Dionysus does not have consistently to represent Pericles. They correspond to historical characters only in so far as they suggest them, and the myth in which they participate reflects the historical reality of the time in the same terms. Emphasis, therefore, functions only if discontinuity is accepted as an essential feature of this comedy’s composition. Silk has shown that a certain amount of discontinuous logic is essential to Aristophanic comedy.53 Knights is one of the plays where we can trace this feature, and it has been used as a parallel to help understand what seems to be the case in Dionysalexandros. Modern scholarship has aptly described how the allegory in Knights is sustained only in broad terms and how the two levels, the literal and the allegorical, interpenetrate 52

Even the qualification of #ıæÆd as `

-Œ-Å could have also been a wordplay aiming at Pericles, this time at his idleness. Two fragments of unknown plays of Cratinus involve the use of the verb ŒØø in contexts which satirize him as using big words before the public, but in practice doing nothing: fr. 326 —ºÆØ ªaæ ÆPe / ºª Ø Ø æ ªØ —æØŒºÅ , æª Ø Ø Pb ŒØE; fr. 327 ªºH Ø / ø Ø K ø fi ç æE / ŒÆºH ºªø Iø, / Æ ŒØ Ø ºªø (which is taken by its source to refer to Pericles; as is shown in p. 293, it could have come from this scene of Dionysalexandros). For the idea, see Hermipp. Moirai fr. 47. The adjective IŒÅ is used in Ar. Ra. 899b as meaning ‘idle’; cf. Hesiod, Op. 750 and Alexis fr. 239.3; the same adjective suggests ‘unshaken’ (rule) in Bacchylides 5.200 f › ªØ øæ / ˘f IŒØ ı K Næ[Æ: çıº Ø. In Dionysalexandros, the double meaning of this word could have been comically exploited in the dialogue between Tyrannis and Dionysus-Pericles, where the humour would arise by the conveyance of what is really meant by IŒÅ for the hero (esp. if fr. 327 belongs to this play). 53 This is explored in Silk (1990: passim) and expanded in (2000a), where it constitutes a central argument.

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constantly. This may be useful to bear in mind, as it suggests that not even in an openly allegorical play like Knights do we encounter the degree of continuity that the allegorist interpretations presuppose for their analyses of Dionysalexandros. Yet the similarity between the two plays cannot be taken further than the simple admission of the presence of discontinuity in characterization and plot construction. For throughout Knights Paphlagon remains Cleon, Demos remains Demos, and the play remains a political satire, whereas the characterization and plot-construction in Dionysalexandros is more complex. The ultimate reason for this is that the play is shaped by several different plot-strands which are only intermittently operative during the play.

4.1.9. Towards an Interpretative Model for Dionysalexandros: The Multi-Layered Composition of the Play54 It seems helpful to separate out the different strands which are perceptible in the play in this way: first, the satyr play plot-strand, which was discussed in 2.1; Dionysus has been estranged from his satyrs, who have assumed a non-Dionysiac activity elsewhere; he (almost certainly) goes after them to make them rejoin his service and he eventually achieves this. Then we can distinguish the mythical and the topical plot-strands, analysed in the present chapter. Finally, as will be shown in 5.2.1, a fourth strand contributing to the development of the plot is the process of mystic initiation which Dionysus (intermittently and to a certain degree) evokes and enacts. These plot-strands are internally coherent and mutually compatible. They are potentially functional at any given time, so although they do not always achieve prominence to the same degree, they are probably never dropped altogether. At times we can see three elements activated with equal emphasis; for example, at the Judgement 54 Wright (2007: 423–4) also suggested that there are multiple layers in Dionysalexandros. Unfortunately, there is no positive evidence to establish a metatheatrical layer concerning competing playwrights in the Judgment scene (424–5) and little to argue for a literary allusion to Sappho 16 Voigt (423–4).


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of the Goddesses, the scene where the hero is offered the chance to become brave suits his characterization at three levels: the Dionysus of drama, the Paris of myth, and the Pericles of popular satire. At other times, in scenes like the one which describes the ravaging of the land surrounding Troy, the mythical and the topical strands supersede the other two. Similarly, the strands of drama and ritual achieve prominence over the rest in the invective scene between Dionysus and the satyrs: on one hand, this scene recalls the estrangement of the satyrs from their master in satyr plays (cf. pp. 89–92); on the other, the åºÅ which Dionysus undergoes in that scene (ll. 11–12) suggests that it is driven by the ritual plot-strand as well (below, p. 268). The strand of ritual, and more specifically of Dionysus’ preparation for initiation, becomes prominent again in the scene of the god’s disguise as a ram and of his frightened reaction: as Dionysus puts on the ˜Øe ŒfiØ (ram’s fleece), he foreshadows his apodiopompeusis from the Troad like a pharmakos; he also evokes another experience of the initiand (apart from spatial displacement), namely the experience of terror (below, 5.2.1). Yet his reaction there can also be explained in the light of the traditional characterization of the cowardly Dionysus of comedies and satyr plays, as well as in the light of popular mockery of Pericles on account of his defensive strategy. Elsewhere one plot-strand takes over: the satyr-play strand, for example, is the one mainly behind the reunion of Dionysus and the satyrs. No modern scholar has managed persuasively to identify a topical allusion in these scenes and this seems telling. This approach, which suggests that Dionysalexandros is composed of multiple plot-strands which achieve prominence and then ‘sink’, only to reappear again later, has several advantages. One is that it takes into account the internal evidence of the concluding statement, especially the phrase Ø Kç ø . The intermittent appearances of plot-elements from different levels and the impressions we may be given—for example, that Dionysus acts sometimes as the god familiar from satyr plays and comedies, sometimes as the Paris/Alexandros of the Iliad, sometimes as ‘Pericles’, and sometimes as an initiand, might be perceived as ‘flashes’ or ‘mental images’ by the spectator (or reader). What the statement suggests about the technique used in the play is further balanced with the information taken from the summary itself. Thus emphasis solves the problem of topical

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correspondence of characters and events without the text having to be forced or distorted, as happens if we suppose that the play is a ‘political allegory’ in a more radical sense. Therefore, this approach liberates a complex text from falsely imposed narrowness. It is also compatible with the play’s interaction with the satyric genre and with ritual, incorporating both of them in its function. A final advantage is that, far more than the sustained allegorical reading, it is consistent with a major characteristic of old comedy, that of discontinuity.

4.2. MULTIPLE PLOT-STRANDS IN OTHER COMEDIES: PLUTOI AND UNJUST WEALTH How far may this kind of layered plot-composition be considered part of Cratinus’ usage? Although the rest of his comedies do not provide the sense of wholeness that Dionysalexandros does, there is still considerable evidence that in the construction of his plays Cratinus had a tendency to interweave dramatic, mythical, and topical plot-strands. This is particularly demonstrable in Plutoi, as we already touched upon in Chapter 3.55

4.2.1. Plot-Strands Based on Tragedy and Myth The multi-faceted characterization of the chorus of Plutoi and certain plot elements associated with the chorus are strongly suggestive of a multi-layered plot in this play. In 3.1 above it was demonstrated that the chorus of Plutoi evoke the tragic Titans of Prometheus Lyomenos and the Erinyes of the Oresteia. The paratragic identity of the chorus is a substantial part of their characterization, and generates the plotstrand of tragedy. We will now explore the strand deriving from a mythical account independent of drama. Already in the parodos the chorus clarify that 55 Ruffell (2000: 477–8) has also suggested that three different types of material (political, poetic/dramatic, and mythological) have been collapsed in Plutoi, but his point is made very briefly.


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they were once known as gods of Wealth: —º F Ø KŒÆº Ł ‹ [qæå ˚æ . (fr. 171.12).56 This claim introduces another layer of characterization, which depends on Hesiod’s account of the Golden Age.57 Hesiod relates that when the Golden Race of Cronus perished, they continued to exist as beneficent daimones who keep watch on men (Op. 122–6 (ed. West)): d b Æ N Ø ˜Øe ªº ı Øa ıºa

K Łº , KØåŁØ Ø, çºÆŒ ŁÅH IŁæø, [ ¥ æÆ çıº ı ŒÆ ŒÆd åºØÆ æªÆ Å æÆ Ø Å fi ç ØH K Ær Æ,] º ı ÆØ• ŒÆd F ªæÆ Æ ØºØ å by the plans of great Zeus they are fine spirits upon the earth guardian-watchers58 of mortal human beings: [they watch over judgements and cruel deeds, clad in invisibility, walking everywhere upon the earth,] givers of wealth; and this kingly honour they received (Tr. Most 2006, adapted)

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The chorus’ identity as divinities of wealth and in particular as divinities who keep watch on men can be plausibly associated with the theme of the play, which the extant fragments suggest was that of

56 The full text and a translation of the fragments of Plutoi is provided in Appendix 3. 57 Cf. Mazon (1934: 607–8); Norsa-Vitelli (1934: 252); Goossens (1935: 405–6); Ko¨rte (1935: 260); Austin, CGFP 41; K-A iv. 204; Ruffell (2000: 476–8). Contra Pieters (1946: 94); Luppe (1967a: 63); Lloyd-Jones (1991: 284). 58 West (1978) on Op. 122 argues that çºÆŒ here means ‘guardians’ of men, but the same phrase çºÆŒ ŁÅH IŁæø means ‘watchers of mortal men’ in Op. 253. Wilamowitz (1928: 70 and 140), identified the two races in Op. 122–3 and Op. 253–5. The concept of çºÆ as a divine entity which keeps watch on men’s behaviour is found again at A. Supp. 381–4. Plato’s conception of Æ (e.g. Plt. 271d, Lg. 4.713d) revived the idea of the Hesiodic çºÆŒ ŁÅH IŁæø as ‘watchers’, and it is possible that he was influenced in this by Op. 250 ff. (cf. Solmsen 1962: 195 n. 2; West on Op. 124–5). We cannot tell with certainty whether Hesiod himself identified the two races in 122 and 253, since çıº ø does mean ‘protect from danger’ in Il. 5. 809, 14. 461, Od. 15.35, and A. Ch. 1064; cf. çºÆ in A. Eu. 64. However, what is more important for the present argument is the interpretation of the two passages in Cratinus’ time. Plato’s conception of Æ and the very fact of the interpolation of Op. 124–5 from Op. 254–5 suggest that in classical times çºÆŒ may have have been understood as ‘watchers’ and not only ‘protectors’.

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ill-gotten wealth and its punishment.59 Fr. 171.57–76 in particular includes a substantial part of a comic trial against Hagnon on the charge that P º ıE ØŒÆø (69). As argued in Chapter 3 (pp. 135–8), a number of elements, including the paratragic characterization of the chorus, suggest that it was the role of the Plutoi to inspect acquired wealth and punish the IŒø

º ı FÆ . As will be seen in more detail here, the chorus executed this role partly by acting as prosecutors in the trial of Hagnon. There is considerable disagreement among scholars over the nature of the trial scene at fr. 171.57–76. The first editor, Mazon, pronounced this section the agon, but later critics such as Gelzer and Luppe objected to this identification for reasons of form.60 The scene has an unambiguously agonistic character, since it includes a debate between two parties (66–76) and is preceded by an ode which exhorts the debate (58–65): Ø ªaæ º: [ ‰ ÆºÆØª: : :Å: : [ Iºº K d ªaæ K[ æ ºª ı Œ: [ F ıºŒ[Ø ªØæ, Łı, ªºH[Æ PŒæÆ OæŁ ıÅ N ŒæØ Ø ºªø.

for giving [ as one of the old generation[ to me then . . . [ turn to speak [ this . . . to combine [ My spirit, bestir your tongue well-balanced roused for delivery of speech.

60

65

The content and manner of the ode closely resembles those of Aristophanic agonal scenes. Compare, for example, fr. 171.63–5 with Ar. Ec. 571–2. F c E ıŒc çæÆ ŒÆd çØº ç KªæØ / çæ . . . , and v. 62 ıºŒØ with Ar. V. 644–5 E Æ Æ ºŒØ / N IçıØ ÆºÆ .61 One of the main objections of Gelzer and Luppe to the hypothesis that the trial is an

59 Cf. fr. 171.46 º ı F ]Ø IŒø KŁ, and the entire scene described in fr. 171.57–76, for which see below. This view is endorsed by Mazon (1934: 608); NorsaVitelli (1934: 252–6); Goossens (1935: 407–12); Page (1942: 196). 60 Gelzer (1960: 183–4) and Luppe (1967a: 82–3). This scene is treated as a formal agon by Mazon (1934: 607); Ko¨rte (1935: 261); Goossens (1935: 429); and Page (1942: 197). 61 The verb ıºŒø is typically used in contexts involving argumentation, see LSJ9 s.v. ıºŒø 2.


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agon is the trochaic tetrameter catalectic metre, which is without parallel in Aristophanic agonal epirrhemes. However, there is no guarantee that the surviving Aristophanic evidence is representative of all of old comedy. That this metre was suitable for contests is suggested by the epirrhematic agon-like scene in Birds 327–99 (ode– epirrheme and corresponding antode–antepirrheme) whose epirrhemes are catalectic trochaic tetrameters. Another element which has made scholars object to the agonal nature of fr. 171.57–76 is the fact that the first three verses after the ode (171.66–8) which seem to form the epirrhematic exhortation are not spoken by the chorus,62 unlike the katakeleusmoi in Aristophanes.63 However, in both extant and fragmentary comedy we are familiar with variations and experimentations in form and content in all formal parts, especially in the parabasis, the parodos, and the agon.64 Given that the possibility of formal variation is widely attested in old comedy and that the trial scene has an unambiguously agonistic character, it is reasonable to take this scene as the agon (or one of the agones). Finally, if the ‘revolutionary idea’, which is usually the launching point of an old comedy, was indeed dealing with the IŒø º ı FÆ of Athens in this play (as suggested earlier and further explored below) then this agonal scene, which dramatizes the trial of Hagnon for ill-gotten wealth, works towards this idea. Therefore it is consistent with the original function of an agon in old comedy, namely the removal of the opposition to the revolutionary plan undertaken in a play.

62 The critical sign in 171.65 (see Pl. 2) is a diple obelismene (for which see above, Ch. 3 n. 44; Turner (19872: 12 and n. 60); Barbis (1988)), not a diple (pace K-A). Because of the paragraphos, a diple obelismene can mark change of speaker. A certain example with this critical sign marking off end of section and change of speaker (pace ed. pr. p.133) is POxy 3716 col. ii 981 ( ¼ E. Or. 981), a papyrus which also dates from the 2nd cent AD. For reasons of consistency, if we must accept change of speaker in the verses of the parodos which are marked by diplae obelismenae (ll. 8 and 30; see Pl. 1), we have to accept change of speaker here as well. 63 As for the obstacle raised by Luppe (1967a: 82), we should note that an epirrhematic exhortation extending to a third line is attested in the aforementioned agonistic scene of Birds (pace Dunbar (1995: ad loc), who deletes the third verse (v. 338) mainly for the lack of a three-verse exhortation in Aristophanes). It thus supports the hypothesis that Plutoi fr. 171.66–8, whereby the witnesses are summoned, has the role of an epirrhematic exhortation. 64 Handley (1985: 359–61); here, 1.2 and Appendix 1.

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If this scene is taken as an agon, the ode (fr. 171.58–65) was probably a choral song. What is remarkable here is that the exhortation to bestir ªºH[Æ P/ŒæÆ OæŁ ıÅ / N ŒæØ Ø ºªø concerns the party who sings the ode rather than someone else, meaning that it is selfexhortation. This is suggested especially by v. 63:65 Ø ªaæ º: [ ‰ ÆºÆØª: : :Å: : [ Iºº K d ªaæ K[ æ ºª ı Œ: [ F ıºŒ[Ø ªØæ, Łı, ªºH[Æ PŒæÆ OæŁ ıÅ N ŒæØ Ø ºªø.

for giving [ as one of the old generation[ to me then . . . [ turn to speak [ this . . . to combine [ My spirit, bestir your tongue well-balanced roused for delivery of speech.

60

65

Is it possible that the chorus has the role of agonist in a formal contest?66 This is what an economical reading of fr. 171.57–76 suggests. Although in the extant Aristophanes there is no parallel, this reading can withstand examination: if vv. 58–65 are spoken by the chorus to themselves, the coryphaeus should deliver vv. 69 and 72–4. These verses are suitable for the characterization of the chorus as watchers and persecutors of those who have acquired ill-gotten wealth. This is because they include the announcement of the formal accusation and the presentation of evidence against Hagnon as IŒø º ı FÆ: y P º ıE ØŒÆø KŁ u : [ŒºÆ ÆØ. This man here is unjustly wealthy; so let him [pay for it! KÆØ ø çæ Æ Å: [. . . .] Æ]ç æ [ ˝ØŒÆ ç æÅªe q ŒÆ : [. . . . . . . . .] ø: [ —ØŁ ı Ø Łøe : [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]: æ:

65 For a parallel to the manner of this self-exhortation, cf. Ach. 483 ff. This passage is not from an agon, but it has an agonal function, since Dicaeopolis’ speech aspires to remove the obstacle to the plan he has undertaken; see Handley (1985: 361). For selfaddress in tragedy cf. E. Med. 1056 and 1242; E. Alc. 837; S. Tr. 1260; paratragic: Ach. 450–2 and Eq. 1194. See above, Ch. 3, p. 127. 66 Cf. Mazon (1934: 608); Norsa-Vitelli (1934: 252–6); Goossens (1935: 407–12); Page (1942: 196). Contra Luppe (1967a: 75–83); Pieters (1946: 105–9).


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I’ll improve by explaining [ ] more clearly Nicias was a porter [ hired by Peithias [

Therefore, in this trial the chorus of Plutoi must have the role of the prosecutors. This is corroborated by the fact that, as argued in 3.1.5, their characterization earlier evoked that of the Erinyes in the Oresteia. As we saw, not only is their self-presentation modelled on the self-presentation of the Erinyes in Eumenides, but their function in this play evokes the Erinyes’ association with punishment of unjust wealth. Therefore, their assumption of the role of prosecutors in the trial of Hagnon continues the allusion to the Oresteia. Yet, apart from evoking tragic choruses, the Plutoi also apply their identity to contemporary Athenian politics. The persecution and prosecution of the IŒø º ı FÆ is where the third dimension of the chorus’ characterization and of the play’s plot lies.

4.2.2. The Political Background of the Play and the Topical Dimension of its Plot Three decades after the publication of the papyrus fragments of Plutoi, Luppe (1967a: 68) recognized that the fall of the tyrannical rule67 and the ascent of the demos which facilitated the Titans’ release from their bondage and their subsequent arrival (fr. 171.22–3) alludes to Pericles’ removal from office in late summer/autumn 430. It is likely, therefore, and almost unanimously accepted that Plutoi was produced in one of the dramatic festivals of 429. If Dionysalexandros was produced at the Dionysia of 429 (Appendix 1), then Plutoi was Cratinus’ entry at the Lenaia of 429. The latter occasion is particularly suitable for the treatment of the recent fall of Pericles’ ‘tyranny’, as vv. 22–3 imply. The events of summer and winter of 430/429, that is the second Peloponnesian invasion and the outbreak of the plague, could have been what the chorus means by ııåÆØ in the parodos (171.1–6).68 67 Due to the contrast inherent in B b ŒæÆE, the supplement º: [ºıÆØ which the editors print is virtually certain. 68 Gomme, HCT 2: 188; Luppe (1967a: 68).

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As the agon (or one of the agones), the ‘trial’ of Hagnon (fr. 171.57–76) seems to have been an important scene in this play. Hagnon (APF 7234) was an associate of Pericles and a general in 431/430 and probably 430/429. The fall of Pericles’ ‘tyranny’ and the subsequent prosecution of one of his associates are elements which confirm that, along with the layers depending on tragedy and myth, a third layer of this comedy’s plot depended on topical satire. We may be in a position to understand the background and motives of the topical satire in this play with considerable precision. We have a passage from Plutarch (Per. 32.3–4) which is consistent with all major known elements of the play’s political dimension: Pericles’ deposition from office, Hagnon’s trial, and ill-gotten wealth. As early as 1956, Gomme (HCT 2: 188–9) made a strong case connecting Cratinus’ Plutoi with Plutarch, Pericles 32. His thesis, however, has generally been disregarded by other commentators on this comedy. The present discussion revisits, fine-tunes, and reinforces Gomme’s thesis, offering new arguments and dealing with problems inherent in it from the start as well as obstacles which have arisen since it was first presented. According to Plu. Per. 32.3–4, Hagnon once sought to modify the harshness of a prosecution against Pericles concerning handling of public money: å ı b F ı ŒÆd æ Ø ı a ØÆ º , oø XÅ łçØ Æ Œıæ FÆØ ˜æÆŒ ı ªæłÆ , ‹ø ƒ ºª Ø H åæÅø e —æØŒº ı N f æıØ I ŁE, ƒ b ØŒÆ Æd c łBç Ie F ø F çæ K fiB ºØ Œæ Ø. (`ªø b F b IçEº F łÅç Æ , Œæ ŁÆØ b c ŒÅ ªæÆł K ØŒÆ ÆE åØº Ø ŒÆd ÆŒ Ø , Y Œº B ŒÆd æø Y’ IØŒ ı º Ø Ø O ÇØ c øØ. The people accepted with delight these slanders, and so, while they were in this mood, a decree was passed, on motion of Dracontides, that Pericles should deposit his accounts of public money with the Prytanes, and that the jurors should decide upon his case with ballots which had lain upon the altar of the goddess on the Acropolis. But Hagnon amended this clause of the bill with the motion that the case be tried before fifteen hundred jurors in the ordinary way, whether one wanted to call it a prosecution for embezzlement and bribery, or malversation. (Tr. Perrin 1916)


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Plutarch’s account places this decree and the amendment of Hagnon, as well as the attacks on Pericles’ associates Phidias, Aspasia, and Anaxagoras69 (Per. 31–2) shortly before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war (cf. Ephorus’ account in D.S. 12.39¼FGrH 70 F196). However, this date has been contested and the decree and Hagnon’s amendment have been dated six to seven years earlier in 438/7, as have the prosecutions of Pericles’ friends, which were dated as early on the grounds of an early dating of Phidias’ case (also in 438/7).70 Yet the early date of Phidias’ accusation and trial (for embezzlement of precious materials from the Athena Parthenos statue) is based on inconclusive evidence.71 There is only one contemporary source relevant to this issue, Aristophanes’ Peace 605ff., and this clearly suggests that Phidias found himself in trouble with those accusations shortly before the war. The evidence of Aristophanes in favour of dating the trial of Phidias to the late 430s is corroborated by Diodorus and Plutarch, it makes good sense in the context of the eve of the war, and seems to be the most probable conclusion. In Appendix 2 a more detailed case is made that Phidias’ trial should be dated to the eve of the war (432/1)—although the menysis and even his formal accusation might have taken place one to two years before. The attacks against Aspasia and Anaxagoras probably belonged to the 69 Although most scholars take the prosecutions as historically true, some have rejected those against Aspasia and Anaxagoras as fabrications: Pesely (1989: 202); Dover (1988: 138–41); Stone (1988: 231ff.). There are, however, important arguments in favour of their authenticity: see Bauman (1990: 37–42). 70 This date is accepted, among others, by Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 486–92 (with caution); Frost (1964a: 70); Kagan (1969: 194–8); Roberts (1982: 59ff.). Contra Gomme HCT 2: 184–9; Lendle (1955); Prandi (1977); Triebel-Schubert (1983); Bauman (1990: 40–2); Podlecki (1998: 107). Many scholars rightly avoid rejecting alternative dates: e.g. Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 490; Fornara (19832: 130); Stadter (1989: 286); Brunt (1951: 274); Olson (2002) on Peace 605. 71 The inconclusive evidence concerns mainly Peace 605Æ and 605, which are usually taken to transmit Philochorus accurately (FGrH 328 F121). Yet they do not. 438/7 is the result of an emendation argued by Lepaulmier as early as 1668. Appendix 2 discusses the problems of the scholia and argues against the dismissal of Aristophanes, Plutarch, and Diodorus as evidence for the date of Phidias’ troubles in favour of uncertain secondary accounts of Philochorus. Gomme (HCT 2: 186) has a different approach at this stage of his argument. He does not examine the scholia, so he does not doubt the transmission of Philochorus’ account. However, he argues that Philochorus might only have inferred the date of the trial from the date of the dedication of the Parthenos statue.

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same period. These orchestrated attacks had as their ultimate target to discredit Pericles, as is suggested by Plutarch (Per. 31–2) and Diodorus (12.39). Pericles’ opponents targeted him at the time because of his policy in matters concerning the war, namely his handling of the war as an inevitable outcome and his rejection of the option to retain the uneasy peace with Sparta. Dracontides’ motion is probably to be associated with the same attacks and dated around the same period; it could have been made shortly before or even shortly after the outbreak of the war, while the trial of Pericles which resulted from it took place in 430.72 As Gomme (HCT 2: 187) points out, there is only one trial of Pericles in our records, when he was fined and deposed from the generalship (Th. 2.65.4). Though there may have been others, the attacks which led to his deposition were probably the most sustained and successful assaults on his political pre-eminence. Given that the dates are consistent, Pericles’ trial can therefore reasonably be associated with Dracontides’ decree.73 Further support for the connection is offered by the nature of the charges in both cases. Although Thucydides is silent on the charges which led to Pericles’ punishment, Plato in Grg. 516A says that he was accused of Œº , i.e. embezzlement of public funds. In the absence of any contrary account of the charges, Plato’s testimony should be examined with care.74 Œº , according to Plutarch, was one of the accusations in Pericles’ trial which was generated by Dracontides’ motion (Per. 32.2). The surviving material which concerns Pericles’ charge and punishment seems consistent. Though Thucydides’ assertions about Pericles’ financial integrity (2.60.5, 2.65.8) have sometimes been used as evidence against the possibility that he was involved in a case of suspected embezzlement,75 in fact Thucydides’ and the other writers’ accounts are far from 72 For (shorter or longer) intervals between lodging an accusation and coming to court in classical Athens, and for the reasons behind those intervals, see Appendix 2, pp. 309–10. Gomme (HCT 2: 187) like most scholars identifies the date of the decree with the date of the trial (430), but this is not necessary. 73 The association has been made by Gomme HCT 2: 187; Dodds (19602) on Grg. 516a; Bauman (1990: 37–45); Prandi (1977: 22–6); Adcock in CAH v. 478; Jacoby (1955) on Idomeneus of Lampsakos 338 FrGH IIIb F9 p. 88. Contra Stadter (1989: 285). 74 Cf. Gomme HCT 2: 187; Stadter (1989: 323); Dodds (19602: ad loc); Bauman (1990: 43–4). 75 Pesely (1989: 200–11); Frost (1964a: 72).


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incompatible. Paradoxically, the historian’s insistence on Pericles’ integrity may suggest that his financial probity had been impugned and that Plato and Plutarch accurately reflect the allegations which led to Pericles’ removal from office. What were the reasons for Dracontides’ motion? The state of our evidence precludes certainty, but in view of the combination of a strong religious element with the allegation of abuse of public money, several scholars have suggested that Pericles’ accusation should be connected with the case of Phidias, which also combined accusations of embezzlement and religious impropriety (Plu. Per. 31).76 This is consistent with what Peace 605ff. implies about a popular perception of the two men’s relationship at the eve of the war. Since the trial of Phidias probably took place in the late 430s (as Peace 605ff. seems to suggest) the allegations against Pericles may have followed and more specifically concerned his earlier service as epistates of the Athena Parthenos statue.77 To recapitulate, whether an eisangelia78 was brought against Pericles before or after the outbreak of the war, the trial did not take place until the late summer or autumn of 430 (cf. Th. 2.65.3). This is when Hagnon seems to have made his amendment, as soon as he returned from his expedition to Potidaia (Th. 2.58).79 The decree which was voted entailed that Pericles deposit his public accounts with the prytaneis in office. As the climate of general dissatisfaction against him was aggravated due to the misfortunes of the war and the plague (Th. 2.65.1–4), Pericles was found guilty, fined, and removed from office. 76 Bauman (1990: 37–45); Prandi (1977: 22–6). This view is endorsed especially by scholars who date the motion of Dracontides in 438/7: Frost (1964a: 72); Mansfeld (1980: 49–51); Stadter (1989: 301). 77 Cf. Bauman (1990: 43–4) and scholars who date both prosecutions earlier: Stadter (1989) 301; Frost (1964b: 393); Mansfeld (1980: 49–51). 78 Some critics have taken the procedure which resulted from the motion of Dracontides to have been euthyna (Stadter 1989: 301; Bauman 1990: 44). Although this does not affect the argument pursued here (because we have long delays of prosections in cases arising from euthyna), it is much more likely that it was eisangelia (cf. Harrison 1971: 57 n. 4), for two reasons: first of all, in the case of euthyna, Pericles’ accounts would have to be examined by the logistai (cf. MacDowell 1978: 170–2) and not, as here, the prytaneis. Secondly, euthyna was a procedure which normally took place when the magistrate handed over his office. 79 Pace Frost (1964a: 72), who mistakenly claims that in the autumn of 430 Hagnon was absent at Potidaia.

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Hagnon had intervened to make Pericles’ prosecution for abuse of public funds milder. The effect of his motion was to provide for an ordinary trial, since the awesome religious procedure which the decree had called for was eliminated. Not only would this suggest a close relationship between the two men, but, depending on the popular sentiment about Pericles’ conduct at the time, it may have put Hagnon in the same light as the man he was trying to assist. Hagnon had only recently returned with heavy losses from the unsuccessful siege of Potidaia (Th. 2.58) and his opponents could have easily taken advantage of this to turn popular opinion against him. Eight years earlier (437), during the period of Pericles’ greatest pre-eminence, Hagnon had been appointed oikistes of Amphipolis (cf. Th. 4.102.3), an appointment which probably brought him not only glory but material gains.80 In popular rumour, Pericles, like his associate Phidias, was a IŒø º ıH who had profited from his public office, and had been convicted and deposed. Now another associate of Pericles, Hagnon, could be seen in the same way: indeed in Plutoi Hagnon’s private wealth is suggested to have come ‘from office’ or ‘from the empire’ (K Iæå[B

åø / Ł ‹ ’ K ’ ÆPHØ 70–1).81 It seems, therefore, that in this play Cratinus reflected the current popular sentiment about the professional conduct of Pericles and Hagnon in the context of the general atmosphere the attacks against Pericles’ associates had generated. Starting from Pericles’ conviction and deposition on the charge of ill-gotten gains and (according to the interpretation above) using the theme of the attacks against Pericles’ friends, Cratinus dramatized a fictional82 trial where Hagnon and perhaps other friends of Pericles were tried for their handling of public money. Modern examples of such experiments in satire are not difficult to find. The recent Trial of Tony Blair (CellanJones 2007), broadcast in anticipation of the British prime minister’s departure from office, is a satirical drama which explores, by dramatizing, the fictional punishment of a leading public figure whose actions had caused him to fall from favour with a substantial part of the public. 80

Cf. Th. 5.11.1 and K-A ad loc; contra Hornblower (1996) ad loc. For the pun on K IæåB , see below p. 226, and Pieters (1946: 107–8). The attractive interpretation ‘from the empire’ has been suggested to me by R. Rawles. 82 It is not inconceivable that Hagnon was actually threatened with prosecution or even tried, but since there is no positive evidence for that, it is best to assume that Hagnon’s trial in Plutoi was fictional. 81


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If the above reconstruction of the historical background of Plutoi is correct, one more conjecture can be made about its content, concerning the identity of ‘the ancient brother’. It has already been demonstrated that one dimension of the brother’s identity is the Prometheus of tragedy. Another dimension can be conjectured from the topical background of the play suggested above. Gomme (HCT 2: 189) argued that the ‘poor old kinsman’ of the Plutoi suggested Thucydides son of Melesias (PA 7268), a leading conservative opponent of Pericles. His clash with Pericles seems to have sent him on a ten-year ostracism around 443. He presumably returned to Athens at the end of this period and according to some scholars was involved in the prosecutions of Pericles’ associates.83 In comedy he was presented as a pitiful, weak old man. In fact, the Plutuses’ description of their brother at 171.25–6 suits Aristophanes’ comic reference to him in Acharnians 703: fiH ªaæ NŒe

¼æÆ Œıçe, ºŒ ¨ ıŒıÅ . . . (how can it be fair that a stooped man of Thucydides’ age . . . ).84 Gomme’s suggestion about Thucydides is attractive, especially since he could be paralleled with the Prometheus of tragedy, firstly as having ‘suffered’ for a long time due to the rule of a ‘tyrant’; secondly, because his party could have been involved in the attacks on Pericles’ associates. If so, the multi-layered composition of the comedy would involve not only the chorus, but also the ‘brother’. Based on the model of plot-composition and characterization described above, the brother does not have to be Thucydides consistently, but merely share features which allow intermittent association. If the above reconstruction concerning the decree of Dracontides and the role of Hagnon is given credence, we may have come close to understanding the historical background which inspired Plutoi in more detail than before. However, given that the evidence which concerns the nexus of events of that period is disputed, we cannot claim certainty, at least not for every single detail of this reconstruction. Nevertheless, what has become clear is that, as in Dionysalexandros, contemporary historical events informed the content of this play. Yet as the evidence also suggests, imaginative engagement with drama and creative use of myth were equally important aspects of 83 Derenne (1930: 30 and 38); Wade-Gery (1958: 259–60); Kienast (1953). Contra Frost (1964b); Mansfeld (1980: 37–40). 84 Cf. V. 946–8.

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Plutoi. The fact that at any given time in the surviving text two or more of the plot-strands, namely dramatic parody, myth, and topical satire, were at work make Plutoi comparable to Dionysalexandros in its multi-layered composition. However, in comparison to Dionysalexandros, Plutoi gives the impression that its plot-elements are combined in a more unified manner, at least as far as the role of the chorus is concerned. Naturally, this might result from the difference in the nature of the material which has survived from the two plays. Yet it is remarkable that, as regards the chorus, all three plot-elements not only work simultaneously (as often happens in Dionysalexandros), but also point towards the same idea. This idea is unjust wealth and its punishment, and Cratinus explores it by exploiting and interweaving several diverse contexts where it has already appeared: archaic didactic poetry, fifth-century drama, chthonic religion, and recent political trials. Thus, in seeking to punish the IŒø º ı FÆ , the chorus are made to evoke at the same time the Oresteia, the Æ . . . çºÆŒ ŁÅH IŁæø of Hesiod, and the recent trials of Pericles’ associates and Pericles himself. Arguably they even evoke the Titans of Prometheus Lyomenos and their long imprisonment in Tartarus, suggesting that retribution against the ‘criminals’ of Athens comes late. This is an idea which the intertextual presence of the Oresteia and its motif of slow anticipation of the Erinyes can also evoke—but the audience are free to recall archaic texts as well, including Solon (fr. 4 and 13) and Hesiod (Op. 321–6). Thus, in comparison to Dionysalexandros, whose multiple strands give way to each other freely and usually result in multiple meanings, this aspect of Plutoi makes for a remarkably coherent and tight unity, albeit with multiple intertextual relationships.

4.3. MYTH, POLITICS, AND TRAGEDY IN NEMESIS Section 3.4 above analysed Nemesis’ parody of tragic manner. It also demonstrated that the play used a common tragic storyline, that of seductions. Yet, first and foremost, Nemesis travestied a mythic tale. For the plot, Cratinus drew on a strand of the myth of Zeus’ pursuit of Nemesis, which is attested at least as early as the Cypria and


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Sappho (fr. 166 LP). We have a clear knowledge of the myth thanks to a quotation by Athenaeus (8.334b-d ¼ Cypria fr. 10 West): f b Æ æØÅ ¯ ºÅ Œ, ŁÆFÆ æ E Ø• ŒÆººŒ ˝ Ø çØºÅØ ØªE Æ ˘Åd ŁH Æ ØºBœ Œ ŒæÆæB ’ IªŒÅ . çFª ªaæ P Łº ØåŁÆØ K çØºÅØ Ææd ˜Ød ˚æ øØ• Kæ ªaæ çæÆ ÆN E ŒÆd Ø• ŒÆa ªB b ŒÆd Iæª ºÆ oøæ çFª, ˘f KøŒ - ºÆE KºØºÆ ŁıfiH ¼ºº b ŒÆa ŒFÆ ºıçº Ø ŁÆº Å

NåŁœ N Å, ºf K æ Łø, ¼ºº Æ )ŒÆe Æe ŒÆd æÆÆ ªÆÅ , ¼ºº I XØæ ºıºÆŒÆ• ª ÆNd ŁÅæ’ ‹ ’ XØæ ÆNa æçØ, ZçæÆ çª Ø Ø. Third after them she (he?) gave birth to Helen, a wonder to mortals; whom lovely-haired Nemesis once bore, united in love to Zeus the king of the gods, under harsh compulsion. For she ran away, not wanting to unite in love with father Zeus the son of Kronos, tormented by inhibition and misgiving: across land and the dark, barren water she ran, and Zeus pursued, eager to catch her; sometimes in the noisy sea’s wave, where she had the form of a fish, as he stirred up the mighty deep; sometimes along Ocean’s stream and the ends of the earth; sometimes on the loam-rich land; and she kept changing into all the fearsome creatures that the land nurtures, so as to escape him. (Tr. West 2003)

This is corroborated in a note by Philodemus (Piet. B 7369 Obbink¼ fr. 11 West) which provides us with the end of the story: Zeus metamorphosed into a goose and copulated with Nemesis in the same form,85 and she laid an egg which bore Helen: ˝] › a ˚[æØÆ ª]æłÆ › ØøŁ[]Æ åÅd ŒÆ: :d ÆP[e] : ØŒØ, ŒÆd Øª: [ ] T fi : :Øe ŒE, [K] : y ª: ŁÆØ c [ ¯ º]Å86 The author of the Cypria says that after (Zeus) turned himself also into a goose, he pursued Nemesis; having copulated with him, she laid an egg, from which Helen was born. (Tr. West 2003)

Presumably in the mythical account of the Cypria, the egg came to Leda’s possession as well, but we cannot be sure how. Athenaeus’ note 85 86

See Luppe (1974b). Cf. also Apollod. Bibl. 3.10.7.

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on the Sapphic poem (fr. 166) says only that Leda once found an egg. In Apollodorus’ version, a shepherd came upon the egg and brought it to Leda (Bibl. 3.10.7). In Hyginus (Astr. 2.8), Hermes placed the egg in Leda’s lap. Although we might not be entirely certain about some details, we can be confident that this was the myth Cratinus dramatized in Nemesis, thanks to a note by ps.-Eratosthenes (Cat. 25): ºªÆØ b e ˜Æ › ØøŁÆ fiH Çfiø fi ø fi . . . ŒÆÆBÆØ N ,Æ FÆ B `

ØŒB ŒIŒE c ˝ Ø çŁEæÆØ. c b ŒE fiT, K y KŒŒ ºÆçŁBÆØ ŒÆd ª ŁÆØ c ¯ ºÅ, S çÅ Ø ˚æÆE 87 › ØÅ

This is the creature88 into which they say that Zeus transformed himself . . . and flew to Rhamnous in Attica, and there raped Nemesis. She bore an egg, from which hatched and was born Helen, as the poet Cratinus says.

