Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel

FASHIONING THE FEMININE IN THE GREEK NOVEL The Greek novel occupies a special place in the debate on gender in antiqui...

Author: Katharin Haynes

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FASHIONING THE FEMININE IN THE GREEK NOVEL

The Greek novel occupies a special place in the debate on gender in antiquity, forcing us to ask why the female protagonists are such strong and positive characters. This book rejects the hypothesis of a largely female readership, and also sees a problem in ascribing this pattern to the reflection of a blanket improvement in the status of women. Katharine Haynes shows that the strong heroines are best understood not as an undistorted mirror on an improved social reality, but as a type of ‘constructed feminine’. Through reference to earlier works of Greek literature, such as Euripides and Aristophanes and early Christian texts, the ‘use of the feminine’ in the novel is put into its wider context, situating the heroines within a tradition of using the female image to say something about the male self and his aspirations. The heroines are studied in detail, with a focus on how we can approach and understand their combination of conventional with unconventional behaviours. Their male counterparts, rather than being ‘failed heroes’, are seen as promoting a particularly provocative brand of passive masculinity. A full examination of subsidiary male and female characters ‘frames’ the protagonists’ portrayal and acts as a guide to the extent to which they subvert traditional gender norms. Finally, a study of novelistic marriage examines how the Greek élite has reworked the emblem of dynastic continuity so dear to the Imperial family. By allowing the female to dominate the relationship, and invert the balance of power, this image has been redeployed in a challenging way. The book offers a wealth of fascinating insights into the kaleidoscopic world of male and female in the Greek novel, which will inform and illuminate the reader whatever the text being studied. The related issues of ethnicity and self-definition also explored will be of interest for all those working on ancient fiction or the culture of the Second Sophistic. Katharine Haynes is an Associate Lecturer with the Open University. She also lectures part-time at the University of Birmingham.

FASHIONING THE FEMININE IN THE GREEK NOVEL Katharine Haynes

First published 2003 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. © 2003 Katharine Haynes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Haynes, Katharine, 1971Fashioning the feminine in the Greek novel / Katharine Haynes, p. cm Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Greek fiction–History and criticism. 2. Women and literature–Greece. 3. Femininity in literature. 4. Women in literature. I. Title. PA3267 .H38 2002 883'.0109352042–dc21 2002068195 ISBN 0-203-16721-X Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-26204-2 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–26209–7 (hbk) ISBN 0–415–26210–0 (pbk)

CONTENTS

Preface 1

vii

Reading the feminine

1

Framing the questions 1 Readers of the feminine? 2 How to read the feminine 10 2

Contextualising the feminine

18

Finding a reference point – putting the feminine in context 18 Using the feminine – the pagan context 19 Using the feminine – the Christian context 30 3

Heroines

44

Negotiating the theoretical minefield 44 Kallirhoe 46 Anthia 51 Leukippe 56 Chloe 61 Charikleia 67 Interpretative strategies 73 4

Heroes

81

Measuring masculinity – ideologically invested assessments 81 Constructions of novelistic heroism 83 Interpretative strategies 93

v

CONTENTS

5

Minor female characters

101

Patterning femininity 101 The female antagonists 102 Mothers 115 Confidantes 123 Marginal female characters 130 6

Minor male characters

137

Constructing masculinity 137 The male antagonists 137 Fathers 143 Friends 150 The male landscape – minor characters and collectives 154 7

Telos

156

Love and marriage 156 Maintenance of the social order 157 Subversion of the social order? 159 Notes Bibliography Index

163 188 206

vi

PREFACE

This book aims to provide the first complete study of gender patterns in the Greek novel. Although it is the protagonists who have, almost inevitably, generated the most scholarly interest, it is through an examination of the subsidiary characters that we will gain a full picture of how gender ‘works’ in the genre. The peripheral characters are often the most revealing of normative gender assumptions and so provide a vital index of the extent to which the heroes and heroines may actually subvert traditional behavioural patterns. I hope, however, that this study will be of interest to all students and scholars of ancient narrative fiction, and not only those whose primary focus is gender. The ‘broad sweep’ of this work is alive to the way that the intersecting categories of gender, race, age and class combine to form a unified view of how the élite Greek male of the Second Sophistic saw himself in relation to the wider world. Gender is an integral part of the narrative texture, and to come to a clearer understanding of the gender dynamic is in a basic sense to see what the novels are really all about. In an attempt to maximise this volume’s usefulness to the general reader I have made my own translations of all the Greek. In recent years this genre has been rendered vastly more accessible through Reardon’s (1989) Collected Ancient Greek Novels. These up-to-date and immensely readable translations have in some senses ‘entered the bloodstream’ of those working in this area, so if their influence may occasionally be detected in my translations, it should be considered an act of homage. My spelling of Greek names will sometimes differ though from those in Reardon’s volume. While I have generally preferred Hellenic spelling (k instead of c, os instead of us, ai in place of ae) certain concessions have been made regarding the rendering of Greek names into an easily recognisable English form. In most cases then, y has been preferred to u, and F has been rendered ch rather than kh. Where certain names are almost universally known in their Latinate form, this version has been retained: hence Achilles Tatius and Clytaemnestra. My choice of such ‘well-known’ names is necessarily subjective, but my hope is that consistency has only been abandoned for the sake of clarity. Also in the interests of clarity all abbreviations follow the accepted classical practice as found in L’Année Philologique (for journal titles) and the Oxford Classical

vii

PREFACE

Dictionary, 3rd edn, Oxford, 1996 (for ancient authors and texts). The only exception is the Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, hereafter abbreviated as GCN. Having dealt with the practicalities, I now turn to the pleasant task of thanking all those who have supported me at the various stages of this project. I first wish to acknowledge the academic support so generously given by Ken Dowden, the supervisor of the thesis upon which this book is based. His rigorous, yet always constructive criticism coupled with his continued good humour have helped to make this project a rewarding experience. I also wish to acknowledge my debt to Brigitte Egger, whose pioneering work in the area of gender in the Greek novel has been of such use to those working on ancient fiction. Thanks are also due to Elena Theadorakopoulos, Desmond Costa, Matthew Fox, Andrew Barker, Mary Harlow and John Morgan for various kinds of academic advice while the project was still at thesis stage. Any errors that remain are, of course, entirely my own. In addition, Sylvia Campbell, David Creese, Michelle Lawton, Konstantinos Nikoloutsos, Richard Peevers, Sharon Smith and Sarah Tunnell have been generous with their time, and their help. Anastasia Vassiliou must be singled out for her patience and her friendship. Finally, a more personal debt of gratitude is owed to my parents and to my husband Mark for their understanding, their love and their confidence in me. This book is dedicated to them, and to my darling daughter Sophia.

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1 READING THE FEMININE

Framing the questions It is fair to state at the outset that the ancient Greek novels have not always had a good press. From Rohde’s early assessment of the genre as Trivialiteratur (1914: 354–5), scholarly opinion has progressed through Highet’s (1949: 165) and Perry’s (1967: 5) now equally famous (or notorious) assertions that the genre appealed to the juvenile or poor-in-spirit. There has existed in the past the unspoken assumption that the prose romance is not an entirely suitable topic for serious investigation. Associated with this is the postulation of a direct and unproblematic equation between romantic reading matter and a female and/or uneducated audience. Yet, in the past few decades there has been a marked shift in attitudes. What once functioned as the genre’s badge of shame – its association with the ‘feminine’ – now stands as one of the decisive factors in its rehabilitation. The sheer visibility of female characters within the texts set alongside the exceptional emotional strength of the heroines has attracted those who either wish to identify improvements in the status of women, or posit a primarily female audience. It is this vexed question of female prominence that this book first and foremost sets out to address. Since the female readership theory has been both the most pervasive and to some extent the most persuasive methodology that has been utilised of late to understand the ‘feminine’ within the texts, it is this hypothesis that I set out to interrogate first. It is my contention that investigation of the narrative texture of the novels coupled with recent reassessments of ‘external’ factors such as literacy casts serious doubts upon both the female reader hypothesis, and its associated ‘hanger-on’, the popular audience. If, as I maintain, this leaves the educated males of the Greek élite as the most likely candidates for the primary intended audience, this begs the further question of why they might have found the strong heroines either attractive or acceptable. Do these fictional women actually represent a marked ‘progression’ or ‘improvement’ in male attitudes to women? Although I do not wish to deny the validity of trying to recover ‘female lived experience’ from ancient texts, seeking ‘direct reflections’ of women’s lives in the genre runs the risk of denying the canon its hard-won status as literature, and treating it as some sort of historical documentation. It may still be possible, however, to obtain glimpses of ‘real women’,

1

READING THE FEMININE

if not the whole picture, if the texts can be interrogated with particular regard to implicit assumptions, gaps and silences: what is left unsaid, set against what is given deliberate emphasis. Although this sensitivity to the text, this ‘reading against’ the dominant meaning encoded in the narrative will be a recurrent strand of my methodology across the whole book, the search for real women is not my primary focus. In returning to the earlier issue of the acceptability of the strong heroines I find it more useful to recast my original question. Instead of ‘What did élite man find so attractive about these women?’ we should probably ask ‘Why did they construct the feminine in this particular way?’ Here I am deliberately setting up gender as a social construction in opposition to sex as a biological ‘given’. Either by specifically applying the anthropological theory of ‘woman as sign’ or by more generally recognising gender as a key organisational element in the Greek imaginaire, we may see the ‘feminine’ as a cultural construction which comes to have less to do with actual historical females and more to do with a larger discourse of élite male self-definition. If we can envisage the heroines as somehow significant to our understanding of Greek cultural identity, this does not render other manifestations of novelistic gender unimportant. By widening my focus from the female protagonists to minor male and female characters, as I set out to do in later chapters, I will attempt to demonstrate the conventionality or conservatism that runs through much of the genre’s gender assumptions. This investigation aims to ‘frame’ the more subversive elements of the heroines’ and heroes’ portrayal and mark them as deliberately provocative, albeit in certain carefully circumscribed ways. This study thus stands as a more wide-ranging consideration of generic gender patterning than has been previously attempted, and one which, I hope, will be able to provide a relatively subtle and nuanced picture of the reaction of élite Hellenism to larger imperial power structures.

Readers of the feminine? A ‘popular’ form – the internal evidence While the search for the novelistic reader will not, as I stated, constitute the primary focus of my present study, some of the theories that I will go on to develop rest upon the assumption of a certain kind of audience for the genre. It is not, of course, possible to give a definitive answer to this question, although it is desirable to summarise recent arguments relating to internal and external evidence for the novel being a ‘popular’ form, or being directed at a primarily female audience. I have chosen to treat the ‘internal’ evidence first, as being most expressive of the ideological implication of various scholarly assertions. In his recent overview of historicism Hamilton (1996: 19) provides a useful exegesis of the impossibility of value-free interpretation: ‘Our interpretative decisions … will be based upon a judgement between different possibilities of the time; and the history of interpretations shows such adjudications to be abundantly and primarily expressive of their own periods of utterance.’