This is confirmed by the fragments. Fr. 115 (p. 169 above) assures us that, along with Zeus and Nemesis, Leda had a role in this play, as she did in Sappho and the mythographers. Furthermore, frr. 114 and 116 (p. 171 above) concern Zeus before and after his metamorphosis into a bird. As the whole theme of the play suggests, and fr. 116 in particular confirms, the humorous exploitation of Zeus’ sexual appetite89 was a major element in the burlesque of this myth, as is usually the case in comedies which involve him.90 Apart from working as mythic burlesque, Nemesis, like Dionysalexandros, has long been seen to have political satire woven into it. The invocation to Zeus as karaios (fr. 118) is telling evidence:

87

This was corrected from the codices’ ˚æÅ by Valckenaer (1767: 166). In ps.-Eratosthenes’ version, Zeus metamorphosed into a swan rather than a goose. It is not impossible that this was the case in Cratinus’ Nemesis, although this must have been a later version (see Ch. 3 n. 159). The first attestation of Zeus turning into a swan concerns Zeus’ copulation with Leda, where Nemesis is not involved at all (E. Hel. 19). 89 In fr. 116, the names of the seeds and fruits entail sexual double entendres; cf. Henderson (19912: 135, 136, 149, 151). See Ch. 3 n. 160. 90 Cf. Pax 741 (p. 190 above). Zeus’ erotic adventures, which constitute a comedic element already in Il. 14.313ff., were probably the subject of Plato’s Nyx Makra (with Alcmene) and Zeus Kakoumenos. In Plato’s Europe fr. 43, it is almost certainly Zeus who wonders whether it is better to take the girl asleep or awake. Cf. also Ar. Av. 556–60. 88


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º’ t ˘F Ø ŒÆd ŒÆæÆØ Come, oh Zeus, patron of foreigners and head of state.

This fragment evokes the god’s Boeotian cult,91 but also alludes to the common jibe at Pericles ‘the big head’.92 Zeus’ epithet Ø ‘patron of foreigners’ evokes the popular criticism of Pericles’ close associations with non-Athenians such as Anaxagoras and Aspasia. As we saw in the section on Plutoi, in comedy the ‘tyrant’ Pericles was often satirically portrayed more specifically as ‘Zeus’, on account of a tradition which viewed doing whatever one wishes with impunity as a god-like licence (above, n. 7). Therefore, since Zeus in this fragment is meant to evoke the Athenian statesman, it is likely that the satire directed at the god was also exploited as a jibe at Pericles. Pericles acting under the influence of his desire for women is a satirical theme which Nemesis shares with many contemporary plays, including Dionysalexandros, Cheirones fr. 259, and Acharnians 526ff. Although the strongest evidence for the political-satirical dimension of this play seems to be the broad association of Zeus with Pericles, there are other indications of it, namely the references to Sparta in frr. 117 and 119: æÅ ºªø ª { ÆæÆ { c æØ . I mean Sparta . . . from esparto-grass 1æÆ c æÅ ¼ªØ

You’re treating Sparta like Psyra.

Although these fragments are too short to allow detailed conclusions, it is suggestive that Nemesis was almost certainly produced in 431 (Godolphin 1931), months or even days before the first Peloponnesian invasion. Its myth, involving Leda’s homeland Sparta, could no doubt accommodate overtones concerning Athens’ main opponent in the war. Fr. 119 in particular looks as if it were addressed to Zeus-Pericles concerning his allegedly miscalculated policy regarding the enemy. The fragments discussed above suggest that, in the course of this play, there was an attempt to develop some parallelism between myth 91 92

IG VII.3208 (Orchom.). Cf. LSJ9 s.v. ˚ÆæÆØ . For Pericles’ head as a recurrent joke in comedy, see above, p. 184 with n. 9.

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and contemporary reality. At the same time, given the tragic associations of the seduction storyline, there was potential for resorting to paratragic allusions, as for example in fr. 115. There is evidence then that a multi-layered pattern like that of the previous plays was also used in Nemesis. However, the sparseness of the surviving material and the nature of the mythic tale make it difficult to say precisely how political satire was interwoven with the mythical and the dramatic plot-strands of the play. For one thing, we can be fairly certain that allegorist interpretations and one-to-one associations such as Nemesis ‘standing for’ Aspasia, or Helen for the war,93 are unsustainable, not only because the textual evidence is limited, but because even within themselves such allegories could not uphold the degree of correspondence often argued for.94 It is very difficult, for example, to read the mythic heroine being deceived and forced to copulate with Zeus as an allegory of Aspasia. The tale of Nemesis’ seduction by Zeus, therefore, could hardly reflect the story of his affair with Aspasia in its details.95 The evidence may be limited, but even so it points against one-to-one decodings. We must assume that, as in the case of Dionysalexandros, the narrative stayed firmly in the field of mythological burlesque, and was enhanced by allusions to drama. At the same time, given the fact that Pericles was generally targeted for his relationship and (allegedly) his being influenced by a woman, Zeus’ lust in this play could have been made to evoke the Athenian statesman, but without this necessitating that Nemesis ‘be’ Aspasia, especially in a sustained manner. Similarly, the references to Sparta and even the moving of the action to the Spartan palace could have been exploited for (shorter or longer) topical references. Unfortunately, we cannot say much more; the furthest our knowledge of the myth and the fragments let us take things is to suppose that the play worked on several levels, and that the satire relied on intermittent suggestion rather than outright allegory.

93

Scholars who have tried to decode every character and event in Dionysalexandros allegorically have also attempted to read more politics into Nemesis: Schwarze (1971: 24–40); Rosen (1988: 55–7); Casolari (2003: 79–97, 109–12). 94 For another approach, see Wright (2007: 426–7). 95 For a similar view, see Kaibel in K-A iv. 179–80 and Bowie (2000: 324).


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4.4. A SCENE OF MULTIPLE MEANING IN SERIPHIOI Even less evidence survives from Seriphioi than from the plays discussed above, which makes us even less certain of the development of its plot.96 However, there is at least one scene where myth, dramatic parody, and topical satire are interwoven, creating a multi-layered meaning. As was shown in 3.3 above, Seriphioi contained not only mythological burlesque, but accommodated tragic parody as well. In particular, the scene where ‘Perseus’ is given directions for his journey (frr. 222, 223, and 343) probably evoked the scenes between Prometheus and Io (707–849) and Prometheus and Heracles (frr. 195–9) in Prometheus Desmotes and Lyomenos respectively (pp. 162–4). On the other hand, frr. 222 and 223 also alluded to Homeric descriptions of journeys, especially given their dactylic metre.97 In particular, fr. 223 echoes the description of Menelaus’ itinerary in Odyssey 4. 83ff.: rÆ Æ IçØŒfiB ŒÆd Ø ı ŒÆd ¯ æ , ºØ ºø, IæH º ı æø, ÆN åæH, `

æ Œºø, { ˜Ø ı Œ ıæø Then you come to the Sabae and the Sidonians and the Eremboi, and to the city of slaves, men who are newly rich and wicked, shameful, Androcleses . . . ˚æ / ØŒÅ ŒÆd `Nªı ı KÆºÅŁ , `NŁ Ł’ ƒŒÅ ŒÆd Ø ı ŒÆd ¯ æ f

ŒÆd ¸ØÅ, ¥Æ ’ ¼æ ¼çÆæ ŒæÆ d ºŁ ı Ø . . . Over Cyprus and Phoenicia I wandered, and Egypt, and I came to the Ethiopians and the Sidonians and the Eremboi, and to Libya, where the lambs are horned from their birth . . . (Tr. Murray 19952)

Menelaus’ description concerns his journeys among wealthy peoples, from whom he collected treasures. Fr. 223 of Seriphioi evokes this

96

The plot of Seriphioi is broadly described in 3.3 above. e.g. Od. 12.39–141, esp. Od. 12.39 ØæBÆ b æH IçÆØ, Æ¥ æ Æ . . . , or 12.127 ¨æØÆŒÅ K B IçÆØ• ŁÆ b ººÆ . . . . 97

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mythical description, but while it retains the theme of wealth, it shifts its meaning to a topical level (ºØ . . . IæH º ı æø etc.). The transition is through ºØ ºø, which as an expression has both a mythical98 and a contemporary dimension.99 The new place which Cratinus’ description introduces is a city inhabited by people characterized as º ı Åæ Ø, ‘wicked nouveaux riches’, like Androcles.100 Due to the specific mention of Androcles, but also the satire of nouveaux riches, the ºØ targeted here is obviously Athens.101 Comic ridicule of new money102 is a common theme of Athenian comedy at the time of the production of Seriphioi (423/2), the most telling example being Knights and its ‘-seller’ motif. In Cratinus the theme of º ı Åæ Ø is found as early as Plutoi, in fr. 171.70–6, where Hagnon’s money is defended as ‘old’ (cf. IæåÆØº ı 70) against the charge of being ill-gotten. Yet the defence is comically undercut by the phrase K Iæå[B in the same verse, which can be understood not only as ‘from the beginning’ or ‘always’, but also ‘from office’ or ‘from the empire’.103 The prosecution also alleges that Hagnon’s father Nicias did not have inherited wealth, but was a porter and a Ø Łø . As in Knights, therefore, in Plutoi new money is also directly associated with ill-gotten money. The Androcles mentioned in Seriphioi (PA 870) was, like Cleon the ‘leather-seller’ and Hyberbolus the ‘lamp-seller’, also an Athenian demagogue. As Th. 8.65.2 suggests, he succeeded both politicians. As is shown by his satire as `

æ Œ ºø ŒºB in Cratinus’ Horai

98

Cf. St. Byz. 237, 5ff. ˜ ºø ºØ , ºØ ¸ØÅ , ¯ ŒÆÆE K æØÅª Ø (FGrH 1 F345) . . . çÆ d ŒÆd ŒÆa ˚æÅ ˜ ıº ºØ r ÆØ åØºÆæ . . . Ø ŒÆd åøæ K `Nªø fi ˜ ıº ºØ , S çÅ Ø ˇºıØÆ . e KŁØŒe ˜ ıº ºÅ . 99 See CPG i. 411, 9–10: Ø ŒÆd ºø ºØ • Kd H ÅæH ºØı ø; see also below on the politicians’ ‘servile’ origin. 100 The rest of the verse, ˜Ø ı Œ ıæø, is corrupt. No emendation suggested is sustainable (see K-A iv, ad loc.) so we cannot be sure who else is satirized here. For a discussion of this verse, see Bona (1992: 146–7). 101 Contra Bona (1992: 147). The geography is, of course, odd for Athens, since we are on the east coast of the Aegean; yet given the spatial freedom of old comedy, such details need not stop a comic poet. 102 On the comic ridicule of ‘new money’, see Carey (1994: 76–7). 103 Cf. Pieters (1946: 107–8) and above, p. 218.


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(fr. 281, another play of the same period as Knights and Seriphioi),104 he, like Cleon and Hyperbolus, was an object of satire for belonging to the class of politicians who had ascended to power through acquired rather than inherited wealth.105 It was the non-aristocratic, allegedly ‘low’ family origin with which acquired wealth was associated that attracted the satire of the comic poets, who never ceased to remind the new politicians that they did not belong to the social class which traditionally provided the city’s leaders.106 Hence the politicians of the ‘new money’ were often satirized for ‘servile’ ancestry. As Wasps 1187 suggests ( `æ ŒºÆ b ˚æÆE æØç Ø

çÅ d Fº ŒÆd øå) this topical satire underlies fr. 223.2 ºØ ºø, IæH º ı æø. Despite the examples of Knights and Plutoi, we cannot tell whether the theme of the º ı Åæ Ø of Athens was developed at length in Seriphioi. The satire might have been restricted to individual passages like fr. 223. However, what emerges from this scene and in particular from the fact that it combines elements of Homeric mythical description, topical satire, and, probably, dramatic parody, is one more piece of evidence which suggests Cratinus’ tendency to construct multiple layers of meaning.

4.5. STRANDS OF PLOT AND CHARACTERIZATION IN CRATINUS Through detailed examination of four of Cratinus’ comedies, this discussion has demonstrated a prominent trend of his comic art, the composition of plot structures which in a fluid way combine several 104

Cf. K-A iv. 258. This is surely the meaning of his comic association with Colonus, for which Pollux 7.133 notes y ıfi Æ ƒ Ø ŁÆæ F . See also Harp. s.v. Œ ºøÆ 181,16 Dind. and Ar. Av. 997 ˚ ºø . . . › ŁØ ºª . Meineke’s correction (i/2. 171) of (the lectio facilior) ºŁØ to ŁØ in the citation of Cratinus’ fragment is most probably correct: `

æ Œ ºø ŒºB . Id F ºŁØ ( ŁØ Meineke). ˚æÆE ªaæ ¿æÆØ , I F çÆØ ºŁØ ( ŁØ Meineke) `

æ ŒºÆ, oø

ç £ ŒÆd Øa ØA ºø çÅ, Øa e r ÆØ KŒ ˚ ºø F. 106 Cf. Carey (1994: 76). 105

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different, but mutually compatible strands. Cratinus displays a pronounced tendency to interweave traditional myth patterns and themes, narratives derived from drama (which either reflect generic practice or refer to a specific model), and topical satire. In Dionysalexandros, burlesque of traditional myth constitutes a coherent narrative and unfolds alongside the basic storyline of satyr play and a pattern of Dionysiac ritual intiation, while there is also a degree of parallelism with the activities of Pericles as they were popularly perceived. These four plot components are activated with different prominence in different parts of the play, without ever being dropped altogether. Furthermore, they relate to each other not as tightly conceived allegories, but in broad parallel, which allows them to merge and separate in turn, according to the writer’s needs. Although our evidence is limited in scope, this model can, mutatis mutandis, be identified in other plays as well, albeit with slight variations in the precise manner in which the strands relate to one another. In Plutoi, from which we have actual text and not mere plot description, the model can mostly be detected in the multiple characterization of the chorus, who—according to an economical reading of the available evidence—embody the main idea which drives the plot. Tellingly, their motives for action are described with references to drama (where layers referring to both the Titans of P. Lyomenos and the Erinyes of the Oresteia operate simultaneously), to a Hesiodic mythical account, and to the current political situation. In Nemesis, the myth narrative seems to be coherent in itself, but with the character of Zeus broadly reminiscent of the Pericles of popular satire, while recognizable tragic patterns may inform the plot with an extra dimension. Finally, passages such as fr. 223 from Seriphioi and even fr. 171.12–15 from Plutoi (a passage which in Chapter 1 was shown to have both a mythic and a metadramatic content) exemplify this manner of composition on the level of detail. Cratinus’ tendency for multi-layered composition where the different layers achieve prominence intermittently107 fits comfortably 107 The fact that this tendency can be identified in Cratinus’ usage does not mean that it is exclusive to him. Aristophanes’ Frogs, for instance, also combines mythic, dramatic, and civic elements. These, however, relate to each other in a different way than the plot elements in Dionysalexandros, Nemesis, and Plutoi.


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into the broader picture of old comedy. As Silk (1990, 2000a) has shown, discontinuity in plot-construction and characterization is a fundamental characteristic of the genre. This tendency coheres with other aspects of old comedy, especially the polyphonic nature of the characters’ voices, which may combine that of the dramatic character, the actor, and the author and freely merge them or alternate between them. In both cases the individual elements cooperate in the manner of a symphonic performance in which different instruments are combined fluently, any one of which may come to the fore at different times.

5 Production and Imagination In the 1970s, scholars like Oliver Taplin and David Bain took the then adventurous step of reading classical tragedies less as texts than as works intended for performance in the particular conditions of the Attic stage. Their focus on practical stagecraft—exits and entrances, stage properties, the interaction between actors and chorus, and effects of music and spectacle—began a school of performancebased criticism still vital today. More recently, the dramaturgy of Aristophanic comedy has also attracted attention. Several articles and books have provided models for performance analysis, and have shed considerable light on Aristophanic comedy.1 Among these, Revermann’s Comic Business (2006) gives us the first sustained treatment of Aristophanes in his theatrical context, while Lowe’s essay ‘Aristophanic Spacecraft’ (2006) provides the only really comprehensive discussion of comic space in the extant plays. Some of these works adopt a comparative approach grounded in performance theory, and others a more practical focus on the problems and possibilities of the fifthcentury theatre. All have contributed significantly to our understanding of Greek drama in performance. Through systematic exploration of Aristophanes’ dramaturgy and poetics, and by applying observations taken from later comic genres as well as from inter-cultural comparisons,2 they have identified characteristics of stagecraft which 1 Important contributions include Thiercy (1986, 2000); Lowe (1988). See also von Mo¨llendorff (1995: 112–50; 2002: 180–6); Po¨hlmann (1995: 133–42); Poe (1999, 2000); Handley (1993); English (2007); and the volume of collected essays on comic space by Cusset et al. (2000). Earlier studies include Russo (1961, tr. into English in 1994) and Dearden (1976). 2 See, most recently, Revermann (2006a: 23, 34–5, 52–3, 134–5); Zobel (2007).

Production and Imagination

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seem to be peculiar to old comedy. Areas of performance practice like the use of space, costume, props, and spectacle are being systematically explored in greater detail and depth than before. We seem now to be well on the way to acquiring a more or less exhaustive grammar of the dramatic techniques available to Aristophanes and his rivals. As in other areas of comic criticism, the focus has been restricted almost exclusively to Aristophanes. This is problematic, for although our findings may happen to be valid in many respects for old comedy as a whole, they still need, as the author of Comic Business comments (96), to be ‘justified with reference to material from Aristophanes’ contemporaries’. Indeed, even as the current burst of new work on lost comedy has enhanced our knowledge of the genre on points of theme, style, and structure, it seems reasonable to interrogate the comic fragments as sources for stagecraft as well. A less exclusively Aristophanic grammar of comic stagecraft can ultimately provide a more thorough understanding of the genre, and may help us to appreciate points in Aristophanic comedies which have previously gone unnoticed. It may also suggest solutions to long-standing questions in both the fragmentary poets and Aristophanes. This line of inquiry takes on still greater importance when we consider the developments in Athenian theatre performance and stagecraft in the years before Aristophanes. When he was embarking on his career in the early 420s, comedy had already enjoyed half a century of recognized life in the dramatic festivals of Athens.3 The generation of comic poets before Aristophanes, of whom Cratinus was the leading figure, worked in a cultural milieu marked by increasing investment in dramatic performance. This was reflected both in the growing sophistication of performance practice, as well as the increasing interest of the Athenian public in the drama. By the time comic competitions were officially instituted at the City Dionysia, the Athenian theatre had been dominated for almost two decades by Aeschylean drama. At some point before the production of the Oresteia (458), the wooden skene was introduced in the theatre

3

This chronology is based on the generally accepted date of 487/6 for the first comic performances at the City Dionysia.

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of Dionysus.4 The status of actors was constantly growing. Prizes were introduced (in about 449 for tragic actors at the Dionysia and around 432 for comic actors at the Lenaia),5 and cash payments for protagonists. By the final quarter of the century, literary sources testify to an intense and ongoing debate about developments in acting style.6 There is also evidence for a major rebuilding of the Theatre of Dionysus around the end of the 440s.7 By the 430s, stagedevices like the mechane and the ekkyklema were in place;8 our comic evidence suggests that by the mid-420s their use was sufficiently well established to be treated as commonplace.9 Throughout this period, the stagecraft of tragedy reveals a remarkable and increasing level of sophistication, innovation, and experimentation. Finally, an unprejudiced interpretation of the evidence suggests that demand for dramatic performances, both tragic and comic, was growing in the Attic demes, both nearer the city and further afield, before the decade of the 420s.10 These developments profoundly influenced the period in which the pre-Aristophanic generation of comic poets wrote and produced their plays. The impact of these rapid changes in performance practice and the environment of the theatre on the stagecraft of the poets have been thoroughly studied with respect to tragedy. Yet we know that they were not exclusive to it; for the evidence points to constant

4 The traditional view is that the skene was not much older than 458; cf. Hammond (1972: 405–8, on archeological grounds); Taplin (1977: 452–9, mainly on dramatic grounds). However, it has been argued, among others, by Bees (1995: 75), Kampourelli (2002: 42–6), and Po¨hlmann (2003) that the skene had been introduced by the time of Persae (472 BC). 5 For the rise of the acting profession and its financial gains in the 5th cent. see Csapo (2004); Ghiron-Bistagne (1976: 179–91). The evidence for actors’ prize competitions is collected and discussed in Csapo-Slater (1995: 222 and 226–9). 6 See the discussions of the evidence in Csapo (2002) and Valakas (2002). 7 Cf. Csapo-Slater (1995: 79–80). 8 The mechane was used in E. Med. 1317ff. and possibly in Pr. Desmotes 284ff.; cf. Taplin (1977: ad loc.). The earliest use of the ekkyklema is in S. Ajax (344–53), usually dated in the 440s (Garvie 1998: 6–8). For the use of the ekkyklema in the Oresteia, see Garvie (1986: pp. lii–liii); Podlecki (1989: 12). 9 Ar. Ach. 408–9; cf. Csapo-Slater (1995: 258). 10 Cf. Csapo (2004). IG II2 3091, in particular, suggests that Ecphantides and Cratinus produced plays and won prizes at the Rural Dionysia of the deme Halai Aixonides.


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interaction between the dramatic genres in many areas. These included the formal and dramatic structure and the style of the plays themselves, and the poets’ exploitation of the chorus, characterization, and music. Both the Aristophanic plays and the fragments of other comic poets suggest that comedy was thoroughly aware of the work of tragic poets, both in tragedy and satyr play (Chapters 2 and 3). The sophistication of Aristophanes’ dramaturgy and his policy of innovative, interesting, and even bold experimentation in many areas of comic composition must imply that he had inherited his stagecraft, or at least aspects of it, from the earlier generation. One rightly wonders about performance practices in their case as well. This chapter will argue that the fragments of Cratinus reveal an innovative poet who continually stretches the resources of the contemporary theatre, and who, in this regard, differs little from his younger rival. Because the fragmentary comic material has come down to us largely divested of its context, a large-scale picture of the stagecraft of earlier Attic comedy is unobtainable. Of all the material surviving from the generation before Aristophanes, Cratinus’ plays are in the best state. Even so, their performative dimensions are largely inaccessible to us. Yet, as in other areas of literary criticism involving fragmentary works, a fair acknowledgment of the limits of our knowledge does not mean that we should abandon the attempt. Nor should we confine ourselves to mere descriptions of plots of fragmentary plays, or to reconstructions of individual scenes. Rather, with recourse to appropriate theoretical frameworks, and by posing suitable questions, a stagecraft-based approach grounded in performance analysis can lead to fruitful results in the case of dramatic fragments as well.11 We have already encountered some important dramatic aspects of Cratinus’ comedy in previous chapters. In Dionysalexandros, for example, interaction between the genres of comedy and satyr play was accomplished largely on a visual level. In Plutoi and Drapetides, too, the genre of tragedy was evoked by visual (as well as linguistic, thematic, and metrical) means. In Pytine, the image of the poet as a lover of his art was ingeniously reified, with both the creator and his 11

A successful example of this exercise is Telo` (2007: 33–43) on the construction of space and change of scene, and ibid. 67–71 on dramatic use of costume.

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medium brought on stage as characters in a play. In addition, the recoverable performative dimensions of pieces like Odysseis and Nemesis show that Cratinus’ comedy was as bold and innovative in the creation of imaginative spectacle as it was in other respects. Since the material at our disposal does not allow us to make detailed reconstructions of stage action and spectacle in most plays, we will concentrate here on the aspects of Cratinus’ dramatic art on which the fragments and the testimonia are most revealing. These are: the construction and use of space; the role of costume and disguise; and finally the role of imagery and personification as shapers of action on the stage.

5.1. THE CONSTRUCTION AND USE OF SPACE: ODYSSEIS, PLUTOI, AND OTHER PLAYS By the time of Cratinus’ debut as a comic poet in the 450s, the performance-area of the Theatre of Dionysus had already assumed its familiar form. This was defined by three principal features: the skenebuilding, the performance space for the chorus (the orchestra), and more probably than not, a low raised wooden stage for the actors.12 This, at least at the original performance, was the physical space available to the dramatist in which to frame the dramatic spaces of his plays.

5.1.1. The Construction of Space and the Entry of the Chorus in Odysseis Until recently, the dominant view of space in comedy was that it was boundlessly labile and eternally deconstructive. Yet several recent studies have discussed comic space as a relatively coherent system, organized by recurrent conventions unique to the genre.13 This has 12

For the stage-platform, see Csapo-Slater (1995: 80); Taplin (1977: 441–2); contra Pickard-Cambridge (1946: 74). 13 Arguing for a more coherent system: Lowe (2006, revising the author’s argument in Lowe 1988); Thiercy (2000; 1986: 121–50). Contra Scullion (1994: 67); von Mo¨llendorff (1995: 112–50; 2002: 180–6); Poe (1999, 2000: passim).


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opened the way for a more thorough exploration of the dramatic use and meaning of space in comedy, as has already been done for tragedy and in the satyr play Kyklops. In what is certainly the most comprehensive discussion to date, Lowe (2006) has treated a number of these conventions, shedding light on the use and meaning of space in Aristophanes. One of these concerns the function of comic prologues and parodoi in defining the space of the action. As Lowe (2006: 52) sees it, the process of the construction of space is more complex in comedy than in tragedy. One of the reasons that comic prologues are so much longer than tragic prologues, typically three or four times the length, is that they have to construct an entire universe ex nihilo. There are no shortcuts; . . . In comedy it is not possible to say ‘This is Thebes and the king is Oedipus’ [cf. Antiph. fr. 189], and have the audience instantly know what the skene represents and who all the characters are. Instead, in an Aristophanic prologue the place, time, and situation of the play are progressively constructed out of a Brookian empty space.

Lowe sees this manner of space-construction as something typical of the whole genre of comedy, although his evidence again comes exclusively from Aristophanes. His observations on the atopic nature of prologues, the gradual construction of comic space, and the contrast with tragedy are suitably applied to Aristophanic comedy, for none of the poet’s surviving plays depends as closely on a mythological tale as most tragedy or satyr play. He therefore rightly sees the gradual construction or emergence of a space ex nihilo as something essential to all extant comedies, although it should be noted that this process is more complex and protracted in some plays (like Peace, Wealth, Birds, Frogs, and Thesmophoriazousae) than in others (such as Knights, Wasps, Acharnians, or Lysistrata). Yet what are we to do with the lost but well-attested comedies on mythological subjects? In the case of mythological plays—either those by Aristophanes or by other comic playwrights—the creation of dramatic space arguably need not have required such convoluted introductions. In fact, the openings of such plays need not have been much different from what we find in tragedy or satyr drama. In Cratinus’ Odysseis, for example, which dramatized a parodic version

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of ‘Odysseus in the land of the Cyclopes’ as related in Odyssey 9,14 location and space could have been sketched out very briefly. This is certainly the case in Euripides’ Kyklops, which dramatizes the same mythical story. There the dramatic space is identified as the island of the Cyclopes and the skene as Polyphemus’ cave by verbal references in vv. 20–5 of the opening monologue. The arrival of Odysseus and his crew is then briefly prepared with the description of an approaching ship (85ff.), upon which Odysseus makes his entrance. The dramatic space remains identified as the island and the skene as the cave until the end of the play. This hardly differs at all from the characteristic manner of tragic openings. Cratinus’ Odysseis was also set on the island of the Cyclopes; nor do fragments and testimonia suggest that the action moved elsewhere in the course of the play.15 Yet although the familiarity of the audience with the myth did not necessarily require it, the construction of space in this comedy was still handled in a more complex way by Cratinus than by Euripides: for Odysseis did not open on Polyphemus’ island, but rather (highly originally) in mid-voyage. The opening scene, which carried the function of constructing the main dramatic space of the play, seems to have been of considerable duration and, as will be argued, included an impressive dramatic device—the dramatization of a storm. We have two verses cited by Hephaestion (from the same context but probably not contiguous) from a conversation between men on a ship. Hephaestion says explicitly that they are taken from the very beginning of the play (˚æÆE . . . N ªaæ f ˇı Æ

N ººø . . .16 Heph. Ench. p. 26.5ff. Consbruch): Æs ŒÆå ı ÆsæÆØ; ç PæØ ›æHÆØ ‰ i Aºº E ÅÆº Ø ÆF H ØŁÆæåfiB

(fr. 143)

14 Cf. Platon. Diff. Com. (Proleg. de com. 1) p. 5, 51–2. Koster ƒ ª F ˇı E

˚æÆ ı Pe KØÅ Ø å ı Ø, ØÆ ıæe b B ˇı Æ F ˇæ ı and frr. 145–50. 15 For a different view, see Ornaghi (2004: 199–217). 16 ¯N º is the technical term for the opening scene of a drama in Frogs 956 and 1104, and Antiph. fr. 189.21. Cf. [Longin.] On the Sublime 38.2, 28.2, 9.9; Denniston (1927: 117).


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. . . what winds control the sea? Look here! I see this towering cloud . . . . . . so that our ship can better follow the rudder . . .

As far as one can tell from these verses, deictic cues such as ‘here . . . this towering cloud’ (ç PæØ ), ‘our ship’ ( ÆF H), and words like ‘sea’ ( ), helped the audience to understand that the group on the stage, referred to here as ‘we’ (H), are sailors on the high sea, and to visualize the oncoming storm. OPæØ ‘as tall as the sky’17 suggests that what the speaker of these verses (probably Odysseus or the chorus leader) describes is a towering ‘cumulonimbus’ cloud. In weather lore, such clouds and the winds associated with them are typical signs suggesting the arrival of a thunderstorm.18 Whatever it was, the action advised in v. 2 heightens the audience’s sense of an approaching tempest.19 Before we explore the overall dramatic technique of this sailing scene and the role it played in creating the main setting of the play, two considerations should be mentioned which may attest both its potential length and the complexity of its staging. First, the sea voyage was probably enacted in the play’s parodos, during the entrance of the chorus. Second, there is evidence which suggests that this scene’s performance probably required significant investment in the furnishing of its stage properties. With respect to the first point, although we know that the verses of fr. 143 come from the earliest part of the play, the metre excludes their being from the prologue. These recited or ‘marching’ anapaests often have processional uses, and are strongly associated with entrances and exits.20 Cratinus’ chosen metre, the anapaestic tetrameter catalectic, occurs in the parodoi of Clouds and Frogs and probably also in Eupolis’ Aiges as well.21 We saw that Boukoloi and Plutoi (1.2.2–3) lacked a prologue and began with a parodos, and there is nothing to preclude this having happened in Odysseis as well. Birds 268–326 and Thesmophoriazousae 280–93 suggest that comic parodoi 17

Cf. Pi. P. 1.19; E. Ba. 1064. Cf. Morton (2001: 289–90). 19 Il. 23.316–17 and Od. 3.282–3, which refer to the need of a skilled helmsman to control the vessel in a storm, may be relevant here. 20 Parker (1997: 57). 21 Cf. Macrobius 7.5.8, and Storey (2003: 352). 18

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could contain dialogic sections and the chorus could, if necessary, enter the orchestra to the accompaniment of dialogue. This must have been the case with Odysseis fr. 143. Now, if the speaker or one of the speakers of this fragment was Odysseus, it follows that at least one actor entered together with the chorus at the very beginning of the play (as in Aeschylus’ Hiketides; note that in both plays the actor is closely allied to the chorus).22 This, along with the preparatory content of fr. 143, suggests that Odysseis also combined the functions of prologue and parodos. Odysseis fr. 151, delivered by the chorus, also probably came from the parodos: ªÆ ı A , å EªÆ, ŒÆd Æ ºª åÆ Å fi • E ŁŒÅ Ææ K Ø, º – ˇı Ø Łø fi

Keep silent, everyone silent; and soon you’ll hear the whole story. Our homeland is Ithaca and we sail with godlike Odysseus.

The fragment almost certainly belongs to an early part of the play. It addresses the audience directly, announcing that the plot (ºª ) will be explained to them, and then providing important background information.23 The chorus identify themselves and provide a similar explication of the plot in the parodos of Plutoi (171.9ff.). Anapaestic dimeter (here in fact stichic paroemiacs)24 is a suitable metre for parodoi, especially in Cratinus. He seems to have been fond of the pattern, for he used it in the parodos of his Plutoi, and probably his Drapetides as well (above, 3.1.3 and 3.2.2). Taken together, frr. 143 and 151 suggest that Odysseis opened with Odysseus and his comrades, who probably formed the chorus, on the open sea. Since this would be the scene of the chorus’ entry, the 22

For such entries see Taplin (1977: 194). Pace Kock ad loc., this fragment would be inappropriate for the exodos, for there is no point in revealing the identity of the chorus only at the very moment when they would be leaving the orchestra (cf. Whittaker 1935: 183 n. 1). For the exposition of the plot (ºª ) in the beginning of the play see Ar. V. 54–5 and Pax 50ff. Cf. the meaning of ºª (‘plot’) in Ar. Pax 148; Th. 546–7; Antiph. fr. 189.2; Metag. fr. 15; adesp. com. fr. 51; R V. 54; Hsch. º 1216 ºª . 24 Cf. Heph. Ench. 8.6 p. 27.1 Consbruch, and see West (1982: 95). Catalectic tetrameters followed by dimeters are ubiquitous in comedy, esp. in its parabasis and agon sections. 23


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orchestra is the theatrical space identified as ‘sea’. Early and modern productions of plays like Shakespeare’s Tempest suggest that no extra staging is needed to represent a sea voyage.25 Both the voyage and the rising storm could easily have been acted out with mimetic movements designed to assist the impact of the poet’s words, allowing the audience to visualize the situation and space of the action. Yet Greek theatrical conventions such as the use of the mechane for the representation of flying suggest that Greek theatre sometimes aimed at a more naturalistic evocation of scenes and settings. Old comedy tends to opt, in Revermann’s terms (2006a: 126), for ‘mimetic over diegetic space’ (that is to say: for visibly enacted, rather than narrated space, and for spatial relations directly perceptible, rather than explained to the audience). Often it achieves this by recourse to a variety of props and stage devices. In Cratinus’ Nemesis, for example, the birth of Helen from the egg was not narrated, but enacted by means of a enormous egg-prop (fr. 115).26 And indeed, literary and archaeological evidence shows that old comedy had a penchant for outsized stage properties: from eggs and mortars (Pax 238) to wine jars (Lys. 199–200; cf. the Cleveland krater above, pp. 110–12), baskets (Cratin. hyp. Dionys. 30), phalluses, chairs (PhV 31), and statues (Eup. fr. 62 and Plat. Com. fr. 86).27 It readily employed these in the interest of spectacle and comic effect and to create a feeling of ‘busyness’.28 The use of a boat prop to enact Odysseus’ voyage to the island of the Cyclopes is thus entirely in line with the nature of comedy, and has justifiedly found favour with scholars since the first published editions of Cratinus’ fragments.

25 For the original and for Restoration stagings of Tempest 1.1 see Dymkowski (2000: 4–7); Vaughan-Vaughan (1999: ad loc.). For modern productions which stage this scene minimally, see Dymkowski (2000: 97–106). 26 Cf. the deictic pronoun in Kd fiH KfiÇ ı in fr. 115.3. The enormous size of the prop is suggested by the fact that Helen emerged from it later in the play, according to Ps-Eratosthenes,: . . . fiTe, K s KŒŒ ºÆçŁBÆØ ŒÆd ª ŁÆØ c ¯ ºÅ, S çÅ Ø ˚æÆE (˚æÅ codd., corr. Valckenaer) › ØÅ . A stage egg is depicted on the Apulian bell-krater Bari Mus. Arch. 3899 (LIMC ‘Helene’ 5; c.380–370 BC). The vase-painting is probably inspired by an Athenian comedy with a theme similar to that of Nemesis. See Taplin (1993: 82–3) and Revermann (2006a: 128). 27 See the excellent discussion of this evidence in Revermann (2006a: 244–6). 28 For the term, ibid. 3–4.

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The case for such a prop is further strengthened by the fact that stage boats were often used in the fifth-century theatre, as shown by the examples of Aristophanes’ Frogs, Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi, and Pherecrates’ Myrmekanthropoi.29 A wheeled ship had also long been a familiar, important part of the procession which carried Dionysus into the City, either at the Anthesteria or the Great Dionysia, symbolizing his arrival from across the sea.30 Four Attic skyphoi which date to about 500–480 BC depict such boats (LIMC III.1 ‘Dionysos’ 827–9 and Tu¨bingen collection D 53, Inv. 1497). We know that an even bigger one was used at the Panathenaic procession to carry the goddess’s robe to the Propylaia.31 This use of ships in Athenian cultic processions could lend interesting connotations to the use of a similar prop in a processional dramatic scene like the parodos of Odysseis. In a period of maritime empire, ships were a natural and popular expression in public spectacles of the Athenian people’s bond with the sea and the power of their city-state in the island world. Yet the appearance of this stage property in several fifth-century plays can be also explained in another way. Like certain other recurrent spectacles such as the ‘Telephos on the altar’ scene which occurs in several plays, the repetition of a device from dramatist to dramatist and from play to play shows that the audience was attracted to certain kinds of spectacle, and that playwrights were inclined to reinforce success. The illusionistic Renaissance and Baroque theatres and the modern stage provide ample parallels for

29 For this stage property of Frogs, see vv. 182–270 and Dover (1993) on 180–208, as well as Dover (1972: 179–80). For its Eupolidean precedent in Taxiarchoi see fr. 268.51–5, which is discussed by Wilson (1974) and Storey (2003: 256–7). The plot of Myrmekanthropoi (second half of 5th cent.) contained Deucalion’s flood (cf. frr. 117, 118, 119, 125). The scene in the ark was dramatized: frr. 118 and 119 (below, n. 35). That a stage boat was used in this play has rightly been argued by Whittaker (1935: 182) and Wilson (1974: 252). 30 Anthesteria: Deubner (1932: 102–7); Pickard-Cambridge (19912: 12–13); Simon (1983: 93–4); Dionysia: Burkert (1983: 201); Steinhart (2004: 94–5); for the problem of which festival is depicted see Parker (2005: 302–3); for the relevance of this procession to the boat-scene in Frogs and in Taxiarchoi see Lada-Richards (1999: 62–3 with n. 71, 69). 31 —ÆÆŁÅÆœ ŒçÅ IG II/III2 3198¼SIG3 894; see also Stratt. fr. 31; Martin (1999); Hurwit (2004: 233).


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the impression which boat spectacles and the illusion of the sea can make on audiences.32 The large amount of expensive timber required to produce a prop of such dimensions for a dramatic performance need not have been a problem.33 Depending on circumstances, a cheaper way of representing a boat on stage would be to construct the side of a ship from painted canvas and suitably worked staves, of lighter, locally produced wood (such as lower quality pine of the sort used for general construction work).34 This bottomless frame could either have been held by the performers at their sides or hung by straps from their shoulders. A lighter and more mobile prop would make sense in the case of Pherecrates’ Myrmekanthropoi also, where Deucalion’s storm seems to have been enacted in the prologue.35 These considerations leave little doubt that the sea voyage in Odysseis was naturalistically represented by means of a stage boat. The entry of the whole chorus (since this would have been the parodos) in a stage property large enough to accommodate them all would have been an exciting and highly original spectacle. Openings like this one give credence to Platonius’ claim (Diff. Char. (Proleg. de com. 2) p. 6, 6–7), that Cratinus was: h å b . . . K ÆE KØ ºÆE

H æÆø ŒÆd ØÆ ŒıÆE (very successful with regard to the opening of his plays and their theatrical equipment: tr. Revermann 2006a). The arrival and entry of a chorus is one of the most important stage movements in Greek drama, since it constitutes a drastic configuration of empty theatrical space. With its mimetic evocation of the rolling sea, Odysseis may have offered one of the most remarkable stage moments in Greek drama. The dramaturgy of extant old comedy—plays such as Clouds, Birds, and Frogs—suggests that the 32 See Hewitt (1958: 130–41, 240–4); Mohler http://www1.appstate.edu/orgs/ spectacle/ (accessed 30 Nov. 2008). 33 On the problem of timber provision and the sources of timber in ancient Attica, see Meiggs (1982: 188–212). 34 Ibid. 189–90. 35 Fr. 118 Y Ø ŒÆŒ Æø, ÆNªd ÆNªd æåÆØ, like Odysseis fr. 143, describes the storm as imminent. Fr. 119 Iºº ‰ åØ Æ e ªæ Ł ƒ e Ø ‘Quick! Use the distaff for a mast!’ suggests an emergency situation concerning a ship. The chorus of ant-men (cf. the myth in Hes. fr. 205 and Ovid Met. 7.615ff.) would enter after the end of the flood and establish the dramatic space of the play as Aeacus’ island, Aigina. For the role of the chorus in fixing the dramatic space see below.

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choral entry was one of the busiest, most elaborate, and as a result, longest scenes enacted on the stage. Although in fragmentary comedy it is difficult to talk about the length of different sections, plays like Boukoloi (above 1.3.2.) show at least that in the parodos the playwright sought to achieve dramatic momentum in order to captivate and win over his audience. This is consistent with what the provision of theatrical equipment like a stage boat would lead us to expect. It is unlikely that a property of such dimensions would be made for a short scene, so the opening scene of Odysseis most probably lasted quite some time. As will be argued below on dramatic grounds, it is possible that the storm announced in fr. 143 took up a significant part of the performance time of the parodos. Although Odysseis opened with the parodos, the fragments suggest that the audience was gradually introduced, in a way similar to the prologues of Aristophanic plays, to the plot situation and the dramatic space of the story. At least two speakers, perhaps Odysseus and the chorus-leader, were engaged upon entering in a conversation, perhaps in a dispute about seamanship (fr. 143). The references to the rising storm and to the difficulty of controlling the ship would keep the audience in suspense as long as possible in order to arouse their curiosity.36 The identities of protagonist and chorus were then clarified at some point by the chorus (cf. fr. 151). During the opening scene in mid-sea, the physical presence of the skene was probably ignored, the active dramatic space being concentrated in the orchestra. By the end of the parodos, with movement and choreography enacting the voyage (and possibly the storm, as will be argued below), the choreutai would bring the boat-prop to land close to the skene, the low platform in front of which most probably represented the shore of the island. If the Homeric version was followed, the skene itself was probably identified as Polyphemus’ cave and the island as the homeland of the Cyclopes; we can be reasonably sure that this happened as soon as Polyphemus appeared and perhaps identified himself (cf. Od. 9.275ff.). 36 Cf. Whittaker (1935: 182). If so, this part of the parodos would be dialogic recitative, thereby resembling in form the parodoi of Birds and Clouds, and in its function (arousing the curiosity of the audience), the prologues of such plays as Knights, Wasps, and Peace.


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To draw a first conclusion, Lowe’s observation about the nature and the role of Aristophanic comic openings in the construction of dramatic space can be applied to at least one play of Cratinus. This process was more complex and protracted in comedy than in the other dramatic genres; nor was it, as the example of Odysseis suggests, necessarily the result of having to construct a spatial universe ex nihilo. It is an interesting feature of old comedy which distinguishes it from the other dramatic genres. Comedy invests heavily in impressing and mystifying the audience with visual spectacle and puzzles, warming them up and developing their receptivity with routines, jokes, and teasers that prepare the play’s main theme. These routines, apparently incidental, are actually more important for comedy than the immediate construction of a setting, as is the case in tragedy. Examination of the dramatic technique of the Odysseis opening provides another insight into the construction of dramatic space in comedy. In plays like Birds, Thesmophoriazousae, Lysistrata, Frogs, and Wealth the arrival of the chorus is instrumental in fixing the main dramatic setting of the play. As Lowe observes (2006: 52), the prologue is often ‘a place where space is still in the process of being created. What tends to fix location is the arrival of the chorus—and with them the stability, continuity and in most cases the very title of the play’. A sense of setting and space is created in the prologues of most of these plays through a process of enactment. We see the characters on a journey, sometimes between worlds, a thing for which ample parallels exist in comedy (Peace, Birds, Frogs, Eupolis’ Demoi). The parodos is often associated with their arrival at the destination. Lowe rightly observes that ‘the journey between worlds can only . . . be staged in the first part of a play’ (75). Independently of his observation, the most recent study of the fragmentary Demoi of Eupolis suggests that the same thing happened in this comedy, where the return of Pyronides from the Underworld to Athens was marked by the entry of the chorus.37 The parodos of Cratinus’ Odysseis which, as we saw, merges prologue and parodos, clearly fits this pattern. There is an element in the sea-voyage at the start of Odysseis which potentially has much to tell about the realization and meaning in the

37

Telo` (2007: 37–43).

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play of this ‘journey between worlds’ motif, which appears in extant and fragmentary comedies. This is the reference to the imminent storm (fr. 143). In the Odyssey, storms help to blaze new spaces in the narrative. They usually last for a symbolic nine days, and end with a shipwreck, transferring the hero to a fairyland. From the land of the Lotus-eaters to that of the Phaeacians, storms send Odysseus to exotic and magical worlds (9.76–84, 12.403–49; cf. 7.253–5), or keep him trapped in dreamland when uninterrupted clean sailing seems about to extract him back into the ‘real’ world (10.28–55; 5.282–453). This use of storms in the Odyssey as a plot-device to move the hero from one world to another was appropriated by Euripides in Helen, a play whose intertextual debt to the Odyssey has often been noticed.38 Here Euripides gives us a vision of Egypt as a ‘never-never land’, an ideal setting for his exploration of the tension between appearance and reality. A storm puts Menelaus ashore there, and the passage which describes his wanderings, shipwreck, and survival (Hel. 400–15) contains clear linguistic and thematic allusions to Odysseus’ adventures.39 Segal aptly points out ‘[Euripides’] desire to recreate something of the fairy-tale mood of Odyssey 4 and of the Odyssey generally’.40 In Euripides’ Kyklops 18–20 the motif is used again, albeit with a variation, as this time it is the satyrs whom adverse weather drives onto the island of the Cyclopes. Significantly, this is said to have happened as they were rounding Cape Malea, the same point where Odysseus began his nine-day adventure which transferred him to the first fairyland of his wanderings (Od. 9.80ff.). Devices like storms, which shuffle characters around in unpredictable and arbitary ways, have a natural appeal; they can easily motivate the arrival of characters in brave new worlds which are often presented as exotic and magical spaces. Just so the exotic atmosphere of Plautus’ Rudens and Shakespeare’s Tempest, both of which have a strong element of the supernatural, is again introduced with scenes of storm and shipwreck.41 Aristophanes’ Clouds also presents an

38

See esp. Lange (2002: 131–51); Eisner (1980). Lange (2002: 135). 40 1971: 572. 41 For the unusual character of the setting in Rudens in the Plautine corpus, and the influence of this comedy on Shakespeare’s Tempest, see Svendsen (1983: esp. 123–5); 39


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interestingly sublimated version of the device familiar from plays like Helen and Kyklops, which has hitherto gone unnoticed. Here it is used to mark the hero’s entry into a metaphorical new ‘space’. In the opening scene, as soon as the ‘mad scientist’ Socrates begins to initiate Strepsiades into his sinister world (a process which ends in Strepsiades’ bodily entrance into the Phrontisterion, the physical correlative of the world of ‘Socratism’),42 the audience witnesses the approach of a storm, as dark clouds near and thunder around the comic hero (264ff., esp. 292). Whether the thunder was represented by means of the bronteion, the theatrical sound amplifier, or merely with music,43 the dramatic enactment of this natural phenomenon, together with the ‘kainotheistic’ invocation of sophistic deities, introduces the comic hero and the audience to what the dramatist presents as the frightening world of ‘Socratism’. In the case of Odysseis, since Cratinus’ model is the Homeric Odyssey itself, the reference to the imminent storm may have been of great importance for the construction of the play’s theatrical space. It is of course not impossible that the mention of an imminent storm in fr. 143 merely provided an excuse for the chorus to divert their stage boat onto the island, thus avoiding the danger. Yet the use of storms as a narrative device in the play’s Homeric model, and the enormous potential impact of this natural phenomenon, which was used in various ways in the fifth-century theatre,44 tell against the idea that this weighty plot-device was evoked but not used. The length of the opening scene and the fact that contemporary choreography and possibly music and sound effects could easily have managed a storm (compare, for example, the earthquake scenes in Bakchai 585ff., and Herakles 886ff.) as well as the mimetic tendencies Louden (1999: esp. 201). It is possible that the Greek prototype of Plautus’ Rudens, Diphilus’ Epitrope, introduced its setting in the same way. 42 For the characterization of ‘Socratism’ in this scene, see Revermann (2006a: 198–9). 43 For the former view cf. Revermann (2006a: 200); for the latter, cf. Dover (1968) on Nu. 292. 44 Apart from the dramatic use of the storm in Clouds and Helen, one should also take into account Prometheus’ transfer to the Tartarus amid earthquake, thunder, and storms in P. Desmotes 1082ff. Cf. the use of earthquake in E. Bakchai and Herakles (for a different dramatic purpose). Cratinus himself wrote a Cheimazomenoi (The Storm-Tossed, 424 BC), about which nothing is known.

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of comedy suggest that the Odysseis parodos contained a storm scene as well as a boat. Through its intertextual reference to the storms of the Odyssey, such a scene would evoke the transfer to fairyland, thereby heightening the audience’s anticipation of the otherworldly and unknown. This dramatic device would make a perfect introduction to a larger motif commonly explored in Greek drama. This is the idea of civilization versus barbarism, a theme often represented in spatial terms (e.g. in A. Persai, S. Philoktetes, E. Medea, Hekabe, and Troiades), and one which may have played a promiment part in this play as well (cf. its use in E. Kyklops). Unfortunately, the fragments do not allow us to see how, exactly, this theme might have been used in Cratinus’ play.

5.1.2. Multiple Spaces in the Opening Scene of Plutoi The foregoing discussion has shown that the beginning of Cratinus’ Odysseis, like many Aristophanic openings, involved gradual and protracted construction of the main dramatic setting of the play. Furthermore, because the play opened in mid-sea, especially if the characters were ‘shuffled’ around by the storm for a period of time, the space defined by the play’s opening was relatively vague, and the opening scene almost ‘atopic’. Another similarity which has emerged is that the arrival of the chorus plays a key part in fixing and subjecting the ‘empty space’ of the theatre to the demands of the plot. In Odysseis, the dramatic space seems to have been fixed at the end of the parodos, which merged the functions of the Aristophanic parodos and prologue. In the present section, and by means of another example, the Plutoi, we will focus more closely on the opening spaces of Cratinus’ comedy, corroborating their ‘atopic’ character and playful lack of specificity. In the case of Cratinus’ Plutoi, it will be shown how this feature can serve the dramatic purpose of enabling the multiple identification of theatrical space. On the basis of Aristophanic material, comic space has long been perceived as much less specific than that of tragedy.45 As the previous

45

Cf. Dearden (1976: 42–3).


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analysis implies, this was particularly true of the beginnings of plays. In tragedy, a considerable part of the characters’ speech when they first enter is devoted to the purposeful construction of a very specific locale. In most Aristophanic comedies,46 the spatial references are more casual and usually result from the movements and actions of the characters. As D’Alessio’s careful statistical analysis has shown,47 Aristophanic comedy is much less prone than other dramatic genres to using the kinds of deictic words and pronouns which are key to elucidating and fixing theatrical space. Even where the setting of the play is suggested early on by the words and actions of the characters, such signs are used much less frequently, and with less specificity, than in tragedy. For example, the opening scene of Lysistrata takes place in a setting which is not defined by anything apart from Calonice’s entrance (5) and the presence of these two Athenian women. Birds, a play perversely preoccupied with spatial categories, starts with a telling scene in which the characters wander directionless through the orchestra, a device that could almost be taken as a commentary on the vagueness of comic space. The two main characters arrive to the house of the mythical hero Tereus (15ff.), but no more information is given about its whereabouts. Acharnians, on the other hand, is a case where the hero states quite early on that he is on the Pnyx (20). Still, the skene-building is ignored until the end of the opening scene (v. 202—something which never happens in tragedy), when the setting changes. Some plays, like Birds and Acharnians, are not interested in identifying the setting much more precisely even 46 Exceptions are Wasps and Clouds, where the spatial categories of tragedy are arguably evoked. In Wasps, although the dramatic situation and spatial conditions are clarified quite late (by v. 113), the construction of space in the opening scene is specific because the play’s meaning requires the existence of a clear distinction and tension between the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ spaces (see Lowe 2006: 49–51). In Clouds, the dramatic space is precisely delineated from early on (7ff.). As Silk (1993: 498– 504) has shown, this play reproduces many tragic patterns, especially in terms of plot construction and characterization (Silk calls Clouds a ‘hybrid’). The precise delineation of the dramatic situation and space in the beginning of the play helps both the paratragic characterization of its hero (which will become manifest at the end of the play) and the description of the problem (the debts) in which he is trapped. Knights is a different case altogether, because although the skene is identified in the opening lines, it is discontinuously used thereafter, sometimes serving simply as an ‘inside’ space or prop store (since e.g. the Sausage-Seller fetches his oracles out of it). 47 D’Alessio (2007: 101–2).

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later on. In Birds, the setting becomes a little more specific when the chorus arrives, since their presence makes it the ‘land of the birds’, but later on it is transformed into Cloudcuckooland, which is vaguely situated somewhere between heaven and earth (cf. 172ff.). In Acharnians, after v. 240 we can assume that Dicaeopolis is somewhere in the Athenian countryside, because he celebrates the Rural Dionysia. However, it is not really possible to spell out his movements in detail. Part of the explanation for this concerns comedy’s tendency towards spatial versatility. Less precision and repetition in spatial references and descriptions made it easier for the scene to change, or for the skene-building to be reidentified or transformed, as often, into a simple ‘inside’ space. It also allowed realistically impossible spatial movements to occur, as often happens in surviving comedies. Part of the explanation is also grounded in the dramatic meaning of space in the respective genres. As Wiles (2000: 122) points out, ‘typically the characters of tragedy are trapped in a situation from which no physical escape is possible’. This requires very precise definition of the tragic scene. Comedy’s spatial requirements are different, and this helps to explain why space there might not need to be defined quite as precisely. These observations are useful for understanding the construction and use of space in some of Cratinus’ multi-layered dramatic structures, which we explored in the previous chapter. According to Pavis (1998: 117), ‘the dramatic space is constructed when we form a mental image of the dramatic structure of the world represented in the play—an image informed by the characters, their actions and the relationships between them as the action develops’. In plays with multi-layered plots, such as those analysed in Chapter 4, the audience’s construction of dramatic space was naturally affected by the multiple signals it received concerning characterization and plot. The opening scene of Plutoi (reconstructed and discussed in 1.3.3. above) is an example of this. The most substantial fragment of this play (fr. 171) includes elements which are often important for locating and fixing theatrical spaces: an entrance by a chorus, information concerning their identity, what they want to do, and their relationship to other characters in the drama. Although in other cases such information might have assisted the creation of a precise


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stage-context for the play’s action, the mixed signals given us in the fragments of the opening scene of Plutoi point not to one but to several spatial systems which conspire to create an overall ambiguity. The early appearance of the chorus of Titans, their reference to the recent tyranny, and their statement that they are visiting their brother constitute a parody of the opening scene of Prometheus Lyomenos, and therefore evoke the space and time of the myth dramatized in that play. The members of the chorus enhance this impression through the elevated verbal register of their speech, their movements, and probably their costumes. Yet this space is immediately deconstructed by the Titans’ metatheatrical acknowledgement that they are participating in a dramatic competition. This unavoidably draws attention to a different kind of space, the real physical space of the Theatre of Dionysus. At the same time, the references to Pericles’ recent fall and the ascent of the demos, as indications of time and space, add a topical dimension, since they suggest that the dramatic space could in fact be the city of Athens. This ambiguity is clearly indicated by Cratinus’ use of the deictic Fæ in fr. 171.24: ( .) ‰ b ıæÆ Iæåc º: [ºıÆØ B b ŒæÆE, Fæ K ŁÅ æe : [ _ ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØe ÇÅ F[ ] Œ: N ÆŁæe XÅ.

25

Despite the explicit reference to the demos being in power in v. 23, Fæ in v. 24 does not determine the dramatic space as simply ‘Athens’, because, as the following lines suggest, the tragic model continues to be evoked and is key to the meaning of the scene. The fact that these multiple signals coexist and work together without causing confusion and that, arguably, the space of the opening scene of Plutoi refers to multiple spatial systems is probably due to the fact that the sense of space created in the opening scene of Plutoi is quite loose. This looseness and unspecificity of dramatic space is striking if compared to similar descriptions of locales in openings of tragedies (choral openings: A. Supp. 15ff.; monologic openings: E. Supp. 1ff.; dialogic openings: S. Aj. 3ff.) and indeed of satyr plays (E. Cycl. 18ff.). Later on in Plutoi, however, in the agonal scene where Hagnon goes on trial (fr.

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171.57–76), after the parody of Prometheus has been loosened and possibly replaced by thematic and visual reference to the Oresteia and especially Eumenides (above, 3.1.5), the predominant dramatic space has become ‘Athens’, albeit with both a mythical and a contemporary dimension. With all its multiplicity, the manner of construction of space in Plutoi seems to be consistent with that of Aristophanic plays and, to an extent, with Odysseis in the fact that early in the play dramatic space is not precisely defined. Furthermore, the entry of the chorus is again instrumental in fixing the dramatic space; a variation in comparison to Aristophanes is that in Odysseis and Plutoi dramatic space seems to have been fixed at the end of the choral entry scene, rather than at the beginning.

5.1.3. Changes of Scene and the Use of Machinery One more observation which can be made regarding dramatic space in Cratinus concerns changes of scene. On the assumption that comic space is generally ‘fluid’ and ‘imprecise’, it has sometimes been suggested that comedy tends towards anarchic changes of scene. This is a central premise in Scullion’s comparison of scene-changes in tragedy and comedy,48 and in the work of von Mo¨llendorff on chronotope categories in comedy.49 Yet as far as Aristophanic comedy is concerned, Thiercy (2000) has recently offered a more balanced analysis, arguing that ‘change of scene’ in old comedy is by no means fluid, unmotivated, or unrestrained by rules of stagecraft. He has rightly shown that changes in the identification of theatrical spaces and shifts from one setting to another are always carefully established in a manner akin to tragedy, either by a choral song, by displacement of the actor(s), through dialogue (the technique of ‘refocusing’), or by the use of stage machinery. It is possible to identify only three instances of scene-change in the surviving fragments of Cratinus; we cannot, therefore, be certain that the poet always managed his changes of scene in a naturalistic way. 48 49

Scullion (1994: 67, 109); cf. Poe (2000: 269–70). von Mo¨llendorff (1995: 112–50).


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Yet the pattern identified by Thiercy in Aristophanes is found in all three of cases. In Odysseis, as we just saw, the sea voyage which placed Odysseus and his comrades on the Cyclops’ island was naturalistically represented by means of a stage boat, and probably with a storm enacted by the chorus. Seriphioi seems to have been another example of naturalistic scene-change by means of theatrical equipment. In Chapter 3, pp. 164–8, it was argued that adesp. fr. 1104 comes from Seriphioi, and, in particular, from a context where Perseus’ flight (cf. øæ in fr. 222.1) was represented by means of the theatrical crane. The third example is Nemesis, which may also have used the mechane to achieve the representation of Zeus’ flight (from Olympos?) to Rhamnous.50 The description of Cratinus’ play in Ps.-Eratosth. Cat. 25 talks explicitly about this flight-scene: ºªÆØ b e ˜Æ › ØøŁÆ fiH Çfiø fi ø fi . . . ŒÆÆBÆØ N ,Æ FÆ B `ØŒB ŒIŒE c ˝ Ø çŁEæÆØ . . . S çÅ Ø ˚æÆE 51 › ØÅ . This is the creature into which they say that Zeus transformed himself . . . and flew to Rhamnous in Attica . . . as the poet Cratinus says.

It is not impossible that the flight was merely narrated. Yet although this would probably have been the case in tragedy, in comedy there is no reason to suppose that this was so. In fr. 114, Zeus is instructed to transform himself into a bird (presumably in order to approach Nemesis); fr. 116 proves he did this (above, p. 171). It would be surprising if his metamorphosis into a flying creature was not dramatically enacted during the transfer to Rhamnous. This assumption is supported both by the general readiness of comic poets to use the theatrical crane, and also by this play’s paratragic storyline. The probable use by Cratinus of the mechane in Nemesis is corroborated by the reference to the theatrical crane in fr. 192 of Aristophanes’ Daedalus, a play which also dramatized the myth of Zeus and Leda (cf. frr. 192, 198, 193).52 It is entirely possible that the precedent of Nemesis had an influence on the dramaturgy of Aristophanes’ play.

50 51 52

So Revermann (2006a: 305). This was corrected from the codices’ ˚æÅ by Valckenaer (1767: 166). Cf. Bergk (1838: 398); Kock i. 435.

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Production and Imagination 5.2. COSTUME AND DISGUISE: DIONYSALEXANDROS

Old comedy, as our sources attest, was a fiercely competitive milieu where a poet’s failure or success was determined as much by novel and impressive theatrical spectacle as verbal skill. Poetry, dramaturgy, and design were inextricable elements of the comic poet’s craft. The complicated stage properties and machinery discussed in the previous section suggest that Cratinus, like his rivals, placed great emphasis on spectacle. Costume, especially that of the chorus, was a further important element of the total visual impression. Cratinus’ fondness for mythical tales, which he exemplified in plays like the Cheirones (whose chorus probably consisted of a band of Cheironduplicates in centaur costumes)53 and Nemesis, which involved birdcharacters, suggests that the spectacle he created was as impressive in terms of costume as it probably was in other respects. Even if the scarce surviving fragments do not permit detailed investigation of the role played by costume in Cratinus’ theatrical spectacles, the point must nevertheless be raised. The period of his activity as a playwright and theatrical producer fell before the start and during the early years of the Peloponnesian war. This was a period when we have no evidence suggesting that Athenian state finances had begun to limit the funding available for the dramatic festivals, as may be true later on.54 Cratinus’ interest in dramatizing a range of mythological themes which required special costumes and stage properties might in fact have had to do with abundant state funding. Apart from enhancing spectacle, costume had a major dramatic significance in old comedy. Plays such as Acharnians, Thesmophoriazousae, and Frogs exhibit sophisticated uses of costume in the form of theatrical disguise, combined with overt metatheatricality.55 In Knights,

53

See above, Ch. 1 at n. 120. Cf. Frogs 405, the interpretation of which is, however, disputed. See CsapoSlater (1995: 155–6). 55 See Muecke (1977: 62–7). Separately, for Acharnians see Foley (1988) and Robson (2005a: 174–7); for Thesmophoriazousae Zeitlin (1981) and Robson (2005a: 177–88); for Frogs Lada-Richards (1999: 159ff.) and here, below. 54


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costume-change is used as a way to enact shifts of scene and to show ideological transformation, as Athens, personified by Demos, is ‘changed’ and restored to the ‘good old days’ of his virile youth when the Mede came. Costume seems to have had a similar ideological function in Eupolis’ Demoi and in the agon of Aristophanes’ Clouds.56 Iconographic evidence like the vase-painting formerly known as ‘Getty Birds’ and the Choregoi vases57 shows that costume was also exploited for generic play. Finally, comic dramas with Dionysus as a character, in particular Aristophanes’ Frogs, Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi, and, as will be shown below, Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, employed costume to reflect and imaginatively engage with elements of the god’s cult.

5.2.1. Costume, Costume-Change, Dionysiac Initiation, and Dionysiac Poetics in Dionysalexandros As Seriphioi fr. 218 suggests (see above pp. 159–62), Cratinus seems to have used costume for metatheatrical paratragic play. There is, however, another example which reveals even more important information about how the author handled the dramatic potential of costume. This is the role played in Dionysalexandros by Dionysus’ costume and disguise.58 In all the extant and fragmentary plays in which Dionysus has a central part, the god’s dress and appearance constitute a fundamental dramatic element.59 This is certainly true of Dionysalexandros also. This comedy, as the title ˜Ø ı -ÆºÆæ

itself shows, is all about impersonation and disguise.60 Dionysus’ twofold masquerade as Paris and as a ram, and the multiple identities 56

For Knights, see Revermann (2006a: 121); for Demes, see Telo` (2007: 67–71); for Clouds, see Revermann (2006a: 210) and Foley (2000: 301). 57 See pp. 104–7 and Taplin (1993: 55–66). 58 The full text of the Dionysalexandros hypothesis with a translation are provided in Appendix 4. 59 In comedy, these include Aristophanes’ Frogs and Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi, on which see below; in tragedy, Euripides’ Bakchai and Aeschylus’ Edonoi (cf. fr. 61); in satyr play, possibly Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai (where the satyrs taunt Dionysus for his effeminacy, cf. fr. 78a.65–71). 60 Cf. the Aristophanic compound ˙æÆŒºØ ÆŁÆ (Xanthias dressed as Heracles) in Frogs 499. Revermann (1997) has also discussed costume and costumechange in Dionysalexandros, but has focused on aspects different from the ones explored here.

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he assumes in the course of the play (Dionysus, Paris, Pericles, and the ram), suggest that Dionysalexandros, like Bakchai and Frogs, drew not only on Dionysus’ status as the patron of drama, but also on his character as a god of many forms, well established in myth and cult. Still more important, however, is the fact that both the evidence for Cratinus’ handling of Dionysus’ costume, and the multiple roles he plays over the course of the play suggest that Dionysalexandros exploits religious and ritual elements associated with initiation in the mysteries. This makes Dionysalexandros one of several Dionysiac dramas, including the later Frogs and Bakchai and the earlier Lykourgeia trilogy of Aeschylus, which reflected his role as a divine patron of mysteries and initiation. However, before we turn to the question of Dionysiac initiation in Dionysalexandros, let us first consider how this play compares with other Dionysiac dramas in its use of costume as a way to reflect on other mythical and cultic aspects of his divine personality. In Euripides’ Bakchai, the volatile nature of Dionysus and his propensity to changes of shape are all-pervasive. Both traits are well attested in Dionysiac myth and cult. He comes to Thebes æçc IłÆ KŒ Ł F æ Å Æ (4; cf. 53–4), making his first appearance to the Thebans in the form of an effeminate oriental youth. Disguised, he drops a broad hint to Pentheus that the god can take ‘whatever form he wishes’ (› E XŁº 478). He later appears to the eyes of mad, dazzled Pentheus in the form of a bull (920–2). In the course of the play, the chorus repeatedly evokes Dionysus’ powers of metamorphosis: they call him ‘the bull-horned god’ (100); they urge him to reveal himself as a bull, a snake, or a lion (1017–18); and in the final ode they tell how Pentheus was lured to his death by a bull (1159). Moreover, this focus on metamorphosis is especially appropriate to a god of drama. In particular, as Foley (1985) and Segal (19972) have shown,61 the use of costume and disguise in Bakchai serves to illustrate the author’s metatheatrical reflection on his medium.

61

Foley (1985: 205–58) and Segal (19972: 215–71). For metatheatricality in Bakchai see also Goldhill (1986–1988); and Bierl (1991).


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The god’s metamorphic nature and fluidity of shape also plays a central role in Dionysiac comedy. The metatheatrical exploitation of Dionysus’ nature seems unsurprisingly more overt and explicit in this genre. Given comedy’s greater tendency to physicality and metatheatricality, and to demonstration rather than mere relation, this feature tends to take the form of a succession of costume-changes. In Aristophanes’ Frogs, Dionysus’ dressing up constitutes a major element of the play. At the start of the play he impersonates Heracles. When he meets him, he exhibits a remarkable awareness of his relationship to the hero, as an actor to the character he plays (108–9): Iºº zæ *ŒÆ c Œıc åø qºŁ ŒÆa c Å Ø . . . 62 Well, the reason I have come wearing this costume in imitation of you . . .

For the rest of the action, until he sits in judgement on the contest of Aeschylus and Euripides, Dionysus attempts two different roles. As he travels through the Underworld, he repeatedly trades attire with Xanthias, assuming at one moment the role of the slave and at the other that of Heracles (464ff.). Neither disguise is really successful, or much use to him. As often in cases of comic disguise, his real costume and, hence, his real character always shines through the masquerade (cf. 46–7), strengthening our impression of him as an ‘incompetent impersonator’.63 Ironically, when Dionysus casts off his own disguise and props, he encounters disbelief, and has to go through a trial to prove his real identity (627ff.). In another comedy, the fragmentary Taxiarchoi of Eupolis, we find more evidence for use of costume-change and role-playing associated with the character of Dionysus. Although the fragments do not allow extensive or detailed reconstruction of the play, it is certain that Taxiarchoi, too, dramatized Dionysus’ effort to act out a different role. As attested by Peace 348e and confirmed by a number of fragments (frr. 268.14–15, 268.34, 268.50–5, 272, 274, 276, 280), Dionysus in this comedy joined the Athenian navy, undergoing

62 Cf. Lada-Richards (1999: 159–61); Halliwell (1986: 114). For the metatheatrical use of mimesis in Aristophanes see also Muecke (1977: 64–6); Zeitlin (1981: 177–94). 63 For the concept see Lada-Richards (1999: 60–8), and here, below.

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basic training under the general Phormion.64 Here as well, costumechange was a part of his acting. A few verses survive from a scene where the god either contemplated a change of dress and general lifestyle, or was told that such a change would be necessary if he was to fit into his new surroundings: Id ØŒº ı ØÆæe å Iº ıÆ fi ŒæÆ ŒÆd æøÆ (fr. 280) and wearing a tunic instead of a multi-coloured robe, (your) hair filthy from lack of washing.

Once again, it seems that Dionysus did not manage to escape his real self. This is reflected in the fact that, as in Frogs, he did not change costume entirely, but dressed himself in an odd collection of bits and pieces of a soldier’s costume, retaining his traditional Dionysiac (and feminine) krokotos: x - ‹ q Ø æ , ŒæŒÅ

ÆBæÆ r å, Æd a e ˜Æ, F b Þ ı ª ºÆÆ ÞÆ fi ø (fr. 270)65 when it was newer, it had five staters’ worth of saffron dye—yes, by Zeus, it did—but now two talents’ worth of dirt, easily.

It is however significant that in both Frogs and Taxiarchoi Dionysus is required to act out a role diametrically opposed to his own comic identity, namely to put aside his effeminacy, cowardice, and love of luxury, and become a Heracles, rough and virile, or a brave campaigner. In doing so, Dionysus assumes the ultimate task of an actor: he must entirely transform his real self and ‘play the Other’. In both comedies, the god is an unsuccessful impersonator who fails at acting, the very activity of which he is the patron.

64

See Storey (2003: 246–60). According to this interpretation, the speaker is Dionysus, who complains about his krokotos having suffered from the military life. For the adjective æ used to characterize a garment, cf. Kaibel in K-A ad loc., who points out Theoc. 7.17 º ªæ Æ. Contra Kock ad loc., according to whom the speaker is Phormion referring to his old tribon. 65


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In Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, a Dionysiac comedy older than both Frogs and Taxiarchoi,66 the god’s metamorphoses and successive attempts at role-playing were enacted again by changes of costume. At the beginning of the play, Dionysus probably appeared in his usual outfit. Fr. 40.2 Łæ , Œæ Œø, ØŒº , ŒÆæå Ø (‘thyrsus, saffron dress, multi-coloured robe, a goblet’) could well refer to his appearance in this part of the play, before he put on any disguises.67 As soon as he agrees to substitute for Paris at the Judgement, Dionysus exits (before Hermes) in order to disguise himself, while the satyrs perform the parabasis (6ff.). His newly acquired double identity as Dionysus and Paris-Alexandros, enacted probably by a combination of odds and ends assembled from both costumes, gives the play its title.68 Yet this is only the first of a series of disguises and identities assumed by Dionysus in the course of Cratinus’ drama. This in itself suggests that Dionysalexandros, like Frogs and Taxiarchoi, enacted Dionysus as a god of theatre. Its metatheatrical content is virtually assured. This interpretation is made especially probable by that fact that Dionysus, with this first disguise, is called upon in Cratinus’ comedy to act a part for which his personality made him wholly unsuited. All literary versions of the Judgement myth and most of its depictions on vases of the classical period portray Paris-Alexandros as a

66 For a survey of the datings of Taxiarchoi, none of which makes it earlier than 428, see Storey (2003: 246–8). 67 It is likely that fr. 40 (A.) ºc b c r å; F Ø çæ . j (´.) Łæ , Œæ Œøe, ØŒº , ŒÆæå Ø , the first verse of which suggests investigation, comes from the scene where the real Paris hunts for the imposter who put him in trouble with the Achaeans (hyp. Dionys. 33–5). If so, the second verse (perhaps spoken by a character who saw Dionysus earlier on, or by the chorus) is a description of the suspect’s appearance as a clue to his identity. As it is, a simple description of the suspect’s outfit, although it does not mention his name, is very much a picture of the archetypal Dionysus. So Dionysus’ unique appearance could have been exploited as a source of humour in this way as well. 68 A. Griffiths points out that ˜Ø ı ÆºÆæ scans in iambic trimeters and could have been used in the actual play. Because, however, it scans only if it is placed either at the start of the line or after the first metron, it is unlikely that it was used repeatedly. There may have been a single striking occurrence of it, perhaps when Dionysus returned and acknowledged his disguise. Cf. Birds 801–8, where the returning characters comment on their newly transformed appearance.

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herdsman.69 Three fragments (frr. 43, 39, and 49) confirm that this was the version followed in Dionysalexandros, too: (fr. 43)

hŒ, Iººa ºØÆ åºøæa ŒÆd N Å ÆE. No, but to walk on fresh cow- and sheep-dung. Ø Ø KÆıŁ E åÆØæÆØ Œ ıæ , Æx Œæ a æÆÆ ŒÆd f ØÆ .

(fr. 39)

And over in here are shears; with them we shear the sheep and the shepherds, too. åÅ Œ , ıŒº Ø (fr. 49) goosekeepers, cowherds.

The role of the rustic herdsman, stressed in contemporary dramatic handlings of the myth and particularly in Euripides,70 is consistent with the rough and manly parts Dionysus chooses to play in Frogs and Taxiarchoi. We can plausibly suppose, therefore, that his disguise consisted of a few items of shepherd’s attire flung over his Dionysiac dress (perhaps a diphthera,71 a pilos on his head, a shepherd’s staff to hold, etc.72 Although Paris and Dionysus share many similar features in other versions of the myth,73 the composite character of ˜Ø ı -ÆºÆæ

who emerges from their partnership is, ironically, a terrible comic muddle of discordant elements.74 Cratinus exploited the contrast between them for dramatic and humorous purposes. Two fragments (43 and 42) suggest that it was at least thematized in a verbal encounter: hŒ, Iººa ºØÆ åºøæa ŒÆd N Å ÆE.

(fr. 43)

No, but to walk on fresh cow- and sheep-dung.

69 Cf. Il. 24.29; Pi. fr. 6a Snell; S. fr. 93; E. Andr. 280–3; Hec. 646; IA 180, 574, 1291– 2. For vase-painting see LIMC ‘Paridis Iudicium’ 35–8, 40, 46, 48, 49. Cf. Gantz 1993: 569. 70 Cf. Stinton (1965: 16–17). 71 Cf. Ar. Ec. 80–1; Men. Epit. 229; see also E. Cycl. 80. 72 Cf. the representations of shepherds on Athenian contemporary vases in Cohen (2000: 169, fig. 6.6 I, and 204–5, figs. 8.1–2 A, B). 73 Cf. Otto (1981: 175–6). 74 This is in terms of appearance. In character, as pointed out in Ch. 4, he is far closer to the Paris of myth: louche, selfish, self-indulgent, and inclined to avoid labour and battle.


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ÆæÆ Æ ŒÆd æŁıæÆ ºØ ØŒºÆ (fr. 42) (Do) you want painted doorposts and porches(?).

The lifestyle contrast suggested in these verses recalls the scene between Dionysus and the satyrs in Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai, where the satyrs reject the god’s effeminate lifestyle (cf. fr. 78a.65–71), themselves having embarked on a more manly activity, that of athletics (cf. fr. 78a.29–36). Given the motif of the satyrs’ estrangement from the god analysed in 2.1, Cratinus’ satyrs, on encountering Dionysus, would probably have compared their newly acquired identity as rough, manly shepherds with Dionysus’ effeminate tenderness and luxury. The fragments may, therefore, have come from this section of the play and Cratinus may have followed his Aeschylean model even more closely than we allowed in our earlier discussion (2.1.2). The disharmony of Dionysus’ dress could also have been made the butt of the satyrs’ mockery, perhaps with the cross-gendered humour so typical of old comedy. Aeschylus’ Edonoi fr. 61, Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae 134–43, Frogs 45–6, and the later Dionysius by Eubulus,75 all ultimately referring to the Aeschylean scene between Lycurgus and Dionysus ( Æe › ªØ ;

æÆ; º; . . . ) could provide a useful model for such a scene, especially since Aeschylus’ words seem to have caught on in later playwrights’ work as as an allusive joke.76 In its weirdness, Dionysus’ disguise as ˜Ø ı -ÆºÆæ was probably typical of the comic genre as a whole. In all cases where Aristophanes exploits disguise, characters heap on an imperfect mixture of sartorial elements and attributes which leaves the audience ‘continually aware of the identity of the real character

75 Cf. Ar. Th. 137 KFŁ c Iæåc ¯h ıº K Ø Æ F ˜Ø ı ı, a I ØÆ H K fiB ˜Ø ı ı NŒÆ fi ŒÆÆºªø. Kd º Ø. As Rau (1967: 109) observes, Eubulus is much more likely to have used a familiar tag from Aeschylus than a pastiche from Aristophanes. See also Hunter (1983: 117). 76 The style of interrogating is possibly echoed in Birds 994, too: Æs f æ ø; NÆ ıºÆ ; j ØÆ, › ŒŁ æ B › F; where unless the allusion is recognized, ŒŁ æ seems odd and incomprehensible. Cf. Dover (1993) on Ra. 47. Contra Dunbar (1995: ad loc.). Cf. also Ar. fr. 307 and Blaydes (1880: 147).