2


This does not allow me the luxury of claiming for myself some sort of omniscient objectivity, but instead serves to provide a way of reassessing the apparent scholarly unease with a genre that deals with love in narrative prose, a process explored recently by Doody (1996: 9) and Bowie (1994: 436). The theme of love had been much exploited in earlier genres such as New Comedy and poetry of the Hellenistic period, both of which usually escape being labelled as exclusively ‘popular’ forms. However, the alliance of romantic love to this particular narrative configuration may suggest a superficial though somewhat unfortunate resemblance to the modern pulp romance, with all the attendant connotations of low literary quality and a predominantly female audience. So Schmeling, modifying his earlier hypothesis of a middle class audience (1974: 33), still wished to identify a distinct readership based upon psychological condition: I believe that I can speak more precisely about Xenophon’s intended audience, if I refer to it as a sentimental group, i.e. one which suspends its intellectual judgements and appreciation for reality and adopts a view that events in life are simple, rather than a middle-class audience. (Schmeling 1980: 133) The possibility that the genre could address the ‘sentimental needs’ of a readership not qualitatively different from that of say, the Homeric epics, is not really entertained. The low assessment of the genre’s literary merits, and the accompanying postulation of a ‘popular’ readership may also be subconsciously grounded in other unfavourable comparisons to the modern novel. The term ‘novel’, like its fellow literary traveller the ‘romance’, carries a great deal of intellectual and emotional baggage. Part of this consists in high literary expectations regarding psychological delineation of character and complicated narrative development which cannot always be fulfilled by ancient fiction (Bowie 1992: 56, 1994: 441). The scholarly refinement of the later ‘Sophistic’ novels is generally not in question, but as Reardon (1976: 130) notes, even the earliest novels aspire to some literary pretensions: even Chariton is careful about hiatus and clausulae.1 The Ephesiaka, the least sophisticated novel, although not constructed with the skill attributed to Achilles Tatius or Heliodoros, contains Homeric allusions, and Chariton is not only allusive, but also capable of presenting his characters in careful and revealing detail.2 The sentiment evident in the novel may tempt a direct equation with bourgeois values, yet persistent narrative cues, such as the genre’s inability to see the situation of anyone not belonging to the upper classes, might hint at an élite readership (Perkins 1995: 60). Evidence internal to the texts themselves may provide interesting data when postulating a particular readership, but its almost complete vulnerability to the interpretative whims of the scholar is even more clearly illustrated with reference to gender patterns.

3


A female readership – the internal evidence Behind this particular, and seemingly innocuous, investigation lies a whole host of questions and assumptions that need to be unpacked. The first question must surely be, what does it actually mean to read as a woman? The second issue, following quickly on its heels, concerns the constant fear of a universalising essentialism that will insist that ‘woman’ is a stable category; that all female readers are alike. Research undertaken recently on the reading process appears to confirm that gender is indeed a ‘significant determinant of the interaction between text and reader’ (Schweickart and Flynn 1986: xxviii), but there is an accompanying recognition that … gender-related differences are multifaceted and overdetermined. They are a function of the social, cultural and political structures that form the context of reading and writing, and they interact with other differences, in particular, those grounded on class, race and sexual orientation. (Schweickart and Flynn 1986: xxviii) Any consideration of a female readership must then take into account the social, cultural and political structures of the Greek East in the Roman period, and not extrapolate blindly from modern practice without exercising considerable caution. Another problem now raises its ugly head. To what extent, in any ancient society, would an androcentric viewpoint come to mask gender differences? The cognitive research undertaken by Crawford and Chaffin (1986: 21), and influenced by the insights of ‘muted group’ theory, proffered the hypothesis that women may, in certain circumstances, learn to read and understand from a male point of view. This theory was developed to describe situations ‘in which groups of people exist in asymmetrical power relationships’. Even taking into account the possibility that Greek women were enjoying some new socio-economic freedoms in the second century, it can scarcely be denied that the power balance between the sexes was characterised by asymmetry (Blok and Mason 1987). Dogged by such problems, the possibility of gendering the implied reader seems to recede ever further into the background. The search for a particular gender orientation has, however, been so persistent a theme in the scholarly examination of generic gender patterning that it does seem worthwhile to review some of the main points, if only to underline the ambiguity of the narrative cues. The main focus when examining the potential appeal of the Greek novel for the female reader has tended to remain upon the emotional strength of the heroines (with an implicit focus on direct identification). Thus Egger (1988: 55; 1994) cites the examples of Kallirhoe and Charikleia while Sandy (1994: 134) notes the impression made by the fiery Sinonis in the fragmentary Babyloniaka and Hägg (1991: 96) mentions the ‘impressively characterised’ Melite. Egger (1988: 60) concentrates especially on the female fantasy of emotional enslavement of the male, focusing on the repeated narrative pattern that most novelistic males have nothing better to do than express their erotic interest in the heroine.3 However, it is equally valid to see in this

4


situation a potent male fantasy, whereby the male reader, identifying with the hero, could vicariously enjoy the idea that he could possess such beauty at the price of nothing more spectacular than his own loyalty (Hägg 1991: 96). Egger (1994a: 272–3) also focuses attention on the distinct emphasis on social disempowerment as a fantasy that may hold a powerful fascination for both sexes: ‘That this hoary patriarchal fantasy is one of the few male constructions of the female still highly appealing to women themselves is attested by the more than twenty million female readers of the “Harlequin” type of contemporary romance fiction.’ She claims not to be proposing a simple equivalence here, but sees as significant the female interest in restricted gender roles at a time when women were/are enjoying increased socioeconomic freedoms and opportunities. The narrative patterns most expressive of unease with female power will be dealt with at greater length in succeeding chapters, though a brief review demonstrates that they are not merely confined to the central characters. For example, the possession by a woman of actual temporal power is never presented in a positive manner. There is also the devaluation of female friendship and solidarity, and the absence of any truly benevolent mothers or mother substitutes. This notion of the attraction of disempowerment is an attractive theory, which must nevertheless be treated with considerable caution when applied to antiquity. Perhaps the fantasy of erotic empowerment allied to social disempowerment only exerts a special attraction in situations where real awareness of that social empowerment is connected to accompanying societal pressure to combine domestic and career orientated goals successfully.4 I feel readier to believe that the archaising disempowerment of ‘good’ women in the novels can equally well be ascribed to a male need to render them unthreatening. It also might be useful not to disengage this ‘attitude to women’ from the general archaising tendency that pervades the whole genre: recourse to a glorious past is a favoured means of legitimating one’s claim to present cultural credibility. The narrative insistence on chastity, for men as well as women is another example of a theme being open to vastly different readings regarding a gendered readership. Thus Hägg (1983: 96) views the surprising emphasis on male sexual continence as evidence that the genre was designed mainly to appeal to women.5 However, as I will argue in greater detail in my chapter on the male protagonists, it is clear that the sexual double standard is still in evidence. The heroines’ spirited defence of their chastity may also be variously interpreted as empowering, and inviting female identification, and as titillation for the male reader. Montague (1992: 238) asserts that: ‘Great emphasis on Chloe’s innocence makes more delectable the numerous threats to it.’ Even the sympathetic portrayal of those most consistent victims of male sexual violence, Anthia, Leukippe and Chloe, cannot with certainty be attributed to a desire to invite female reader identification. The careful delineation of the heroines’ feelings may actually work to deny female subjectivity. As Montague (1992: 245) asks: ‘Is it not rather the case that these depictions of women’s inner lives are no more than a touch of the (spuriously) personal, intended to make an imagined violation of privacy still more delicious?’

5


These examples may not have allowed us to determine a possible readership with any degree of certainty, but, in our recognition of the conflicting narrative cues generated by the texts we have gained a greater appreciation of the complexity of the genre’s narrative texture.6 I now intend to turn to clues external to the texts themselves to ascertain the extent to which data on the levels of literacy in the Empire could help in our proposition of a ‘popular’ or ‘female’ readership. A ‘popular’ form – the external evidence My first observation here concerns the obvious temptation to treat this ‘external evidence’ as completely accurate ‘hard data’: even archaeological evidence is open to the ideologically implicated interpretative decisions of the scholars. Proceeding with this caution I wish to draw attention to Stephens’ (1994: 407) warning against the deduction of a large readership for the ancient novel, drawing closely on the analogy of eighteenth-century, or even modern-day practice. For a more balanced, and methodologically sound picture to emerge, factors such as literacy rates, the availability of education, and the cost and distribution of texts must be taken into consideration when assessing accessibility. Before commencing my consideration of literacy and the provision of education in the Greek East, it is important to determine what might constitute a level of literacy appropriate to reading the texts. It has already been established that most of the texts under discussion aspire to some level of erudition, and therefore it would seem a sensible assumption that a potential reader would have to have progressed beyond the first level of primary education (Wesseling 1988: 70).7 Historians or papyrologists might well utilise different criteria when collating data on literacy levels in any given area or time period. However, it is as well to be aware that true literacy is a different beast from being able to spell one’s name laboriously, or copy a simple formula to the effect that one agrees to a contract (Morgan 1995: 138). The fact that much of our evidence for literacy in the Greek East is constituted by documentation from Egypt begs the subsidiary, although probably unanswerable question of how representative these sources actually are.8 Surveying a variety of documents from the Roman Imperial period of Egypt Youtie (1971: 173) concludes that: ‘The people who are described as “not knowing letters” are in general tradesmen, craftsmen, river-men, village officials and soldiers … In short, they … are for the most part members of the lower middle class.’ He also observes (1971: 174) that not all members of the gymnasium class had sufficient means to ensure their children were educated to the highest levels, or to stock a library. Cole’s research serves to confirm this: a survey of the grain dole register in third century Oxyrhynchus, made up for the most part of members of the middle classes, shows that two thirds of the men receiving the dole could not write their own names (Cole 1981: 237). Questions of class constitute another relatively grey area in the study of antiquity, but on this evidence literacy cannot have been widespread outside the top 15 per cent or so of the population.9

6


The next related factor considers whether the cost of the novels would have been prohibitive to those who potentially possessed the ability to read them. Proceeding from the fact that in Roman Egypt a blank roll of papyrus cost between two and four drachmas, the equivalent of anything between one and five days’ pay for an unskilled labourer (Lewis 1983), and also taking into account the price of the copyist, scholars have arrived at widely differing conclusions. From Stephens’ (1994: 406) cautious belief that books must have been classed as a luxury, we also encounter Holzberg’s (1995: 34) assertion that they would have remained the preserve of those old favourites the upper and middle classes, and Easterling’s (1985: 22) optimistic declaration that books were accessible to those at ‘a socially quite modest level’. Taking into consideration the abundance of raw materials and the long standing scribal tradition in Egypt, it would be as well to be cautious before ascribing such a modest price to other areas of the Empire. It therefore seems sensible to assume that while the price would not have dissuaded the truly literate, cost might have functioned as a decisive factor in determining whether a less confident reader would have made the outlay. At this point the hard forensic evidence of the surviving papyrus fragments must come into play. For Stephens (1994: 406) the crabbed cursive style of writing found in most private copies of texts would have placed great demands on the skills of a hesitant reader.10 The argument that sees in the finds of illustrated book rolls proof that reading was ‘facilitated for those who had the formal ability, but not yet the habit’ (Hägg 1983: 93), perhaps relies subconsciously too heavily on the modern analogy of illustrated children’s books or graphic novels. Bowie (1994: 441) observes that we also possess an illustrated copy of Homer,11 and so illustrations cannot function as a reliable indicator that a text was aimed at the lower end of the market, or was a popular form. It is perhaps more useful to see illustrations in a work of fiction, as opposed to some technical treatise, as embellishment and decoration as a matter of a self-conscious display of wealth. Further information about the readership may be deduced from the quality, form and number of the surviving fragments. Stephens (1994: 414) asserts that most novel fragments appear to have been professionally copied books, different in appearance both to Christian writings and the work of the semi-literate. Detecting no discernible difference between the quality of a copy of a novel, or a copy of Plato or Demosthenes she dismisses the idea that the readership could have been qualitatively different from that of other genres. She also dismisses as statistically insignificant the 2 per cent deviation from the average, when considering the number of novel texts from the second and third centuries CE, which are in codex form.12 Hägg (1983: 94–5) in contrast, sees this small deviation as important for postulating a link between the novel and the writings of the early church, in turn supporting the case for the novel’s readership being of a lower social class than for other genres.13 This argument is undercut both by the quality of the lettering, and the variation in quality of material in the surviving fragments of novel texts. The fact that a relatively high proportion of novelistic papyri had previously been used for accounts or other purposes could just as easily be indicative of the wealthy not wishing to expend much on ‘entertainment