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beneath’.77 With all their incompleteness and absurdity, however, comic disguises are effective when this is dramatically necessary. So it is in Frogs, where although Dionysus is laughed at for his incongruous attire by the very character he is supposed to be impersonating (45–7), the same disguise is believable and effective when this is not in Dionysus’ interest, even when Xanthias wears it (460 ff.). Just so, Dionysus’ disguise in Dionysalexandros was effective during the contest of the goddesses, only to get him into deeper trouble later. The god’s double role as Dionysus and ‘false Paris’ took on greater complexity in the Judgement scene and thereafter, as a further identity emerged for him: the Athenian leader Pericles.78 This is because the gifts the god was offered in the contest (and perhaps the way he perceived them or negotiated with the goddesses) applied not only to Paris-Dionysus, but—depending on their dramatic exploitation in the play—equally or even more to Pericles.79 As was argued earlier (4.1.7–9), the poet’s satirical allusions to Pericles worked probably through emphasis, a technique of suggestion which intermittently called attention to the Periclean aspects of a character who in stage terms was Dionysus throughout. Revermann (1997) has argued that Dionysus’ impersonation of Pericles could have been enacted by means of costume as well. According to Revermann, the key would have been Pericles’ cranial deformity, a physical trait for which he was repeatedly and relentlessly ridiculed by the comic dramatists, especially Cratinus.80 Revermann believes that when the comic playwrights put Pericles on stage, they not only alluded to his outsize head, but also gave the actor one. There would be no technical difficulty in making a plastered linen mask elongated on top (cf. fig. 54a in Pickard-Cambridge 19912). Revermann may be right that the actor playing Dionysus wore a mask that was 77 Stone (1984: 407) and Revermann (1997: 198). Some examples are Th. 214ff.; Ec. 60ff.; Ach. 729–817. 78 So, at least, it seems from the surviving text of the hypothesis. Cratinus probably alluded to Pericles earlier in the play, namely in the parabasis (see Appendix 1), and so in a different manner. 79 For the technique, see 4.1.7–9. 80 For examples of satire of Pericles’ alleged head deformity, see above, Ch. 4 at n. 9. A similar suggestion was made by Webster (19702 60) and Bona (1988: 189).


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longer on top, which would make the satirical allusion easier for the audience to grasp. There is, however, no conclusive evidence for this in Dionysalexandros or any other play concerning Pericles;81 in Dionysalexandros such a mask would have to be a Dionysus-mask significantly distorted, and again it is hard to believe that masks of traditional characters could vary so significantly from play to play. Above all, it is Dionysus that the protagonist represented throughout, not Pericles, the identification with whom was, as we saw, only intermittent, so the special mask might have been superfluous (as, for example, in the invective scene between the satyrs and Dionysus, or the scene of their reunion). Even without a portrait mask,82 the dramatic effect of reference and innuendo through language and gesture would have been very strong. The evocation of Pericles through the references analysed above (4.1.7–9) could have been enhanced, for example, by attributing to Dionysus a certain mode of speech,83 or gestures and mannerisms the Athenian audience would have associated with the Athenian leader through their familiarity with his public speaking.

Dionysiac Initiation and Dionysiac Poetics Up to this point in the play, and unlike in Frogs and Taxiarchoi, Dionysus has given the impression of being a competent impersonator, since as Paris he has managed to secure Helen for himself. In the following scenes, however, he returns to his usual role as antihero. His new masquerade fails, and he is detected and finally driven away. Cratinus’ Dionysus thereby conforms to the motif of the 81 In fact, fr. 73 from Cratinus’ Thrattai › åØ ŒçÆº ˘f ›d æ æåÆØ / —æØŒºÅ , fiTE Kd F ŒæÆ ı / åø, KØc h æÆŒ Ææ åÆØ suggests that Pericles would have appeared on stage not with an outsized head mask, but with headgear in the shape of a building. 82 That fifth-century comic theatre used portrait masks has been argued among others by Webster (19702: 59–61); Welsh (1979); Sommerstein (1981) on Knights 231–3; Storey (1995: 17). Contra Dover (1967); Olson (1992: 316–18); Olson (1999: passim). 83 Arist. Rh. 3.1407a1–5, 3.1411a2–4, and 3.1411a15–16 e.g. give examples of Pericles’ use of similes and metaphors, and suggest that these were recalled long after in rhetorical circles. For Pericles’ oratorical style, see also Plu. Per. }8, and O’Sullivan (1992: 107–15).

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‘incompetent impersonator’ found in the plays of Eupolis and Aristophanes. As Lada-Richards has shown for Dionysus in Frogs, it is of paramount importance that the god is portrayed as incompetent and unfit in areas normally very much associated with his divine qualities and cult. Lada-Richards observes that in the rowing scene of Aristophanes’ Frogs (as in Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi fr. 268.49–50, and presumably in Aristophanes’ Dionysus Shipwrecked), Dionysus is portrayed as IŁÆºø (‘ignorant of the sea’, Ra. 204): this despite an association with the sea which is clearly reflected in cult-titles such as Pelagios, Aktaios, and Halieus and in cult activities like the celebratory procession for his return from across the sea (above, p. 240).84 Another aspect of this reverse logic is the god’s portrayal as unfit for war in Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi.85 Dionysiac disguise and roleplaying were clearly handled in Dionysalexandros and other Dionysiac comedies according to the same reverse logic with which the god was treated in other respects. This reverse logic will be explained below in the context of mystic initiation. To return to Dionysus’ disguises, when he finds out that the real Paris is coming for him, he abandons his act as ‘Paris’ and changes skeue once more (cf. l. 32 Æ Œı Æ ). This time, he assumes the form of a ram. On one level Dionysus’ decision to disguise himself as an animal is, like his effeminate attire and tendency to disguise, a comic exploitation of his polymorphic character and animal metamorphoses in myth and cult. Yet his choice of that particular animal is puzzling, because the ram does not belong to the range of forms with which the god is associated in cult.86 Often Dionysus’ disguise as a ram is reductively referred to as disguise as a sheep, and is merely explained as a reference to the pastoral scenery of the action.87 This,

84

See Lada-Richards (1999: 62–4), with more examples illustrating this point. For Dionysus’ warlike character in myth and cult see Lada-Richards (1999: 26–9). 86 These were mainly bull and lion. For these and other animal forms (snake, goat, panther, or boar) see h. Bacch. 7.44–8; E. Ba. 1017–9. Cf. also (the later) Ant. Lib. Met. 10; Nonn. D. 6.169ff., 40.38ff. etc. 87 Wright (2007: 423) also locates a political allusion in Dionysus-Pericles’ disguise as a ‘sheep’ (the metaphor for the political behaviour of the demos and its relationship to its leaders). Furthermore, for the (unlikely) suggestion that the target here is Aspasia’s second husband Lysicles who was satirized in comedy as æ Æ ºÅ , see Vickers (1997: 193–5). 85


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however, misses a very important element of the play. Although the ram is perfectly at home in a pastoral context, some aspects of this plot development suggest that part of the answer is to be found in ritual. The major item of Dionysus’ new disguise must have been a ram’s fleece put on over his usual costume.88 Dionysus commented on the fleece itself (ŒøæØ ) in the actual play (fr. 48): ÆŒØº ‰ æd ŒøæØ KçÆØÅ.

Fleeces of a ram—the so-called ˜Øe ŒfiØÆ—were used in the ritual of I Ø ı Ø , namely purification by expulsion.89 Dionysus’ wearing the fleece of a ram therefore foreshadows the end of the play and the god’s own fate: his expulsion in a procession from the land as a ŒŁÆæÆ or çÆæÆŒ , a scapegoat. Indeed, at the end of the play, Dionysus is caught and is led as a captive, followed by the chorus of satyrs, to the Greek ships for expulsion from Troy (cf. ll. 40–2). In Greek drama, Dionysalexandros is far from unique in its use of the scapegoat theme. Scapegoat rituals are evoked in several plays, notably in Aristophanes’ Knights, Euripides’ Bakchai, and the Oedipus plays of Sophocles.90 Cratinus’ treatment of Dionysus as a katharma provides yet another example of this play’s inverted treatment of the god. He is often invoked as a god of purification. In Sophocles’ Antigone (1140–5) the god is called upon to come ŒÆŁÆæ ø fi (‘with purifying foot’) to release the polis and its people from a ‘violent disease’. Dionysus’ function as a purifying deity occupies a central place also in the texts 88 This action alone may have evoked the Dionysus of literature and art, which portrays him wearing an animal skin over his dress, mostly that of a leopard or a fawn; cf. E. Hyps. fr. 752.1; LIMC ‘Dionysos’ 147 and 151. In Frogs, Dionysus wears a leonte (46). Dionysus’ masquerade as a ram in Dionysalexandros almost certainly took place on stage, in the fashion of the disguise of the Megarian’s daughters as pigs (Ach. 739–47): its enactment on stage would have created the strong dramatic effect argued below. 89 Eustath. on Od. 22.481, 1935.8; Hsch. s.v. ˜Øe ŒfiØ ; Parker (1983: 28–9); ThesCRA ii. 23. The festival was probably the Athenian Pompaia. The ram was first sacrificed to Zeus Meilichios, an epithet of Zeus which associates him with the eleusinian cult cycle (Graf 1974b). For Zeus Melichios’ Orphic associations, see Robertson (2003: 221–2). 90 For Knights, see Eq. 1135–40 and Eq. 1136c; for Bakchai, see Ba. 854–5. and Seaford (1994: 8}d); for the Oedipus plays Foley (1993c).

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preserved on late fourth-century gold leaves from Pelinna, which contain ritual scenarios and formulas from Dionysiac initiationmysteries.91 There the deceased initiate and bearer of the leaf is directed to tell Persephone that ‘Bacchius himself freed me’ (´ŒåØ

ÆPe ºı ; cf. Dionysus’ epithet Lysios). The images of animals which follow evoke the process of her initiation.92 Both the Antigone lyric and the Pelinna gold leaves suggest that Dionysus’ role as purifier is to be understood in conjunction with his mysteries. Indeed, not only did the Dionysiac mysteries involve purification as a preparatory rite, but initiation itself had a catharthic function.93 In Dionysalexandros, however, Dionysus is not a kathartes, but rather a katharma.94 Closer examination of Dionysus’ ram disguise and the way it foreshadows the pharmakos procession suggests that in this play— as in other Dionysiac dramas, notably the extant Bakchai and Frogs—there is imaginative engagement with elements of Dionysiac mystery rites.95 In particular, Dionysus’ ram disguise and his assimilation to a pharmakos evoke two important images of initiation ritual, namely sacrificial victims and scapegoat rituals. Combined with the tendency of comedy to an inverted treatment of the god, these point in a single direction: a suggestion that Dionysus undergoes preparation for initiation. Let us look at these two images first. (i) Sacrificial victims: Apart from the Dionysalexandros hypothesis, there are only two other sources where Dionysus is mentioned together with a ram. These 91

For these Dionysiac/Orphic texts, see nos. 485–6 Bernabe´ with bibliography; see also Graf and Johnston (2007). The full text is quoted below, p. 265. 92 As sacrificial animals, they evoke sacrifice; see below. 93 Graf (2007: 144). 94 It will later on become clear that, although pharmakos and purifier are opposites, they are not mutually exclusive, since a pharmakos purifies by carrying away pollution. 95 On the basis of the available evidence, scholarship now accepts that Dionysiac, Orphic, and Eleusinian mysteries interpenetrated and overlapped to a very large degree; see Burkert (1987) and most recently Graf and Johnston (2007). For 5thcent. evidence specifically concerning Orphic and Dionysiac rites, see Hdt. 2.81; Eur. Hipp. 952–4; the Olbia tablets (frr. 463–5 Bernabe´); West (1983) and Robertson (2003).


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are the Dionysiac or ‘Orphic’ gold leaves from Pelinna in Thessaly (485–6 Bernabe´), and a third-century BC ritual text on papyrus from Guroˆb in the Egyptian Fayyuˆm (578 Bernabe´). Verses 2–5 of the Pelinna leaves read: NE /æ çÆ fi ‹Ø ´ŒåØ ÆPe ºı . ÆFæ N ªºÆ Ł æ

ÆrłÆ N ªºÆ Ł æ , [verse missing from 486 Bernabe´] ŒæØe N ªºÆ . Tell Persephone that the Bacchic One himself released you. Bull, you jumped into milk. Quickly you jumped into milk. Ram, you fell into milk. (Tr. Johnston in Graf and Johnston 2007)

As has rightly been acknowledged, these verses, together with a reference in the gold leaves from Thurii (487.4 Bernabe´ ‘kid you fell into milk’: æØç K ªºÆ ; cf. 488.10), suggest that the Dionysiac initiand was likened in ritual to a sacrificial victim.96 In other words, as ‘bull’, ‘ram’, and ‘kid’, she underwent a mock sacrifice. The text of the Guroˆb papyrus, though fragmentary, is consistent with this conclusion.97 Richard Seaford98 has demonstrated the role which sacrifice and death played in the initiatory rites de passage. ‘Dionysiac initiation’, he convincingly argues, ‘meant subjection to an experience akin to death’ (283). It has been suggested by LadaRichards (1999: 333) that symbolic assimilation to a sacrificial victim could have been achieved by ritual disguise. In whatever manner this assimilation was achieved, mock-sacrifice enacted the symbolic death of the initiand, so that he/she could be reborn pure in the blessed life of an initiate. Dionysus’ assimilation to a ram in Dionysalexandros thus probably suggested assimilation to a sacrificial animal.

96 Burkert (1975: 99, suggested for the kid in Thurii leaves and now confirmed by the reference to the animals in Pelinna leaves); Seaford (1994: 288); Robertson (2003: 219); Lada-Richards (1999: 333). Cf. the use of a sacrificial piglet as a substitute for the initiand at Eleusis. 97 The preserved text is very fragmentary, but it is clear that directions are given for a Dionysiac/Orphic initiation rite (cf. º v. 3; Graf and Johnston (2007: 150– 5); v. 10 mentions ŒæØ as a sacrificial animal. 98 1994: 8}a; cf. Lada-Richards (1999: 57–60).

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(ii) Scapegoat rituals, degradation, and spatial displacement: In Dionysalexandros, Dionysus is expelled in a procession from the Troad, his status as pharmakos having already been foreshadowed by his ram disguise, as we saw. First of all, the status of a ram as a sacrificial animal is closely related to its use in scapegoat rituals. In Near Eastern contexts, there is ample evidence for rituals where a ram was expelled to carry away an evil.99 In Greece, the evidence for a ˜Øe ŒfiØ used for purification purposes is suggestive.100 Furthermore, scapegoat rituals, apart from their obvious association with sacrificial killing (for the scapegoat itself would be sacrificed or subjected to treatment resulting in death),101 enact the degradation or humiliation of the victim. Ritual degradation and humiliation is a preliminary in initiation rites across many periods and cultures.102 Also important is the spatial displacement enacted by the scapegoat ritual. In Greek religion, when human subjects were used as pharmakoi, their political ‘death’ was enacted through their expulsion from the city.103 In sum, the status of a pharmakos amounts for a person to the end of his personality and of his existence as a citizen. Dionysus’ expulsion in Dionysalexandros thus evokes another (metaphorical) form of ‘death’. A clearer picture of the kind of initiation pattern invoked in Dionysalexandros can be gathered from a reading of the Bakchai. All the rites evoked by Dionysus’ ram disguise—namely sacrifice, ritual degradation, and expulsion or spatial displacement, as well as the act of disguise itself—are found in the passion of Pentheus, which, as Seaford shows, alludes to the process of initiation into the mysteries of Dionysus. Indeed, Pentheus’ dressing scene (Ba.

99

Gurney (1977: 48–9, 54). Outside Attica, during a purificatory ritual attested for Magnesia the most prominent citizens wore rams’ fleeces and took to the mountains in a procession (see Heracl. Cret. fr. II 8 Pfister and below, n. 114). Ram’s fleeces were used to absorb and carry away pollution even outside expulsion ritual contexts: Paus. Att. d 18 Erbse; for a comprehensive survey Nilsson (19672: 110–13). The best known example concerns the Eleusinian mysteries, for which see also Burkert (1983: 268 n. 16, 282). 101 Cf. Burkert (1985: 82–4). 102 Turner (1969: 167–203). 103 Cf. the Athenian practice of ostracism, whose relationship to pharmakos-ritual has long been recognized: Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1972: 123–6). 100


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821ff.), his parade as pharmakos through Thebes and into the mountains (Ba. 854–5), and finally his murder (Ba. 1095ff.) allude to some of the preliminary rites found in mystic initiations, presented from the point of view of the initiand.104 The rites to which these acts correspond have one element in common: the elimination of the initiand’s identity and existence—his symbolic ‘death’ which leads to rebirth as a mystes or a bakchos. Such is the case of the bakchoi of the gold leaves who underwent assimilation to ram, bull, or kid. It now seems likely that Dionysus’ ram disguise in Dionysalexandros evokes this process of preparation, foreshadowing his final initiation. In van Gennep’s three-phase model of the rite of passage (‘separation’—‘limen’—‘aggregation’)105 the ritual acts discussed thus far correspond to the initiatory phases of ‘separation’ and ‘limen’. Supporting evidence for the pattern which emerges in Dionysalexandros comes from the fact that throughout the play Dionysus undergoes a reversal of his traditional roles. In van Gennep’s model, such role reversal is a characteristic of the liminal phase. In Dionysalexandros, Dionysus is called to play parts utterly opposed to his normal role and personality. He first undertakes the role of a rough, rustic herdsman; then, as patron god of theatre, he shows himself to be an incompetent actor; and finally, having the divine role of a kathartes, he himself becomes a katharma. The clearest parallel to Dionysalexandros in old comedy is Aristophanes’ Frogs. Based on van Gennep’s model, Lada-Richards has shown that the role-playing and role reversals in Dionysus’ activities here evoke the transitional, liminal phase in a rite of passage, which foreshadows initiation.106 Furthermore, Dionysus’ activity through Aristophanes’ play evokes several other elements of initiation-ritual, like symbolic death, ritual disguise, spatial displacement, degradation, licence, and initiatory mathos and pathos, which amount to sufficient evidence that an initiatory pattern has informed this Dionysiac comedy as well.107 Lada-Richards points also to several elements in Dionysus’ activity in 104

Cf. Seaford (1994: 284–9). Van Gennep (1960: ch. 1). 106 Lada-Richards (1999: 60–8). 107 Ibid., ch. 2, following and expanding on work presented earlier by Segal (1961), Konstan (1986), and Bowie (1993: ch. 10). Although not all of Lada-Richards’s arguments are persuasive, the general pattern she traces is clearly present. 105

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the Taxiarchoi which, though a fragmentary play, suggests that the initiatory pattern may have been evoked there as well.108 Several other elements of Dionysalexandros would also have suggested to the audience that the play engaged with elements of initiation ritual. It should not escape us, first of all, that early on in the play, the satyrs’ mockery of Dionysus is described as e ˜Øı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø) (ll. 11–12). Both Œø and åºıÇø (as well as their compounds and cognates), have strong ritual and, in particular, initiatory connotations.109 They are found in contexts which are amply informed by Eleusinian and Dionysiac rites; tellingly, for example, in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter Iambe’s ribaldry and jesting to the goddess-as-initiand is described with the expressions åºÅ fi and ÆæÆ Œ ı Æ (vv. 202–3).110 Œø and åºıÇø are also used by the chorus of Eleusinian initiates in a lyric section of the Frogs parodos in which they allude to the ritual of gephyrismoi in the procession to Eleusis (ŒIØ Œø ŒÆd ÆÇø ŒÆd åºıÇø, vv. 374–5; cf. 392). As has long been recognized, this forms part of the dense nexus of allusion in the parodos of Frogs to the Eleusinian mystery-rites of Demeter and Dionysus/Iakchos (324–459).111 As part of the preparation of the initiands for the mysteries, therefore, and with its associations of ritual degradation and humiliation (see above), the aischrologia described by KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø) in the Dionysalexandros hypothesis ll. 11–12 certainly forms part of the ritual pattern of the play, suggesting in addition that Dionysus undergoes the role of the initiand. Equally important is the fact that the Dionysus of this play puts on his ram disguise in a panicked response to the news of the Greeks’ arrival (ll. 29–33). He hides under it and awaits the consequences. It is likely that in the actual text he would have revealed his fear, for example by soiling himself (cf. Ra. 308, 479–90). Anxiety and fear 108 For role-reversal and initiatory mathos in Eupolis’ play see Lada-Richards (1999: 62 n. 70 and 69–70), to which we should add Dionysus’ treatment as ignorant of war. 109 I would like to thank E. Csapo for kindly drawing my attention to the ritual connotations of this section. 110 See Richardson (1974: ad loc., and 22); Foley (1993a: 45–6). 111 See Graf (1974a: 40–50).


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were regularly visited upon the initiands of the mysteries.112 In other Dionysiac dramas the initiand character also undergoes an experience of fear or agitation (Ar. Ra. 285ff.; E. Ba. 624ff.; cf. 604ff.; A. fr. 57); it is possible that the audience (or at least the initiates among them) would have recognized this element in Dionysalexandros as well. Although the fragmentary state of the text does not allow certainty, it is at least suggestive that this motif of fear appears in the same initatory context as in the other plays, both comedies and tragedies. A final striking element is the fact that the ram-Dionysus refers to his fleece as ÆŒØº , ‘shorn’ (fr. 48): ÆŒØº ‰ æd ŒøæØ KçÆØÅ I seemed to be shorn like a blanket (My tr.)

This verse may come from a context where Dionysus either described his disguise escapade after it happened, or (to pursue a more adventurous interpretation) an earlier prophetic dream or vision about himself.113 Whatever the context of the verse, the reference to the shearing of the wool still has to be explained. Cutting the hair, the shearing of wool, and the use of shorn wool or its prohibition in specific rites are all attested for many different rituals, including those of purification, sacrifice, and initiation.114 It is probable, therefore, that fr. 48 contains part of the play’s nexus of ritual imagery, although the evidence is unfortunately not clear enough to allow a conclusive interpretation of the line. Yet it seems important that sheared wool, Œ (which, as West 1983: 159 suggests, was anything from a handful of raw wool to a complete fleece) appears to be a sacred object in mystic initiation rites associated particularly with the cult of Dionysus Zagreus, a deity of the Orphic/Dionysiac cult: 112 See Plut. fr. 178; cf. the iconographic evidence from the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii; Origenes Cels. 4.10; and Artem. 2.37. 113 /Æ ÆØ and Œø (see LSJ9 s.v. çÆø B.II.2 and LSJ9 s.v. Œø I.1) are commonly used in relating a dream or vision. 114 For a comprehensive survey, see Pley (1911). Heracl. Cret. fr. II 8 Pfister describes a purification ritual perfomed in Magnesia, where rams and sheep were sacrificed to Zeus Aktaios (or Akraios) and then the thrice-shorn ramskins (ŒfiØÆ æ ŒÆ ŒÆØ) were worn by the participants, who climbed up to the cave of Cheiron on Mt Pelion (above, n. 100). See Burkert (1983: 113). Despite the similarity with Dionysalexandros there is unfortunately no such parallel from an Attic context to suggest a connection.

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a b ˜Ø ı ı æØÆ . . . ŒÆd B E B ºB a IåæEÆ ºÆ PŒ IåæE N ŒÆªø Ø ÆæÆŁ ŁÆØ• I æªÆº , çÆEæÆ, æØº , BºÆ, æ , æ , Œ (Clem. Protr. 2.18)115

Although it is not possible to say precisely how the shearing of Dionysus’ fleece would have evoked such initiation rites, especially since the context of fr. 48 is lost, it seems nevertheless probable that the Œ of Dionysiac/Orphic teletai was integrated into the ritual imagery of the play. Hence one can say that the Dionysalexandros fits into a larger pattern of Dionysiac dramas reflecting Dionysiac mysteries. Euripides’ Bakchai, Aristophanes’ Frogs, Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, possibly Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi, the Lykourgeia trilogy of Aeschylus116 and Euripides’ Kyklops,117 all plays about Dionysus, to a greater or lesser extent engaged creatively with Dionysiac initiation ritual. Dionysalexandros was one of the earliest of these. It is of course not surprising that Dionysiac mysteries should surface in plays about Dionysus. Nor is the fact that we do not know what percentage of Athenian audience were initiated to Dionysiac or related mysteries a problem for the effect of these plays. Although this is an obscure area118 it need hardly be doubted that some elements of these rites were known to the uninitiated as well, not least because of their relation to rite of passage ritual patterns. The pervasive appearance of this central theme of Greek life in literature, and especially drama (e.g. E. Hippolytus, S. Philoktetes, E. Orestes, the Oresteia trilogy of Aeschylus, E. Ion—the last two, like Bakchai and Frogs fusing elements of ephebic rites of passage with mystery images) is indeed suggestive. Several interpretations have been offered for the role that the initiation pattern plays in Bakchai and Frogs. Their differences notwithstanding, all agree that this feature is central to the image presented in the play of Dionysus’ nature and his place in

115 The earliest appearance of shorn wool in a context of a Dionysiac/Orphic telete is almost certainly P. Guroˆb (fr. 578 Bernabe´), which dates to the 3rd cent. BC (Œ

almost certainly appeared in the list of sacred objects in col. I 30). Yet the use of wool as a sacred object may be much older. West (1983: 159) explains that the use of sheared wool in the Mysteries probably has to do with a wool taboo in Dionysiac and Orphic rites mentioned already by Herodotus 2.81. 116 Cf. Seaford (2005). 117 For allusion to initiation in Kyklops, see Seaford (1981: 272–4). 118 See Burkert (1983: 253–4; 1985: 276–8).


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the polis.119 What is the role of initiation in Dionysalexandros? Things are more difficult here, as Dionysus’ initiation was not enacted in the course of the play, but merely foreshadowed. Furthermore, because the actual words of the play’s exodos are lost, it is impossible to discuss polis ideology here in relation to Dionysiac religion. On the other hand, it should be borne in mind that the Dionysiac dramas we have examined, including the Dionysalexandros of Cratinus, do not all follow the Dionysiac initiation ritual in the same way, nor do they all have the same density and volume of allusion. What these plays do accomplish is an imaginative engagement with ritual, rather than a precise imitation of it. In the case of Dionysalexandros, and on the basis of what we have already learnt about the play, it is perhaps more fruitful to look at how this feature might have been integrated into the whole plot. The ritual pattern is, first of all, a fourth strand determining the play’s plot and the characterization of its main hero (cf. 4.1.9). Yet it also has a special connection with the satyrplay plot-strand which pervades the play. In 2.1.1–3, it was demonstrated that the satyr chorus of Dionysalexandros, a Dionysiac thiasos, were separated from their master Dionysus, underwent a liminal state by engaging in an activity unusual for them, and were finally reunited with the god and reintegrated into the Dionysiac world. We can now see that this motif was arguably complemented by and interwoven with the initiation pattern: Dionysus’ rite of passage. He was first separated from his own nature (by his separation from the satyrs and the assumption of an un-Dionysiac activity) and forced into a liminal situation (the preliminaries to his initiation illustrated here), before being finally reintegrated (his foreshadowed initiation and reunion with the satyrs). Like Bakchai and Frogs, Dionysalexandros adapts and dramatizes the theme of initiation into a Dionysiac thiasos, but it does this by combining the pattern of the satyr play with that of initiation rites.

119

Seaford (1996: 44–52) has argued that in Bakchai a cult beneficial for the community is created. In Frogs, Lada-Richards (1999: ch. 5–8) maintains that Dionysus shapes the ideology of the polis by choosing Aeschylus. On the other hand, for Bakchai, Segal (1999–2000) argued that Euripides’ ending leaves open the ambiguities surrounding Dionysus and his cult.

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In drama Dionysiac plots, regardless of genre, invited ritual allusions. The presence in all these plays, including Dionysalexandros, of the initiation motif should be viewed as part of a larger tendency which influenced every genre of the Athenian theatre. Its recurrent appearance, especially in comedy, may however be due to another tendency pertaining to the genre and the particular context of the later fifth century. In Chapter 1, where we discussed Cratinus’ and his rivals’ presentation of themselves and of their poetry in the context of comic competition, we saw a dense selfassociation of our poet with Dionysus. In advertising his poetics as ‘intoxicated’ and as ‘Dionysiac’, in projecting himself as the poet of the ‘older and truly inspired’ generation, and in evoking ‘Archilochus’ as figure of drunken inspiration and ‘Aeschylus’ the Bakcheios anax as counterparts for his persona, Cratinus emphasized the Dionysiac connections and inspiration of his poetry. His sustained engagement with Dionysiac themes is also attested by titles like Boukoloi ‘Dionysiac initiates’ (1.2) and Pytine, which explicitly associated him with wine and Dionysus. In this context, it appears plausible that Dionysalexandros, with both its satyr play and Dionysiac initiation patterns, should also be associated with Cratinus’ self-referential rhetoric. Ironically, it is Aristophanes (to whom Cratinus had denied such inspiration) who provides more reassuring evidence that Dionysiac plots infused with ritual were used by the poets as an act of self-definition. As already suggested in 1.5, Frogs serves to illustrate the definition—or, to be more accurate—‘redefinition’ of ‘Aristophanes’ and his poetics, and his aspiration to join the ranks of Dionysiac poets, at a mature stage in his career.

5.3. IMAGERY AND PERSONIFICATION AS SHAPERS OF STAGE ACTION: PY TINE AND THE BEAUTY CONTEST IN DIONYSALEXANDROS As Newiger and others have shown, Aristophanic comedy personifies and enacts abstract concepts, metaphors, and even idioms of


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speech.120 The Attic comic imagination had a marked taste for concreteness and literalism. Aristophanes’ leanings in this regard are easily illustrated from his extant plays. In Acharnians 186ff., Amphitheos offers Dicaeopolis truces of various lengths, each represented by a progressively older vintage, while at Knights 1388ff., Demos, who embodies the Athenian people, is presented with a selection of treaties incarnated as nubile young women. In Peace, ‘peace’ and ‘war’ are again concretely enacted, either as statues (Peace), or as living anthropomorphic beings (War, Theoria ‘Holiday’, Opora ‘Harvest’).121 Choruses like his eponymous Wasps and Clouds embody metaphorical characterizations: the former describes the mindset of Athenian jurors, and the latter the Socratic intellectualism and ‘kainotheism’. It is in the nature of the comic genre that ideas, images, and idiomatic expressions should flit capriciously between abstract or metaphorical meaning, and literal embodiment in a physical form. At Clouds 112–13, the Socratics are said to ‘have’ (i.e. possess the ability to use) two ºª Ø: one ‘weaker’, one ‘stronger’— r ÆØ Ææ ÆP E çÆ ¼çø g ºªø, e Œæ , ‹ Ø K , ŒÆd e l Æ

—while in the second part of the play the Œæø and the lø ºª emerge as real characters from the Socratic Thinkery.122 Tragedy, too, personifies concepts like Piety, Ambition (E. Ph. 782, 531–2), Prudence (S. fr. 922), and Holiness (E. Ba. 370–3). Some of these are even brought on stage as characters, for example, Kratos and Bia in Prometheus Desmotes, and Lyssa in Herakles. As Hall (2000: 408) comments, ‘personifications in literature are always particularly rich in societies where gods are conceived anthropomorphically, and which enjoy highly developed symbolic modes of visual representation in painting, sculpture, coins and especially in 120 Newiger (1957: passim); Dover (1972: 45–8); see also Whitman (1964: 264–5); Taillardat (1965: 504–6); Silk (2000a: 95, 121–5, and 142–7). The discussion of Aristophanic passages which follows is indebted to these studies. 121 Pax 204ff., 221ff., 236ff, 520ff. In the song of Ach. 979ff., War is personified as an unmanageable party-guest and Reconciliation is addressed with sexual desire. 122 Cf. Newiger (1957: 134–8). Compare the fluid meaning and representation of å Eæ in Ach. 738–835.

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the theatre’. As a distinctive form of Greek thought, the tendency to personify concepts is found in every literary genre, dramatic and non-dramatic. The Logoi in Clouds have often been compared with the talking Laws ( Ø) of Plato’s Crito; the latter justified perhaps by expressions like › ŒºØ (‘the Law commands . . . ’), and › IÆª æØ (‘the Law forbids . . . ’).123 In comedy, however, this wider inclination towards the physical representation of abstract concepts is frequently taken to extremes impossible in other literary genres. There are plays whose entire plot depends on a single idomatic phrase or metaphorical expression taken and developed, often with absurd and enacted literalism, into a fully fledged allegorical conceit. Wealth is a characteristic example. If a person possesses an abstract quality, Attic Greek says it is ‘with’ them (Ææ ØØ), the same expression being used for chez lui.124 In the play Chremylus, a pauper and miser, becomes rich as soon as personified Wealth takes up residence in his house. The entire plot of Knights emerges similarly from the polite fiction that politicians are the servants of the people, as the playwright gives us the leaders of Athens working as slaves in the household of the weak, besotted Demos (‘People’). Both plays make further adjustments to their central allegories, adding literal enactments of images and idiomatic phrases which are intended to accompany and inflect the main metaphorical theme. Wealth, for example, is blind, as in the proverb (used already by Hipponax: fr. 36W). In Knights 725ff., we watch as the slaves of Demos enact the claim of politicians everywhere that they love the city. Dramatic enactment of metaphors, speech-idioms, and abstract concepts is thus pervasive in extant old comedy. It has enormous dramatic significance: often it is the very thing that generates or shapes the action of whole scenes or (as we saw in Knights and Wealth) entire plays. Above all, it shows just how inextricably the poet’s sense of the language is bound up with his dramatic technique. With the lack of comparative study, one might be inclined to see this feature of the comic imagination as something characteristically Aristophanic,

123 124

Cf. Newiger (1957: 142); Dover (1968: p. lviii). Dover (1972: 47).


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but in fact it is not exclusive to him.125 It is clear from the surviving fragments of his plays that Cratinus also toyed with the personification of metaphors and abstract concepts, and that these allegorizing games could determine the plot and meaning of his plays. The most important play in this regard is Pytine, whose entire plot, like that of Knights and Wealth, is based on literal enactment of a familiar metaphor. One can also point to a scene described in the papyrus hypothesis of Dionysalexandros, where the poet’s telling use of personification has remained till now unnoticed.

5.3.1. Conjugal Imagery and Poetic Creativity in Cratinus’ Pytine Section 1.5 above demonstrated how Pytine turns the poet’s selfpresentation and authorial interventions into drama. As it is, Cratinus’ idea of staging Aristophanes’ satirical caricature of himself and his response to it was both ingenious and typically comic in its absurd literalism. Yet there is more here, as will emerge from closer discussion of the underlying concept of the Pytine. Let us begin with the idea of personifying the comic genre as the wife of the stage ‘Cratinus’. From the summary of the ancient scholiast ( Eq. 400a¼Suda Œ 2216¼K-A test. ii), we know that Comedy wanted to divorce Cratinus and had filed a lawsuit against him for ŒŒø Ø . . . . ºØ ªæçØ æAÆ, c —ıÅ, N Æ ŒÆd c ŁÅ, NŒ Æ fi ŒåæÅ ØÆÅ fi . c ˚øø fi Æ › ˚æÆE Kº Æ Æ F r ÆØ ªıÆEŒÆ ŒÆd Iç Æ ŁÆØ F ı ØŒ ı F f ÆPfiH ŁºØ, ŒÆd ŒÆŒ ø

ÆPfiH ŒÅ ºÆªåØ, çº ı b ÆæÆıåÆ F ˚æÆ ı E ŁÆØ Åb æ b ØB ÆØ ŒÆd B åŁæÆ IæøA c ÆNÆ, c b ç ŁÆØ ÆPfiH ‹Ø c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ, å ºÇ Ø b fiB ŁÅ fi . . . he came back to write yet another play, the Pytine, about himself and drunkenness [or Drunkenness; see below pp. 280–5], which employed the following outline. Cratinus made Comedy his wife; she wanted to get a divorce 125 Since neither Newiger (1957) nor Taillardat (1965) have examined this kind of imagery and personification in non-Aristophanic comedy, this characteristic has generally been understood as Aristophanic.

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from him, and was taking him to court for maltreatment. But Cratinus’ friends happened by and begged her not to do anything rash, and asked the reason for her hostility. She complained that he was no longer involved with Comedy, but devoted himself to drunkenness [or Drunkenness].

Although ŒŒø Ø is correctly translated by all critics as ‘maltreatment’, no one seems to have asked what such a legal process might have meant for the plot of Cratinus’ play. According to Aristotle’s Athenaion Politeia (56.6): . . .ªæÆçÆd [b ŒÆd ]ŒÆØ ºÆªå ÆØ æe ÆP[ . . . ª ]ø ŒÆŒ ø

(ÆsÆØ N d IÇØ Ø fiH ıº ø fi [Ø]ŒØ), OæçÆH Œ[ÆŒ] ø (ÆsÆØ N d ŒÆa H KØæø), KØŒºæ ı ŒÆŒ [ø (Æs]ÆØ N d ŒÆa [H] KØæø ŒÆd H ı ØŒ ø), YŒ ı OæçÆØŒ F ŒÆŒ ø (N d b ŒÆd [ÆsÆØ ŒÆa H] KØæø) . . . . . . the following public and private lawsuits fall to him [i.e. the eponymous archon]: maltreatment of parents (on this charge anyone who wishes may prosecute without risk of penalty); maltreatment of orphans (where the suit is against the guardians); maltreatment of an heiress [an epikleros] (where the suit is against the guardian or the husband); maltreatment of an orphan’s estate (against the guardians again) . . . (Tr. Rhodes 1984)

A ªæÆç (or N ÆªªºÆ) ŒÆŒ ø could refer only to a limited number of victims: parents, orphans, or heiresses. As the first two categories seem remote from the plot-situation of Pytine, it is best to assume that Comedy’s suit was brought for KØŒºæ ı ŒŒø Ø .126 On the other hand, we do not have any evidence that would entitle us to assume that the lawsuit was being brought for any obvious forms of abuse, such as violence or squandering the heiress’s money.127 The most obvious line of interpretation is to link Comedy’s allegation to the following law of Solon, described in Plu. Sol. 20.3:128 æd Œ ı Åe KıªåØ ø fiB KØŒºæø fi e ºÆÆ (the man who receives the epikleros must have have intercourse with her three times a month; tr. Carey 1998). Failure in this duty could render the husband of an KŒºÅæ liable to prosecution: 126

For N ÆªªºÆ/ªæÆçc ŒÆŒ ø KØŒºæø see Rhodes (1981: 629) and Harrison (1968: 117–19). 127 For the precise accusations which could lead to a charge of ŒŒø Ø against an KŒºÅæ , see Is. 3. 46 and D. apud Pollux 8.53 (quoted below). 128 For discussion of the law, see Carey (1998: 103–4).


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˜Å ŁÅ K fiH ŒÆa ! ŒÆd ŒÆa H c æ ÅŒø (Meier; æ ÅŒø ms.) fiB KØŒºæø fi ı ØŒ Fø ª ŁÆØ a N ÆªªºÆ

ºªØ (Pollux 8.53) In his speech against Medon, Demosthenes says that an eisangelia could be brought also against the husband129 of an epikleros who does not live together with her as he should. (My tr.)

It seems, then, that in Pytine Comedy was presented as an KŒºÅæ

given in wedlock to Cratinus, who thus came under a legal obligation to consummate the marriage regularly. If he failed to perform his sexual duties, the same law ordered that the KŒºÅæ could be taken away from him and given to the next in line: i › ŒæÆH ŒÆd ŒæØ

ªª g ŒÆa e ÆPe c ıÆe fi q ºÅ ØÇØ, e H ªªØ Æ F Iæe O ŁÆØ (Plu. Sol. 20.2). Making Comedy an heiress was a stroke of self-eulogy on the poet’s part. The point is that she has inherited a rich poetic tradition which only he is entitled to access.130 Apart from that, by choosing to refer to an existing law about the duties of an epikleros’ husband, Cratinus focused on the sexual aspect of the marriage. Comedy thus sought to divorce the poet (cf. fr. 194) because of an alleged (and, as suggested earlier and argued for in detail below, probably misunderstood or misrepresented) neglect of his conjugal duties. Finally, as the summary’s c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ implies, the alleged neglect or poor performance of ‘Cratinus’ had consequences for the procreative aspect of the marriage. Staging Comedy and his fictionalized self as a married couple, and drawing the audience’s attention to their sexual life and especially his own sexual activity, was a brilliant, albeit provocative and paradoxical way for the poet to concentrate interest on himself and his comic boldness. However, the conceit was not new. This was in all likelihood

129 Cf. ı ØŒ ı in the Pytine summary above (l. 3). Rhodes (1981: 630) notes ‘the verb ı ØŒE was used for the fact of cohabitation, but came to be used of living together in wedlock’. Cf. [D. 59.122] and Harrison (1968: 2 with n. 4). ı ØŒE is used at Arist. Ath. 56.6, where it points to the capacity in which the husband might fail the heiress. The same verb is used in a ‘law of Charondas’ on heiresses, which is said to be the same as Solon’s law (D.S. 12.18.3). 130 For the husband’s rights, see Harrison (1968: 110).

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not even the first time that even Cratinus had employed it.131 His real innovation lay in the unprecedented weight he gave the idea in the context of comic rivalry. In fact, the entire concept of Pytine was based on the dramatic enactment of a metaphor commonly used in old comedy to describe a poet’s creative relationship with his art.132 The earliest occurrence of the metaphor in comedy is in the parabasis of Knights, whose intertextual relationship to Pytine has repeatedly been noted. In vv. 515–17, Aristophanes explains to the audience why he has not till now produced his plays in his own name: På I Æ F Łg ØÆæØ, Iººa Çø Œøø fi ØÆ ŒÆºÆ r ÆØ åÆºÆ æª ±ø• ººH ªaæ c ØæÆ ø ÆPc Oºª Ø åÆæ Æ ŁÆØ• He says that it was not out of mere stupidity that he lingered for so long in that position, but in the belief that comic production is the most difficult thing in the world, for many a man makes passes at the Comic Muse, but she grants her favours to few. (Tr. Sommerstein 1981, adapted)

Aristophanes imagines his rivals as men who try to bed a woman, but find themselves turned down again and again. ØæÆ ø suggests rough or improper passes (Ar. Pl. 150, 1067; Pax 763; Lys. 1.12), which explains why Comedy refuses to grant them her favours. Aristophanes himself has different ideas about how to proceed in this amorous pursuit. Since the main idea of the Knights parabasis proper is clearly his careful planning for a consistently successful career (512–45), what he arguably implies with this metaphor is that he is the only poet with whom Comedy might be prepared to imagine a lasting and productive cohabitation. Another version of the metaphor appears in Frogs 92–7, where Dionysus speaks metaphorically about the relationship between Tragedy and the modern poets whose work he finds so inadequate (92ff.): KØçıºº ÆF K d ŒÆd øºÆÆ, åºØø ı EÆ, ºøÅÆd åÅ ,

131

See above, Ch. 1 pp. 19–20, on Ach. 847–9. Other comic poets’ uses of the same imagery are analysed below. 132 Sommerstein (2005), from a different starting point, also discusses the use of this metaphor across comedy, but does not focus on the procreative function of the sexual relationship between the poet and his art.


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L çæ FÆ ŁA , j –Æ å æe ºÅ fi , æ ıæ ÆÆ fiB æÆªø fi Æ fi . ªØ b ØÅc i På oæ Ø Ø ÇÅH ¼, ‹ Ø æBÆ ªÆE ºŒ Ø. Those are cast-offs and empty chatter, choirs of swallows, wreckers of their art, who maybe get a chorus once and are soon forgotten, after only taking a piss at Lady Tragedy. But if you look for a potent poet, one who could utter a lordly phrase, you won’t find any left.

These tragic poets are said to have been able to take only a single piss at Lady Tragedy (95–6). They have achieved nothing in terms of procreation, but merely defiled her. With these poets, Dionysus contrasts the genuinely ‘fertile’ poets who are all, unfortunately, dead (96–7). Finally, there is a long passage from Pherecrates’ Cheiron, fr. 155, which employs sexual imagery to describe the rough treatment Lady Music receives from incompetent artists. This time, the sexual references concern these artists’ efforts to be creative by innovation, as [Plutarch], On Music 1141c attests: !ºÆØÅ › º Øe KØª PŒ KØ fiB æ € ıÆæå Å fi ı ØŒfiB, Iºº Pb /Øº Pb #ØŁ . . . The lyric poet Melanippides who came after did not continue with the traditional music, nor did Philoxenus or Timotheus . . .

This is followed by a quotation of Lady Music’s own account of her treatment. Here incompetent attempts at artistic innovation and experimentation are portrayed as sexual abuse:133 K d ªaæ qæ H ŒÆŒH !ºÆØÅ , K E Ø æH n ºÆg IBŒ åÆºÆæøæÆ K Å å æÆE ŒÆ ... /æFØ YØ æØº KÆº ØÆ, Œø ŒÆd æçø ‹ºÅ ØçŁ æ K å æÆE å ±æ Æ åø. ... › b #ØŁ , t çØºÅ, ŒÆ ææıå ŒÆd ØÆŒŒÆØŒ ÆY åØ Æ.

133

For an analysis of the passage see Dobrov and Urios-Aparisi (1995) and Henderson (2000: 142–3).

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The start of all my troubles was Melanippides, the very first of them to seize and stretch me, and widen me with twelve strings. . . . But Phrynis, sticking in his private pine-cone, bent and screwed and wrecked me completely with his twelve scales on five strings. . . . And, darling, that Timotheus poked, mined, and scraped me in the most disgusting way possible.

It has been suggested that the metaphor was first employed by Aristophanes in Knights.134 However, his sharp, compact, and hardly self-explanatory use of the image in Eq. 517 means that it was probably already familiar to his audience. Frogs 95, with its telling use of the adjective ªØ , reveals the origin of the image, and therefore its relation to serious parallels elsewhere in Greek literature. One strand of analogy is the use of Œø for artistic procreation, already a dead metaphor by the time of Aristophanes.135 The association of artistic creativity with fertility and procreation was therefore probably a commonplace in the 420s, and it is this metaphor which most likely underlies the comic versions of the trope. It can be understood in the context of a gendered narrative of the creative process, with the artist portrayed as male, creative, and active, and the art as female, passive, and the object or means of creation.136 In placing this dramatized metaphor at the centre of his Pytine, Cratinus went far beyond the earlier versions of the trope. However, it is likely that the intertextual dialogue between Cratinus and Aristophanes, which reached its climax in the older poet’s bold stage enactment of the metaphor,137 had precedents of its own. In Pytine, Cratinus responded to Aristophanes’ Knights by making his comic alter ego not merely the aspiring lover of the genre (as Aristophanes

134

Sommerstein (2005: 162–3). E. Supp. 180–1; HF 766–7; Andr. 476–7. Cf. Collard (1975) on Supp. 180–1. Aristophanes uses this metaphor in Ra. 1059, and Cratinus in fr. 203 oøæ b ø Pb i Œ Ø ç. It is easy to imagine that in the course of the play, some words relating to poetic production, such as the summary’s Œøø fi ø, acquired sexual connotations, while others, such as Œø (if fr. 203 came from Pytine, which is not necessary, but not impossible) would have had their meaning revived. 136 Cf. Hall (2000: esp. 411ff.); more generally Warner (20002: 214–40). 137 See above, 1.1. 135


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did in 515–17), but her legal husband. Yet (as we have already seen in the context of the analysis of Cratinus’ persona),138 two years earlier in a choral ode of his Acharnians (848–9), Aristophanes had ribbed ‘Cratinus’ for being ‘shorn like a Øå ’: punished like a gigolo caught in flagrante with another man’s wife. Aristophanes’ jibe at Ach. 848–9 that Cratinus was an illegitimate erastes may have been yet another (and earlier) stage of the same intertextual exchange between the comic poets on the idea of ‘who is the real lover of the comic art’. This lends a certain plausibility to the notion that the jibe in Acharnians referred to some earlier boasting by Cratinus involving him and Comedy in bed. Although it is not impossible that Ach. 848–9 makes fun of Cratinus’ appearance, the ensuing intertextual dialogue between Cratinus and Aristophanes, and their exchanges on the rights and wrongs of the poet’s sexual relationship with Comedy, make the present interpretation far more likely.

Methe: Personified or Not? There is another, equally interesting point about the dramatic enactment of abstract ideas and metaphors in Cratinus’ Pytine. The intensity with which the play’s central conceit was realized on stage probably shifted as it was focalized from different perspectives. The surviving summary and fragments suggest that in the earlier part of Pytine, the relationship of ‘Cratinus’ with his wife was focalized through Comedy. One explanation Comedy gave for her husband’s failing sexual performance (which probably stands for the poet’s losses to his younger rival in the preceding two years, 425 and 424; cf. p. 75 above) was that he was devoting himself to methe: c b ç ŁÆØ ÆPfiH ‹Ø c Œøø fi Å ÅŒØ, å ºÇ Ø b fiB ŁÅ fi . This implies that Comedy saw methe as a rival. Her claim can thus be understood in two ways: ‘he does not make comedies, but is only concerned with drinking’, and ‘he does not sleep with me, but is constantly with her’. Fr. 193.2–3 confirms that Comedy talked about the ‘other woman’ in Cratinus’ life:

138

Pp. 19–20.

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Production and Imagination Iºº { KÆÆ æłÆØ º ÆØ N { e ºª •139 ææ KŒE æe æÆ ªıÆEŒ åø e F, { ŒÆŒa Y Ø æe æÆ, Iºº –Æ b e ªBæÆ , –Æ Ø ŒE k– { P ÆP F ææ .

The most economical interpretation of the evidence is that she saw that woman in methe. Fr. 195 further illustrates Comedy’s tendency to personify and eroticize Cratinus’ passion for drink: F j YÅ fi !ÆE H Iæø

N Œ , £ÆØ ŒIŒ º ıŁE ŒÆd ºªØ, “ Y ‰ ±Æºe ŒÆd ºıŒ • pæ Y Ø æÆ;” But now, if he just sees a little bit of young Mendaean wine he follows it around and tags after it, and says, ‘Wow! how soft and pale! Will it take three?’140

There is some debate about whether methe was actually personified in Pytine or not. Luppe and Ruffell take her as a personification, whereas Heath and Rosen express aporia.141 Once should not exclude the possibility that methe is a personification on the grounds that fr. 195 implies Cratinus’ sexual preference for males,142 since Greek culture did not necessarily regard homosexual and heterosexual desire and activity as incompatible. The evidence suggests that methe was at least perceived by Comedy as a woman (just as the !ÆE wine was viewed as a boy), and probably as a bad habit as well. Given comedy’s penchant for ambiguities of meaning, it is not 139 If the first verse genuinely belonged to fr. 193, ºª may have referred either to the plot of the play (cf. V. 54; Pax 50, 148) or to another’s character’s speech. On the other hand, as Luppe (1968) argued, and A. Griffiths independently suggested to me, it is very likely that Iºº - e ºª did not belong to fr. 193, but to the commentary from which the ancient scholiast worked. If so, the original author of the summary made a digression to say that he would illustrate Comedy’s complaints about Cratinus and methe with an appropriate example ( . . . å ºÇ Ø b fiB ŁÅ fi . Pb b åEæ ºıÆŁÆ £Œ ÆPa a KØØÆ H Nø KŒºÆÆ ŁEÆØ ÆFÆ• ‘he spends his time with methe. It does no harm, in the interests of scholarship, to pick out the actual relevant trimeters and set them down here;’ tr. Griffiths). By saying Iºº KÆÆ æłÆØ º ÆØ N e ºª (‘but I want to get back to the plot’), he promised to come back to the summary. He may have done so, but in the surviving version of this scholion, the rest of his summary of Pytine was lost. 140 For other examples of drink and drinking equipment eroticized in drama, see E. Cyc. 172, 439–40, and 553–5; also Seaford (1984: ad loc.). 141 See Luppe (2000: 17); Ruffell (2002: 156); Heath (1990: 150); Rosen (2000: 26). 142 Contra Biles (2002: 181 n. 41).


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necessary to assume that if methe was perceived and talked about as a woman, she was also made to appear as such on stage, although the latter is certainly possible.143 In fact, there is no clear evidence that methe emerged, like Comedy, as a character in the play. Besides, without knowing the role of the other female entity in the play, pytine (or Pytine), it is impossible to speak with certainty about methe.144 What is demonstrable and should not be missed are the varying forms in which methe was imagined by the characters in the play. For much of it she must have been conceptualized as a mistress. Yet in fr. 193.4 we find a claim which, through its associations with sexual impotence, seems to contradict Comedy’s claims about Cratinus’ extramarital promiscuity. In these lines she blames Cratinus’ ‘old age’ also for her unhappiness –Æ b e ªBæÆ , –Æ Ø ŒE k– { P ÆP F ææ .

This reference is suggestive in the context of his unsatisfactory performance of his sexual duties. Was Comedy blaming promiscuity of ‘Cratinus’ or his failing potency (due to old age) for his unsatisfactory performance with her? In addition, drunkenness is often associated with impotence. There is no need to choose between the 143 In Lucian’s Double Indictment, whose use of Pytine has long been recognized and is suggested above all by the plot-line of the main story (Rhetoric’s accusation against her husband Syrus—a persona of the author—for ŒŒø Ø and infidelity with Dialogus; cf. }}14 and 28), Methe is conceptualized as a character, although she does not have a speaking part. Yet it is characteristic of comedy’s influence on Lucian that the word ŁÅ in Double Indictment fluctuates between personification and abstraction (cf. e.g. Ie H åØæH B ŁÅ ±æ Æ Æ a Æ }16 and P ªaæ º q Øæ å fiB ŁÅ fi }17). 144 For an attractive suggestion about the meaning of pytine (which takes it to be an object, not a character in the play), see Biles (2002: 183–4): ‘Hesychius [ 4486] describes it as a species of wine flagon made not from clay but from woven fibers. It would appear then that the importance of this particular vessel for the play was . . . as a solution to the threat witnessed in fragment 199 [a threat to smash the wine-vessels of ‘Cratinus’; above, p. 48].’ Biles ingeniously suggests also that fr. 201 refers to ‘some arrangements Cratinus makes to obtain a flask that is notionally indestructible’ and ‘if this explanation is correct, the title looks . . . to the outcome of the play and champions Cratinus’ poetic tastes in the face of vigorous opposition to his artistic methods’. Finally, Aristophanes seems to have picked up the smashed wine-vessel joke in Pax 701–3; cf. Pax 193–4. However, for drinking equipment eroticized and personified, see Cratin. fr. 195.

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two, if we read the claims about extramarital affairs and old age for what they are: metaphors which aim to represent an allegation about ‘Cratinus’ which Aristophanes had made a year earlier in Knights 526–36, namely that his capacity for artistic procreation was low because of his old age and his dependence on alcohol.145 Comedy’s perspective therefore embodies the claims of Cratinus’ rival. For a substantial part of the play, Cratinus presented the metaphorical relationship between the poet and his art focalized from the perspective of Aristophanes. Aristophanes’ claims could not have been vindicated in a play by Cratinus, especially Pytine, composed as a climactic response to his rival’s earlier intertextual satire of Cratinus’ poetic persona, especially in Knights.146 This means that in Pytine the audience must eventually have been presented with the point of view of ‘Cratinus’ on the metaphor. There must have been, first of all, a clarification of the role of methe. Given Cratinus’ advertisement of his intoxicated poetics, it is unlikely that he subscribed to the narrative of methe as a mistress who distracted him from his poetic and conjugal duty of procreation. It is also unlikely that ‘Cratinus’ conceded that old age had diminished his potency. Quite the contrary: ‘Cratinus’ must have corrected his wife’s misunderstanding, transforming methe from a house-wrecking mistress to an essential presence in his life. She would have been either a personification of intoxicated inspiration (perhaps a Muse),147 or simply (if methe was not personified) a good habit: the poet’s reliance (as opposed to Aristophanes’ claim of dependence) on wine. Moreover, on the basis of the contrast ‘oldinspired versus new-technical’ in Aristophanes and Cratinus’ intertextual rivalry (above 1.2.2), Aristophanes’ jibe at Cratinus’ old age was probably countered with the claim that he ‘belongs to the old and inspired generation of poets’. On that basis, we can reasonably assume that the couple was reconciled, with Comedy accepting that

145 For these allegations as distorting Cratinus’ own self-congratulatory claims, see above, 1.1, esp. 16–24. 146 See above, pp. 60–1. 147 For inspiration and creativity personified and embodied in Muses, see Murray (2005). Euripides’ Muse is personified and appears as a mute character ‘focalized from Aeschylus’ perspective’ (Hall 2000: 409) in Frogs 1304–64.


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her husband was a victim of diabole. By the end of the play, the central conceit probably took the form most flattering to ‘Cratinus’.

5.3.2. The Beauty Contestants in Dionysalexandros Unlike in Pytine, Knights, and Wealth, the personifications we meet in old comedy are mostly secondary characters. As physical embodiments of linguistic expressions or abstract concepts, they often carry for the audience the element of surprise and comic variation. At Acharnians 94–5, for example, the Persian king’s emissary thus appears in a mask that literally embodies his title, ‘the King’s Eye’ (cf. 95–7).148 In Knights 1389, the treaties turn out to be live women instead of documents: ˜Fæ YŁ , Æƒ Æ, Æå. Similar use of personification for variation and comic surprise is found in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros. Here it shaped Cratinus’ adaptation of the myth of the Judgement of the Goddesses for the comic stage.149 The prevailing view of this part of the play is that the goddesses Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite appeared, marshalled by Hermes, before Dionysus-Paris to make their offers, and that their contest constituted the agon. It was earlier argued that the properties of this scene make it more likely that it was episodic (p. 98). Another significant element about the scene of the Judgement which has not been adequately considered is the way Athena would have to be presented if the playwright chose to dramatize the myth in its traditional form. In comedy, there appears to be a pronounced reluctance to treat Athena, the Maiden and patron goddess of the city, other than respectfully, or even to include her in plays. The extant evidence attests that female characters, even deities, were in general treated far from respectfully on the comic stage. The lack of regard shown to Iris in Birds and Aphrodite in Plato’s Phaon fr. 188 is suggestive. This kind of rough play would be particularly apt in Dionysalexandros, which according to the traditional interpretation presented a comic version of a myth involving three women in 148 Cf. Newiger (1957: 123), Olson (2002: ad loc.) The expression ‘the King’s Eye’ has a different figurative meaning in A. Pers. 978–9 and Hdt. 1.114.2. 149 The new reading of the Dionysalexandros papyrus argued for in this section was kindly pointed out to me by A. Griffiths.

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rivalry over beauty, with a man as judge. Our knowledge of the genre suggests that in such a case the female characters would be sexualized, with much of the scene’s effect deriving from obscene humour.150 In the case of Athena, even if we suppose that in Dionysalexandros she was presented as somehow above or in control of events, like the divine clouds in Aristophanes’ Clouds, who retain their dignity, it is hard to imagine how this could have been the case, especially since she would have to be presented as one of the losers. In old comedy, mockery of the gods was not rare or regarded as irreverent.151 Examples such as Frogs 479–85, where Dionysus faints and shits himself in fright or Peace 418–25 where Hermes, his role reduced to ridiculously trivial tasks (201–2), accepts ridiculous bribes, show just how far comic licence could go. Even Zeus, as we saw in the discussion of Nemesis, was a frequent laughing stock in old comedy for his sexual adventures (above ch. 4 n. 90). Iris and Aphrodite, as already mentioned, were popular targets for mockery; in Birds 1196–261 Iris is mocked, bullied, and sexually harassed by Peisetairos; Aphrodite, who, like Ares, had already been given full satiric treatment in the aristeia of Diomedes (Il. 5.334–54) and in Demodocus’ tale of their adultery (Od. 8.266–366), appears to be the speaker in Plato’s Phaon fr. 188 (cf. v. 7 ˚ ıæ æçø fi ), a long passage which bristles with obscene allusions.152 No doubt, mocking the gods was a common convention in old comedy, originating, one might suppose, in established ritual practice, and tolerated within the festive freedom of the Dionysia. In the case of Athena, however, the Maiden and patron goddess of the city, things seem to have been different. As Nock (1972: 543) has noted, there must have been recognized limits to comedy’s religious licence as far as she was concerned. Athena is completely absent as a character from the extant comic corpus, and although her name appears sometimes in a comic context, none of these instances are

150 Ach. 764–815; Av. 1214–16, 1253–61; Pax 706–14, 727–9, 868–908; Eq. 1388–92 are just a few of many examples. Cf. how the comic possibilities of the Judgement of Paris myth are exploited in Lucian’s The Judgement of the Goddesses, esp. }}9–12. 151 The most useful discussion of this feature in old comedy is Nock (1972: ii. 543). 152 Cf. Rosen (1995: 132–3).


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at all irreverent.153 The comedy bearing a title with her name, Hermippus’ Birth of Athena, which has sometimes been used as proof that she was available for satire, may well fall in terms of plot in the category of comedies which teased Zeus for his erotic adventures.154 In the absence of other evidence, this play need not therefore have included mockery of the goddess, especially of the sort we would expect to find in the Judgement scene of Dionysalexandros. If, that is, the scene enacted the traditional mythic story. There is other evidence for Athena’s special treatment in comic or parodic contexts. Like Dionysalexandros, Sophocles’ satyr play Krisis dramatized the Judgement of the Goddesses. It seems to have treated its subject quite freely, since of the three goddesses, Aphrodite presented herself as some form of the divinity Hedone, and Athena as the embodiment of Phronesis, Nous, and Arete (Ath. 687c¼S. fr. 361. I). One cannot avoid seeing the moral overtones implicit in this characterization,155 which, if the goddesses actually appeared on stage, would make them, especially Athena, far from comic figures. The concept of this scene was probably very similar to Prodicus’ Choice of Heracles (Ath. 510c¼S. fr. 361.II), especially if Hera did not take part in the contest.156 Yet Athenaeus’ description of the play makes it more probable that the goddesses were never actually brought on, with the personifications Hedone, Phronesis, Nous, and Arete encapsulating their divine roles, or representing the gifts they had to offer.

153 Of the old comedy contexts where Athena is mentioned, Eq. 1189 and Lys. 346– 9 are mere word-play recalling Athena’s birth near the mythical Lake Tritonis. The joke in Av. 829–31 is not directed against the goddess as such, but makes a humorous exploitation of the traditional opposition between the proper tasks and tools of men (weapons and war) and those of women (wool-working; cf. Il. 6. 490–2; E. Ba. 118), so as to climax with the stock joke on Cleisthenes’ effeminicy, Aristophanes’ real target. Contra Kakridis (1987: 162) and Nestle (1933: 139 n. 10). 154 Cf. Guglielmino (1928: 154); Nock (1972: n. 41). Mere reliance on titles for the content of a play (contra Wilamowitz (1931: 96) for this play) is unsafe. The Birth of Athena could have made fun of Zeus’ state of pregnancy—extremely exploitable for comic purposes—without necessarily directing satire at Athena. Cf. the comic exploitation of the myth in Lucian, Dialogues of the Gods 13. 155 Cf. Snell (1955: 327–8). 156 Fr. 361.I in its surviving form suggests that she did not. We cannot exclude, however, that the description of Hera’s appearance has been lost.

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On an Athenian black-figured lekythos of the early fifth century (Fig. 5.1)157 we find another parodic version of the Judgment. It is curious that Athena does not appear there at all. It has been suggested that this scene was inspired by an earlier satyr play known to the painter.158 Hermes is replaced by an ithyphallic Silenus, who is now in charge of setting up the beauty contest. In a comic reversal of the myth, the Silenus is shown not marshalling the goddesses, but rather dragging an apparently unwilling Paris out from his cave to meet them. Instead of Athena, it is Artemis who has come to take part in the contest, along with Aphrodite and, probably, Hera. The first two goddesses are securely identified by their attributes or symbolic gifts. Aphrodite holds a hare,159 and Artemis, who is sitting on an animal skin, a deer.160 The third seated figure, who holds a lion, is probably Hera (the animal may point both to her status as queen-goddess, and her traditional gift of power).161 In that case, if this scene were indeed inspired by a real play, both Athena’s absence from the contest (something unparalleled among the depictions of the myth in that period), and her replacement by another virgin goddess are striking. If this absence is not just a variation for the sake of comic surprise, 157 See Haspels (1936: 117.229) and Kossatz-Deissmann in LIMC ‘Paridis Iudicium’, no. 108. 158 See Watzinger (1924: 33); Kossatz-Deissmann on LIMC ‘Paridis Iudicium’, no. 108. 159 The hare in vase-painting is usually associated with Eros, esp. in the archaic and early classical periods. See LIMC s.v. ‘Eros’, esp. nos. 283, 284, 285, 662, 749, and also 287, 288, 289, 296, 299, 300. Aphrodite appears with a hare on her lap and together with Eros in a South Italian vase-painting which portrays the preparations of the goddesses for the contest: see LIMC ‘Aphrodite’, no. 1434 and ‘Paridis Iudicium’, no. 55. 160 Cf. Watzinger (1924: 33). For the representation of Artemis with a deer see LIMC ‘Artemis’, nos. 33(b), 35, 284, 397, 610–19, 632, 641–51, 666, 1007, 1063, 1066, 1069, 1071, 1094, 1098–9, 1119, 1142, 1154, 1160, 1210, 1215, 1294, 1315–16, etc. For her frequent appearance with an animal skin, see LIMC ‘Artemis’, nos. 353–91. Contra Clairmont (1951: 42), who argues that this figure could be Athena, ignoring the combination of attributes pointing to Artemis. Scheurer and Bielfeldt (1999b: 360) express aporia as to the identity of this goddess. 161 Cf. e.g. the depiction of Hera holding a lion and a sceptre in the representation of the Judgement on a cup in the Berlin Antikensammlung (F2536: c.450–400; see LIMC ‘Paridis Iudicium’, 39; ‘Hera’, 435). For the lion as an attribute of Hera, see Simon (1985: 59–60). This animal is an attribute of other gods too (see Po¨tscher 1987: 52 and Mu¨ller 1978: 53–4), but the symbolic association of this animal with power and majesty points towards Hera in this case.


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Figure 5.1. Parody of the Judgement of Paris: Athenian black-figured lekythos, c.490–475 BC; Tu¨bingen University S.10.1294

could it be that this image attests a reluctance to impersonate Athena in non-serious contexts?162 The case becomes even more plausible given that not even the Dionysalexandros papyrus says that Athena appeared on stage in that scene. On the contrary, it is only thanks to drastic modern emendation (i.e. the assumption of a lacuna in l. 13) that the text says that Hera and Athena appeared as characters in the contest. This part of the text was thought corrupt from the start, apparently because it did not say what was expected. However, an unprejudiced reading should start from the assumption that the text is sound; a lacuna should be posited only if we cannot make sense of the Greek as it stands. In fact, the papyrus attests a handling of the myth which is more faithful than the corrected version to the general practice of old comedy: . . . › (b) ÆæÆª ø ÆPfiH Ææa (b) ( ˙ æÆ[ ] ıæÆ ( ) IŒØ ı, Æ[æ]a `ŁÅA

15

162 The choice of Artemis (instead of any other goddess) may originate in other mythical traditions, where she is associated with the group of the three goddesses: in Od. 20.64ff. Artemis together with Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite gives gifts to the daughters of Pandareus. On a late Campanian red-figure hydria (Heydemann 1872 no. 2870), the three goddesses and Artemis are led by Hermes on two chariots to their meeting with Paris.

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Production and Imagination Płıå(Æ ) Œ(Æ)(a) º (), B `çæ (Å ) ŒººØ () Œ(Æd) KæÆ ÆPe æåØ, ŒæØ ÆÅ ØŒA. (ll. 12–19)

—ÆæÆª ø ÆPfiH clearly means ‘coming to him’, and we can begin our rereading of the passage here. —ÆæÆªª ÆØ is used once more in this hypothesis (ll. 33–4: ÆæÆª `ºÆ(æ )), and often in the Aristophanic hypotheses,163 with a personal subject to signify the entry of a character. Accordingly, here, the subject of ÆæÆª ø can only be a person. Blass was the first to assume a lacuna after ÆæÆª ø which would include a personal subject (H ŁH) and a participle to take the dative object ÆPfiH. This solution was subsequently endorsed by the majority of scholars, even though it produces odd syntax,164 does not correct the real syntactical anomaly (the anacolouthon of ll. 17–19), and was only Blass’ secondary suggestion.165 It can, however, be argued that the lacuna is unnecessary. The text makes plausible sense without it, for the subject of ÆæÆª ø is already there in the papyrus text. The ancient scribe, writing only in capitals, made no distinction between proper and ordinary nouns. Transcribing the ancient text into modern printing conventions, we should accordingly read #ıæÆ ( ) and ¯Płıå(Æ ) for ıæÆ ( ) and Płıå(Æ ): . . . › (b) ÆæÆª ø ÆPfiH Ææa (b) ( ˙ æÆ[ ] #ıæÆ ( )

`ŒØ ı, Æ[æ]a `ŁÅA

¯Płıå(Æ ) Œ(Æ)(a) —º () . . .

15

163 Cf. hyp. Ach. I 16–17; hyp. Ach. II 1; hyp. V. II 6; hyp. V. I 6; hyp. Lys. A1 17; hyp. Pl. 1 6–7. 164 We should expect ÆæÆª ø (lit. ‘the goddesses having come and offering gifts’) not ÆæÆª ø ‘the goddesses having come and an offer being made of . . . ’ The latter is not impossible, but the shift to the passive is odd. 165 See Blass (1906: 485–6). His first suggestion was to emend ÆæÆª ø into ÆæÆªªºº ø. A lacuna was later assumed by Edmonds (1957: 32), and Luppe (1966: 171–4).


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And he, when Unshakable Dominion, sent by Hera, and Bravery in War, sent by Athena, appeared before him . . .

The sentence makes perfect sense without correction. It seems, then, that Paris-Dionysus-Pericles was visited not by Hera and Athena in person, but rather by their proxies #ıæÆ and ¯PłıåÆ, female personifications who represented the gifts offered by the goddesses. There is a series of passages where ıæÆ is personified or deified, which suggests that, if we suppose that in Dionysalexandros #ıæÆ

and ¯PłıåÆ were presented as divine women, this might not have been the first time that this had occurred. In Herodotus (3.53.4), Tyranny is imagined as a courtesan with many aspiring lovers: ıæÆd åæBÆ çÆºæe, ºº d b ÆPB KæÆ Æ N Ø, n b (i.e. Periander) ªæø XÅ ŒÆd ÆæÅÅŒ . Euripides referred to her twice as a goddess (E. Ph. 506 c ŁH ª Å . . . #ıæÆÆ and fr. 250 #ıæÆ m ŁH ıæÆ ÇÆØ / e c ŁÆE ªaæ PŒ åØ, a ¼ºº åØ), and in Ion 621 imagined her as a beautiful but deceptive woman, desirable but hard to live with: ıæÆ b B Å ÆN ıÅ / e b æ ø f, I Ø Ø b / ºıÅæ. Although we do not find Tyrannis personified in this way elsewhere in comedy, one might cite in comparison the embodiment of Zeus’ Basileia in Birds. The title of Pherecrates’ Tyrannis also suggests that this comedy might have had a major female character with that name. Nor is the appearance of divine proxies instead of deities without parallel on the Attic fifth-century stage. In Euripides’ Herakles, Hera sent Iris to represent her as her agent, and critics have often noticed the complete identification of Iris as a proxy with Hera.166 Since Hera did not take part as a character in any Greek tragedy, it has been suggested that bringing her on stage was avoided because she had a cult as a queen of heaven.167 This assumption, and the present reconstruction of the Judgement scene in Dionysalexandros, receive support from the fact that Hera, too, is absent from all extant literary comic and satyric texts, while she also tends to be avoided by painters of such themes. It is interesting that her portrayal on an Apulian vase which might have been inspired by a comic production, seems to be 166 167

See Barlow (1996) on 829; Bond (1981) on 832. Wilamowitz (1909: 122); cf. Bond (1981) on 832.

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‘serious’: that is to say, as Taplin (1993: 60 and n. 12) writes, that it shows no ‘comic uglification’.168 Yet the state of the material precludes any certainty as to whether she was indeed ‘out of bounds’ for satire; and it is difficult to see why she should be subject to a taboo in comedy when Zeus was not. If such a taboo existed, it might be explained by Hera’s role as the goddess of married life and motherhood. Above all, the way the goddesses’ offers are portrayed by means of female personifications rather than verbally is absolutely in line with the way similar situations are handled elsewhere in comedy. Since for the Greeks sex was a metaphor for control and enjoyment, female personifications were an especially useful way of enacting male ambition and desire. We found the metaphor in Herodotus 3.53.4 (the desire of tyrannis) and in E. Ion 621. In comedy it is ubiquitous. In Birds, Peisetairos is offered the sovereignty of Cloudcuckooland, and is given Basileia (Sovereignty) in marriage (ÆæÆØfiH e ŒBæ › ˘f E Ø ZæØ Ø ºØ, / ŒÆd c ´Æ ØºÆ ªıÆEŒ åØ ØfiH 1535). In Lysistrata, the warring Athenian and Spartan men are lured into reconciliation by the personified and sexualized Diallage (‘Reconciliation’); while in Peace the Greeks are given three females, Eirene, Opora, and Theoria (‘Peace’, ‘Harvest’, and ‘Holiday’), who personify peace and her blessings, two of whom will be enjoyed sexually. Similarly, the Sausage-Seller restores peace to the Athenians allowing Demos to enjoy the Spondai (‘Treaties’). It is no wonder, then, that in Dionysalexandros, Hera’s offer of mighty tyranny to Dionysus-Paris-Pericles is personified in Tyranny herself; or, accordingly, that Athena tries to make him more heroic through the gift of Bravery.169 The replacement of the goddesses by their proxies would

168 IV.21 Trendall, LIMC ‘Hera’ 319. Taplin, however, notes that this ‘painting seems less theatre-specific than most of the more elaborate comic vases’. The Brygos painter cup at the British Museum (E65; LIMC ‘Hera’ 327) and the black-figured lekythos discussed earlier (pp. 288–9) are two examples of Hera appearing in a satyric context (but without indication of being ridiculed). 169 Pp. 000 and 000 above explain why Tyrannis and Eupsychia are appropriate offers to all three identities of the hero, Dionysus, Paris, and Pericles. The fact that these personifications are given complex titles by the writer of the hypothesis, rather than being called simply Tyrannis and Eupsychia might be explained by reason of clarification and condensation. `ŒÅ #ıæÆ scans in iambic trimeters and could have been used in the actual text.


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allow these female figures to be exploited for sexual innuendo and physical humour too. Tyrannis and Eupsychia were probably mute figures like Peace, Opora, Theoria, Basileia, Spondai, and Diallage in Aristophanes, rather than speaking characters. This would give the poet the extra advantage of having all three of his contestants on stage at the same time for the Judgement scene, without the need for extra speaking actors and without having to break the episode into smaller successive scenes as has sometimes been suggested.170 In this case we may imagine that the divinities would ‘whisper’ their offerings in Hermes’ ear, like Peace in the comparable Peace 661ff. Hermes would then act as the proxies’ interpreter, as he does in Peace.171 It has often been suggested that the speaker in fr. 327 of Cratinus (preserved under no title) is Hermes, transmitting to Dionysus-Paris the words of one of the goddesses:172 ªºH Ø ø Ø K ø fi ç æE ŒÆºH ºªø Iø, fi w Æ ŒØ Ø ºªø she gives you a tongue to wield among the masses ever-flowing with fair words, with which you will move everything . . . in words.

This is possible: if so, the divinity on behalf of whom Hermes is speaking is probably #ıæÆd `ŒÅ (cf. v. 4).173 So far we have two speaking characters, Dionysus and Hermes, and two mute ones, Tyrannis and Eupsychia. There is room in this scene for at least a third speaking actor. In the text of the hypothesis there is a sudden change of syntax from Ææa b ( ˙æÆ . . . Ææa `ŁÅA to 170 Cf. Handley (1982: 113); Quaglia (1998: 49). Unless two mute extras were used, this scene would have required five speaking actors. For the number of speaking actors in old comedy, which did not exceed four, see MacDowell (1994) and Marshall (1997). Interestingly, Wilamowitz (1904: 665–6) suggested that the goddesses did not appear themselves, but were represented by their offers which would probably be in caskets (as in the Merchant of Venice). 171 If this is right, this scene could actually have been the model for Peace 658ff. 172 Gelzer (1960: 182); Pieters (1946: 126–7); Luppe (1966: 173). 173 For the pun #ıæÆd `-ŒÅ and forfi w Æ ŒØ Ø ºªø as aiming at Pericles’ perceived ‘idle’ strategy in the war as well as pointing at Zeus’ rule (cf. A. Supp. 96–103), see above, Ch. 4 n. 52.

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the emphatic B `çæ Å . Things therefore look different in the case of the third goddess. It seems that she was not another feminized abstraction, but rather Aphrodite herself, who made Paris-Dionysus an offer of supreme beauty and attractiveness (ŒººØ ŒÆd KæÆ ÆPe æåØ). Since the summary of the Judgement scene (presentation—offerings—verdict) has been compressed into a single sentence, it seems that the change of terms has affected the grammatical construction. This explains the change of syntax and the following anacolouthon: Ææa b ( ˙æÆ . . . Ææa `ŁÅA . . . B Açæ Å ŒººØ ŒÆd KæÆ ÆPe æåØ ‘and when Aphrodite to be supremely handsome and desirable’. In fact, anacolouthon is unavoidable on any interpretation of the passage.174 Still the reading offered here provides an explanation for it in the change of focus from the divine proxies to Aphrodite. With the dramatic stage appearance of the goddess who was convenient for him, Aphrodite, and by exploiting, no doubt, the comic possibilities of her character, Cratinus was able to turn the traditional conventions of comedy nicely to his advantage.175 At the same time, by personifying Hera’s and Athena’s offers, rather than bringing the goddesses themselves on stage, he created an adaptation of the traditional myth which both conformed to conventions concerning the stage treatment of these deities, and which reflected the established comic practice of personifying abstract concepts.176 174 The anacolouthon was one of the flaws of this sentence which made scholars suspect corruption, but ironically, the assumption of the lacuna does not make things smoother. Unless we correct ÆæÆª ø to ÆæÆªªºº ø, which is too violent a correction, there is no better cure for the anacolouthon than to accept its existence. A participle, e.g. Ø Å , can easily be inferred to join B Açæ Å

with æåØ. 175 The rest of the wording does not pose any problem: the verb æåØ in postclassical Greek very often substitutes r ÆØ in its function to take a predicate (cf. Arndt and Gingrich 1957: s.v. æåø 2), pace Luppe (1975: 189), who emends the sentence so that æåØ becomes possessive. Finally, it would also be wrong to take the two adjectives ŒººØ () Œ(Æd) KæÆ as incompatible because of their difference in comparative degrees, pace Luppe (1966: 177; 1975: 189). Other papyri of the late Hellenistic period show that the frequent use of the adjective ŒººØ weakened its superlative force. It was used often as a simple elative (cf. Gignac 1981: 145). 176 Closer to the reading of the papyrus offered here was J. Ebert (1978), who also argued that the subjects of ÆæÆª ø were personified Tyrannis and Eutychia. His argument, however, was weakened by several unfounded and implausible


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5.4. APPROACHING PERFORMANCE IN CRATINUS’ FRAGMENTARY COMEDY The study of dramatic fragments with a view to reconstructing theatrical aspects of lost plays may seem a reckless, even a forlorn hope; it has therefore generally been avoided in scholarship on non-Aristophanic fifth-century comedy. This chapter has shown, however, that despite the fragmentary nature of the material, close reading within an appropriate theoretical framework can lead to important new insights, not only on the level of individual works and authors, but also on the level of genre, and even on Greek drama as a whole. The fragmentary comedy of Cratinus makes some invaluable contributions in this respect. It provides evidence that the gradual and progressive construction of dramatic space, as shown in the example of Odysseis, and the relative indifference to spatial specificity, as demonstrated in the case of Plutoi, features which had hitherto been identified only in Aristophanes, can be seen legitimately and more appropriately as generic. The comparison of Cratinus’ and Aristophanes’ handling of space with that of tragedy and satyr play makes the difference between genres even more manifest. We also saw that the dramatic exploitation of costume in Dionysalexandros is of paramount importance to the meaning of the play, and links it with several other fifth-century dramas on Dionysiac themes. While it seems likely that the reflection of Dionysiac cultic and ritual elements picked up on a tradition from earlier drama (tragedies such as the Lykourgeia trilogy of Aeschylus or earlier satyr plays or comedies about Dionysus), there is plenty of evidence, especially after Dionysalexandros, to suggest a continuation of this motif, notably in Frogs, Taxiarchoi, and Bakchai. On the other hand, Dionysalexandros seems also to have been conceived at least in part as a statement of Cratinus’ Dionysiac poetics. Aristophanes’ Frogs provides further evidence that conjectures made in the same article. Ebert’s correct point about the personifications was soon rejected and forgotten, largely due to Luppe’s counter-arguments (1980). However, the problem whether the goddesses and, in particular, Athena, could appear as comic characters was brought up by neither of them.