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literature’ as it could signify a poorer readership (Wesseling 1988: 72–3). The number of remaining fragments set against those from other genres also militates against the idea of the genre being a truly popular form (Reardon 1976: 130; Harris 1989: 228; Sandy 1994: 135 and Stephens 1994: 410). Forty-two fragments of novel texts dating from the first six centuries CE have been identified among the papyrus finds from the Fayum and Oxyrhynchus areas, in comparison to 161 fragments of lyric, 131 of tragedy and 172 of the Old and New Testaments.14 However, while these relatively small numbers might seem to suggest that there was little access to the form for a large proportion of the population, we should not dismiss the possibility that it was popular among the wealthy. Holzberg (1995: 34) has proffered the reasonable suggestion that the reason that classical texts fared better than the novels in terms of preservation was ‘because books which were thought of as vehicles of culture and learning were kept longer than those primarily read for entertainment’. Another argument forwarded in defence of the stance that the Greek novels represented literature for the masses has been the silence of ancient commentators and scholars regarding this genre. While this at first sight is a tempting theory, the relative newness of the genre in relation to the standard works on literary theory that survive from antiquity might actually provide a different, and straightforward solution (Bowie 1992: 57, 1994: 444; Wouters 1994: 132n6). The few dismissive remarks that remain cannot be regarded as definitive proof that the genre was seen as popular literature, but might just as well function as a reaction to the ‘trivial literature’ that was the ‘relaxation of the literate’ (Reardon 1976: 130. See also Reardon 1991: 41 and Winkler 1988: 1568.)15 Line 134 of Persius’ first satire is interesting in this context. At the conclusion of his diatribe against the contemporary Roman lack of literary taste he suggests that only those with the stomach for it should read his satires, while for the rest ‘In the morning they have the law reports and Kallirhoe after lunch.’ If this is to be taken as a reference to Chariton’s novel, and not a mime of the same name, then the tone seems to indicate that it is regarded as an easy read for the educated man (not woman – given the context) who should know better (Wesseling 1988: 68). Philostratos’ dismissive comment to Chariton in Epistle 66 should also be treated with extreme caution. Bowie (1994: 445) sensibly observes that ‘the depreciation of a writer in a recent and innovative genre would make good copy’. He also notes that Philostratos appears to expect his cultivated readers to recognise both the genre and the individual author. Although the weight of evidence appears to point to the élite as the most likely intended primary readership, for the sake of completeness it seems prudent to address the theory that readings by scribes gave access to a far wider audience. This hypothesis, put forward most recently by Hägg (1983: 93, 1994: 58), may be viewed as a device for preserving the idea of a humble audience in the face of uncooperative evidence for literacy. In the absence of independent external evidence to support this theory,16 he isolates internal narrative patterns from the non-sophistic novels, such as repetition, excessive clarity, foreshadowings and regular plot summaries to prove the orality of the genre.17 Setting aside for the moment the possibility that the version of the Ephesiaka that we now possess is an epitome, the identification of such techniques

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as somehow sub-literary may again rest on a sub-consciously unfavourable comparison to the modern novel. A female readership – the external evidence Our initial examination of the external evidence has, in its postulation of an élite audience, to some extent automatically discounted the possibility that women could, on their own, have constituted the primary target group. However, it would still appear prudent to examine the available evidence regarding female literacy in order to ascertain whether they may possibly have formed part of the intended, or for that matter, the actual readership. Again we encounter the perennial problem of scarcity of evidence from the appropriate geographical area and time period. From Rome there is some indication that girls did attend the first stage of education,18 though the scant references we do possess engender the inevitable disagreement on the question of whether equal access existed even at this stage.19 Some fascinating sources from the East do survive: P Giess. iii 80 and 95 provide evidence that even in a small Greek town education for girls was not unknown (Harris 1989: 239). P Teb. 422 dating from the Roman period has a man writing to his brother mention books belonging to their sister. Bagnall (1992: 140) discusses the case of one Aurelia Ptolemais who signed a lease for five arouras of land in a fairly rapid cursive, indicative of a reasonable standard of literacy (P Oxy. 14.1690, 287 CE). The fact that this lease was found in the same context as fragments of a history of Sikyon, and of the Iliad, is interesting, and may even perhaps locate her as a potential reader of novels (Bremmer 1998: 173). Finally, P Oxy. 12. 1467 from 263 CE provides us with the further example of Aurelia Thaisous, also named Lolliane, who explicitly states that she can read and write with ease when applying to the prefect of Egypt for the benefits of the ius trium liberorum. Further up the education ladder we even encounter instances of that rara avis, the woman who could not only write with ease, but could even compose literature herself.20 So Pamphile, the daughter of a grammaticus from Egypt is ascribed several works by the Suda (FHG 3.520ff), and an inscription from second or third century Mysia records Magnilla the philosopher, daughter of Magnus, and wife of Menius, both philosophers (Pleket 30. G). It is noteworthy that both these examples originate from learned families, and may therefore tell us more about these families’ strategies of self-presentation, rather than representing a universally held belief in the intellectual capabilities of women.21 Understanding the education of women, to any standard, as an issue subordinated to the particular needs of the family, is central to our enquiry. A rich man might choose to educate his daughters to display his wealth and cultured background, but if they were to display no apparent aptitude for their studies, this would entail no real loss for the family. A young man of the upper middle classes might be educated so that he could better oversee the family’s business dealings, but if his sisters remained illiterate22 there would be no disadvantage to the family, since the kyrios would usually assist with any contractual obligations (Pomeroy 1981: 315). On a purely

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practical level there was no need for a woman to become literate,23 from which assertion we can surely extrapolate that there were always going to be fewer women than men educated to any particular level (Youtie 1975: 213; Pomeroy 1981: 313).

How to read the feminine Classics and theory If we are not to interpret the novelistic feminine as a configuration designed to appeal to the female or sentimental reader, then how do we ‘read’ the feminine, or the novel in general? My own approach does not depend upon any one universalising theory, and can best be described as an eclectic pluralism, with an often implicit emphasis on historicist methodologies. This particular choice of primary orientation should seem, at first sight unsurprising, given that the study of ancient texts would, at one level at least, appear to demand some concomitant examination of the socio-historical ‘background’. However, as Rabinowitz (1993: 4) has rightly observed, much of the academic work undertaken in Classics in the past has been: ‘Philological work, literally love of the logos or word … typically linguistic in the narrowest sense’. It would be misleading, however, to associate such work with the formalism of New Criticism, a theoretical school which generally busied itself with more modern literary products. Indeed, Classics as a discipline has had, in the past, a reputation of shying away almost completely from most overtly theoretical approaches in favour of a purportedly valuefree empiricism (Rabinowitz 1993: 3–4; Rose 1993: 215). It is the insistence of such post-modern approaches as the New Historicism of Greenblatt et al. (see Veeser 1994 and Hamilton 1996), as well as feminism and Marxism on a keen awareness of the critic’s ideological positioning which makes them so attractive in comparison. Scholars such as Eagleton (1983: 196) are now quick to dismiss the academic myth of a pure literary theory: Even in the act of fleeing modern ideologies … literary theory reveals its often unconscious complicity with them, betraying its elitism, sexism or individualism in the very ‘aesthetic’ or ‘unpolitical’ language it finds natural to use of the literary text. (Eagleton 1983: 196) Though enmeshed in ideology, by making explicit as many of our underlying assumptions as possible, we might escape some of the dangers of ‘presentism’, of retrojecting current concerns directly into the past (Beer 1989: 80; Culham 1986: 12). We must strive to recognise the ‘otherness’ of earlier literature, which may in turn allow a recognition of, and willingness to challenge our own assumptions (Beer 1989: 80). Ideology itself can act as a useful focus for a literary study, so allowing the reader to avoid the type of positivism that believes that ‘reality’ or its equally elusive companion ‘the facts’ are waiting to be gleaned from a text (Rubino 1977: 41).

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It is not my intention, however, to deny the value of a philological approach, in terms of a sensitive reading of the original texts. Although the scope of this study, and the sheer bulk of the texts themselves preclude this from being my primary focus, I have aimed to integrate into my work a discussion of those terms pertinent to a full understanding of the utilisation of gender. The very difficulty of translating the terminology relating to sexual and affective experience should itself reinforce the ‘otherness’ of that society. Using comparanda The ‘otherness’ of past literature and culture can be emphasised further through the intervention of a third element between ‘then’ and ‘now’, which will ensure that both continuities and difference stand out more clearly. For a historical project where the emphasis lies more on actual behaviours, an anthropological approach can provide some useful comparative data.24 Even a study such as this, which takes as its focus the interaction between literature and ideology can benefit from such methods in helping to examine, for example, the complex associations surrounding ‘public’ and ‘private’. However, my search for more consistently useful comparanda has led me, in addition to the more obvious choices of gender construction in Classical drama and early Christianity, to the perhaps idiosyncratic selection of the ideological construct of the feminine in the Victorian novel. More precise indications of my exact methodology, and particular points of reference will be found in the appropriate sections of the book, though it is fair to state now that my emphasis seldom strays from the relation of gender patterns to larger social structures. Male writing female – a legitimate area of study? My main focus on ideology, on how woman or the feminine figures as a male construct in the texts under question, would seem to warrant an apologia given the increasing tendency in feminist criticism to concentrate on the ‘female experience.’ Feminism itself is a curiously imprecise umbrella term which has struggled to encompass both Anglo-American political activism and French theorising (Moi 1985; Todd 1988 and Butler 1992: 13). It is therefore not possible (or even desirable) to try to isolate one discrete feminist methodology, though it is fruitful, in this particular context, to identify some of the more prevalent tendencies in feminist criticism. Showalter (1979: 25) has provided critics with two convenient labels for the main approaches to women and literature. Firstly, the ‘feminist critique’ is the ‘historically grounded inquiry which probes the ideological assumptions of literary phenomena’. For Showalter, however, it is the second approach, ‘gynocritics’, the recovery of an ‘authentically female experience’ which focuses on woman as the producer of textual meaning, and on linguistics and a female language, which is intrinsically more valuable. Any focus on male images of women ignores, in her opinion, what women have actually felt and experienced, and actually increases stereotyping, and to ‘seeing

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its historical and ideological boundaries’ (Showalter 1979: 25). Putting to one side the possibility that the so-called ‘feminist critique’ may heighten awareness of how gender constructions operate on a cultural and literary level, in any given society, the discovery of what women ‘felt and experienced’ poses its own set of problems. For the Classical world, the majority of accounts that we possess which may relate to the female experience are male-authored. Recovery of this experience is therefore necessarily directed towards texts of various kinds, including the novel, that may mention women, or utilise the feminine, as part of a particular discourse where they do not emerge as subjects in their own right. Showalter’s bias towards gynocritics thus dismisses most of Classical literature at one stroke, but is nevertheless a methodology which has been taken up by some feminist scholars working in Classics, such as Culham and, to a lesser extent Lefkowitz (1981: 31). Culham (1990: 162) emphasises the importance of readings of the few female authored texts we do possess, alongside paying careful attention to the material historical context. It is, I think, vital to remember here, in our enthusiasm to find a pure and unadulterated female, ‘lived’ reality that the attitudes voiced in male authored texts had a bearing on the women ‘who lived in the sign system that produced the canon’ (Gold 1993: 76–7).25 It is also debatable whether it is ever possible for a woman to articulate a truly female experience within a patriarchal society, since her very language will be ‘male’.26 Herstory/history – its use and abuse It is also important to remember that there can be no neutral history acting as a scientific constant by which we may judge the ‘truth’ of a literary text. Just as the literary genre is governed by its own set of conventions, and each literary theory is ideologically implicated, so each history is itself a construct, bound up with narrativity, the human need to shape experience and thus give it meaning (White 1987: 82).27 If the ‘textuality of history’ has been brought into focus by the New Historicists, this does not mean that all materiality, all history, must be treated as rhetoric (Todd 1988: 97). It does, however, mean that in trying to provide some context for behaviours depicted in the novel I have tried to treat ‘history’/law/ institutions not as scientifically neutral constants, but as ideologically implicated sets of signs. So, if I turn to epigraphic and numismatic sources in order to bring into focus the issue of gender and the shifting boundaries between public and private in the first few centuries CE, I cannot appeal to some ‘intrinsic truth’ to set against the ‘fiction’ of the novel. I can, however, after taking due consideration of the conventions that govern both sign systems compare the manner in which gender is used to articulate and organise fundamental assumptions regarding space and power. Finding woman – gaps and silences While advocates of the ‘gynocritique’ label male-authored texts useless for identifying a ‘female experience’, techniques such as Jardine’s ‘gynesis’ focus on what