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exploitation of Dionysiac themes may have played a part in the process of competitive construction of persona. Finally, the scene of the Judgement of the Goddesses in the same play gives us an insight into the ways in which a comic poet could adapt a traditional myth to suit his own dramatic purposes. Cratinus seems to have exploited the wider tendency of the comic genre towards personifying themes and concepts. He combined this, however, with the element of surprise, while getting round the problem of Athena’s (and possibly Hera’s) representation in a situation probably not allowed by dramatic convention. Above all, the way Cratinus managed to cap his ongoing intertextual rivalry with Aristophanes by expanding and developing a metaphor employed at his expense by his younger rival, and by making it the soul of his Pytine, reveals an imaginative and bold playwright whose high reputation in later ages was indeed well deserved. And he won the prize.

APPENDIX 1

The Parabasis Proper of Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros (POxy 663, ll. 6–9) The parabasis of Dionysalexandros is described in ll. 6–9 of the papyrus hypothesis POxy 663 (= test. i).1 We can be sure that these lines refer to the play’s parabasis, for two reasons: first, ll. 5–6 › ¯ æ(B ) Iæå]ÆØ and ll. 10–11 ÆæÆçÆÆ e ˜Øı describe the actors leaving the stage and returning after the end of the choral section delivered there; this strongly suggests that that section was a parabasis.2 Second, the diction of ll. 6–9 has parallels in all Hellenistic hypotheses which summarize parabases.3 These parallels, furthermore, strongly suggest that l. 8 ØÆıø ØÅ specifically describes the parabasis proper.4 These letters have been the subject of a long scholarly debate which has not abated since the initial publication of the papyrus (1904). The first

1 The text of the papyrus hypothesis of Dionysalexandros with a translation can be found in Appendix 4. In Appendix 5 a new edition of the text is offered, based on the arguments and papyrological observations here, in Ch. 2 and in Ch. 5. 2 Contra Storey (2003: 128, 207, 352; 2005: 212–13), who suggests that ll. 6–9 summarize a parabasis-like parodos, assuming that the lost section preceding it was not very long. As shown in 2.1.3, the missing part of the left column of the papyrus was at least around 22–3 lines or 80 words long, approximately one-third of the whole hypothesis. Therefore the description of the parodos would have come much earlier in the play. 3 Hyp. Ach. I ll. 14–15 › å æe I ºØ e ˜ØŒÆØ ºØ ŒÆd æe f ŁÆa

ØÆºªÆØ æd B F ØÅ F IæB ŒÆd ¼ººø ØH; hyp. Eq. A1 ll. 9–11 ØÆ b ŒÆd F IººÆ º ı ŒÆa Æ , ƒ ƒE æ F ØÅ F ØÆ ŒÆd H æ ªø . . . æe f ºÆ ±æ æø ØÆºª ÆØ; hyp. Nu. A5 l. 18 I A ÆØ æe f ŁÆa æd ºØø ØÆºª ÆØ; hyp. Pax A3 ll. 20–1 ŒÆd › b å æe æd B F ØÅ F åÅ åIæø ØH æe f ŁÆa ØÆºªÆØ; hyp. Ra. I ll. 14–16 › b H ı H å æe æd F c ºØÆ KØ H ÆØ ŒÆd f

I ı K ı ØB ÆØ åIæø ØH æe c ŁÅÆø ºØ ØÆºªÆØ. For the similarities between the style, structure, and manner of these hypotheses that the hypothesis of Dionysalexandros see p. 193 and n. 28 Cf. Ko¨rte (1904: 495–6). 4 The overwhelming majority of the Hellenistic hypotheses summarize the parabasis proper sections, not the epirrhemes. Only hyp. Ra. I ll. 14–16 summarizes the epirrheme and the antepirrheme, but this is because the Frogs parabasis contains no parabasis proper.

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editors, Grenfell and Hunt, pronounced l. 8 corrupt.5 In the same year Rutherford made sense of the transmitted reading, arguing that ıø ØÅ stands for æd H Ø ø and refers to the process of legitimizing of the younger Pericles, which at that time ‘was either debating or accomplished’.6 However, following Ko¨rte’s conjecture7 and in particular relation to his argument against Rutherford’s thesis,8 it was thought preferable to correct l. 8 to [(æd)] H ØÅ(H),9 which would render its content more correspondent with the author-oriented parallel sections of early Aristophanes. This was the dominant view until 1982,10 when Handley defended the transmitted reading, arguing that it says (æd) H Ø( ø ), but that it means ‘about the begetting of sons’.11 Handley made a connection between this reading and POxy 2806, which contains a parabasis of an old comedy describing making children in a remarkable way, in which the duration of both gestation and growth is miraculously reduced.12 This reading (albeit not necessarily this literary interpretation) was adopted by Kassel and Austin, but soon came under heavy criticism, especially from Luppe,13 who listed several objections to Handley’s argument and made the earlier reading (æd) H ØÅ(H) appear to be the only choice. Although most of Luppe’s arguments are inconclusive, two cannot be disregarded: first, the fact that Å Ø is never found in the sense of ‘begetting’;14 and secondly, that POxy 2806 mentions sons and daughters, not just sons. The publications on Dionysalexandros subsequent to Luppe’s article have shown a tendency to revert to Ko¨rte’s (æd) H ØÅ(H), leaving the troublesome H behind for good.15

5

Grenfell and Hunt (1904: 72 n. 8). Rutherford (1904: 440). 7 1904: 484, 495; his emendation was also communicated to the first editors in the publication of the papyrus. 8 1922: 1653. 9 Rutherford suggested that in this line only the abbreviation of æ is corrupt, as the accent over — has been omitted. Therefore, the correct transcription of the word is [(æd)], not the commonly used (æd). Cf. however Luppe (1988: 37–8) who transcribes . 10 Cf. e.g. Norwood (1931: 118); Edmonds (1957); Austin (1973). 11 1982: passim. 12 Ed. pr. Lobel (1970). 13 1988: passim. 14 In Pl. Smp. 197A, which Luppe allows as the only exception, Å Ø means ‘creation’, which is not the same. 15 Revermann (1997: 198 n. 9). Austin (1999: 40) accepted Luppe’s criticism but suggested cruces for l. 8. Storey (2005: 212) suggests that Luppe’s case ‘should be accepted as the final word’. More recently, see Wright (2007: 417 and 424 n. 62). 6

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However, it is very difficult to disregard the fact that the manuscript clearly says ıø, not ø (see Pl.3). Furthermore, while Luppe rejected Handley’s interpretation concerning ‘begetting sons’, it did not prove the reading H itself unsustainable. It also failed to take into account the fact that H is a lectio difficilior to H, and hence less probable as a corruption. It will be shown here that the reading of the papyrus provides adequate meaning and is, in fact, another piece of evidence which attests the poet’s freedom and creativity with the genre’s formal sections. To make proper sense of line 8, one should first deal with the main objection held by most scholars to reading H: the spelling of the word itself. Contrary to Luppe’s reservations,16 the form H is not objectionable as a spelling at this date and in this type of text: POxy 1235 (‘Hypotheses to Menander’s Hiereia and Imbrioi’)17 is contemporary with the Dionysalexandros papyrus (second century ad) and spells the word for ‘son’ both with and without an iota.18 Several other documents from around the same period demonstrate that the spellings Ø and are interchangeable.19 The probability that the hypothesis was composed earlier (based on its close similarity to the Hellenistic Aristophanic hypotheses),20 probably around the late first century ad, does not pose a problem.21 Nor even does the possibility that it was a revision of an earlier version which could have dated as far back as the Alexandrian period, when the tradition of hypotheses originated.22 The epigraphic evidence suggests that by far the most regular 16

1988: 38. Edd. pr. Grenfell and Hunt (1914). 18 Ll. 50–1: › b B ºÅ/Å e ıƒe ÆPB[ ] ª Ø / ØæÆŒ Œ . . . ll. 60–4 ØÆåŁd æ øØ ØÆº/ºø e æ H / ªØø e ‰ KÆı F / æ çøE . . . ll. 67–9 ŒÆd /Æ f ı Ø f I /çÆØ ÆP F . . . ll. 72–4: ŒÆd e æ [æ ] æ /çø e[ ‰] ÆØ . . . ll. 86–7: › b ıƒe ÆP F ºÆ[Ø . . . ll. 89–90: ŒÆd ª [Ø H ªØø / ıƒe ºÆØ . . . 19 e.g. P. Mil. Vogliano 26.1 (2nd-cent ad) spells fiH, and P. Yale 64.12 (end of 1st cent ad) F. For more examples see Gignac (1976: 202–3). It is suggestive that both P. Mil. Vogliano 26 and P. Yale 64, as well as the papyrus hypotheses to Dionysalexandros and to Menander’s plays, also present other readings which show the evolution of pronunciation at the time, such as interchanges between Ø and Ø or Ø and Å: P. Mil. Vogliano 26.1: Ø ıø; P.Yale 64.22: ÆæÆªºÆ ; P.Oxy. 1235.63: ªØø; P.Oxy 663.43: KÆªØ åg . Cf. Gignac (1976: 239–42) with several examples of interchanges between Ø and Å. 20 Hyp. Ach. I, hyp. Pax A3, hyp. Eq. A1, hyp. Ra. I, hyp. Nu. A5, hyp. V. II, hyp. Av. A2, hyp. Lys. A1. The similarity is analysed in detail in Ch. 4, n. 28. 21 Cf. Ko¨rte (1904: 496–7), who argues for the authorship of Symmachus. Radermacher (19542 79) argues for the same date, without the specific ascription to Symmachus. 22 For this tradition in Alexandria see Pfeiffer (1968: 192–6). 17

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type in the early Hellenistic years until the first century bc was .23 One could even argue that the spelling H might derive from Cratinus’ fifth-century text itself. This is still consistent with the epigraphic evidence: the form with the iota, Ø , was regular before the fifth century bc (and even then was in use, especially in poetry), and reappeared as the regular form only at the time of the Roman empire.24 Therefore, the source of the reading H could well have been equally either the actual text of Dionysalexandros or an early version of the summary. In any case, the spelling without an iota should not be considered as an obstacle for reading H. There are numerous parallels in literature where or Ø is qualified by a word of the stem ØÅ-, as in l. 8. Whether the word is the adjective ØÅ , the noun Å Ø , or a form of the verb Ø ÆØ, the context is always one of adoption of children.25 Therefore the occurrence of both words in the phrase on the papyrus is suggestive and should not be easily dismissed. The abbreviated word ØÅ could be expanded to either the adjective ØÅ or the noun Å Ø , the phrase thus being [(æd)] H ØÅ(H) or [(æd)] H ØM( ø ), that is ‘on adopted sons’ or ‘on the adoption of sons’. The next step is to identify which case involving adoption could have constituted the subject of the parabasis proper of Dionysalexandros. Several elements in the hypothesis and especially ll. 41–5 suggest that this comedy contained a pronounced topical element, since it satirized Pericles for his decision to take Athens to war and for his handling of war policies.26 But at the time of its production (c.430/429)27 Pericles was involved in another case 23

Cf. Threatte (1980: 340); Meisterhans (1885: 60). Cf. Threatte (1980: 340–2; 1996: 221); Meisterhans (1885: 60). 25 Pl. Lg. 923e: Ka b ø fi ºı fiÅ . . . Y ªÅe J Y ØÅ . . . ; Men. Sam. 344: P N ŒŒØ Å K Ø, c ªøØ Ke . . . ; Is. 5.6.5: ˜ØŒÆØ ªÅ ‹ fiH ! ı ˜ØŒÆØ ªØ . . . e Kªª ØÅ ; Ran. 541.21 (¼ Sud. 234): PŒ r ÆØ b ª Ø , Iººa ØÅe ıƒe F @ªø ; D. 59.63.5–6: KØ K ŁÅ o æ Øa c I ŁØÆ c Æ F ŒÆd c IÆØÆ ŒÆd c åŁæÆ c æe f

NŒ ı Ø Æ ŁÆØ e ıƒ, ŒÆd KØc N Bª N f ªÆ ; Is. 2.17.1–4: )

b ı KB fiH !ŒºE Ø Æ ŁÆØ e ÆfiH ‹ØÆ K º , › ÆPe E Åº E• ‰ b K Ø Æ , ¥ çææ ŒÆd ƒ ÅÆØ ŒÆd ƒ OæªH E ÆæıæŒÆ Ø; D. H. 4.7: N ª ¼æÆ ªø fi b q Æ ıƒø d F Æ Øºø ƒ ÆE , Ø Ø ıƒ . . . For the terminology cf. Harrison (1968: 83–4). 26 For a detailed discussion of the political content of the play, see 4.1.1–9. 27 Since the initial publication of the papyrus, scholars have dated Dionysalexandros to the years immediately following the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war, 430 or 429. See, in particular, Luppe (1966: 182–4), who also summarizes earlier literature on the issue. Only Mattingly (1977: 243–4), followed by Storey (2006: 178–81), has suggested that the war for which Pericles was satirized in Dionysalexandros was the Samian and not the Peloponnesian, dating the play to 440/439. However, there is no 24

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which also caused public outcry—his endeavour to obtain a dispensation from his own citizenship law of 451/0. This law, proposed by the statesman himself, banned from citizenship anyone whose parents were not both Athenians.28 From then on, anyone born from a mixed marriage was not a citizen, and was, as a result, a nothos. Pericles sought this dispensation to legitimize his son from Aspasia in the wake of the death of his legitimate sons (cf. Plu. Per. 37), so as to secure himself an heir. Thus the possibility that H may be a reference to Pericles’ son is an attractive one; however, one should first of all clarify how [(æd)] H Ø( ø ) can be associated with that case, since l. 8 speaks of adoption, not legitimation. This has not been clarified by either Rutherford or Ko¨rte, who argued against Rutherford’s interpretation.29 A formal procedure of legitimation, as we know it from Roman or modern law, did not exist in ancient Athens. When a legitimation took place, the procedure had to be indirect and involved more than one stage. The case of Pericles’ son, therefore, was not simply one of legitimation, as it is often misleadingly called. It consisted of three stages, the first of which was the naturalization of a xenos. What Pericles asked from the Assembly at the time was a decree exempting his son from the citizenship law and making him an Athenian citizen, not legitimizing him straightaway.30 This is because his son was a metroxenos, that is born to a foreign mother, and thus, according to Pericles’ law, not a citizen. By virtue of being a metroxenos, he was also illegitimate, a nothos.31 Naturalization was requested so that the young man could acquire citizen rights,32 which was a necessary prerequisite for adoption,33 the second of the three stages required to make him a member of his father’s oikos.34 This explains why Pericles made his request positive evidence for this dating, whereas the positive evidence for the traditional dating is difficult to disregard. Below it is argued that the Dionysia of 429 is the most probable occasion for the production of the play. 28 The law is described in Arist. Ath. 26.4 and Plu. Per. 37.3–4. See Patterson (1981) and Boegehold (1994). 29 1922: 1653. 30 Cf. Plu. Per. 37.2fi M Æ ºıŁBÆØ e æd H Łø , n ÆPe N ÅåØ ææ . Cf. also Suda 451 Å Å : › e F ı N ØÅŁd ŒÆd ªª g

ºÅ . —æØŒºB ªaæ › ˛ÆŁ ı, ªæłÆ e c K Iç E I ı ºÅ c r ÆØ, P a ÆŒæe f ªÅ ı I Æº . . . Ołb ŒÆd ºØ e Ł ƒ ÆEÆ e K Æ Æ B !ØºÅ Æ K Å Å Å . Å Å s › ç Ø , e b F ı ºÅ ªª . 31 On the class of nothoi see Harrison (1968: 61–8). 32 On naturalization in Athens see Osborne (1983). 33 Cf. Rubinstein (1993: 18). 34 On adoption see Harrison (1968: 89–90); Rubinstein (1993: 33–61).

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of the Assembly for his son’s exemption from the law. Afterwards the boy could be introduced to his father’s deme, tribe, and phratry,35 which would seal his membership in Pericles’ oikos.36 Unfortunately we do not have any recorded cases comparable to that of Pericles’ son, but as it is, this reconstruction of his case is entirely in accordance with our knowledge of Athenian law. In fact, in their discussions of possible legitimation procedures in ancient Athens, scholars such as Beauchet and Harrison had supposed that since a formal procedure did not exist, an indirect procedure involving adoption might have been the way to achieve legitimation of nothoi.37 Neither scholar knew of the reading [(æd)] H ØÅ(H) or [(æd)] H Ø( ø ) in the Dionysalexandros papyrus, and in fact, seven years before the papyrus came to light, Beauchet had supposed that the key in the legitimation of Pericles’ son must have been his adoption.38 The Dionysalexandros reading seems to confirm his hypothesis. Before I move on to illustrate what the content of the parabasis may thus have been, another problem needs to be dealt with, which has long been thought to have decisively refuted the association of the reading [(æd)] H with the legitimation case of Pericles’ son. This time the objection concerns the chronology of events. In his article on Cratinus in RE, Ko¨rte (1922: 1653) argued that according to Plutarch’s Pericles 37 Pericles’ endeavour to legitimize his son from Aspasia could not have been treated in this comedy, since ‘Pericles accomplished the legitimation of his son only after the elections of [the] strategoi of 429, and survived to see no other Dionysia afterwards’. In his account (Per. 37.2), Plutarch traces a direct relationship between Pericles’ re-election of 429 and the issue of the legitimation of his son, but this is neither necessary nor attested by any other source. As Stadter (1989: 333) notes, we have no confirmation that Pericles requested the decree only after his recall. But requesting and even achieving naturalization did not require Pericles to be in public office, only to have a sufficient level of popularity and influence.

35

On this procedure see Harrison (1968: 89–90) and Rubinstein (1993: 36–45). Plutarch’s description in Per. 37.5 Æ [i.e. ƒ ŁÅÆE Ø] ÆPe Å ÆŁE IŁæøø E ŁÆØ, ıåæÅ Æ I ªæłÆ ŁÆØ e Ł N f

çæ æÆ , Z Æ Ł e Æ F probably refers to the result of the procedure, not to the Assembly decree. Contra Patterson (1981: 31 n. 20). 37 Beauchet (1897: i. 525–35); Harrison (1968: 68–70). 38 Beauchet (1897: 525–34). 36

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The summer of 430 in Athens was marked by events which resulted in great unpopularity for Pericles, such as the second invasion of the Peloponnesians, the unsuccessful Argolid expedition, and especially the start of the plague. His unpopularity reached a peak when he was tried on charges relating to his office, punished with a fine (Th. 2.65.3) and, according to later authors including Plutarch, removed from his position.39 How long his absence from office lasted we do not know. Either way, Pericles’ punishment was imposed in the summer or autumn of 430. Pericles, however, was elected general in the following elections, in the spring of 429. We may surmise that the lowest point of his popularity came at the time of his removal from office—that is in the summer or autumn of 430—and yet he had sufficient popularity to be elected in the spring. Since, of course, the level of popularity which brings public office is not acquired overnight, we may equally surmise that public favour could conceivably have been swinging back towards him in the winter of 430/429. Indeed, one might suppose that the mere fact that Cratinus attacks Pericles in this comedy suggests that Pericles’ popularity was at this time returning. Popularity and influence, therefore, were surely with Pericles before the spring of 429 and it is entirely possible that it was at that time that he requested the exemption from the citizenship law. And in fact, Pericles’ attempt would primarily depend upon the date that his legitimate sons died, which was why he wanted to legitimize his son from Aspasia. The example of Aristophanic comedy shows that simple rumour rather than hard facts could in any case be sufficient to provoke comic lampoonery. Dionysalexandros, therefore, which, on the basis of this argument, must have been produced in the Dionysia of spring 429,40 could very well have satirized the endeavour of Pericles, in the period of his growing popularity, to bypass his own law and manufacture a way to get himself a son—even if this meant introducing a xenos and nothos into the Athenian citizenry. The satire must have been very popular with audience and poets alike, as one may guess

39 Plu. Per. 35.4; Diod. 12.45.4. As Hornblower notes on Th. 2.59.3, Ø K æÆªØ may imply what the other authors say explicitly. Cratin. Plutoi fr. 171.22–3. also suggest that Pericles was deposed. For the handling of this event in Plutoi, see 4.2.2. 40 The assumption that Moirai fr. 47 is an intertextual reference to Dionysalexandros and therefore Moirai must have been a later production is not certain and hence forms no obstacle to this dating. The actual terminus post quem for Moirai is the Peloponnesian invasion of 431. We do not know who first constructed the image of Pericles as ‘a king of satyrs’. Hermippus himself or another poet might have been responsible for it; Moirai and Dionysalexandros could have merely been parts of the same nexus of allusion.

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from Eupolis’ plays Marikas and Demoi, which many years later made fun of Pericles on account of the same issue.41 The plural ‘sons’ is not incompatible with the treatment of Pericles’ case in the parabasis proper. Since the chorus discussed ‘sons’ in the plural, it is possible that in this section they offered a general discussion about, for example, ‘alternative ways of earning oneself a son’, perhaps even making a connection with their own dramatic identity, that of the satyrs sons of Silenus.42 In Priamel fashion, they could then climax with the case of Pericles’ son, making a satirical attack against the statesman. If the papyrus reading is not emended and this interpretation accepted, a valuable piece of information emerges, which is that l. 8 of the Dionysalexandros hypothesis preserves an example of a parabasis proper which we would otherwise think appeared only later, as in Thesmophoriazousae (804ff.), where the chorus scoffs at specific citizens by name. The selection of the surviving Aristophanic plays alone gives the impression that other topics, apart from authorial themes, began penetrating the parabasis proper only in the 410s. However, fragmentary comedy including this papyrus and Cratinus’ Malthakoi fr. 105 suggests that the Aristophanic selection may not have been representative of the whole.43 The flexible and mobile deployment of the authorial voice as observed in the first chapter is consistent with this phenomenon and may suggest that the poets of old comedy, and in particular Cratinus, were more flexible and creative with traditional forms and themes than the surviving complete comedies alone suggest. 41 See Eup. Marikas (421 bc) fr. 192.166 and Demoi fr. 110. For the date of Demoi see Storey (2003) 112–4, who dates it between 418 and 411 bc; more likely is a date post-411, as argued by Telo` and Porciani (2002). 42 This motif is frequently used in satyr plays: A. fr. 805; S. fr. 153; E. Cyc. 13, 16, 27, 82, 84, 272, 431, 597. For Dionysalexandros’ generic affinity with satyr plays see 2.1. 43 Cf. also Pherecrates’ Doulodidaskalos (before 430, cf. Geissler 1925: 22–3) fr. 52, which is certainly parabatic on account of its eupolidean metre (see above p. 50 and n. 73); Cratinus’ Thrattai fr. 76; Telecleides’ Amphiktyones fr. 2.

APPENDIX 2

The Date of the Accusations against Phidias and his Trial The date of Phidias’ trial for embezzlement of precious materials from the Athena Parthenos statue is a notorious problem. This note revisits the main primary and secondary sources and argues, first of all, that the evidence used to date it in the early 430s is inconclusive. Moreover, there is substantial evidence which suggests that Phidias faced accusations in the second half of the 430s, probably leading to a trial shortly before the outbreak of the war (c.432/1).1 The source on which 438/7 is based is an ancient scholion to Peace 605, which appears in two versions, RVˆ 605Æ: /Øºå æ Kd —ıŁ æ ı (MSS | ¨ æ ı Lepaulmier) ¼æå ÆF çÅ Ø• “ŒÆd e ¼ªÆºÆ e åæı F B ŁÅA K ŁÅ N e g e ªÆ å åæı ı ÆŁe Æºø 0 —æØŒº ı KØ Æ F , /Ø ı b Ø Æ . ŒÆd /ØÆ › Ø Æ Æ ÆæÆº ªÇ ŁÆØ e KºçÆÆ e N a ç ºÆ KŒæŁÅ. ŒÆd çıªg N 2 ˙ ºØ Kæª ºÆB ÆØ e ¼ªÆºÆ F ˜Øe

e K ˇºıÆ fi ºªÆØ, F b KæªÆ I ŁÆE e ˙ ºø" Kd ŒıŁ æ ı (MSS | —ıŁ æ ı Lepaulmier), ‹ K Ø Ie ı £ . . .

1 The inconclusive state of the evidence (the ancient scholia to Peace 605 as sources and the transmission of Philochorus) has been pointed out by Fornara (19832: 130); Prandi (1977); Triebel-Schubert (1983: 101–6); Podlecki (1998: 103–9); Ameling (1986); Bauman (1990: 37–42); and Delivorrias (1994). Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 486–92, Lendle (1955) and Prandi (1977: 16–17) have examined the problems of the scholia and Philochorus in detail. The date 438/7 is endorsed, among others, by Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 486–92 (with caution); Frost (1964a: 70); Kagan (1969: 194–8); Roberts (1982: 59ff.); Stadter (1989: 285–6). The trial has been dated in the late 430s by, among others, Gomme HCT 2: 184–9; Lendle (1955); Prandi (1977); Bauman (1990: 40–2); Podlecki (1998: 107). Many scholars rightly avoid rejecting alternative dates: Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 490; Fornara (19832: 130); Stadter (1989: 286); Brunt (1951: 274); Olson (2002) on Peace 605. Much scholarly ink has been spilt on this issue; this appendix advocates a later date, but will pursue its line of argument rather differently (both in the details and in its overall emphasis) from earlier scholarly work.

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Philochorus says this occurred in the archonship of Pythodorus (432/1; ‘Theodorus’ (438/7) Lepaulmier): ‘And the golden statue of Athena was set up in the great temple, having the weight of 44 talents of gold. Pericles was the superintendent in charge, Phidias was the sculptor. Phidias, who made it, was thought to have cheated in his accounting for the ivory used in the scales of the serpent and was brought to trial. Having fled to Elis, he is said to have been hired to execute the statue of Zeus in Olympia and, when he completed it, to have been put to death by the Eleians.’ In the archonship of Scythodorus (not an archon name; ‘Pythodorus’ (432/1) Lepaulmier), who is the seventh (archon) after the aforementioned . . . [an account of the Megarian decree follows] (Tr. Fornara 19832, adapted)

and Vˆ 605: › /ØÆ , ‰ /Øºå æ çÅ Ø, Kd —ıŁ æ ı (MSS | ¨ æ ı Lepaulmier) ¼æå e ¼ªÆºÆ B ŁÅA ŒÆÆ Œı Æ çº e åæı KŒ H æÆŒø B åæı ºçÆÅ ŁÅA • Kç z fi ŒÆÆªø Łd KÇÅØŁÅ çıªB fi . ª b N 2 ˙ ºØ ŒÆd Kæª ºÆ Æ Ææa H ˙ ºø e ¼ªÆºÆ F ˜Øe F

ˇºı ı ŒÆd ŒÆÆªø Łd ÆPH ‰ çØ IfiÅæŁÅ. Phidias, as Philochorus says, in the archonship of Pythodorus (432/1; ‘Theodorus’ (438/7) Lepaulmier), after he had made the statue of Athena, he stole some of the gold from the snakes of the chryselephantine Athena, for which he was condemned and punished with exile; when he was in Elis and had been commissioned to make the statue of Olympian Zeus, he was put to death after he had been condemned by them for theft. (tr. Podlecki 1998, adapted)

According to both versions, Philochorus (FGrH 328 F121) said that Phidias was accused and tried for stealing precious materials from the Athena Parthenos statue Kd —ıŁ æ ı ¼æå . If accepted, this would give us the date 432/1. Since other events are presented as contemporaneous in the same description, notably the dedication of the Athena Parthenos statue (438/7), —ıŁ æ ı has been emended in both 605Æ and 605 to ¨ æ ı, thus giving the date 438/7 (first argued by Lepaulmier, as early as 1668: 746). The earlier date is therefore a result of emendation. Emending the names of the archons in the scholia does not solve all our problems. Their validity as sources for an alternative date is undermined by the fact that the two versions are not unanimous. Nevertheless, because they both use Philochorus, they are often treated as one scholion; Vˆ 605, in fact, is often taken as a mere paraphrase of RVˆ 605Æ.2 Yet the discrepancies between them suggest that, besides Philochorus, the scholiasts probably used different sources: for example, 605Æ suggests that Phidias stole ivory 2

e.g. Mansfeld (1980: 40 and n. 164), whose explanation of the discrepancies between the scholia is unconvincing.

Appendix 2

307

(e KºçÆÆ e N a ç ºÆ ), whereas 605 suggests gold (e åæı KŒ H æÆŒø). That 605 was not merely a summary of 605Æ is also suggested by the fact that ŒÆd ŒÆÆªø Łd ÆPH ‰ çØ

IfiÅæŁÅ (605) is much longer than its supposed model I ŁÆE e

˙ ºø (605Æ).3 Whatever the sources of 605Æ, it is safer to assume that the sources of 605, even if they included 605Æ, were not restricted to that one model. This is crucial for our consideration of how they might have used Philochorus and whether they were in agreement with each other regarding his account. Since 605 makes sense as it is, it is possible that in writing Kd —ıŁ æ ı ¼æå , the author of this version meant that the date of Phidias’ trial was indeed 432/1 (see below). He could have been led to this by his source (which may or may not have agreed with Philochorus).4 In that case, Kd —ıŁ æ ı in 605 need not be emended, even if it is in 605Æ.5 Furthermore, although in both versions it seems that Phidias’ punishment was associated with embezzlement from the statue of Zeus (something certainly false),6 it is clear to the reader that the ultimate reason for Phidias’ punishment is meant to be the alleged theft from the Parthenos statue. This connection may well betray that the authors of these scholia used multiple sources. Therefore, we should treat both scholia with caution,7 in conjunction with other sources and not as one piece of evidence which accurately transmits what Philochorus said. Nevertheless, we can extract some valuable information by collating them: first, after completing the Athena Parthenos statue, Phidias was commissioned to produce the statue of Zeus in Olympia; secondly, after the dedication of the Parthenos statue, Phidias was accused and tried for embezzling sacred materials. Finally, after he was tried, Phidias left Athens.8 3

For a detailed comparison of the two scholia and interpretation of their differences, see Lendle (1955); cf. Prandi (1977: 16–17). 4 Another point which suggests that the two scholia have used different sources is the fact that while the following 606Æ finds fault with the suspicion directed against Pericles ‘since the events concerning Phidias happened seven years before the start of the war’, 606 does not express anything of the sort. See below, n. 7. 5 For a similar way of reading the scholion, see Lendle (1955). 6 See Podlecki (1998: 107). 7 This stands for Peace 606Æ and 606 as well. The narrative of 606Æ is consistent with 605Æ in that the scholiast assumes the start of Phidias’ troubles to have been contemporaneous with the dedication of the Parthenos statue (both of which he dates to 438/7); however, as we will see below (pp. 309–11), this identification is not necessary. 8 Cf. RVˆ 605Æ çıª and RVˆ 606Æ çıªÆıŁ . Vˆ 605 KÇÅØŁÅ çıªB fi might have misrendered RVˆ 605Æ çıª. We do not know whether Phidias was found guilty or not.

308

Appendix 2

On the other hand, Aristophanes’ Peace 605ff., which is the source chronologically closest to the events in question, might in combination with the other sources give a more satisfactory solution to the problem: æHÆ b ªaæ { ÆPB qæ { /ØÆ æÆ ŒÆŒH . r Æ —æØŒºÅ ç ÅŁd c å Ø B åÅ , a ç Ø H ØŒg ŒÆd e ÆP a æ , æd ÆŁE Ø Øe ÆP , Kçº c ºØ, KÆºg ØŁBæÆ ØŒæe !ªÆæØŒ F łÅç Æ • ŒIç Å F º u fiH ŒÆfiH Æ ( ¯ ººÅÆ ÆŒæF ÆØ, KŒE KŁ. What started it all in the first place was Phidias getting into trouble. Then Pericles became frightened he might share Phidias’ fate—for he was afraid of your character and your hard-biting temper—and before anything terrible could happen to him, he set the city ablaze by dropping into it a tiny spark of a Megarian decree: and he fanned up so great a war that all the Greeks were in tears in the smoke, both those over there and those over here. (Tr. Sommerstein 1985)

Aristophanes suggests that Phidias found himself ‘in trouble’ in the period shortly before the outbreak of the war. The connection with Pericles (606–8) leaves no doubt that the ‘trouble’ mentioned here concerned the accusations of embezzlement of precious materials from the Athena Parthenos statue, a project in which Pericles was one of the epistatai (superintendents who oversaw the whole project). Aristophanes’ account also suggests that Phidias’ ‘trouble’, the Megarian decree, and the outbreak of the war were close enough in time to be connected subsequently (seriously or not). Some scholars have dismissed Aristophanes’ account and the relative chronology implied in it, arguing that they are mere comic invention. 9 They have also asserted that ‘[Phidias’] indictment immediately followed the dedication of the statue’ (Frost 1964a: 70 n. 11).10 As far as the first objection is concerned, even if one allows for the amount of distortion usually found in comic statements, dismissing Aristophanes’ account altogether seems hyper-critical. It is difficult to see the comic poet’s point (humoristic, didactic or otherwise) in presenting the story of Pericles’ starting the war because he was involved in Phidias’ misfortune and the relative chronology of events implied in it, if those were mere invention. Aristophanes’ version must have made sense to the audience, and the most plausible explanation in this case is that it circulated (or had circulated at 9 Among others, Frost (1964a: 69); Adcock in CAH v. 478; Jacoby FGrH IIIb suppl. 486ff.; Mansfeld (1980: 38–40); Kagan (1969: 194–8); Roberts (1982: 59). 10 Cf. Adcock in CAH v. 480; Jacoby FGrH IIIb Suppl. 496.

Appendix 2

309

some point) in popular belief.11 Even if one rejects (rightly) the historical validity of the claim that Pericles started the war because of his fears concerning Phidias, one cannot deny that beneath this claim lies the popular (and comic) topos that politicians make big decisions for personal interest.12 This popular topos could naturally have been perceived by the people in the case of Phidias and Pericles—but a chronological link was required for it to make sense. We have a good enough reason to look more closely at the relative chronology of events implied by Aristophanes’ account, and to examine whether it made good sense on its own and in conjunction with the other sources. As for the second objection, it seems arbitrary that the dates of the statue’s dedication and Phidias’ indictment (and, as is implied, his trial) should be identical. Menon could have well been persuaded by Pericles’ opponents to offer information against Phidias some years later (see below). A more balanced reading of Aristophanes might be that the comic account compresses events which took place over a number of years, but that the real length of time was nevertheless short enough for people to perceive the Phidias affair as occurring shortly before the outbreak of war and thus (potentially) comprehensible as a cause of it. Something which is not usually taken into account in interpreting Peace 605ff. is that Phidias’ ‘trouble’ could have continued for a substantial period of time, of which Aristophanes describes only the beginning. This is because the offering of information for a crime (menysis; in Phidias’ case by Menon, who did not prosecute) did not have to be immediately followed by a trial, nor even by a formal accusation.13 Alcibiades’ opponents waited until after he had left 11 Pax 615–18, where Trygaios and the chorus say that they had never heard about ‘how Phidias had any connection with/was related to (æ Œ Ø) peace’, does not constitute proof that Aristophanes had invented the story, as is often argued. This short exchange between chorus and Trygaios prepares the way for the punchline (617–18), which is that, being ‘relatives’, Phidias and Peace both had deceptive characters (cf. LSJ9 s.v. Pæ ø , 2). 12 The same topos underlies Ar. Ach. 523–39, which has sometimes been evoked for dismissing Aristophanes as a source altogether. Yet, as Hornblower (2002: 108 and 328 n. 20) points out, Ach. 515–39 suggests that ‘in the popular tradition she [i.e. Aspasia] incited Pericles for trivial reasons to pass the decrees’. Hornblower argues that Thucydides does not expand on the Megarian decrees, because ‘a full explanation of the background to the Megarian decrees would have involved Thucydides in saying something about Pericles’ mistress Aspasia . . . women play this sort of role in Herodotus all the time, but this is not the kind of history Thucydides stooped to write’ (cf. Hornblower 1991: 111; 1987: 15 and 42). It is not possible to tell exactly what lies beneath Aristophanes’ account in Ach. 515ff. Whatever it is, this passage (like Peace 605ff.) may somehow reflect some strand of popular tradition (as well as containing literary allusion to both Herodotus and Euripides’ Telephus: cf. Pelling 2000: 151–5). 13 See MacDowell (1978: 181–3).

310

Appendix 2

on the expedition to Sicily before they pressed charges against him (Th. 6.27–9; And. 1.11–28). Furthermore, we even have several cases of long intervals between lodging an accusation and coming to court.14 In Phidias’ case, there may have been several reasons for delays between the offering of information by Menon, Phidias’ formal prosecution, and his trial (Plu. Per. 31). One reason may have been his own absence in Olympia, where he had been commissioned to produce the statue of Zeus. Another reason could have been that the time of the menysis (see below) was not considered suitable for an attack on a close associate of Pericles and, ultimately, on Pericles himself by his opponents because of the latter’s popularity.15 All sources imply that Pericles’ role as epistates in the project of the Parthenos statue was, for his enemies, a main consideration in Phidias’ case ( RVˆ Peace 605Æ; Plu. Per. 31.2; D.S. 12.39.1–2). On the other hand, if Phidias was finally charged and brought to trial in 432/1, or Kd —ıŁ æ ı ¼æå , as Peace 605 (above) might suggest, this trial would have been one of the orchestrated attacks on Pericles and his circle, including the attacks against Anaxagoras and Aspasia, as well as the decree of Dracontides (Per. 31–2; D.S. 12.39¼Ephorus FGrH 70 F196). These would have arguably been part of the struggle between those who saw war as inevitable and those who wanted to make concessions to Sparta and retain the uneasy peace.16 When did Phidias’ trouble start? Aristophanes mentions the Megarian decree as roughly synchronous with it. The date of the decree (or, more accurately, the decrees) is a notorious historical crux; yet on balance it is more likely that it concerns the mid- to the late 430s.17 In any case, Aristophanes’ account concerns the last one of the decrees, which was invoked by the Spartans on the eve of the war, and which the Athenians refused to repeal (Th. 1.139.1–2). The Corinthians’ encouragement to the

14

e.g. Aeschines charged Ctesiphon in 336, but the case remained in abeyance and did not come to court until six years later, in 330 (with the speeches Against Ctesiphon and Demosthenes’ On the Crown). In 346, Timarchus initiated a prosecution against Aeschines, but he was counterprosecuted and destroyed by him (with Against Timarchus). Demosthenes, who was involved from the start in the same case against Aeschines in some capacity, did not pursue it until three years later (in 343 with On the False Embassy), when the circumstances were more favourable (Efstathiou 2000: 27–30). 15 Cf. the delay in charging Alcibiades for the same reason: Th. 6.29. 16 See also above, pp. 215–16. 17 For the mid-430s, see Hornblower (2002: 27). That the Megarian decrees did not take place much before 432 (contra Brunt 1951) has been argued, among others, by Fornara (1975); Stadter (1989: 275–6).

Appendix 2

311

Athenians (433 bc) to do something to diminish the previously existing suspicion over Megara (Th. 1.42.2) might suggest a build-up leading to that decree.18 If the decree is dated c.433/2, Phidias could have found himself in trouble shortly before it, as Aristophanes’ account implies. We know that Menon offered information that Phidias had allegedly embezzled precious materials from the Parthenos statue. The inscribed Parthenon accounts of 434 (IG I3 449.389–94), which record that excess gold and ivory were sold in that year, might provide a useful clue for the date of the menysis. The sale might have revealed, or might have been taken to reveal, that precious materials were stolen from the chryselephantine Parthenos statue. Later sources, namely Diodorus 12.39 (who relies heavily on Ephorus (FGrH 70 F196); cf. D.S. 12.41.1) and Plutarch, Pericles 31, place the whole of Phidias’ case on the eve of the war. We saw that it is entirely possible that Phidias’ trial (the last act of the story) took place then, although the menysis and the formal accusation which led to it might have been made sometime during the second half of the 430s, possibly around 434/3. It is typical of both Plutarch’s and Diodorus’ style of composition to compress in one account events which might have been linked causally or thematically, but had taken place over years.19 In any case, neither Diodorus nor Plutarch support a date for Phidias’ trial in the early 430s. Finally, although there is evidence that both Diodorus and Plutarch have used Aristophanes as a source,20 this is not reason enough to doubt their validity as independent evidence for the date of the events.21 Aristophanes does not provide a detailed account of the events he mentions, and if Diodorus and Plutarch do, this should be attributed to the other sources they used, most of which are unknown to us.22 The date these authors found in their sources for the last act of Phidias’ case, namely Phidias’ trial, was evidently consistent with Aristophanes’ chronology.

18 This view is explored as ‘likely’ by Pelling (2000: 105 and n. 48). On the relation of Th. 1.42.2 with the Megarian decrees, see Hornblower (1991: ad loc.). 19 Cf. Pelling (1980: 127–8); Unz (1986: 68 and n. 3). 20 Cf. the use of the conflagration metaphor by Plutarch in Per. 32.3 and the quotation of Aristophanes in Diodorus 12.40.6. 21 Pace e.g. Frost (1964a: 69–70); Kagan (1969: 194–8); Adcock in CAH v. 478. 22 For the sources of Diodorus and Ephorus, see Jacoby’s note on FGrH 70 F196 (IIC 92–3). For the possibility that Diodorus was using a chronographic source, see Schwartz (1903). Stadter (1989: 286–7) argues that Plutarch has used documentary sources for his account, and points out his individual treatment of the story despite his reliance on Ephorus. For the sources of Plutarch’s Pericles generally, see Stadter (1989: pp. lviii–lxxxv).

312

Appendix 2

Due to the nature of the problem, the archaeological evidence must be consulted alongside the literary sources. Findings concerning Phidias’ workshop in Olympia (Donnay 1968) have often been used as evidence that Phidias was in Olympia after c.438. However, these are not conclusive for the date of his trial. Phidias could have left Athens in the early 430s for his workshop in Olympia, and (as argued earlier) could have received the accusation some years later.23 In the 430s, Phidias was probably involved in two artistic projects simultaneously, in Olympia and in Athens.24 This would require him to visit both places over a period of time. Delivorrias (1994) has recently presented archaeological evidence for Phidias’ artistic activity which, if accepted, would suggest that the sculptor worked in Athens at the end of the 430s. Potentially more important, although by no means conclusive, is the evidence of the inscribed Parthenon accounts of 434 (IG I3 449.389–94) mentioned earlier. These record that excess gold and ivory was sold in that year. For Triebel-Schubert (1983) this suggests that the completion and dedication of the Parthenos statue and, consequently, Phidias’ trial can be dated to 434. If this interpretation of the accounts is correct, it might at least give us a terminus post quem for Phidias’ trial—albeit not necessarily a firm date as Triebel-Schubert argues. However, the problem with this thesis is that it is not certain whether the excess precious materials were meant for the Parthenos statue (Wesenberg 1985).25 However, if other considerations suggest that Phidias could have received accusations at around that time, the inscribed Parthenon accounts might be used as supporting evidence.

23

Prandi (1977: 18); Ameling (1986: 65). The fact that Phidias’ influence on the style of the Parthenon sculptures might not have been as great as we once thought (cf. Himmelmann 1977) does not disprove his involvement in the project. See Hurwitt (1999: 169). 25 It has been argued that they could have been intended for parts of the temple’s decoration, such as its doors, which were possibly chryselephantine: see Donnay (1968: 31). This was recently argued by S. Pope at the 2004 APA Annual Meeting. 24

APPENDIX 3

Papyrus Fragments of Plutoi (fr. 171 K-A) The following are the papyrus fragments of Plutoi as edited by K-A, but with some minor variations. The numbers in italics and in parentheses follow Luppe’s (1967a) system of line-numbering, which is more accurate than K-A. It does not obscure the fact that the papyrus fragments do not all necessarily belong in the order arranged by K-A, and that there are gaps of unknown length between them. However, it should be stressed that frr. 171-1a and 171-1b belonged together in the same context (the parodos), and were probably contiguous.

(Fr. 171-1a = PSI 1212 fr. a 1-17) . . . b ŒÆŒ [ _ ——< ( .) Iºº’ IØØŒ [ I çÆØ[ e ıåe æªØ[ c ııåÆØ Ø zÆæı Ø d ŒæØÆd . .[ —— ( ) ŒÆ Ø ÆFÆ b ø.[ P F F æ Ł.[ —— ( .) z oŒ’ Kç Æ [ Ł’ XÅ. #ØA b ª K [ —º F Ø ’ KŒÆº Ł’ ‹’ [qæå ˚æ . q çøBŁ’ ‹ .[ ŒÆØ’ IŒÆØ

Œºøªe ºf ÆNe [E. —— ( ) r Æ b ŒºØ e ˜Æ.[ . . . . . . . . . . .[ _ _ __

5 (5)

10 (10)

15 (15)

(Fr. 171-1b ¼ PSI 1212 fr. a 18-28) [ ˚]æ KªÆ[ [ Œ]Æd #ØAÆ [ [ ]Æ [ _ [

20

314

Appendix 3

[ [ [. . . .].[ e . . . . .[ ——< ( .) ‰ b ıæÆ Iæåc º [ºıÆØ _ B b ŒæÆE, Fæ’ K ŁÅ æe .[ _ ÆP ŒÆ ªÅ ÆºÆØe ÇÅ F[ ] ŒN ÆŁæe XÅ.1 _ ]ŒBłØ æÅ Æs] å’ IŒ fiÅ.

(5)

21 (10) 25

(15)

(Fr. 171-2 ¼ PSI 1212 fr. b) å.[ [ >—— ( ) Kç’ fi w [ ºB fi .[ ‹’ q .[

30

(5)

(Fr. 171-3 ¼PSI 1212 fr. c) ] . .[ ]ø[. . .].ªØ[ ].ø.[ .][_ _ ]. .Øfi A F Ø [ ]Æ ı [ _ [ ]ıº Ø ŒÆØ . _ _ _ ]. .ıÅç[ K]ÆçÅ ª.[ ]Å Ø[ _

1

35

(5) 40

There could be a change of speaker after this verse (as K-A indicate); see ch. 3, pp. 130–4.

Appendix 3

315

(Fr. 171-4 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. a)

ØØ

] . . . . . . . . . ]Åº çæØ• _ _ _ ] Ø

º ı F ]Ø IŒø KŁ ]æ ø fi çæ Ø I]Æ æçØ• Kªg ªæ NØ Łıd ºÆ Ø Ø ŒÆd Ł , Oæç , ªºÆFŒ , ªåºı , Œø• ]å[.] Ø æÆªø• Œ]ıÆ ø• ]ø ŒÆŒH _ ı• ]ØÆ

_ ].Æ ªå ºªø• ]Å _

45 (5)

50 (10)

55

(Fr. 171-5 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. b) . . .[ Ø ªaæ º [ ‰ ÆºÆØª_Å.[ _ _ _ K[ Iºº’ K d _ªaæ æ ºª ı Œ.[ F ıºŒ[Ø ªØæ, Łı, ªºH[Æ PŒæÆ OæŁ ıÅ N ŒæØ Ø ºªø. >—— ( ) æıæÆ f æ ŒŒºÅ [ı

HØ åæ• F ØæØH ªaæ PŒa ı[ n ŒÆº F ’ ` ( ªøÆ F ŒÆd B Å[ _ _ —— _ ( ) y P º ıE ØŒÆø KŁ’ u [ŒºÆ ÆØ. —— _ ( ) Iººa c IæåÆØº ı ª’ K d K Iæå[B åø Ł’ ‹ ’ K ’ ÆPfiH, a b [.] _. .[. .].ø, a .[ —— ( ) KÆØ ø çæ Æ Å[ . . . . Æ]ç æ [ ˝ØŒÆ ç æÅªe q ŒÆ.[ . _. . . . . . . .] ø .[ —ØŁ ı Ø Łøe .[ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .].æ .[ ——

60 (5)

65 (10)

70 (15)

316

Appendix 3

( ) y ŒÆłı ÆØ Æ[ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] . . .[ —— ( ) Iºº’ Kª Ø, a ˜Æ[

75 (20)

(Fr. 171-6 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. c) .[ —— ( ) .[ q çæ [ ›’ IæØ [ n f æø_.[ _ Oºª [

80 (5)

(Fr. 171-7 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. d) .[ (ˆæÆ.) .[ —— (#Ø.) ›[ .]Œ[

85

(Fr. 171-8 ¼PSI 1279) ]. ŒæÆŒÆ [ _ _ çæø e[ ].ø ] ’ PæØÆ º [ _ _

(Fr. 171-1a ¼ PSI 1212 fr. a 1-17) . . . bad[ (Cho.) Well, even though revealing [ deserving to win, [

89

Appendix 3

317

to accept whatever comes; [and yet we fear2 that these judges, weighed down by events, 5 (5) [will not be?]3 patient. ( ) For me too this is[ of my previous[ But why we said [we have come4 you shall now hear. 10 (10) We are by birth Titans and used to be called Plutoi when [Cronus reigned. That was the time when he swallowed his children alive with whetstones with a mighty gulping sound / swallowing up your hooting 15 (15) and you were happy with that. ( ) Then secretly from Zeus you . . . or: ( ) Then you steal Zeus . . . 5

(Fr. 171-1b ¼ PSI 1212 fr. a 18-28) ](?) depose . . . Cronus[ ]and the Titans[ ]bond(?s)[

bondage (Cho.) Since the tyrannical rule [is over and the people are in power, we rushed here to our [(?) kinsman6 and ancient brother seeking him, though he’s now decrepit. ](our) first excuse on the other hand] you will soon hear.

20 (5)

21 (10) 25

(15)

2 Because of the following c . . . t Ø, the supplement should probably include a reference to fear, such as Iººa ç ŁÆ (ed. pr.) Åb ç E ŁÆØ (Luppe 1967a). 3 Cf. e.g. Ko¨rte’s supplement P [Øªø Ø. 4 _ _ suggested z’ KºŁE. The meaning ‘we have Ko¨rte supplemented lŒØ. Herter come’ is virtually certain. 5 The translation depends on the identity of the speaker. See the discussion at 3.1.4. 6 Cf. e.g. the supplement by Norsa and Vitelli ‹ [ÆØ ’ Z’. __

318

Appendix 3 (Fr. 171-2 ¼ PSI 1212 fr. b)

( ) on which . . . [ fine (or: weak) [ when (? he / it) was . . . [

(Fr. 171-3 ¼PSI 1212 fr. c) 35 ] of . . . (?) life [ ] of the oracle [

(5) 40

] suddenly . . . [

(Fr. 171-4 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. a) ] . . . brings ] . . . ever are wealthy] here unjustly to indicate to (?)Cronus ]is returning Why, I represent your dark female-tuna, as well as the male, and sea-perch, greyfish, eel, dogfish! ] from things. ] prepared ]of evils ] he used to give; ] a verbal spear

45

(5)

50 (10)

55

(Fr. 171-5 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. b) (?)for giving [ as one of the old generation[ to me then . . . [ turn to speak[ this . . . to combine [

60 (5)

Appendix 3 My spirit, bestir your tongue well-balanced roused for delivery of speech. ( ) The summoned witnesses [ must [stand] here; it’s desirable [? to investigate7] the man from Steiria, whom they call Hagnon now, and his deme [ ( ) This man here is unjustly wealthy; let him [pay for it! ( ) But he’s inherited his wealth, and [had] everything he owns from the start (/ from office)8 some [from . . . or from . . . ] ( ) I’ll improve by explaining [ ] more clearly Nicias was a porter [ hired by Peithias [ ( ) He has told lies about this [ ( ) Well I, by Zeus, won’t

319

65 (10)

70 (15)

75 (20)

(Fr. 171-6 ¼Pap. Brux. E 6842 fr. c) (?)indeed think . . . [ when . . . excellent[ whom you (?) first [ a little [

80 (5)

(Fr. 171-8 ¼PSI 1279) ]to hell[ ] bringing the [ there ] is ease[?for the wealthy9

89

7 Cf. the general direction of the supplements offered: [ Œ E Goossens; __ f[ æ ı ÆŁE Luppe, which are justified by what follows. 8 _ _ R. Rawles makes the attractive suggestion ‘from the empire’. 9 Cf. the first editors’ supplement º [ı Ø . _

APPENDIX 4

Hypothesis to Dionysalexandros (POxy 663; text edited by K-A, iv. 140) col. i

col. ii

]. . . . . . . . . . .]ÇÅ( ) . . . . . . . . . .]Æ . . . . . . . ]Æı Å _ 5 . . . . . Œ]æ Ø › ¯ æ(B ) _ Œ(Æd) y Ø Iæå]ÆØ (b) æ(e ) f ŁÆ

ØÆ (æd) H Ø( ø ) ØÆºª ÆØ Œ(Æd) ÆæÆçÆÆ e 10 ˜Øı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø)• › (b) ÆæÆª ø < > ÆPfiH Ææa (b) ( ˙ æÆ[ ] ıæÆ ( ) _ _ _ ’ ŁÅA

IŒØ ı, Æ[æ]a 15 Płıå(Æ ) Œ(Æ)(a) º (), B

’ çæ (Å ) ŒººØ () Œ(Æd) KæÆ ÆPe æåØ, ŒæØ ÆÅ ØŒA. ()(a) (b) ÆF(Æ) º Æ N 20 ¸ÆŒÆ (Æ) (ŒÆd) c ¯ ºÅ KÆªÆªg KÆæå(ÆØ) N c Å. IŒ (Ø) (b) ’Oºª f åÆØ f ıæ º]E c å(æÆ) (ŒÆd) [ÇÅE 25

˜ˇ˝+[`¸¯˛`˝˜,ˇ [ ˙ ˚,`#[¯˝ˇ+ e ºÆ[(æ ). c (b) s ¯ ºÅ()

N ºÆæ ‰ [åØ Æ 30 ŒæłÆ , Æıe _’_ N ŒæØe[ ()(Æ) Œı Æ Ø e ºº . ÆæÆª ’ ºÆ(æ ) Œ(Æd) çøæ Æ Œæ () ¼ªØ Kd a

35 ÆF æ( )Ø ‰ ÆæÆ ø E åÆØ E( ). OŒ Å (b) B

¯ ºÅ( ) ÆÅ (b) NŒæÆ

‰ ªıÆEå’ *ø KØŒÆå(Ø), e (b) ˜Øı ( ) ‰ ÆæÆ ŁÅ- 40 () I ººØ, ıÆŒ º ıŁ( F Ø) ’ ƒ ı(æ Ø) ÆæÆŒÆº F-

Œ(Æd) PŒ i æ Ø ÆP e ç Œ . Œøø fi EÆØ ’ K fiH æÆØ —æØŒºB ºÆ ØŁÆH Ø’ Kç ø ‰ KÆªÅ åg

E ŁÅÆ Ø e º

45

Appendix 4

321

seek . . . him not . . . judgment, Hermes (5) departs and these say some things to the spectators about (? sons), and when Dionysus appears (10) they mock and jeer at him. He, after the arrival of to him of unshakeable dominion by Hera, (15) bravery in war by Athena, and becoming irresistibly attractive by Aphrodite, judges her the winner. After this he sails to (20) Sparta, abducts Helen and returns to Ida. Shortly, he hears that the Achaeans are ravaging the countryside and [looking for] (25) Alexandros. So Helen he immediately hides in a basket (30) and himself he transforms into a ram, and awaits the consequences. Alexandros arrives, and detects them both, and orders (the chorus) to take them (35) to the ships so he can surrender them to the Achaeans. But since Helen is afraid, he takes pity on her and holds her back as his intended wife, but Dionysus he dispatches (40) for surrender. The satyrs follow along, crying appeals and vowing not to give him up. In the play, Pericles (45) is satirized very felicitously by innuendo as having brought the war upon the Athenians.

APPENDIX 5

New Edition of the Papyrus Hypothesis to Dionysalexandros (POxy 663) The following edition of the Dionysalexandros hypothesis results from the papyrological observations described in 2.1.3 (pp. 97–8), and the readings argued in 5.3.2 and Appendix 1. It is followed by an apparatus criticus, which concerns the points where this edition differs from K-A. The numbers in parentheses correspond to the line numbering in K-A. col. i

col. ii

]. 1 [ca. 21 lines missing] ]. . . . . . . . . . .]ÇÅ( ) 25 . . . . . . . . . .]Æ . . . . . . . ]Æı Å _ (5) . . . . . Œ]æ Ø › ¯ æ(B ) _ Œ(Æd) y Ø Iæå]ÆØ (b) æ(e ) f ŁÆ

ØÆ [(æd)] H ØÅ(H) 30 ØÆºª ÆØ Œ(Æd) ÆæÆçÆÆ e (10) ˜Øı KØ Œ( ı Ø) (ŒÆd) åºıÇ ı( Ø)• › (b) ÆæÆª ø ÆPfiH 35 Ææa (b) ( ˙ æÆ[ ] #ıæÆ ( ) _ _ _ ’ ŁÅA

ŒØ ı, Æ[æ]a (15)

˜ˇ˝+[`¸¯˛`˝˜,ˇ

N ºÆæ ‰ [åØ Æ 55 (30) ŒæłÆ , Æıe _’_ N ŒæØe[ ()(Æ) Œı Æ Ø e ºº . ÆæÆª ’ ºÆ(æ ) Œ(Æd) çøæ Æ Œæ () ¼ªØ Kd a 60 (35) ÆF æ( )Ø ‰ ÆæÆ ø E åÆØ E( ). OŒ Å (b) B

¯ ºÅ( ) ÆÅ (b) NŒæÆ

‰ ªıÆEå’ *ø KØŒÆå(Ø),

¯Płıå(Æ ) Œ(Æ)(a) —º (),

e (b) ˜Øı ( ) ‰ ÆæÆ ŁÅ- 65 (40)

B ’ çæ (Å ) ŒººØ () Œ(Æd)

KæÆ ÆPe æåØ, ŒæØ ÆÅ ØŒA. ()(a) (b) ÆF(Æ) º Æ N

¸ÆŒÆ (Æ) (ŒÆd) c ¯ ºÅ KÆªÆªg KÆæå(ÆØ) N c Å. IŒ (Ø) (b) ’ Oºª f åÆØ f ıæ º]E c å(æÆ) (ŒÆd) [ÇÅE

40 (20)

45 (25)

[ ˙

50

˚,`#[˝ˇ+ e ºÆ[(æ ). c (b) s ¯ ºÅ()

() I ººØ, ıÆŒ º ıŁ( F Ø) ’ ƒ ı(æ Ø) ÆæÆŒÆº F-

Œ(Æd) PŒ i æ Ø ÆP e ç Œ . Œøø fi EÆØ ’ K fiH æÆØ —- 70 (45) æØŒºB ºÆ ØŁÆH Ø’ Kç ø ‰ KÆªÅ åg

E ŁÅÆ Ø e º

Appendix 5

323

1 traces of ink 30 (8) or [(æd)] H Ø( ø ), see Appendix 1; [(æd)] H ØÅ(H) Luppe ZPE 72 (1988) 37f.; (æd) H Ø( ø ) K-A (following Handley BICS 29 (1982) 109–17) 35 (13) see 5.3.2; lacuna between ÆæÆª ø and ÆPfiH K-A; e.g. Luppe Philologus 110 (1966) 174 36 (14) see 5.3.2, pp. 290–1; ıæÆ ( ) ˚-` 38 (16) see 5.3.2, pp. 290–1; Płıå(Æ ) ˚-` 49 space between ˜ˇ˝+[`¸¯˛`˝˜,ˇ and ˙ and ˚,`#[˝ˇ+ 51 space between ˙ 52 K-A in Addenda et Corrigenda ad vol. iv ‘˚,`#[˝ˇ+ nil obstare videtur’ 53 space between ˚,`#[˝ˇ+ and main text of col. ii

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Index of Passages ACHAEUS fr. 12: 113 n. 104 ADESPOTA COMICA fr. 51: 238 n. 23 fr. 1104: 164–8, 251 ADESPOTA TRAGICA fr. 681: 109 AESCHYLUS Agamemnon 59: 138 750–80: 136 957–63: 136, 137 1531: 176 Eumenides 124: 151 141: 151 538–57: 136 778–87: 137 996: 138 1012–13: 128 Hiketides 96–103: 293 n. 173 234–6: 144 235–353: 145 n. 86 381–4: 209 n. 58 Persai 978–9: 285 n. 148 frr. 46–7: 93 n. 32, 108–9, 304 n. 42 frr. 53–4: 149 fr. 57: 269 fr. 61: 253 n. 59, 259 fr. 78a: 89–91, 190, 253 n. 59, 259

fr. 78c: 91 fr. 91: 52 fr. 99: 172 fr. 154a: 170, 176 fr. 205: 176 fr. 293: 176 fr. 441: 128 [AESCHYLUS] Prometheus Desmotes 11: 126 22–3: 125 35: 124 94: 125 128ff.: 127 135: 126 172: 127 219–21: 124 284–396: 134 289ff.: 125 295: 127 379–80: 124 541: 125 655–6: 172 700–849: 163 792–9: 162–4 1082–3: 53 n. 119, 245 n. 44 Prometheus Lyomenos fr. 190: 123–4, 127, 132 n. 46 fr. 191: 127 fr. 192: 127, 128 fr. 193: 125 fr. 195–9: 163–4 fr. 202b: 172 P. Heidel. 185: 125 n. 25

356

Index of Passages

ALCAEUS fr. 204: 23 n. 23, 25 ALCMAN fr. 39: 23 n. 23, 25 ANDOCIDES 1.11–28: 310 ALEXIS fr. 239: 205 n. 52 ANONYMOUS De Comoedia (Prol. de com. 3) p. 8: 3 n. 6, 3 n. 8, 28–9 De Comoedia (Proleg. de com. 5) p. 14: 4 n. 12, 77 ANTIPHANES fr. 189: 36 n. 59, 236 n. 16, 238 n. 23 [APOLLODORUS] 3.10.7: 172, 221–2 3.14.1: 73 n. 190 Epit. 3.2: 189–90 ARCHILOCHUS fr. 5: 75 fr. 23: 75 fr. 109: 63 fr. 120: 17, 48, 56 fr. 126: 71 n. 181 fr. 153: 78 ARISTOPHANES Acharnians 6: 133 n. 47 10: 140 n. 71 94–7: 285 186ff.: 273 280ff.: 98 299–302: 33 404–6: 173 406–80: 160–2 412–13: 160

415ff.: 160 n. 131 435–40: 173 447: 160–1 450–2: 212 n. 65 464: 160 470: 160 483ff.: 212 n. 65 484: 160–1 526–39: 183, 184 n. 7, 205, 223, 309 n. 12 566–71: 173 627–64: 31, 33 636–40: 157 703: 219 719ff.: 98 729–817: 260 n. 77, 273 n. 122, 286 n. 150 847–53: 2 n.4, 19–20, 278, 281 979ff.: 273 n. 121 1162–73: 2 n. 4, 18–19 1214–61: 286 n. 150 Birds 54–5: 238 n. 23 120: 152 227–62: 45 268–326: 237–8 327–99: 211 451–626: 100 556–60: 222 n. 60 714: 157 685ff.: 163 n. 138 829–31: 287 n. 153 994: 259 n. 76 1021–34: 157 1035–57: 157 1196–1261: 107–8, 286 1199ff.: 98 1372–1400: 45 1453–6: 157 1515–47: 133, 292

Index of Passages 1750ff.: 53 n. 119 1764: 33 Clouds 112–3: 273 192: 72 n. 183 228: 165 264ff.: 245 290: 53 n. 119 518–62: 31 n. 46, 47, 55 nn. 126–7 537ff.: 36 547–8: 69 n. 170, 116 n. 111 691–2: 156 967: 163 n. 138 1207–8: 155 n. 120 1369–78: 69 n. 170 1510–11: 128 Ecclesiazousae 60ff.: 260 n. 77 576–87: 116 n. 111 1182: 33 Frogs 1–20: 36, 68 45ff.: 160, 255, 259–60 66–105: 68, 278, 280 108–9: 255 182–270: 240 n. 29, 262 285ff.: 269 308: 268 324ff.: 46, 268 354ff.: 35 n. 55, 36 n. 60, 69 n. 168 357: 2 n. 4 372–5: 268 392: 268 460ff.: 255, 260, 268 479–85: 286 499: 253 n. 60 568–71: 69 n. 168 686–737: 36 n. 60, 69 n. 168 703–5: 76 718–37: 36 n. 60

357

757–829: 100 814–25: 26 882: 56 n. 130 899: 205 n. 52 956–8: 26 954–79: 69 n. 173, 236 971–9: 26 1004–5: 27–8 1009–10: 69 n. 173 1033–42: 75 1039–88: 70 n. 173 1059: 56 n. 130, 280 n. 135 1104: 236 n. 16 1107: 27 1113–4: 25 n. 31 1116: 53 n. 119 1257–60: 26 1500–33: 128 Knights 36–59: 37, 203–6 85–140: 57 148–9: 173 400: 2 n.4, 33, 436: 168 n. 153 498–506: 128 507–9: 31 510: 47 515–17: 278, 280, 280–1 507–50: 32 n. 47 526–36: 2 n.4, 4, 16–18, 20–2, 27, 28, 163 n. 138, 174, 283–5 725ff.: 274 1189: 287 n. 153 1194: 212 n. 65 1329: 157 1388ff.: 273, 285, 286 n. 150 Lysistrata 199–200: 239 346–9: 287 n. 153 520: 163 n. 138

358

Index of Passages

954–79: 128 1291ff.: 33 Peace 1: 160 50ff.: 238 n. 23, 282 n. 139 80: 165 81ff.: 128 148: 238 n. 23, 282 n. 139 152: 165 174: 167 193–4: 283 n. 144 204ff.: 273 n. 121 238: 239 251: 146 296–8: 109 n. 91 361ff.: 98 n. 56, 100 385–424: 173, 286 426–526: 82 n. 3 459–519: 108–9 520ff.: 273 n. 121 603–4: 76 605ff.: 215–8, 308–12 751–74: 31 n. 46, 31 n. 47, 51, 278 700–3: 2 n. 4, 3 n. 9, 283 n. 144 706–29: 286 n. 150, 868–908: 286 n. 150 1052ff.: 98 1227: 160 1268–94: 67 n. 163 1295–301: 75 Thesmophoriazousae 39f.: 128 136ff.: 160 n. 131, 259 148–52: 160 157: 103 179: 152 214ff.: 260 n. 77 224: 152 255: 159–62 266–7: 160–1

280–93: 237–8 531ff.: 98 546–7: 238 n. 23 571–3: 143 n. 804ff: 304 1227ff.: 33, 128 Wasps 9–10: 43 54–66: 36, 37, 53, 282 n. 139 323–33: 173 652: 163 n. 138 1029–60: 25 n. 31, 51, 55 n. 126, 76, 116 n. 111 1037: 195 n. 30 1498: 104 1505: 104 1515: 34 n. 50 1517–37: 37 n. 64, 47 1535–7: 33–4, 114 n. 111 Wealth 150: 278 415–24: 137 475: 137 n. 58 797–9: 38, 202–3 1067: 278 fr. 57: 46 n. 92 fr. 68: 114 fr. 71: 114, 157 frr. 74–5: 114 fr. 81: 114 fr. 90: 114 fr. 95: 114 fr. 99: 114 fr. 100: 162 n. 134 fr. 130: 159 n. 129 fr. 156: 110 fr. 160: 167 fr. 192: 167, 251 fr. 193: 251 fr. 198: 251

Index of Passages fr. 256: 152 fr. 270: 152 fr. 272: 152 fr. 355: 46 n. 88 fr. 415: 195 n. 30 fr. 488: 37 fr. 570: 175 fr. 591: 110 fr. 696: 162 n. 134 ARISTOPHANIC HYPOTHESES hyp. Ach. I: 83 n. 7: 97 n. 53, 193 n. 28, 194, 198 n. 34, 290 n. 163, 297 n. 1, 299 n. 20 hyp. Ach. II: 290 n. 163 hyp. Av. A2: 193 n. 28, 299 n. 20 hyp. Av. A5: 98 n. 53, 193 n. 28 hyp. Eq. A1: 83 n. 7, 97 n. 53, 98, 192, 193 n. 28, 198 n. 34, 297 n. 1, 299 n. 20 hyp. Eq. A2: 98 n. 53, 193, hyp. Lys. A1: 193 n. 28, 198 n. 34, 290 n. 163, 299 n. 20 hyp. Nu A5: 193 n. 28, 198 n. 34 hyp. Nu. A1: 98 n. 53 hyp. Nu. A2: 98 n. 53, 193 n. 28 hyp. Nu. A5: 83 n. 7, 97 n. 53, 193 n. 28, 197, 198 n. 34, 297 n. 1, 299 n. 20 hyp. Pax A3: 83 n. 7, 97 n. 53, 193 n. 28, 193, 194–5, 198 n. 34, 297 n. 1, 299 n. 20 hyp. Ra. I: 83 n. 7, 193 n. 28, 197, 198 n. 34, 297 n. 1, 299 n. 20 hyp. Ra. Thomas Magister: 98 n. 53, 193 n. 28 hyp. V. I: 290 n. 163 hyp. V. II: 97 n. 53, 193 n. 28, 198 n. 34, 290 n. 163, 299 n. 20

ARISTOTLE Ath. Pol. 3.5: 43 26.4: 301 n. 28 56.6: 276–7 Div. Somn. 464b11–12: 200 n. 37 Mete. 345b15ff.: 200 n. 37 Poetics 1448b: 78 1449a: 76–7 Rhetoric 1407a1–5: 261 n. 83 1411a2–4: 261 n. 83 1411a15–6: 261 n. 83 ATHENAEUS 22ab: 27 428f-429a: 27 n. 35 551d: 192 687c: 287 510c: 287 Epit. 2.39c: 17 n. 12 BACCHYLIDES 5.13–31: 31 n. 47 5.200: 205 n. 52 8.26: 45 CALLIAS fr. 14: 177 n. 180 fr. 15: 177 n. 180 fr. 17: 177 n. 180 test. 7: 177 n. 180 CERTAMEN HOMERI ET HESIODI 13W: 73 CHIONIDES fr. 4: 57 n. 134

359

360 CLEMENS ALEXANDRINUS Protr. 2.18: 269–70 Strom. 1.24.1–2: 71 n. 183 RATINUS C fr. 2: 71, 74 fr. 6: 56, 71 fr. 7: 73–4 fr. 10: 176 fr. 13: 78 fr. 16: 79 n. 208 fr. 17: 57–9, 176 n. 179 fr. 20: 42–9, 57–8 fr. 32: 18 n. 15 fr. 38: 18, 48–9 fr. 39: 84, 85, 86–8, 258 fr. 40: 257 fr. 42: 259 fr. 43: 258–9 fr. 48: 263, 269 fr. 49: 258 fr. 53: 147–8, 153–4, 155 fr. 55: 135 n. 52, 151 fr. 60: 142–8 fr. 61: 143, 144–8 fr. 62: 18 n. 15, 147 n. 93 fr. 65: 154 n. 117 fr. 66: 147 n. 93 fr. 68: 156 fr. 70: 176 fr. 73: 184, 261 n. 81 fr. 74 CGFP (¼POxy 2742): 74–8 fr. 75: 42 n. 73 fr. 76: 304 n. 44 fr. 77: 163 n. 138 fr. 90: 96 n. 48 fr. 91: 96 n. 48 fr. 102: 18 n. 15 fr. 104: 57 n. 134 fr. 105: 41, 143, 304 fr. 114: 171, 222, 251

Index of Passages fr. 115: 169–70, 171 n. 158, 176, 222, 224, 239 fr. 116: 171, 222, 251 fr. 117: 223 fr. 118: 172–3, 184, 222–3 fr. 119: 223 fr. 138: 18 n. 15, 58–9 fr. 143: 236–9, 242, 243–6 fr. 144: 163 n. 138 fr. 145: 163 n. 138 fr. 149: 163 n. 138 fr. 150: 163 n. 138 fr. 151: 54, 165, 238–9, 242 fr. 171.1–28: 49–53, 54, 124–34, 135, 136, 184, 209, 213, 228, 248– 50, 303 n. 39 fr. 171.46: 136 n. 54, 210 n. 59, 226 fr. 171.57–76: 135–6, 138, 210–20 fr. 193: 62 n. 150, 281–3 fr. 194: 62 n. 150, 277 fr. 195: 62 n. 150, 282, 283 n. 144 fr. 196: 62 n. 150 fr. 197: 63 fr. 198: 21–3, 27 fr. 199: 18 n. 14, 48, 62 n. 150, 283 n. 144 fr. 201: 62 n. 150, 283 n. 144 fr. 202: 62 n. 151 fr. 203: 15 n. 8, 17, 56–7, 280 n. 135 fr. 208: 62 n. 150 fr. 211: 18 nn. 14–15, 62–3 fr. 218: 159–60, 165, 253 fr. 222: 158, 163–4, 165, 225, 251 fr. 223: 158, 163–4, 225–7 fr. 225: 18 n. 15, 158 fr. 227: 162 n. 135 fr. 228: 162 n. 135 fr. 231: 158 fr. 246: 54 n. 121 fr. 247: 54 n. 121

Index of Passages fr. 248: 54 n. 121 fr. 253: 54, 127, 131 fr. 254: 54 n. 121 fr. 255: 54–5 fr. 256: 54 n. 121 fr. 257: 54 n. 121 fr. 258: 54 n. 121, 184 fr. 259: 223 fr. 269: 56 n. 128 fr. 276: 57 n. 134 fr. 281: 226–7 fr. 299: 56 n. 128, 176 n. 179 fr. 301: 56 n. 128 fr. 316: 176 fr. 319: 56 n. 128 fr. 322: 56 n. 128 fr. 326: 205 n. 52 fr. 327: 205 n. 52, 293 fr. 328: 154–5 fr. 342: 24–9, 39, 68, 176–7 fr. 343: 162–4, fr. 346: 41 fr. 360: 18 n. 15, 40–1, fr. 361: 39–40, 51, 103 fr. 363: 18 n. 15 fr. 368: 18 n.15, 78 fr. 387: 18 n. 15 fr. 462: 40, 103, fr. 502: 26 n. 32, 28, 103, 177 n. 180 fr. 505: 18 n. 15 Testimonia Dionysalexandros test. i (¼ POxy 663) 4 n. 11, 81–102, 181–208, 253–72, 286–96, 297–304 6–12: 42, 83, 86–8, 297–304 10–12: 89–91, 99, 268, 297 12–19: 98, 289–94 23–5: 182 29–33: 182, 239, 268–9

361

33–7: 84, 86–8, 290 40–2: 263 42–3: 83, 86–8 44–8: 84, 101, 181, 183, 191–2, 196–208 Nemesis test. ii: 168–9, 171 n. 159, 222, 251 Pytine test. ii: 16–17, 59–64, 233–4, 272, 275–85 Critias B 44 D-K: 75 Cypria fr. 10: 171–2, 221–2 fr. 11: 189, 221–2 DEMETRIUS PHAL. On Style 47: 201 n. 40 63: 200 105: 201 n. 40 130–1: 201 n. 42 140: 201 n. 40 169: 102 171: 201 n. 40 259: 201 n. 42 274: 201 n. 40 287: 198 288: 198, 201 291: 201 n. 40 DIO CHRYS. 33.12–3: 76 DIODORUS SIC. 12.18: 277 n. 129 12.39: 215–6, 310, 311 12.41: 311 12.45: 303 n. 39 DIONYSIUS HAL. 4.7: 300 n. 25

362

Index of Passages

DISSOI LOGOI 3.17 D-K: 25 n. 31 ECPHANTIDES fr. 5: 103 EPHORUS FGrH 70 F196: 215, 310–11 [ERATOSTHENES] Catasterisms 25: 168–9, 171 n. 159, 222, 251 EUPOLIS fr. 60: 37 n. 65 fr. 62: 239 fr. 110: 304 fr. 115: 184 n. 9 fr. 148: 57 n. 134 fr. 192.1–41: 35, 304 n. 41 fr. 201: 34 n. 53, 36–7 fr. 205: 15 n. 8, 34–5, 134 fr. 207: 134 fr. 259.1–38: 35 fr. 267: 183, 205 fr. 268: 240 n. 29, 255–6, 262 fr. 270: 256 fr. 272: 255–6 fr. 274: 156, 255–6 fr. 276: 255–6 fr. 280: 255–6 fr. 392: 40 EURIPIDES Andromache 476: 56 n. 130, 280 n. 135 Alkestis 837: 212 n. 65 Backhai 4: 254 53–4: 254 64–169: 45–6 100: 254 370–3: 273 453–9: 190