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has been left out of, or denied emphasis in, the great Western master narratives. For Jardine (1985: 25) there are always spaces in the text, over which the narrative has lost control, and these can be coded as ‘feminine’ and ‘woman’. Gold (1993) has found this theory useful for her exploration of gender in Latin love elegy. In recognising the multiple attributes that Propertius assigns Cynthia and the manner in which he questions the traditional tropes of the feminine used by contemporary writers, she identifies spaces in the text by which gender can be problematised (Gold 1993: 90). ‘Gynesis’ thus forms an attempted compromise between deconstructive and essentialist positions. It demands a sensitivity in reading male authored texts, encouraging the critic to focus on language and its ambiguity, the centrality of the feminine to the text, and the multiple and conflicting roles assigned to the feminine and masculine. Marginalised characters must be allowed to speak; the throwaway lines and throwaway characters examined for their implicit assumptions. For this reason, I have found it useful to undertake a careful examination of the portrayal of all the female types encountered in the genre, down to the most minor and seemingly insignificant. It is from these characters that we may gain some interesting glimpses of everyday life; the old women who may wander unaccompanied, the widow going to the law court without the assistance of male relatives. However, it is difficult to see how in practice Jardine’s approach is significantly different from Judith Fetterly’s ‘resisting reader’ (1978: xiii), or any method of explicitly reading against the text, and the dominant presumptive meaning. Such a reading method also allows us to see the contradictions inherent in ideology, the competing strands of contemporary discourse. It seems important that these contradictions are not erased in the attempted recovery of one consistent ‘attitude’, but visualised as symptomatic of the complexity of lived experience, irreducible, in this post-modern age, to one single narrative. Constructed feminine While the gaps and silences of the text should not be ignored, the construction of femininity privileged in the portrayal of the heroines and the female antagonists must not be obscured either (Todd 1988: 86). The notion of the representation of woman as an integral part of cultural symbolism, either in Lévi-Straussian terms as sign/means of communication, or as the Other,28 is of course not new. However, as Zeitlin (1996: 1) has recently pointed out, a focus on gender as ‘an integral structuring element of Greek literature and, more generally, of the social imagination’ can provide a fruitful basis for research. A critical approach informed by Lévi-Strauss’s work on kinship and communication (1963: 61) raises some important questions regarding female prominence and subjectivity in the texts. He visualised the regulations surrounding marriage and kinship systems ‘as a kind of language, a set of processes permitting the establishment … of a certain kind of communication’. The ‘mediating factor’ is ‘the women of the group, who are circulated between clans, lineages, or families, in place of the words of the group, which are circulated between individuals.’29

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Perhaps anticipating feminist criticism that women could come to be conceptualised in such a manner as to be somehow less than themselves, Lévi-Strauss stressed their inability to function as ‘pure signs’.30 As capable of speech, and thus of producing signs themselves, he believed they could resist objectification. In this context female access to speech becomes a significant issue, with recent scholars such as Rabinowitz (1993: 16) claiming that differential access to speech, and in particular public speech, operates as a distinct marker of female subordination. As I will go on to explain in my next chapter, prominent women in the Classical tradition rarely speak for themselves, and thus the intertwined topics of speech and selfhood need to form a substantial part of my reading of the novelistic heroines. If woman, in my utilisation of anthropological theory, is a means of communication between social groups, it then begs the question of what she has come to signify within the novelistic context. Without wishing to anticipate later discussions in any detail, it seems worthwhile, for the sake of clarity, to outline here one possible hypothesis. Turning away from Dodds’ conception of Hellenistic and Imperial times as an ‘age of anxiety’(1965: 137), Swain (1996: 109) favours a reading of the novel as ‘another outlet for the cultural ideals and formulas of the élite, as another expression of their cultural hegemony’. Within this particular sociological framework the prominent yet resolutely chaste heroine can function as a sign of cultural integrity: her strategies of resistance to the attacks of aggressive barbarian males standing as a constant reminder of Hellenic superiority. However, the extent to which novelistic femininity actually could be operating as part of an oblique challenge to imperium is best established through a comparison with gender roles in early Christian fiction. In my next chapter I intend to revise Cooper’s (1996) and Perkins’ (1995) polarisation of Christian and ‘pagan’ texts into asocial and social standpoints. Instead the novel and works like the Apocryphal Acts might better be envisaged as different points on a continuum of criticism of the dominant social order. Psychoanalysis The heroines may indeed best illustrate how the feminine may function as part of discourse, but I am still alert to the ways in which a psychoanalytical approach might help to uncover certain gender patterns underlying the genre as a whole. My particular brand of psychoanalytical critique eschews an old-fashioned psychobiography of the author, or a method which situates the reader as analyst of the characters’ imagined childhood.31 Instead, my use of psychoanalytical theory posits a shared unconsciousness, or recognition of symbols, but moves away from a Jungian theory of archetype or universality of symbolism, towards what Wright (1984: 50) has classified as psychoanalysis of culture. This is compatible with my primarily historicist orientation, and insists on the importance of specific historic context in the formation of an individual’s attitude to gender roles.32 While this approach has some

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affinity with the work of Slater (1968), who focused on Classical Athens in his analysis of Greek mythology, my use of other complementary methods should avoid too rigid an application of theory. One particularly interesting approach has been through the work of Farber (1975) who has utilised the theories of Freud and Klein to posit a possible fragmentation of the feminine in myth, deriving from hostility towards the mother. Application of this theory to the more sophisticated narrative texture of the novels (along with a concomitant fragmentation of the masculine) allows us to see how certain qualities associated with the mother and father are displaced onto other characters. Even here, though, particular historical circumstance must be kept to the foreground, and the increased socio-economic freedoms gained by mothers in the first few centuries CE should be identified as a possible factor affecting their representation. Other theories, such as Rivière’s (1929) work on the ‘masquerade’ or assumption of femininity, and Lacan’s theory of the ‘parade’ or assumption of masculinity also shed important light on the stability of gender identities. Text as literature The approaches to the examination of gender in the novel outlined above have seemingly situated the text variously as social documentation, a series of signs, or even as evidence of the ‘collective cultural unconscious’ of the Second Sophistic. While all these methods will allow me to interrogate the text, and focus on its ‘otherness’, I hope never to lose sight of the novel as sophisticated literary product. A thorough examination of novelistic gender patterns, of course, presupposes a keen awareness of generic conventions, but I shall also draw on the insights of those whose primary aim has been to investigate the narrative texture. Interpretative strategies such as reader response criticism,33 although not my main focus, will help in the comprehension of how certain narrative patterns may invite identification, so aiding a more complete understanding of gender construction in the novel. Identifying the canon I have sought, in the preceding sub-sections, to outline, in broad terms, what is entailed by my focus on ‘femininity’. It is also desirable, at this stage, to clarify what I mean by the ‘Greek novel’, and to embark upon a justification of why these texts merit discussion together in terms of gender patterns.34 The grouping of various kinds of prose fiction under the heading ‘novel’ is, of course, the act of modern scholarship, there being no general classification for such complex prose fiction in antiquity (Scobie 1969: 18). Selden (1994: 45), following Todorov, is also surely correct in his assumption that the system of genres adopted by each era is entirely in keeping with the dominant ideology. However, it is not my intention here to explore the validity of the term ‘novel’, nor to examine at any length the exclusion of literature thought to be on the fringes of such a group. Instead,

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I wish to consider briefly the extent to which the novels of Chariton, Xenophon, Achilles Tatius, Longos and Heliodoros might merit classification as a homogeneous group when discussing gender patterning and the use of the female image. Nimis (1994: 389) has provided a useful survey of the attempts by recent scholarship to provide a precise classification of this particular group of prose fiction, by the exclusion of one or other of the texts. Xenophon is thus excluded when Anderson (1982) wishes to emphasise the comic element and Merkelbach’s Mysterientexte theory cannot embrace Chariton’s novel. Both Todd (1940: 2) and Mittelstadt (1970: 212) have viewed the pastoral setting of Longos’ novel as clearly differentiating the work from those which place a greater emphasis on adventure. Taking this methodology through to its obvious conclusion Nimis (1994: 389) wishes to categorise Chariton as the single extant example of the ideal novel: claiming that ‘the others impose various alien literary or ideological interests on that simple form.’ This reference to ideology is illuminating. Holzberg (1995: 9) finds the label ‘ideal’ useful for grouping the whole set of five novels. This category of ancient fiction might well share a whole host of characteristics and motifs with the ‘comic-realistic’ novel,35 and yet it is in their ideology, their world view, that they differ most substantially.36 I believe that it is in this set of novels’ representation of gender that this ideology finds its clearest expression.37 The relative strength and importance of the heroine remains a constant, as does the centrality of chastity as a thematic concern. Of course, this admission of homogeneity does not necessitate a concomitant blindness to the obvious differences. Kallirhoe stands as a very different artistic creation to Charikleia, and Achilles Tatius plays with the ideal of chastity as much as Heliodoros’ insistence on ritual purity invests this concern with physical continence with a new significance. However, these differences do not, in my opinion, necessarily call for a further subdivision of the genre into ever smaller units, but instead lead to a recognition that each novel may represent a different strand of the discourse of sexuality. The similarities, and in particular the modest heroine’s manipulation of potentially dangerous situations encountered in wider society, lead me to entertain the possibility that these gender patterns are in some way representative of the selffashioning of the male of the Greek élite. I concur with Swain (1996: 104–5) that the conscious archaism found in the novel, along with an emphasis on the polarities between Greek and barbarian, town and country, man and woman: ‘have to do with the consciousness of urban Greek society in the Roman Empire, with its level of confidence, and its need for self reflection.’ I have chosen the representation of gender relations in the genre as my primary focus since I believe that gender functions as the organising principle through which other conceptual relations find their clearest expression. The study of the ‘use of femininity’ in related genres can provide useful comparative material, although gender representation in the comic realistic sub-genre, is, in all its complexity, beyond the scope of my present discussion. Instead, I have found in early Christian

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literature such as the Apocryphal Acts similarities in form and motif which serve to throw the obvious ideological differences into sharp relief.38 Before I embark upon that particular investigation, however, it appears important to ‘contextualise the feminine’ with regard to ‘pagan’ literature and history.

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2 CONTEXTUALISING THE FEMININE

Finding a reference point – putting the feminine in context This is not intended to be a ‘potted history’ of Greek women: the burgeoning interest in women’s studies in the last few decades has generated many useful overviews of this subject which have the scope to be more rigorous and detailed.1 Instead this chapter derives from a real need to deconstruct modern scholarly fascination with the patterns of femininity displayed in the texts. If the strength of the heroines in the genre appears surprising, it seems important to establish the implied point of reference from which their behaviour deviates. ‘Greek women’ as a site for scholarly interest runs the risk of becoming an undifferentiated monolithic mass, insensitive to differences in location, and historical time (Blok 1987: 6). The prevalent model has often been upper class Athenian women of the fifth and fourth centuries: privileged not only through the continued canonisation of the Classical age (Hallett 1993: 44-5), but also through the horrid fascination the idea of seclusion continues to exert.2 If the heroines differ from this model, this raises the question of gathering appropriate ‘evidence’ from other time periods. Asking what should constitute this appropriate evidence requires a certain methodological awareness. Firstly, it is vital to establish that we can never discover the ‘truth’ of female lived experience, and to recognise that a speech in a law-court is not somehow more ‘truthful’ about women than, say, an Aristophanic Comedy (Hallett 1992: 338). Perhaps it is more useful to see law and various institutions functioning alongside literature as a further set of signs in which the concept of femininity may be utilised as part of a wider discourse of identity and self. This conceptual shift should warn us against locating the strength of the novelistic heroines as somehow symptomatic of an ‘improvement in the status of women’ in the Imperial period. Instead of representing something new and strange, the novels’ ‘usage of the feminine’ can be better envisaged as part of a long established strategy of co-opting the female image to help the (generally élite) male define his relationship to society. Focusing upon themes raised by the novel’s treatment of femininity such as female speech, capacity for direct action, and female sexuality, I shall attempt to identify

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CONTEXTUALISING THE FEMININE

both continuity and change in the discourse of later time periods. Hellenistic mime and Egyptian marriage contracts will be utilised to demonstrate ‘development’ from the Classical Athenian model: however, extricating the ‘Greek’ from ‘Greco-Roman’ in the first few centuries CE poses its own set of problems. Models for Greek women in the period of Roman domination are scarce: by ‘Roman women’ the scholarship often means upper class women at Rome in the Augustan period. One appropriate model for comparison to the novelistic heroines is Christian women. This will be dealt with at length in the final section of this chapter as being the most useful point of comparison in terms of chronology and location. The strict demarcation between ‘Christian’ and ‘pagan’ that may occur in the scholarship was probably not observed by contemporary society: Christianity did not exist in a vacuum.

Using the feminine – the pagan context The substantiality of the picture of Classical Athenian woman The lonely and repressed figure of the Classical Athenian woman, huddled in Oriental seclusion, has become so deeply entrenched in the scholarly imaginaire, that it is difficult now to determine the extent to which she is a construct of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Katz 1995). In order to fully deconstruct this fascinating image we must first make explicit some of the assumptions and preconceptions that may incidentally accompany any modern reconsideration of this topic. ‘Seclusion’ and ‘status’ with their intimation of a devaluation of the female experience carry unpleasant connotations for any project even slightly informed by feminist insights. This particular methodology comes with the ever present danger of visualising the question in terms of misogyny and subordination, and thus isolating ‘status’ or an ‘attitude to women’ from larger societal issues (des Bouvrie 1990: 58). Trying to understand how ‘woman’ gets used within a discourse of selfconstruction may actually be more pertinent to our present discussion. It is perhaps easier to identify tensions and concerns in the web of value judgements made about women, than to measure ‘status’ with any degree of certainty. Versnel (1987: 64–5) focuses on the difficulty of trying to identify a single ‘social status’ for Athenian women in the Classical period: ‘the conception of status is a relative conception that exists exclusively by virtue of comparison and because status can refer to various sectors of social life and therefore is not a constant factor that covers everything’. To return to the vexed question of the selection of appropriate sources: using Euripides or Aristophanes next to Thucydides or a law-court speech is acceptable if we visualise them all as sets of signs, governed by their own generic conventions. I have chosen first to summarise the general patterns that emerge from those sources usually regarded as ‘non-literary’ more out of a desire for clarity, than from any wish to designate them ‘more truthful’. Marriage was essentially a contract between the kyrioi of two oikoi: the bride, who may have been initially betrothed at the age of five, was the object of this contract, and seemingly had no say in the matter (Eur. Med. 237). Marriages were intended to

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strengthen links between oikoi; romantic love was not the prime consideration, and the groom could be considerably older than the bride (Isager 1981: 89). Although a woman could not inherit directly, the institution of the epiklerate ensured the preservation of property within the larger family unit.3 The status of the dowry that accompanied the wife, and in some senses defined the union as legal marriage rather than concubinage, has been the source of much scholarly debate. For Blundell (1995: 116), this dowry, which had to be returned in case of divorce, gave the kyrios of the bride’s natal oikos continuing control over her person. Foxhall (1989: 38) in contrast, maintains that the potential threat of withdrawing a substantial part of the resources of the husband’s oikos would have given the bride a certain amount of covert power (see also Foley 1981: 130). Turning now to the institution of guardianship, it is important to place the apparent restrictions placed on the economic freedom of women within a nexus of complex concerns regarding the security and integrity of family and state. Isaios 10.10 2–3 informs us that without the authority of her kyrios, a woman could not contract for anything worth more than a medimnos of barley.4 She could not inherit property in her own right, and only had control over her personal effects, such as her clothes and jewellery. The way in which a woman was regarded in law as a minor in need of protection,5 rather than a subject in her own right is perhaps unsurprising given the high value placed upon citizenship in this democracy. Athens appears to have been unusually conservative with regard to female property ownership. Women in other parts of the Classical Greek world had the power to inherit and bequeath property as well as exercising control over their dowries (van Bremen 1983: 231; Schaps 1979: 7). It is surely most useful to place these relative ‘freedoms’ within the context of the set of familial and civic institutions in place in other states, rather than necessarily imputing to them a higher regard for women. The rhetoric of respectability demanded that a citizen wife lived a secluded existence. Thucydides (2.45) put into the mouth of Pericles the assertion that the best women were the ones about whom nobody spoke.6 Female ‘seclusion’ may lead us into the dangerous territory of isolating ‘woman’ as a discrete historical category (Katz 1995: 30), when contextualising such concerns within a broader framework of social relations is actually more useful. Such strictures, with their implicit anxiety about female chastity again shout loudly about concern for the integrity of the oikos (des Bouvrie 1990: 58). Perhaps statements about ‘seclusion’ tell us less about what women actually did, and far more about the coding of social space. Seclusion can only have been a viable proposition for the most wealthy, and might also have functioned as a badge of status (Walker 1983: 81). Women in Athenian drama – an apparent contradiction? The picture of the respectable, secluded woman, confined to the home, which emerges from the law-court speeches is apparently undermined7 by the image of the powerful, vocal woman gained from an examination of Athenian drama (Foley 1981: 127). The contradiction disappears when we again seek to place ‘woman’ within a

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framework of larger concerns, and focus upon particular generic constraints and conventions. The erasure of female family members as vocal individuals from the narratives touching on private matters in the law-court acts as an index of the respectability of the individual oikos. The emphasis upon the seclusion, and by implication the respectability of citizen women within the household serves to render any intrusion of privacy far more despicable (Dem. 47). The reputation of female family members, almost synonymous with the integrity of the oikos comes to function as a sign of that integrity: paradoxically, it is the very absence of the female from public affairs which functions as a powerful social signal. In drama, this close association of the female with the oikos, and, in more general terms, the polarisation of gender roles ‘made gender relations a fruitful base for the exploration of other differences’ (Blundell 1995: 173. See also Zeitlin 1996: 341n6; des Bouvrie 1990: 324–5; Foley 1981: 135; Wohl 1998: xxvi and Rabinowitz 1993a: 12). Social and philosophical questions could be ‘sexualised’ and given increased emotional impact through the framework of gender relationships. Women may often act for the oikos, but this identification is not completely static. Indeed the plots of such plays as Antigone may illustrate the difficulty of separating the interests of the institutions of oikos and polis. So Antigone’s duty to her natal oikos is indissolubly bound up with an issue of public policy (Patterson 1998: 84), and the eponymous Lysistrata acts in the interests of both house and state in seeking to end the war. To accept the operation of gender as a major organisational principle in drama does not necessitate a concomitant blindness to the contradictions and tensions displayed in the texts. In some senses, then, the vocal women of drama have ceased to be women at all. As Zeitlin (1996: 347) has observed, ‘functionally women are never an end for themselves’: these highly visible, powerful female figures constantly function as catalysts for the action, helpers and adversaries of the often weaker males. She states: ‘Even when female characters struggle with the conflicts generated by the particularities of their subordinate social position, their demands for identity and self esteem are still designed primarily for exploring the male project of selfhood in the larger world.’ However, this is not to say that no traces of the ‘norms’ of Athenian life remain. Women are thus admonished to stay in their proper place within the house (Foley 1981: 135), and female challenges to male authority are often coded as ‘masculine’ and either negatively, or at best, ambiguously portrayed. Clytaemnestra perhaps provides the most vivid example. Normative gender patterns are inverted as the Queen exerts enormous strength of will to persuade the weaker Agamemnon to walk on the tapestries, and thus mark himself as effeminate and barbarian (926–57). Earlier the chorus had praised her reaction to the sacking of Troy in terms that still served to highlight the transgressive nature of her behaviour (351): ‘Woman, you speak in a well-ordered way, like a wise man.’ Medea too behaves in a manner that may be coded as masculine (Shaw 1975: 261–2).8 Thus her transaction with Aigeus with her wise insistence on oaths of loyalty (731–58) reads less as a plea from an abandoned woman, and more like the

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manipulation of a shrewd political negotiator (Foley 1981: 151; Williamson 1990: 18–19). Her appeal to the contract she had with Jason, and her use of the imagery of the handclasp also sets her apart from the traditional image of respectable womanhood (Flory 1978: 70–1). Antigone may be represented as a far more positive figure, stepping into the public sphere out of concern for her natal oikos, and yet even she may be rebuked for speaking out. In response to her robust defence of her pious actions Kreon retorts (524–5): ‘Go to Hades then, if you wish to love, and love those there. No woman shall rule me, while I live.’ The distinction between the visible women of Aristophanic Comedy, and the dangerous female individuals of tragedy is that they are represented as conducting ‘their intrusion still metaphorically contained by the boundaries and values proper to respectable women’(Foley 1982: 7. See also Lévy 1976: 109; Shaw 1975: 265 and Finnegan 1990: 102.) Thus, in Lysistrata the women turn the political sphere into an extension of the household; the acropolis alternately transformed into bedroom and dining room, and politics likened to weaving, that most womanly of tasks (574–5): ‘The first thing to do, like you would with a fleece, is wash out in a tub all the shitencrusted wool from the body politic’. Lysistrata herself, a positive and powerful figure, derives her authority directly from the acceptable religious role that women could play in the polis (Loraux 1993: 163). Her name is surely meant to recall that of Lysimacha, the contemporary priestess of Athena Polias, and, as the accepted mediator between the sexes, moving the city back to harmony and marriage, she may even be identified with Athene herself (Foley 1982: 9; Levine 1987: 32; Hubbard 1991: 183-4; Loraux 1993: 179–80). The tensions inherent in a marriage system which codes the bride brought into the marital oikos as a stranger, and yet makes her necessary for the survival of that household also find their expression in tragedy. For example, a fragment of Sophocles’ Tereus offers a starkly unsentimental view of a girl’s attitude to wedlock: But when we have reached the age of maturity, we are thrust out and sold, away from our paternal gods and our parents, some to foreign husbands, others to barbarians, some to joyless houses and others to infamous ones. (Sophocles Tereus, Fragment 583, 6–9) Even a play such as Alcestis, which appears at first sight to be glorifying the marriage bond in a manner not dissimilar to the novels, exhibits certain fundamental tensions, through the ironic presentation of the husband Admetos. For example, the servant’s report that (201–2): ‘he is weeping, holding his dear wife in his arms, beseeching her not to abandon him’ strikes the wrong note after the nobility of Alcestis’ earlier words, addressed to her marriage bed (179–81): ‘My dear, I don’t hate you, even though it is you alone that has destroyed me; I die, still shrinking from abandoning you and my husband.’ The tragedy throughout is that Admetos cannot understand