478: 254 585ff.: 245 604ff.: 269 725–6: 46 821ff.: 266–7 854–5: 267 920–2: 254 1017–18: 254, 262 1064: 237 n. 17 1095ff.: 267 1159: 254 Helen 19: 222 n. 88 400–15: 244 Herakles 582: 154 766–7: 56 n. 130, 280 n. 135 886: 245 1046: 154 Hiketides 113: 154 180–1: 56 n. 130, 280 n. 135 342: 154 976ff.: 156 1347–69: 128 Ion 621: 291, 292 Iphigeneia at Aulis 209: 55 n. 125 217: 146 Kyklops 1–40: 92, 113 n. 104, 236, 244 41–81: 100, 113 n. 104 80–9: 113 n. 104, 236 186–222: 113 n. 104 495–518: 46 n. 91 314ff.: 113 n. 104 424: 113 n. 104 683–7: 113 n. 104 706–7: 113 n. 104

Index of Passages

Phoinissai 506: 291 531–2: 273 782: 273

HERODOTUS 1.114.2: 285 n. 148 2.53.2–3: 74 n. 193 2.81: 270 n. 115 2.112–20: 74 3.53.4: 291, 292 8.55.1: 73 n. 190 9.27: 149 n. 102

Troades 98–122: 132 n.45 926–8: 189–90

HESIOD Shield 380: 146

Medea 190: 146 1056: 212 n. 65 1242: 212 n. 65

fr. 203: 43 fr. 250: 291 fr. 282: 113 n. 104 fr. 330b-348: 161 n. 132 fr. 360: 147 fr. 472: 43 n. 76 fr. 638: 128 fr. 903: 146 EUSTATHIUS Od. 1504.29ff.: 52 n. 115 Od. 1598.58: 27 n. 35 GORGIAS B 23 D-K: 25 n. 31 HEPHAESTION Ench. p. 26.5ff: 236–7 HERACLITUS A 22: 74 B 40: 74 B 42: 75 B 56–7: 74 B 104–6: 74 HERMIPPUS fr. 42: 184 n. 7 fr. 47: 84 n. 8, 182, 205 n. 52 fr. 48: 163 n. 138 fr. 57: 156

363

Theogony 26–8: 66 n. 161 459: 52 467: 52 510: 125 n. 25 584: 52 717ff.: 124 851: 124 Works and Days 121–6: 135–6, 137 n. 59, 209 253–5: 209 n. 58 321–6: 136, 220 650–62: 66 n. 161, 67 n. 162, 67 n. 163 750: 205 n. 52 fr. 30: 170 fr. 205: 241 n. 35 HESYCHIUS 1925: 73 º 1216: 238 n. 23 4455: 43 HIPPIAS B 6 D-K: 25 n. 31 HIPPONAX fr. 36: 274 HOMER Iliad 2.235: 143 2.874: 146

364

Index of Passages

Iliad (continued) 3.30–52: 190 3.428–54: 190 5.334–54: 286 7.96: 143 9.328–9: 189 14.313ff.: 222 n. 90 23.316–17: 237 n. 17 23.514: 146 Odyssey 1.30: 146 1.40: 146 3.282–3: 237 n. 17 4.83–4: 164, 225 5.282–453: 244 6.177: 146 7.253–5: 244 8.266–366: 286 8.515: 200 9.275ff.: 242 9.76–84: 244 9.80ff.: 244 10.28–55: 244 11.248–50: 170 11.471: 146 11.523: 200 12.39–141: 164, 225 n. 97 12.403–49: 244 19.203: 66 n. 161 20.64ff.: 289 n. 162 HOMERIC HYMNS h. Ap. 169–73: 71 n. 181 h. Dion. 7: 94 n. 39, 262 n. 86 h. Dem. 202–3: 268 HORACE Sat. 1.4: 2 n. 3, 5, 77 n. 201 Sat. 1.5: 68 Epist. 1.19.1: 5, 17 n. 12 HYGINUS Astr. 2.8: 222 Fab. 164: 73 n. 190

IBYCUS S151: 67 n. 161 INSCRIPTIONES GRAECAE IG I3 449.389–94: 311–12 IG II2 2325.121: 3 n.5 IG II2 2325.48–50: 3 n. 5, 3 n. 8, 103 n. 67 IG II2 3091: 232 n. 10 IG II/III2 3198: 240 n. 31 ISAEUS 2.17: 300 n. 25 5.6: 300 n.25 ISOCRATES 3.46: 276 n. 127 12.168–71: 149 n. 102 41.6–7: 189–90 [LONGINUS] 9.9: 236 n. 16 28.2: 236 n. 16 38.2: 236 n. 16 LUCIAN Dialogues of the Gods 13: 287 Demosthenes 15: 27 n. 35 The Double Indictment 14–17: 283 n. 143 28: 283 n. 143 The Judgement of the Goddesses 9–12: 286 n. 150 On Pantomime Dancing 79.15: 43 LYSIAS 1.12: 278 MACROBIUS 7.5.8: 237 n. 21 MENANDER Sam. 344: 300 n. 25

Index of Passages METAGENES fr. 15: 238 n. 23 fr. 84: 116 n. 111 NONNUS Dionysiaca 6.169ff.: 262 n. 86 40.38ff.: 262 n. 86 ORIGENES Cels. 4.10: 269 n. 112 ORPHICA 1.10: 43 23.30: 43 31.7: 43 OVID Met. 7.615ff.: 241 n. 35 PAPYRUS FRAGMENTS P. Heidel. 185: 125 n. 25 P. Mil.Vogliano 26: 299 n. 19 P. Oxy. 663: see Dionysalexandros test. i P. Oxy. 1235: 299 P. Oxy. 2742: 74–8 P. Oxy. 2806: 298 P. Oxy. 3716: 211 n. 62 P. Teb. iii 692: 131 n. 44 P. Yale 64: 299 n. 19 PAUSANIAS 1.39.2: 149 n. 102 1.33.7: 170 n. 158 PERSIUS 1.123: 2 n. 3, 5, 77 n. 201 PHERECRATES fr. 52: 42, 304 n. 43 fr. 84: 114 n. 111 fr. 117: 240 n. 29 fr. 118: 240 n. 29, 241 n. 35

365

fr. 119: 240 n. 29, 241 n. 35 fr. 125: 240 n. 29 fr. 155: 279–80 PHERECYDES FGrH 3 F 11: 159 PHILOCHORUS FGrH 328 F121: 215 n. 71, 305–12 PHOTIUS 659: 73 PHRYNICHUS fr. 46: 103–4 fr. 47: 104 fr. 50: 104 PINDAR N. 7. 14–6: 75 N. 7. 20–4: 74 O. 1.117: 56 n. 130 O. 2. 86–8: 23 n. 23, 25 O. 13.18–19: 46 O. 13.77: 45 n. 82 P. 1.19: 237 n. 17 P. 2.52–6: 75 P. 4.140: 41 P. 4.194: 45 n. 82 fr. 70b: 46 n. 92, 66 n. 161 fr. 75: 31 n. 46 PLATO Gorgias 469c: 184 n. 7 502b-c: 25 n. 31 516a: 216 Ion 531a5-b2: 74 n. 193 534a: 26 537a-540a: 75 Laws 713d: 209 n. 58 810e-811a: 25 n. 31 923e: 300 n. 25

366

Index of Passages

Republic 595b-c: 79 n. 209 343–4: 184 n. 7 598d-e: 79 n. 209 605d-e: 79 n. 209 607a: 79 n. 209 Statesman 271d: 209 n. 58 Theaetetus 152e: 79 n. 209 PLATO COM. fr. 43: 222 n. 90 fr. 86: 239 fr. 115: 38, 59 fr. 188: 285, 286 PLATONIUS Diff. Com. (Proleg. de. com. 1) p. 5: 236 n. 14 Diff. Com. (Proleg. de. com. 1) p. 3: 2 n. 3 Diff. Char. (Proleg. de. com. 2) p. 6–7: 2 n. 3, 4 n. 12, 5, 18, 77, 241 PLUTARCH Moralia 622e: 27 n. 35 715de: 27 n. 35 747b: 197

Theseus 19: 73 n. 190 29: 148–9 fr. 130: 27 n. 35 fr. 178: 269 n. 112 [PLUTARCH] On Music 1141c: 279–80 POLLUX 7.133: 227 n. 105 8.53: 276 n. 127, 277 10.64: 176 QUINTILIAN 8.3.83: 198, 201 10.1.66: 2 n. 3 SAPPHO fr. 166 LP: 221–2 SCHOLIA ARISTOPHANICA Birds Av. 997: 227 n. 105 Av. 1155: 197 n. 33 Clouds Nu. 96d: 192 Nu. 557a: 192 Nu. 558a: 192 Frogs Ran. 405: 252 n. 54 Ran. 541: 300 n. 25

Pericles 3: 184 n. 9 7: 184 n. 7 8: 184 n. 7, 261 n. 83 16: 184 n. 7 31: 215–7, 310–11 32: 214–20, 310, 311 n. 20 33: 182 35: 303 n. 39 37: 301, 302 n. 36, 302

Knights Eq. 132a: 201 n. 44 Eq. 197d: 201 n. 44 Eq. 344a: 202 Eq. 400a: 59–63, 275–85 Eq. 526: 21–2

Solon 20: 276–7

Peace Pax 470b: 202

Index of Passages Pax 605Æ and : 215 n. 71, 305–12 Pax 606Æ and : 307 nn. 4 and 7 Pax 741: 190, 222 n. 90 Wasps V. 35a: 201 n. 44 V. 54: 238 n. 23 V. 248a: 197 n. 33 V. 1187: 227 Wealth Pl. 797: 38, 202–3 rec. Pl. 4a 797a: 203 rec. Pl. 4b 797b: 203 Thesmophoriazousae Th. 137: 259 SOPHOCLES Antigone 1140–5: 263 1146–54: 46 Oedipus Coloneus 564–5: 153 1456ff.: 53 n. 119 Trachiniae 1260: 212 n. 65 fr. 20: 154 fr. 22: 153 fr. 314: 91, 109, 304 n. 42 fr. 361: 287 fr. 482: 110 fr. 469: 128 fr. 598: 164 n. 139 fr. 657: 172 fr. 730c: 150 n. 105, 153 fr. 922: 273 SOLON fr. 1.2: 23 n. 23, 25 fr. 4: 136, 220

fr. 13: 56 n. 130, 136, 220 fr. 33: 184 n. 7 STRATTIS fr. 4: 167 fr. 31: 240 n. 31 SUDA 451: 301 n. 30 Œ 2216: 59–63, 275–85 Œ 2344: 3 n. 6 TELECLEIDES fr. 2: 42, 304 n. 44 fr. 15: 177 n. 180 fr. 18: 184 n. 7 fr. 36: 57 n. 134 fr. 47: 184 n. 9 fr. 48: 184 n. 7 THUCYDIDES 1.42.2: 311 1.126–7: 185 1.139.1–2: 310–11 2.19.2: 182 2.21.3: 182 2.22.1: 182 2.23.1: 182 2.58: 217–8 2.5.3: 303 n. 39 2.60.5: 216 2.65.3–4: 216–7, 303 2.65.8: 216 4.102.3: 218 6.27–9: 310 8.65.2: 226 VELLEIUS 1.16.3: 2 n. 3 VITRUVIUS 5.6.9: 95 n. 42

367

368 XENOPHANES B 1.19–24: 74 B 10: 74 n. 193, 75 B 11: 74 B 12: 74 B 14–6: 74

Index of Passages XENOPHON Symposium 3.5: 75 4.6–7: 75 Memorabilia 3.5.10: 150 n. 103

General Index Italic numbers denote reference to illustrations. ‘abject hero’ motif 42, 51, 59–64 Theoroi or Isthmiastai 89–91, 93, Achaeus 95, 101, 108, 110, 113 94, 99, 190, 259 actors 110–2, 232 Trophoi 93 number of speaking 293–4 [Aeschylus]: Adonia 57–8 authorship of Prometheus adoption 300–4 trilogy 123 adultery: Prometheus trilogy 122–34, 141, as metaphor 19–20 145, 162–4, 172, 219 see also sex; gamos agon 68–70, 71–9, 98, 101, 210–3, 285 Aeschines 310 aischrologia 80, 87 Aeschylus: Alcidamas Mouseion 67 in Cratinus, see Cratinus and anacolouthon 290–4 Aeschylus ‘anapaests’, see parabasis in Frogs 26–9 Androcles 226–7 Agamemnon 128–9, 136 animal choruses 104 Diktyoulkoi 92–3, 108, 110 anodos 72, 108–10, 114 Edonoi 253, 259 Aphrodite 190, 285–94 Eleusinioi 148–51 Apollo 91 Eumenides 126–7, 135–41, archaic lyric 22–3, 65–6, 80 150–1, 174–6, 213 Archilochus, see Cratinus and Herakleidai 150–1 Archilochus Hiketides 127–8, 143–5, 150–1, archon: 172, 177 ‘eponymous’ 43–9, 57–9 Kares or Europe 172 polemarchos 58–9 Kerykes 93 Aristophanes: Lykourgeia 94, 270, 295 and Aeschylus 68–70 Myrmidones 129 authorial voice in 31–4, 35–6, Niobe 170 37–9, 67–70, 272 Oresteia trilogy 135–41, 175, and Bdelycleon 37 177, 270 and Cleon 14, 203–4 Persai 127–8, 145 in comic scholarship 6–9, 15 Prometheus trilogy, see [Aeschylus] on ‘Cratinus’ 16–24, 27, 67–70 Psychagogoi 110 see also Cratinus on Sisyphos 110 ‘Aristophanes’

370

General Index

Aristophanes: (continued) and Dicaeopolis 37, 140 and Dionysus 67–70, 295–6 and Euripides 24–9, 37–8, 66, 68–70, 117, 160–2 and old comedy 1–2, 6–8, 211, 304 parabases in 6 see also authorial voice, parabasis persona 14, 22, 23, 24–9, 33, 37–9, 65, 67–70, 295–6 polis-oriented poetics 24 redefinition of poetics 67–70, 295–6 and Solon 23 and satyr play 107–8, 115–16 stagecraft 230–1, 233, 234–5, 243 survival 6–7, 119–20 and tragedy 118–22, 178 see also Aristophanes and Aeschylus; Aristophanes and Euripides Acharnians 33, 139–40, 160–2, 273 chorus 33 costume and mimesis 160–2 space 247 Babylonians 14, 113–4, 157 Birds, and ‘Getty Birds’ 104–8, 112 and the satyr play 107–8 space 247 Clouds, chorus 139–40, 286 space 244–5, 247 storm scene 244–5 Daidalus 167, 251 Danaides 152 Dionysus Shipwrecked 262 Frogs 26–9, 36, 46, 67–70, 228, 240 authorial voice in 67–70, 272

and mimesis 253–5 and ritual 267–71 Gerytades 110 Knights, allegory 203–6, 273–4 parabasis 16–24, 278, 280–1, 283–5 space 247 Lysistrata 247 Merchant Ships 195 Peace, and satyr play 108–10, 113, 115–6 personification in 273, 292–3 Phoinissai 175 Thesmophoriazousai 141 costume and mimesis 160–2 Wasps 37, 247 Wealth 38, 137, 274 art personified, see Cratinus Pytine ; sex as metaphor; gamos; personification Artemis 287–9 Aspasia: in Dionysalexandros 182–4, 187–8, 205 in Nemesis 223–4 Athena 190, 285–94 Athens, dramatic location in comedy 73–4, 104, 226–7, 249–50 audience 24, 34–5, 36, 40–1, 52, 61, 99, 113, 116–7, 157, 231, 238, 240–2, 269–70, 277 authorial voice Ch. 1 passim diffusion in old comedy 15, 29–80 see also persona; chorus; comic hero; characters; parabasis; dialogism; polyphony autobiography, poetic 14–15, Ch. 1 passim autokasignetos 123–5, 129–34

General Index Bacchic gold tablets 263–5 Bain, D. 230 Bakhtin, M. 32, 36, 118, 121 bathos 152, 168, 170 Beauchet, L. 302 Biles, Z. 11, 16–18, 20, 48, 56, 61 biography, poetic 29 see also autobiography, poetic blame poetry, see psogos Blass, F. 290 boats, stage props in comedy 239–42 bomolochos 72 Bowie, A. M. 186–7 Brown, C. G. 57–9, 75 Calame, C. 33, 35–6 Callias 39–40, 103, 113, 176, 177 captatio benevolentiae 42, 51, 61 captivity, Dionysiac motif 94 satyr-play motif 92–5, 104, 114 Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi 66–7 and Archilochoi 67, 70–3 and Frogs 67 Chameleon 27 characterization, multiple 51–2, 130, 138, 177, Ch. 4 passim see also chorus; characters characters: affiliated with chorus 108, 132, 238 voice merged with authorial voice 30, 32, 36–9, 56–9, 229 see also comic hero Chionides 113, 176 chleuazdo 85, 87, 268 see also humiliation, ritual Choerilus 26, 28 chorus: in Acharnians 33

371

animal 104 in Archilochoi 72 and authorial voice 30–6, 39–56 authority of voice in comedy and in archaic lyric 31–2, 35–6 in Boukoloi 42–9 in Dionysalexandros 82–8 divided 72 dramatic identity 33, 43–4, 47, 54, 82–8, 130, 138–41, 273 see also characterization, multiple and dramatic space 243, 246–50 in Drapetides 142–3, 156–7 multiplications of an individual 54 in Plutoi, see Cratinus Plutoi physical contact with actors 86–7, 88, 108 on vase-paintings 104–8 timing of entry 134 chthonic deities 137–8, 220 ‘Cleveland Dionysus’ 110–2, 111, 239 comic genre, development of 2, 114–6 comic hero and authorial voice 30, 37, 59–63, 272 in Plutoi? 132 competition 2, 6–7, 14, Ch. 1 passim (esp. 16–29), 178, 252, 278–81 contests, poetic, see krisis costume 111–2, 134, 143, 159–62, 168, 252–3 and disguise 84, 96, 105, 107–8, 114, 190, 252–72 and metatheatricality 252–7 and mimesis 160–2 in satyr play 104–8, 111–2

372

General Index

countryside, in satyr plays 95 Crates 113 Cratinus passim and Aeschylus 5, 15, 24–9, 39–41, 42–9, 56–63, 66, 80, 89, 93, 117, 123, 128–9, 135–41, 143–5, 150–1, 174–8, 259 and the ancient canon 2, 177–8 and archaic lyric 22–3, 63 and Archilochus 4–5, 17–18, 20–2, 48–9, 57–9, 63–4, 70–9 and Aristophanes 4, 162, 178, 281–5 on ‘Aristophanes’ 22, 24–9, 39–40, 281–5 career and dates 2–4, 60, 62, 281 see also on individual plays and psogos 4–5, 75–9 corpus of 3–5, 85 and ‘Dionysiac poetics’ of 5, Ch. 1 passim (esp. 16–49, 56–72, 80), 117, 177, 272, 275–85, 295–6 earlier scholarship on 5, 10–12 and epic 70–9, 188–90, 209, 235–46 and Euripides 24–9, 66, 160–2 and Hesiod 72–9, 135–6, 138, 209, 220 and Hipponax 47, 59, 63–4, 78 and iambos 4–5, 17–18, 20–2, 38, 47–9, 57–9, 63–4, 70–9 imagery 275–85 see also sex, gamos, old age, procreation, stream, Cratinus and intoxication and intoxication 5, 16–20, 41, 56–7, 59–64, 275–85

see also Cratinus and ‘Dionysiac poetics’ myth in Ch. 4 passim, 235–6, 285–94 persona 5, Ch. 1 passim, 117, 177, 272, 275–85, 295–6 polis-oriented poetics 47, 57–8, 73–8 reception of 4–5, 16–24, 27, 28, 67–70, 141, 152, 283 and ritual 15, 23, 27, 80, 117, 261–72, 295–6 in Roman satirists 5 and the satyr play 15, 23, 80, Ch. 2 passim, 152, 259 and Solon 136, 138, 220 stage properties in 239–42 and stagecraft Ch. 5 passim and tragedy 24–9, 68, 79, Ch. 3 passim victories 2–3 Archilochoi 18, 58, 67, 70–9, 110 agon of 71–9 chorus of 71–2 date of 71 title 72 Boukoloi 23, 42–9, 54 57–9, 100, 237, 242, 272 and authorial voice 47–9 chorus of 43–4 and iambos 48–9, 57–9 Cheimazomenoi: 4 Cheirones 54–5, 110, 252 Didaskaliai 48–9 Dionysalexandros 3, 4, 79, 81–102, 180–208, 253–72, 286–96, 297–304 agon of 98, 100–1 ‘allegory’ in 181–208 chorus in 82–9

General Index Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros (continued) concluding statement of hypothesis 181, 183, 191–2, 196–208 costume in 253–72 date of 213, 300–4 and epic 188–90 exodos of 263–7 multiple plot-layers 188–208, 220, 228 myth-burlesque 188–91, 285–94 papyrus fragment 4, 81, 85, 96, 97–8, 297–304 parabasis 42, 81, 83, 87, 297–304 personification in 290–4 and ritual 27, 80, 117, 206–7, 261–72 and the satyr play 81–102, 113, 115–6, 117, 233 staging 233, 285–94 title 81, 85, 96 topical satire 180–208, 297–304 Dionysoi 113 Drapetides 93, 135, 141–58, 178, 233 and Aeschylean tragedy 93, 143–5, 147 chorus of 142–3, 156–7 date of 147 meaning of title 142, 144, 156–7 opening scene 142–7, 150–1 as pastiche 151–7 and the suppliant-tragedies 147–58, 233 Theseus in 148–57 Eumenides 135, 141, 174–6 Euneidai 174, 179 Horai 226–7 Idaioi 84–5, 96

373

Malthakoi 41–2, 143 Nemesis 168–73, 180–1, 220–4, 239, 251, 252 and ‘allegory’ 180–1, 222–4 multiple plot-strands in 220–4 myth in 220–2 staging 239, 251, 252 topical satire in 222–4 and tragedy 168–73, 177 Nomoi 58–9 Odysseis 77, 100, 163, 178, 234–46 construction of space 234–46 and epic parody 236–46 metre 163 and the Odyssey 244–6 opening scene 236–46 prologue and parodos merged 237–8, 242–3, 246 stage properties 237, 239–42 storm scene 236–7, 243–6 Plutoi 49–53, 110, 122–41, 177, 208–20, 237–8, 246–50, 233 agon 127, 135, 210–13, 218 chorus in 49–53, 123–41, 209–13 comic hero in? 132 date of 49, 122, 213 metatheatricality in 50–3, 126, 133 myth in 208–9 no prologue in 50, 237–8 and the Oresteia 123, 126, 130, 135–41, 177–8, 213, 220, 250 papyrus fragments of 4, 49, 130–4 parodos of 49–53, 123–34, 237–8, 246–50 plot-composition 209–20, 228, 271

374

General Index

Cratinus’ Plutoi (continued) and the Prometheus trilogy 122–35, 141, 177–8, 219–20 ‘Prometheus’ in 123–5, 129–34, 219–20 topical satire in 213–220 and tragedy 122–41, 208–13, 220, 228 Pytine 3, 4, 17–18, 20, 59–64, 233–4, 272, 275–85 authorial voice 59–64, 275–85 conjugal imagery in 275–85 ending 61, 284–5 methe in 281–5 narratology 62–3, 281–5 personification in 275–85 reception of 283 title 283 Satyroi 4, 102–3, 117 Seriphioi 141, 158–68, 178, 226 and Acharnians 160–2 costume in 159–62, 168 date of 162, 226 epic parody in 164, 225–7 metatheatricality in 159–68 and the Prometheus trilogy 162–4 topical satire in 226–7 Thrattai 4, 175–6, 184 Croiset 182–3 Cronus 51–3 Cypria 171–2, 189–90, 220–2 deixis 236–7, 247–50 Demetrius [Phalereus] 199–201 Demosthenes 310 dexiotes 25 dialogism 15, 29–39 see also Bakhtin didactic stance 23, 55, 65, 69–70

Dionysus: animal forms of 262–3 and Aristophanes 69–70 in Bakchai 254, 263, 266–7, 270 converging with Paris/Alexandros 190, 257–8 and costume 253–72 and Cratinus’ persona 22–3, 27, 39–40, 43–5, 47–8, 262–72 see also Cratinus and ‘Dionysiac poetics’ cult 254, 262–9 in Dionysalexandros 83–101, 181–208, 257–72 effeminacy of 89–91, 190, 256–9 in Frogs 68–70 ‘incompetent impersonator’ 255–6, 261–2 initiation in mysteries 263–71 inverted treatment of 256–8, 262–4, 267 procession at Anthesteria (or Great Dionysia) 240, 262 and purification 263–6 as ram 262–70 and virile roles 256–8 see also ‘Cleveland Dionysus’; costume and disguise; captivity diple cum paragrapho (diple obelismene) 130–4, 211 discontinuity 204–8 see also characterization; plot-composition dithyramb 17, 43–9, 57 Dobrov, G. W. 37 Dracontides, decree of 214–8 drinking equipment 48, 282, 283 Dunbar, N. 107–8

General Index Ecphantides 26, 28, 39–40, 103, 113, 177 effeminacy, dramatically exploited 89–91, 142–3, 156–7, 190, 257–9 eisangelia 217 kakoseos 276–7 emphasis 198–208, 260–1 and brevity 201 in optics 199–200, 207 (epi)skopto 85, 268 epikleros 276–7 episode 87, 98, 101, 285, 293 Erinyes; and the Plutoi chorus 126–7, 135–141, 213 as Eumenides 136–8, 174–6 and ‘Semnai Theai’ 175 ethnicity 157 Eupolis: and Aristophanes 37 authorial voice in 32–7 chorus in 34–6 as ‘poet-teacher’ (persona) 14, 35, 65 Aiges 237 Astrateutoi or Androgynoi 143, 156 Autolykos 162 Baptai 143 Demoi 99, 110, 134, 243, 253, 304 Marikas 34–5, 36–7, 134, 304 Prospaltioi 183, 205 Taxiarchoi 113, 240, 253–5, 262, 268, 270 eupsychia 184, 190, 290–5 euripidaristophanizein 24–9 Euripides: in Cratinus, see Cratinus and Euripides in Frogs 26–9

375

and Theseus 155–6 Alkestis 102, 115, 116 Andromeda 129 Bakchai 254, 263, 266–7, 270–1 Bousiris 94 Diktys 161–2 Eurystheus 94 Helen 102, 244 Herakleidai 147, 150–1 Herakles 150, 273 Hiketides 148–57 Hippolytos 155–6, 270 Ion 172, 270 Iphigeneia at Aulis 129 Kyklops 92–4, 95, 100, 236, 244, 270 Orestes 174, 270 Polyidos 128 Theristai 93 Trojan Women 189 euthyna 217 exodos 33–4, 35–5, 42, 54–6, 83 experimentation, by poets 15, 42, 80, 81, 114–6, 279–80, 299, 304 fear, in initiation ritual 268–9 fertility, as metaphor, see procreation Finkelberg, M. 25 focalization 62–3, 281–5 fragments, methodology 6–10 gamos: as metaphor 19–20, 275–85 satyr-play motif 95 genre: development of comic 2, 114–6 Cratinus’ engagement with Chs. 1, 2 and 3 passim, 236–46

376

General Index

genre: (continued) genre-crossing Ch. 2 passim (esp. 101–2, 112–7) ‘Getty Birds’ 104–8, 105, 115 date of 106–8 Gnesippus 57–8 gold leaves, see Bacchic gold tablets Gomme, A.W. 130, 214, 216, 219 graphe 276–7 Green, J. R. 104–8 Grenfell, B. P. and Hunt, A. S. 97, 181, 298 Griffith, M. 123 Hagnon 136, 138, 210, 212–20, 226 Hall, E. 273–4 Halliwell, S. 161 Handley, E.W. 97, 298–9 Harrison, A.R.W. 302 Helen, in Dionysalexandros 182–5, 187–8, 205 Hera 189–90, 285–94 Hermes 95, 99–100, 288–9, 293 Hermippus; Birth of Athena 287 Moirai 84, 182 Stratiotai or Stratiotides 143, 156 Hesiod 22, 52, 54–5, 135–6, 209, 220 Homer: in Cratinus 71–9, 188–9, 235–6 in satyr play 92–3, 236 ‘Homeric’ vs ‘Hesiodic’ 66–7, 74 hospitality, as satyr-play motif 96 humiliation, ritual 266–8 hyos/hyios 297–304 ‘hyporchema of Pratinas’ 45–6 hypotheses, ancient 83, 97–8, 191–203, 297, 299 see also Cratinus Dionysalexandros

iambos 17–18, 63–4 and poet’s echthros 38, 47, 57–9 see also Cratinus and iambos; Cratinus and Archilochus; Cratinus and Hipponax ideology, and literary criticism 65–6 imagery 199–200, 272–85 see also Cratinus and intoxication; procreation; gamos; sex; stream; old age inspiration, poetic Ch. 1 passim (esp. 16–49, 56–70), 275–85 ‘inspiration’ vs. ‘art’, see ‘inspired’ vs. ‘technical’ poetics ‘inspired’ vs. ‘technical’ poetics 22–9 intertextual rivalry Ch. 1 passim (esp. 16–29), 275–85 intertextuality, see intertextual rivalry; Cratinus and archaic lyric; Cratinus and iambos; Cratinus and epic; Cratinus and tragedy; Cratinus and the satyr play Iophon 93 Iris 107–8, 285, 291 irony 156–7 ithyphallic 104–8 journey: as metapoetic metaphor 68–70 motif in opening scenes 99, 236–46 Judgement of Paris 95–6, 98, 100–1, 189–91, 207, 285–94 judges/judgement of contest 40–1, 49–53, 95–6, 126 see also krisis, Judgement of Paris, Sophocles Krisis kainotes 25, 37, 65, 69, 116–7, 279–80 see also ‘new’ vs. ‘old’

General Index kakosis 60, 276–7 Kerkopes 78 koidion (ram’s fleece), see ram komos 19, 114 Ko¨rte, A. 85, 97, 181–2, 197, 298, 302 krisis 65–79 in Archilochoi 70–9 dramatized 66–79 in Frogs 67–70 and literary criticism 65–7, 74–9 Lada-Richards, I. 262, 265, 267–8 language, comic: and paratragedy 119–21, 125–7, 145–7, 169–70, 173 physicality of 143, 165, 272–96 legitimacy 20, 61–2, 298–304 literary criticism 16–29, 65–6, 161–2 Lowe, N. 230, 235, 243 Lucian: Dialogues of the Gods 287 Double Indictment 283 The Judgement of the Goddesses 286 Luppe, W. 10–11, 44–5, 84–7, 96, 130–4, 184, 210, 213, 282, 298–9 Lycambes 57–9, 75 Magnes 107, 113 mania, intoxicated 17, 27 Margites 78 masks 104, 111–2, 134, 159–62, 260–1 mechane 164–8, 232, 239, 250–1 mechanics of 166–7 Megarian decree 310–11 Mendelsohn, D. 47–8 metatheatre Ch. 1 passim, 126, 133, 159–68, 249, 252–7

377

see also Cratinus and satyr play; Cratinus and tragedy methe, personified? 60, 63, 281–5 metre: anapaestic dimeter 50, 127–9, 130–4, 144–5, 165–8, 238 anapaestic tetrameter 163, 237–8 archilochean 40 catalexis 128, 130–4, 145, 237–8 cratinean 39 dactylic 55, 163, 225 eupolidean 41–2 iambic trimeter 56–7 iambic with syncopation 154–5, 172–3 ionic 46 trochaic 48–9, 159, 211 mimesis 160–1, 253–5 ‘misunderstood poet’, motif of 41, 49, 62–3, 284–5 and diabole 63, 285 Muse 23, 49, 284 mystic initiation 263–71 myth 188–91, 208–9, 220–2, 235–6, 285–94 narratology 62–3, 281–5 naturalization 301–2 Newiger, H.-J. 272–4 Nock, A. D. 286 Norwood, G. 183 nothoi 301–2 nouthesia 69–70 see also didactic stance obscenity 285–9 Odysseus 95, 236–8, 244–6 Odyssey 244–6 old age, as metaphor 22, 62–3, 283–5

378

General Index

‘old’ vs. ‘new’ 25–9, 70 Olson, S. D. 12 opening scene 34–7, 42–53, 99, 123–34, 142–7, 150–1, 235–50 and dramatic space 235–50 in Roman comedy 36 orders and execution in drama 87 parabasis 15, 16–17, 24–9, 31–2, 36, 38, 39–42, 51, 53, 61–2, 79–80, 81, 85–6, 98, 102 see also chorus; Cratinus Dionysalexandros; Aristophanes Knights paragraphos 130–4 paratragedy Ch. 3 passim and authority 139–40 and language 119–20 and parody 120–2 term discussed 118–22 visual dimension of 120, 134, 151 Paris/Alexandros 84–102, 190, 257–8 parodos 34–6, 42–53, 54, 100, 123–34, 142–7, 235–50 see also opening scene; parabasis anapaestic 127–9, 237–9 parody Ch. 3 passim as ‘subversion’ 120–1 and deconstruction 156–7 notion discussed 120–2, 139–41 and related terms 120–2 in vase-painting 287–9 see also paratragedy performance, Ch. 5 passim Pericles, son of Pericles 42, 297–304 Pericles: citizenship law of 301–2

in Dionysalexandros 42, 181–208, 260–1, 297–304 head jokes 184, 222–3, 260–1 in Nemesis 222–4 in Plutoi 213–20 and ‘tyranny’ 124–5, 184, 205, 213 Perseus 108–9, 158–68 persona Ch. 1 passim, 117, 177, 272, 275–85 see also Aristophanes, persona; Eupolis as ‘poet-teacher’ personification 60, 59–63, 272–96 phallus 104–8, 111–2 pharmakos 263–7 Pherecrates; Myrmekanthropoi 240–1 Cheiron 279–80 Tyrannis 291 Phidias 215–8, 305–12 Photius 10, 58–9 Phrynichus; Satyroi 103–4, 115 Tragoidoi 104 Pieters, J. Th. M. F. 11, 122 Pindar 22–3 pithanos 191, 197–8 Plato 38, 59, 274 Plato (Comicus) 222, 285 Plautus: openings 36 Rudens 244 plot-composition, on multiple levels 51–3, 177, Ch. 4 passim, 248–50 Plutarch Pericles 214–8, 310–11 poet as teacher 75, 79 see also Eupolis; didactic stance poet, fictionalized 14–15, Ch. 1 passim

General Index poetic creativity Ch. 1 passim (esp. 16–49, 56–70), 275–85 poiesis (as adoption) 300–4 ‘political allegory’ 180–208, 222–4 political satire 101, Ch. 4 passim (esp. 180–208, 213–220) Polydectes 93, 158–9, 164–8 polyphony 29–32, 37–9, 229 Pratinas: Palaistai 93 see also ‘hyporchema of Pratinas’ procreation, as metaphor 19–20, 56–7, 277–85 programmatic statements Ch. 1 passim prologue 99, 235 Prometheus 123–5, 129–34 psogos 75–9 Quintilian 199, 201 ram 262–70 rape, see seduction reflexivity, Ch. 1 passim, 275–85 religion 78–9 see also Cratinus and ritual; Dionysus; Hera; Athena; Aphrodite; Zeus Revermann, M. 112, 197, 230–1, 239, 260–1 ritual, in drama 261–72 rivalry, see competition Rosen, R. 11, 21–2, 61, 76, 184, 282 Ruffell, I. 11, 186, 282 Rutherford, I. 199 Rutherford, W. G. 298 sacrifice 264–6, 269 satyr play Ch. 2 passim, 287–9 in Aristophanes 107–10 Athena in 287–9

379

chorus 89, 90–4, 102–3 in ‘Cleveland Dionysus’ 110–2 in ‘Getty Birds’ 104–8 structure and motifs 89–97 satyrs: separated from Dionysus 89–94 and ‘Getty Birds’ 104–8 Satyroi, comedies entitled 102–4 Silenus 91, 92, 111–2, 288–9, 304 in un-Dionysiac roles 90–4 see also satyr play Schmid, W. 84 Schwarze, J. 183–5 Seaford, R. 91–2, 265–7 seduction, as plot-motif of tragedy 171–2 Segal, C. P. 244 self-mockery 59–64 in iambos 63–4 sex: as metaphor 19–20, 60–62, 275–85, 292–3 in satyr plays 107–8 shearing 19–20, 84, 269–70 Sidwell, K. 11 Silk, M. S. 118–22, 205, 229 skene 231–2, 235–6 skepsis 50, 54, 127, 131–2 Solon 23, 54, 220 sophia/sophos 25, 40–1, 56, 71–2, 73, 74 ‘sophistication’ 24–9, 65–6, 69 sophists 24–9; 66, 69, 245 Sophocles 57–8 Ajax 129, 145 Epitainarioi 96 Ichneutai 91–2, 94–5 Krisis 96, 287 Oedipus Coloneus 150–1, 153, 174, 263 Oedipus Tyrannus 263

380

General Index

Sophocles (continued) Oicles 128 Pandora or Sphyrokopoi 93, 109–10 Philoktetes 270 Poimenes 93 Tyro 172 sound effects 46–7, 53, 245 space, dramatic 234–51, 295 comic vs. tragic 235–51, 295 scene-changes 250–1 Sparta 184, 187, 216, 223–4 spectacle 46–7, 238–42, 252 sphragis 33–6 storm, as dramatic device 236–7, 243–6 stream, as metaphor 20–3, 27–8 supplication, as plot-motif 148–57 Taplin, O. 104–6, 150–1, 230, 292 Telecleides 54, 177 The Tempest 239, 244 Terence, openings 36 Theseus, and Athenian ideology 148–57 Thiercy, P. 250–1 Thucydides, son of Melesias 219 thunderbolt 44–5, 46, 48–9 Tiberius 199 tikto, in art 56, 280 see also procreation time, dramatic 136–8, 159, 220, 249–50 Timocles, Ikarioi (Satyroi) 49

tragedy, see Cratinus and tragedy; Cratinus and Aeschylus; Cratinus and Euripides; Aristophanes and tragedy; Aristophanes and Aeschylus; Aristophanes and Euripides; paratragedy; parody; Sophocles trial, as agon 63, 136, 210–3, 216–8 trickery, satyr-play motif 95, 100–1, 114 Trypho 199–201 ‘tyranny’: associated with Pericles 124–5, 184, 187, 205 personified 290–4 underworld 136–8 utopia 138 violence, in Dionysiac cult 47–8 voice in drama 29–32 see also authorial voice water, as metaphor, see Cratinus and intoxication; stream wealth 135–41, 208–20, 225–7 Wiles, D. 248 wine, as metaphor, see Cratinus and intoxication, Cratinus and ‘Dionysiac poetics’ wool 266, 269–70 Zeus 213, 168–73, 220–4, 292

Plates

2

Plate 1. Papyrus fragments of Plutoi, PSI 1212

3

Plate 2. Papyrus fragments of Plutoi, Pap. Brux. E 6842

4

Plate 3. Papyrus Hypothesis to Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, POxy 663

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