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the value of the sacrifice of which Alcestis is so aware. The heroine’s extreme conjugal loyalty also remains exceptional within a genre where female characters are ‘more likely to show an active devotion to their natal households’ (Foley 1981: 152). The Hellenistic period – problems of evidence Much of our evidence for the legal position of women in this period derives from papyrus finds from Ptolemaic Egypt. Egypt, to some extent at least, must be considered anomalous in this respect because of the possible influence of native law, which gave women greater freedom. Before we assume any ‘teleological’ development in the ‘status of women’, we must bear in mind the fact that Classical Athens and Ptolemaic Egypt could both be considered atypical in comparison to other parts of the Greek East. Perhaps it is more fruitful to focus again upon attitudes to women within a broader sociological framework. In a milieu where the possibilities of full political involvement in the polis are not so great, and the family is not institutionalised or idealised to such an extent, restrictions on female inheritance or ability to conduct transactions will not be so stringent.9 If the population of Egypt has become more mobile then the greater financial independence seemingly granted to women through the careful wording of a marriage contract might stem from a desire to protect female family members should they move away from the home village. These contracts are useful for assessing the degree of deviation from the Classical Athenian pattern of marriage as a transaction between the kyrioi of two oikoi. The bride is still ‘given away’ by her family, but there are interesting variations in who is actually involved, and how it is expressed. The earliest Hellenistic marriage contract that we possess (P Eleph. 1, 311 BCE) shows both mother and father sharing responsibility for giving the bride in marriage (Pomeroy 1984: 86). In P Teb. III, 815, dated to 228 BCE a groom acknowledges that he has received a dowry from the mother of his bride-to-be: a woman was obviously deemed capable of making such arrangements, if there was no near male relative (Pomeroy 1984: 90). The most radical departure we have from Classical Athenian practice comes in P Giess. 2 of 173 BCE, where Olympias, a Macedonian woman gave herself in marriage to a man named Antaios. Her kyrios, her father Dionysios, was present only to add legal weight to the procedure. Vatin (1970: 171) states [my translation]: ‘This is the sign of a profound transformation: the formula of ekdosis is preserved, but the marriage is no longer a transaction between men with the woman as object, the woman has become a subject.’ Egyptian marriage contracts again provide our main source of evidence for the rights of Greek women within marriage in the Hellenistic period. In addition to clearly stating the value of the dowry, they also give some indication of the obligations of both spouses, and the penalties to be paid if the conditions are violated and divorce occurs. Interestingly there appears to be an increasing emphasis on reciprocal obligations during our time period. For example, the previously mentioned contract P Eleph. 1 stated that the wife should forfeit her dowry if three arbitrators

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found that she had broken the terms of the contract. There was no provision for the wife to leave her husband voluntarily, nor for any sort of no fault divorce (Pomeroy 1984: 86). In contrast, P Teb. I, 104, of 92 BCE is typical of other contracts of the period from the Fayum, in that the wife had the right to leave her husband without the assistance or approval of her male relatives, whether or not her husband had transgressed the terms of the contract. The contract may place traditional restrictions upon the wife’s freedom of movement,10 but the terms show a new insistence on the financial security of, and respect due to, the legitimate wife. It states that the husband Philiskos: … shall not bring home (lead in marriage) any other woman but Apollonia, nor keep a concubine or a little boy-friend, or have children with another woman while Apollonia is still alive, or live in any house over which Apollonia is not mistress. (P Teb. I, 104) It has become a scholarly platitude to assert that the institution of guardianship became more of a formality in the Hellenistic period, though we must beware the temptation of assuming too much, from the limited amount of evidence. It is, however, true that contracts (such as P Giess. I, 2) were no longer made GL¦ NXU…RX or through the authority of the guardian but µHW¦ NXU…RQ or with the guardian. Taubenschlag (1955: 175) asserts that ‘In Greco–Egyptian law there was no limitation on the capacity of women to take part in any sort of private commercial transaction.’ The assistance and signature of a legal guardian was needed only for official contracts, and appears not to have hindered women in Ptolemaic Egypt from selling, or hiring out property. However, it is important to remember that ‘kyriosdirected’ decisions could well be hidden in such documentation, and it is impossible to ascertain the exact proportion of women who were free to act completely independently. A woman now inherited property routinely in her own right, though more sons than daughters are mentioned as beneficiaries in wills of the Ptolemaic period (Pomeroy 1984: 157). As regards female visibility it is difficult to assess the impact of the prominence of the various Queens who ruled in the Greek East in this period,11 on the lives of ordinary women.12 However, non-royal women of the upper classes did enjoy some participation in the public sphere, which, however limited it was in practice, still forms an interesting counterpoint to the seclusion of women in Classical Athens. So, female archons are recorded in second century BCE Histria13 and first century BCE Priene,14 while even in the conservative bastion of Athens aristocratic fathers whose daughters had embroidered the peplos of Athena, had decrees passed honouring this service.15 This last example demonstrates how the acceptability of female visibility could be clearly associated with the prestige of the élite family: as was the case in Athenian drama in some respects women do not act for themselves.

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Women in Hellenistic literature As was the case for Classical Athens we cannot expect a straightforward correlation between literary and non-literary evidence. We can, however, trace the emergence of certain common themes. A new emphasis on the personal, which we postulated as a necessary consequence of changing political structures, and a possible cause for the relative freedoms accorded to women, finds its expression in two new interests: the everyday, and a focus on romantic love. For example, love was often the mainspring of the plot in New Comedy. However, far from being represented as a mutual feeling between equals, as in the novels, it was generally portrayed as an erotic impulse on the part of a citizen youth. This impulse either leads to the rape of a citizen girl,16 who has her reputation restored by marriage, or is resolved in the formation of a relationship with a courtesan. Such plots have certain consequences for the portrayal of women: patterns which are echoed in other forms of contemporary literature. The first of these consists in the silencing of female ‘citizens’. Respectable women, with the exception of a few older married women, are rarely portrayed on the stage. Exceptions prove the rule: when, in the Dyskolos the misanthrope’s daughter goes to fetch water from a well she is left unnamed. The shock that the audience may have felt at the flouting of the conventions of normal behaviour is articulated by Daos, the slave of her half-brother Gorgias, who criticises her father harshly for not supervising her more closely (218ff). Another good example of the codes surrounding the behaviour of respectable women is provided in the representation of Glykera in the Perikeiromene. In her role as concubine in the first part of the play she emerges as a powerful character, clearly demonstrating that she will not submit to the hubris of her lover Polemon (723), and stating emphatically that she best knows her own concerns (749). However, as soon as her citizen status is discovered and she becomes Polemon’s bride, she is silenced; there is no further speaking part for her in the play (Henry 1988: 76). The silencing of citizen women is repeated in the poetry of Kallimachos. In the Aitia the focus remains on the feelings of the hero Akontios, who takes the active part by tricking the heroine Kydippe into reciting a vow that she will marry him. We are told of the illnesses that Kydippe endures until the vow is fulfilled, but nowhere in the extant text do we get the impression that she actively desires him. In contrast to the novels, the sexuality of respectable girls is rarely represented. The only notable exception is perhaps Metriche, the faithful wife17 of Herodas’ first mime, who refuses the inducements of the old bawd Gyllis, to sleep with the athlete Gryllus. However, even here the emphasis remains on conjugal loyalty (67–72) rather than the expression of any erotic interest. Her relatively low status may also be relevant. We have spoken of citizen women so far as if they represented some static and easily recognisable category, when in fact the strict classification of women becomes ever more difficult as we enter the Hellenistic period. It seems likely that the more mobile cosmopolitan populations of large cities such as Alexandria would not have felt the same anxiety about the labelling of women as the Athenian city-state. We thus find in the literature figures such as the Simaitha of Theokritos’ second Idyll, a virgin who lives with her maid, and, unprotected by any male family members, is free

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to form a disastrous liaison with the young aristocrat Delphis. The Theokritan and Herodan fascination with the lower and middle classes may stem in part from a desire to exploit such female marginality. This may also be the case with poets such as Asklepiades, whose ‘girlfriends’, as Cameron (1981) has observed, may not be completely ‘respectable’ by Classical Athenian standards, but are not hetairai, in the sense that their relationship with the poet does not involve a commercial transaction.18 As was the case with Athenian drama there exists no exact counterpart for the positive, vocal novelistic heroines. Instead the type of the vocal woman manifests itself in several new forms: the untrustworthy, though sometimes ultimately sympathetic Menandrian courtesan, the sexually voracious and outspoken Herodan housewife, and the terrifying Apollonian barbarian sorceress. Figures such as Apollonios’ Medea demonstrate a new interest in the darker side of female sexuality: violent rage and a desire for revenge are the necessary consequences of any suggestion of abandonment. For example, the possibility that Jason the pragmatist might be prepared to hand Medea over to her brother to forestall further conflict, effects an immediate transformation from young girl in love to a figure of far greater magnitude (4.390–3): ‘So she spoke, boiling with an intense rage, and she longed to set the ship on fire, to chop it all to pieces, and throw herself into the devouring flame.’ Theokritos provides a variation on this theme with his creation of the frustrated Simaitha of his second Idyll, concocting spells to ensure the return of her faithless lover Delphis (159–61). Here the fear engendered by the powerful woman is perhaps replaced by sympathy for a pathetic figure who is ultimately powerless. However, we should not make the mistake of confusing sympathy with unqualified admiration: Simaitha is no heroine. Often outspokenness is coupled with sexual voracity.19 Even when it is not, as is the case with the ferocious Metrotime of Herodas’ third mime, the forceful woman is held up to ridicule rather than admired. So Metrotime’s willingness to speak at length about her son’s many faults and her eagerness to see him thrashed becomes increasingly ridiculous through the force of the poet’s comic exaggeration. Finally in response to her son’s anguished request to know how many blows he will receive she retorts: ‘As you wish me life, as many as your evil hide will take’ (79–80). It seems entirely possible that such a portrayal could be functioning as a reaction to greater female freedom and visibility. Such an admission, when compared to the apparently more sympathetic stance towards the forceful woman taken by the novel, re-focuses attention on the questions of generic constraints, social status and the exact manner in which this ‘force’ is employed. It also seems important to differentiate the sympathetic portrayals of women sometimes encountered in Hellenistic literature from the positive and even admiring stance taken towards the female protagonists of the novels. These ‘sympathetic’ Hellenistic portrayals, as a general rule, remain inseparable from a clear commitment to patriarchal values. So the Menandrian ‘good prostitute’ or pseudohetaira is ‘a renewer of the social order’ (Henry 1988: 115; 1996: 144). Figures such as

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Habrotonon and Chrysis paradoxically utilise the relative freedom bestowed by their positions outside the social order to ensure the continuation of that order: reuniting an estranged couple in one instance and bringing about a marriage in the other. Such actions may be rewarded, but the benevolent attitude shown to the ‘tart with a heart’ in this fictive reality cannot extend to the bestowal of the ultimate reward of citizenship or respectable marriage.20 The Roman period To some extent at least, dividing the Roman period off from the preceding Hellenistic age appears to be creating a purely artificial boundary for the sake of academic convenience. However, the Romanisation of the Greek East did have some important implications both for the purely legal position of women, and the way in which women of the élite class could seek to negotiate the delicate and increasingly fluid boundary between private and public. Caution is again required when seeking to identify a uniform chronological development in the status of women. Increased freedoms and/or visibility are once more often best understood as part of a larger network of familial and societal concerns, aspirations and values. The problem of attempting to quantify the measure of independence enjoyed by women in the Greek East in our period is exacerbated by a lack of evidence regarding legal institutions such as guardianship. Members of the élite who had gained Roman citizenship might utilise the rights granted to them under the ius trium liberorum to free themselves from male legal control.21 However, the legal provisions for those women who remained under Greek law remain unclear: documentation of the period from central and Northern mainland Greece fails to mention a kyrios, in contrast to contemporary records from other parts of the Greek East (van Bremen 1996: 218). While it would be tempting to conclude from the evidence available that this tendency may be explained by an increasing lack of formality with regard to the institution of guardianship, the restricted nature of the surviving documentation advocates caution. Van Bremen’s assessment of the degree of independence enjoyed by Greek women in our period, although consistently more conservative than the weight of scholarly opinion, has the merit of recognising that complete independence cannot be assured through mere lack of a kyrios. Younger women may not have been completely free of familial influence over their financial affairs, even outside the formal institution of guardianship, with widows and older women possessing a fair degree of ‘real control’ whatever the legal position (van Bremen 1996: 219, 230). In seeming complete contrast to the value systems of Classical Athens women in the Greek East are now found holding high office and achieving some prominence in the public sphere. However, there are certain patterns to this public display which are revealing of continued concern regarding female power, and which go some way to demonstrate how the symbolic resonances of the feminine may be utilised within public discourse. The relatively low number of female benefactions, and instances of female incumbents of high office may be linked to women’s capacity to acquire the relevant

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wealth.22 While it appears that wealthy women were not excluded from most public offices by virtue of their gender alone, opportunities to gain prominence might well have occurred more often in the absence of suitable male post-holders. Women seem to have been able to hold a wide range of federal, religious and civic posts.23 They appear as eponymous magistrates, ‘representing the city to the world, and so constituting the very top of the whole pyramid of offices’ (MacMullen 1980: 213; 1986: 437). This fact is disturbing to modern scholars more accustomed to recording restrictions on female capacity to act in the ancient world, and has given rise to a tendency to term these offices ‘honorific’ (Lefkowitz 1983: 56; Gardner 1986: 264). To question the amount of actual political power that these women could wield is in some senses to miss the point about how such offices functioned in the public imagination. Even male liturgists or magistrates possessed little ‘real’ power relative to the Roman governor, and the question of whether female post-holders actually ‘did anything’ becomes irrelevant in a milieu where much civic administration would have been delegated to the appropriate elected or appointed assistant (Marshall 1975: 125; MacMullen 1980: 215). MacMullen surely correctly identifies the heart of the matter as being: … the deference secured forever from one’s fellow citizens through one’s being, for only a day, or for only a few days in a year, at the head of the parade, or in front of the crowds, and thereafter known by a new title and memoralized in stone in the forum. (MacMullen 1980: 215) If such posts are merely ‘honorific’, then they conveyed an honour much valued by male members of the Greek élite. However, it is important to come to a full realisation of the way in which female assumption of these civic honours could still be contained within the boundaries of acceptable female behaviour and influence. The first clue to any constraints placed on female operation within the civic realm comes with the realisation that they are rarely found in roles such as grammateus which would require them to speak in public. As MacMullen (1980: 216) asserts, ‘They are to be seen, then, but not heard.’24 The second clue consists in the consistent emphasis in inscriptions commemorating their service to the city, on feminine virtues and family connections (MacMullen 1980: 216; Lefkowitz 1983: 56–7; van Bremen 1996: 166, 186).25 These prominent women are best visualised as not operating as completely independent individuals, but as an integral part of the élite family, and central to its civic ideology. Van Bremen (1996: 163) sees the increasingly oligarchic nature of civic politics in the Roman period as placing the families of those who governed ‘at the centre of civic ideology, imagery and language’. The inclusion of élite women in the public realm must not then be taken solely as a reliable indicator of ‘female emancipation’ but must also be understood as part of the ruling families’ concern with legitimacy and dynastic continuity.

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Fictional representations – the Roman period The age that was capable of representing citizen girls as fully realised speaking subjects of love stories in the form of the novelistic heroines was equally prepared to reduce them to ciphers. So, in Plutarch’s Amatoriae Narrationes the female characters acquire delineation only as the objects of male lust: victims of rape and murder, their emotions are ignored in narratives that focus on dynastic succession and revenge.26 However, there does appear to be a general shift towards representing the admission of erotic interest by respectable women, though this usually only occurs within certain set parameters. For example, in Alkiphron’s collections of fictional letters, his presentation of a love-lorn girl is best understood within the context of his arch manipulation of lower class stereotypes. In iii.1 Glaukippe’s plea to her mother to let her marry a young man she saw at the festival of the Oschophoria forms an interesting counterpoint to the portrayal of the novelistic protagonists. However, here amusement is generated through the incongruity of her florid appreciation of his physical charms with her relatively low social status. While it would be wrong to treat such self-consciously playful manipulation of stereotypical figures as accurate social commentary, we might entertain the possibility that the idea of a love-match among the poor was not unthinkable. Yet even here societal concern with acceptable modes of female behaviour finds articulation in iii. 2, when her mother Charope berates her for her inappropriate behaviour: ‘you, who instead of being ashamed as befits a young girl, have wiped all modesty from your face’. The slippage of status distinctions that we first saw in operation in Hellenistic love poetry continues in literature of the Roman period, and even in the face of the increasing tendency to archaise. So in Aelian 19 we find a courtesan being brought home in place of a free born bride, while Philostratos 23 finds the poetic persona explicitly dealing with distinctions between female ‘types’: ‘For it is a courtesan’s job to admit those who carry pikes and swords, since they give their money readily, but a free woman always looks to the ideal, and shows the deserving man her good will.’ Though the exact status of the addressees of Philostratos’ letters is often unclear it is interesting that letters 38 and 48 specifically designate their recipients a prostitute and a courtesan respectively, with the implication that however free with their favours, the other women are not prostitutes. The relative instability of social boundaries and the concern that might generate is mirrored in the penalties paid by those fictional women who, for whatever reason exist on the boundary between public and private. So, in Philostratos 26 a woman is warned not to display herself if she doesn’t want to be looked at, and in Aelian 1, a country girl who goes to jeer at a farmer while he is outside drying his grapes gets raped. Rape is also the outcome when a widow goes out unaccompanied on the pious errand of visiting her husband’s grave in Alkiphron iii. 37. These lower class characters are, in one sense, far removed from the ladies of the élite classes whose benefactions place them directly in the public gaze. However, such fictive representations with their coded concern for female respectability provide an interesting backdrop to élite woman’s strategies of self-presentation. The

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Oneirokritika of Artemidoros perhaps articulates the normative attitude to female visibility. Commenting on a dream where a man becomes transformed into a woman (1.50) he pronounces it inauspicious for a rich man, especially one involved in politics, because women generally stay at home. Plutarch’s introductory comments in the De mulierum virtutibus are also illuminating in this context. Taking as his starting point the famous Thucydidean platitude on female visibility, he provides his own seemingly subtle modification (242E–F): ‘But Gorgias seems to me to display better taste when he advised that the reputation rather than the appearance of a woman should be known to many.’27 This comes close to the utilisation of feminine virtue in the civic ideology of the élite family, that we have already noticed in our discussion of the language and imagery of civic benefaction. Figures such as the wise and beautiful Aretaphila who frees the city of Cyrene from dictatorship by subterfuge, but afterwards refuses a share in the government of the city to return to the loom clearly reinforce traditional behavioural codes (Plut. 255E). In Blomquist’s terminology this independent Plutarchan female is ‘supportive’ rather than ‘dominant’, acting out of a desire for the common good rather than her own selfish interests (Blomquist 1997: 76–7 and 88–9). Such women provide an interesting model to set against the novelistic heroines, with bravery and spirit subordinated to traditional feminine virtues such as modesty and conjugal loyalty (Vernière 1994: 169). Our glimpse of the pagan context has not then been a story of simple development, culminating in an appreciation of the novelistic heroines as examples of a new universal belief in female worth and capabilities. This narrative has been concerned with continuity as much as change. The direct ‘improvement in status’ that scholars have sometimes identified is perhaps best envisaged as changes that occur as a result of various socio-political factors, enacted against a backdrop of continued concern with female chastity and the direct assumption of power. We must take with us a continued awareness that the visible female, whether a Euripidean heroine or a benefactress in a Hellenistic city, is often conceptualised as acting for others. This notion is not, of course, stable; she may be visualised as confirming male subjectivity or perpetuating family values and prestige, but the positively portrayed woman is rarely pictured as ambitious for herself. This realisation is significant for our reading of the novelistic heroines. Since the issues of sexuality/chastity, power and visibility are so central to what femininity might mean, it would seem sensible to introduce some further data from the appropriate time period to ensure our reading is as sensitive as possible.

Using the feminine – the Christian context Rationale As I observed previously, the relative scarcity of sources pertaining to the activities of, and attitudes to Greek women in the Roman Empire makes the rich store of material gathered about women in the Christian community an attractive ‘control’.

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This is not, of course, to advocate any exact and direct equation between the two groups, and yet the comparability of roles and values might stand as a clear corrective to those who uphold the fallacy of apartheid between Christian and pagan social assumptions. ‘Christian’ like ‘Greek’ or ‘Victorian’ is a dangerous term to invoke, capable at a stroke of reducing the heterogeneity of the first few centuries CE to an easily digestible set of platitudes and generalisations. Again, I wish to make my objectives clear: this section cannot function as a full account of the female experience within Christianity in antiquity. Instead, I hope to tread my way carefully through the diversity of Christian experience, to recover material complementary to our study of the pagan milieu. Focusing on issues such as female negotiations with power, male unease with this power, and the use of femininity within Christian texts I intend to open up further avenues of thought with regard to our reading of ‘woman’ within the novels. Power and authority The search for evidence of women holding positions of authority in the early church has of recent years often functioned as an exercise in the legitimisation of such claims as those for the ordination of women priests (Cameron 1994: 153).28 However, instead of looking for some sort of unity, perhaps it is more illuminating to be prepared to recognise difference. Just as the participation of the élite woman in public affairs was limited and contained through the operation of a particular value system, so the assumption by Christian women of certain prominent roles was conditioned by the peculiarities of the individual social context. Various patterns thus start to emerge when considering the topos of female power, such as its close association in heterodox communities with the complete abandonment of normal social structures and the adoption of celibacy. The delicate negotiations which often take place on the much contested borderline between public and private in the orthodox community may also provide an important insight into the operation of female power in the novels. In those early Christian communities whose doctrinal orientation could be considered the most antithetical to normative social structures, the presence of women in the Jesus movement is beyond dispute. However, even here, at the very beginnings of Christianity it is difficult to be sure that we can recover the exact role of women within that movement, untainted by the views of later redactors, or by our own assumptions regarding the value of various female roles. We are told in Luke 8: 3 that in addition to the twelve who travelled with Jesus, there was also Mary Magdalene, Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, Susanna, ‘and many others, who ministered (GLKNÒQRXQ) to him from their own property’. Reactions to this brief reference to a female presence have been diverse. Witherington appears to be implicitly placing the Jesus movement within the confines of patriarchal society, when he sees the women’s role as the primarily traditional one of domestic activity:

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Being Jesus’ disciples did not lead the women to abandon their traditional roles in regard to preparing food, serving etc. Rather, it gave these roles new significance and importance for now they could be used to serve the family of faith. (Witherington 1990: 112) Heine (1987: 60–1), in contrast, dismisses the notion that the ‘looking after’ could have involved cooking and washing, with the implicit dismissal of such activity as of little importance. Instead, she wishes to place these women in the category of patroness, a role not of course without precedent in Greco–Roman society. Perhaps we need to bring our modern value system sharply into focus here, and recognise that we would be disappointed to find only a role which modern developed societies are increasingly coming to regard as a poor second best. Witherington’s view (one not incompatible with the workings of modern anthropology) has the merit of recognising the different value a task may be given in particular circumstances, by a society in many respects vastly different from our own. However, there appears to be resistance to the idea, conditioned by our knowledge of the restrictions apparently placed on women’s activities by patriarchal society, that women’s following of Jesus could have meant the same as the following by men. Munro, although not acknowledging his own preconceptions about the relative value accorded to various types of work, rightly focuses upon the exact wording of the texts which relate to women’s following of Jesus. He points to the significance of the wording in the similar passage of Mark 15: 41, where the group of women watching Jesus on the cross are described as those who: ‘followed him and looked after him’. He notes (1982: 232): ‘ It seems unlikely that the following and serving of the women would be so pointedly related to Jesus unless it involved something more than the performance of menial tasks.’29 If women do follow Jesus in the same way as men, then we must not be blind to the historical uniqueness of the context in which they apparently achieved parity with them (Munro 1982: 232; Heine 1987: 61). Both Sawyer (1996: 95) and Witherington (1990: 48) recognise that the encouragement of such behaviour must be placed within the context of the belief in the imminence of God’s kingdom. The heterodox sects such as Marcionism30 and Montanism which flourished in the second and third centuries, and which appeared to bestow upon women a remarkable amount of authority, are also best understood against a backdrop of rejection of conventional values. So, connected with the emphasis on gifts of the spirit, and the willingness to embrace martyrdom as one’s spiritual destiny, we also encounter the almost equally asocial high estimation of virginity (Lane Fox 1986: 372). Both these sects let women teach, exorcise and hold office, on the authority of Paul’s pronouncement in Galatians 3: 28.31 Klawiter has explored the possibility of a direct connection in Montanism between the value the sect placed on martyrdom and its willingness to accord women ministerial status. The sect, also known as the New Prophecy, originated in Phrygia in around 165–70 CE. Its central beliefs were the importance of prophecy, the hope

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of the imminent end of the world and the duty of Christians to confess the name publicly. Since martyrs awaiting death were thought to possess the power of the keys to forgive the sins of those who had denied the faith and since this power was traditionally only in the hands of the bishop presbyter, Klawiter (1980: 254) claims that: ‘anyone who exercised such power was thereby demonstrating a ministerial power’. Klawiter is interested in the type of power exhibited rather than whether women were actually ordained to high positions as Epiphanios thought. Kraemer (1992: 173), in her examination of the origins of the movement, defines the power of the founders Montanus, Priscilla and Maximilla as prophetic and charismatic: ‘derived from their prophetic experiences and from the communal acceptance of their utterances as divinely inspired’. She goes on to doubt whether we can ascribe to this sect the same hierarchical offices found in the orthodox community, because of its very nature. Recent scholarship has tentatively placed Perpetua in the tradition of the New Prophecy (Klawiter 1980: 257; Brown 1988: 76; Kraemer 1992: 161). Since the diary account of the martyrdom of Perpetua, the Carthaginian matron and her slave Felicity appears to confirm the centrality of prophetic vision found in the New Prophecy, and the prominence of women (Kraemer 1992: 161), it would seem appropriate to examine this account for the ways in which female power is manifested. Perpetua does assume a leadership role in prison and in the events leading up to her death in the amphitheatre. This is in spite of the fact that she is only newly baptised as a Christian, there are men present among the band of prisoners, and she does not hold a formal office. On one occasion she persuades the prison officer not to maltreat the Christian prisoners (16.2) and on another she objects when the Christian women are forced to dress as priestesses of the goddess Ceres (18.4). Throughout the ordeal she acts with dignity and bravery. Others turn to her for spiritual comfort, believing that if she asks for a vision she will be granted one. As Salisbury (1997: 66) states: ‘Her qualifications for leadership were certainly her dreams and visions, which were believed to be prophetic.’ The significance of her visions will be dealt with at greater length in a later section, but one important observation which can be drawn now is that she appears to possess the power of the keys discussed by Klawiter, since her prayers about her dead brother Dinokrates are answered. In her first vision of him he appears dirty, with the mark of the cancer that killed him still upon his face, and unable to drink from a bowl of water perpetually out of his reach. In a later vision he is healed and refreshed and drinks a never ending stream of water from a golden bowl. Perpetua may not hold a recognised religious office, but her power is obvious. A second interesting observation that may be made in connection with the martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicity is their shedding of sexuality and social roles. Perpetua hands over her infant son to the care of her father, and in answer to her prayers the child feels no more need for her milk, and she experiences no more discomfort in her breasts. Felicity too prays that she might be delivered from the burden of her pregnancy in time to be martyred with the others, and her prayers are

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again answered. Kraemer (1992: 169) claims that the stories of Perpetua, Felicity, Maximilla and Priscilla ‘reinforce our impression that autonomy for women is closely linked in early Christianity with separation from men, usually accomplished through sexual chastity’. Although we must also bear in mind the fact that the Christian wife would not be without her own informal power, celibacy could certainly offer the believing woman an unusual amount of autonomy (Parvey 1974: 135; MacHaffie 1986: 20). Alexandre summarises her increased opportunities as follows: The ascetic life promised liberation from the solitude and constraints of marital and family life; it promised autonomy as well as greater spiritual, intellectual and emotional intensity; it offered possibilities of male friendship and foreign travel; it could bring fame and contacts in the secular world. (Alexandre 1992: 415) Even in the orthodox communities increased power was linked to chastity, as seen in the establishment of orders of virgins and widows, who though not ordained were accorded a more privileged place in the church organisation than the general congregation. The denial to widows of the right to teach and baptise32 suggests that they could use the respect gained through their age and devotion to prayer to usurp the responsibilities of male clerics. However, I would urge a note of caution when considering the connection between celibacy and autonomy. The greatest amount of autonomy must still have been the preserve of the independently wealthy. Other women wishing to choose the celibate lifestyle would have had to secure the support of the church or a wealthy patroness, and live within the restrictions imposed upon them (Clark 1993: 102). Moving in ideological terms from the periphery to the centre, we discover, in the accounts of the Pauline churches, how the reconciliation of an essentially radical faith with the reality of living within a larger pagan milieu could cause overt female participation to be conceptualised differently (Meeks 1983). At first sight then the equality apparently evident in the manner in which Paul mentions his female coworkers is surprising. Again, a focus on the activities of named women is important, although as before their exact role remains contentious, and the complex interplay between ‘public’ and ‘private’ should remain at the forefront of our discussion. The husband and wife team of Priscilla and Aquila, mentioned in Romans 16: 3–4 appear to have had a high profile in the Christian community. Both are described as: ‘my fellow workers (VXQHUJRÚM) in Jesus Christ’. Paul acknowledges that both have risked their necks for him, and it is also notable that in most manuscript traditions Priscilla is placed first, before her husband. It is difficult to ascribe exact functions to a phrase such as fellow worker, but it does seem to imply the same kind of missionary activity as Paul himself was engaged in. The same inexactitude is evident in Paul’s Letter to Philemon 1: 1–2, which he addresses to three named individuals in connection with the house church: ‘to our beloved Philemon, our fellow worker, and to Apphia,

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our beloved, and to Archippus our fellow soldier, and to the congregation in your house’. Cotter (1994: 351), rightly to my mind, dismisses the idea that Apphia is Philemon’s wife, because of the lack of complementary epithets and recognises that her listing, as with the reference to Archippus ‘would seem to function as a salutation to the main leaders of that otherwise faceless assembly’. In Philippians 4: 2–3 there is further evidence for women holding a privileged place in the Christian community as Euodia and Syntyche, who ‘earnestly cooperated’ with Paul in ‘the glad tidings’ are exhorted ‘to be of the same mind in the Lord’. For a personal quarrel to merit an explicit exhortation to reconciliation must mean that their ‘authority was so great that their dissension would do serious damage to the community’ (MacHaffie 1986: 25). There seems little doubt that these women were missionaries of some sort (Heine 1987: 87; Cotter 1994: 353), although MacDonald (1996: 36) is unwilling to see this ministry as taking place in the public domain. Before we explore the implications of labelling a ministry ‘private’ or ‘public’ for our evaluation of female power, we should also consider the implications of labelling an individual with a particular function. In Romans 16: 1–2 Paul asks the congregation to receive Phoebe, deacon (GL£NRQRM) of the church at Cenchrea, kindly, ‘For she has been a patroness/assistant (SURVW£WLM) of many, and especially of me.’ In answer to those scholars who wish to interpret Phoebe’s role as deacon in terms of what we know of the restricted role of ‘deaconess’ in the third century and later Heine (1987: 88) rightly observes that the terminology employed is the masculine ‘deacon’, from which we could probably reasonably infer that there was no distinction between the duties of a male and female deacon at this date (see also Alexandre 1992: 423). The word SURVW£WLM has proved equally problematical for interpretative purposes. Cotter (1994: 354) stresses the connotations of benefactress,33 yet MacHaffie (1986: 26), Kraemer (1992: 182) and Heine (1987: 89) placing its usage within the context of other first century literature favour ‘community leader’ or ‘president’, a word connoting great prestige in the community. The problems scholars encounter when attempting to define female roles in the early church are often due to the seeming vagueness of the terminology: ‘president/benefactress’, ‘beloved’, ‘sister’, in comparison to the more neatly defined offices of the later church. Perhaps the point is that women may exercise power more easily outside a hierarchical (and implicitly patriarchal) structure of officially designated roles. In his examination of those passages in the New Testament which list types of functions within the Pauline churches34 Meeks (1983: 135) identifies a common conception ‘of the principal roles in the local communities as gifts (charismata), by God, Christ, the Spirit’. Women are not excluded from these gifts: in 1 Corinthians 11: 5 Paul forbids women from praying and prophesying with their heads uncovered, but the praying and prophesying appear to be taken for granted. Heine (1987: 89) provides a good summary of the variety of functions exercised by women in the early church: ‘They worked as apostles, deacons, community leaders, teachers and prophets. They travelled as missionaries and did charitable work, they preached … gathered the believers together and sewed clothes for women.’ Most of these functions

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were curtailed as the church underwent organisational change in the second century.35 It is interesting to note that some of these functions, for example, charitable work, are extensions of traditional female roles. Even when these functions do not conform to this pattern, we must remember that the domestic setting of the house church might have considerable influence on how a woman’s power within that sphere was perceived. As Kraemer states: With the location of early Christian churches within private households and with the use of sibling terminology, early Christian communities seem to have brought the public into the domestic sphere, and in the process to have further supported women’s activity. (Kraemer 1992: 142) MacDonald (1996: 30) too sees the possibilities for women’s leadership being increased by the domestic setting, with Cotter (1994: 371) making the valid point that what was in fact countercultural could, by virtue of its setting, be veiled as culturally acceptable, conventional behaviour. She is also right to point out the civic connotations of the word ‘ekklesia’ used to describe the house church, suggesting that the roles of the women leaders were in some senses understood to be political and civic (Cotter 1994: 370).36 MacDonald, using the findings of cultural anthropology, warns against positing a static and clear distinction between public and private realms and against relying too heavily on modern value systems which would also assign primacy to the public sphere. She states: … we must recognise that the dichotomy of private and public is a static concept: it may conceal the dynamic movement and interaction between realms which occurs in real societies. A primary association with one domain does not preclude involvement and influence in the other, We should think about how women act at the crossroads between private and public. (MacDonald 1996: 38) Thus Phoebe, identified by Alexandre (1992: 423) as an ‘itinerant missionary’ would appear to be exercising a countercultural role in the public arena. However, even if her journey was a regular occurrence, and not a one-off experience, her travels from house church to house church, from one domestic setting to another, place her on the boundary between private and public. This study of women in positions of authority in the church over the first three centuries CE, has demonstrated that in particular circumstances women could indeed exercise an amount of power unusual in the context of Greco–Roman society. However, the exercise of such power was certainly not consistent, and cannot justly be ascribed to a blanket improvement in the belief in female worth and capabilities. Instead the particular conditions in which power could be exercised convert to a template which will usefully inform our reading of power structures within the novel.

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So, overt manifestations of female authority are explicitly linked to the exact extent to which a particular group intends to conform, in general, to societal values. Female authority is also best exercised outside a rigidly hierarchical power structure without clearly defined offices, and causes least offence when visualised as an extension of traditional female roles. Just as we have seen with the behaviour of élite woman we can visualise a masking of potentially disturbing behaviour with the semi-transparent veil of feminine virtue. Although the manipulation of feminine values and behaviour within the Christian and pagan sign systems might actually have borne a remarkable similarity, the visibility of some ‘powerful’ Christian women could possibly have influenced the behaviour and aspirations of women outside the congregation. This might even have been a factor affecting the decision of some women to join the Christian community. So Heine (1987: 93) claims: ‘If the independence of women was not undisputed, indeed precisely because it was not, for a Lydia, Prisca or Phoebe the Christian community could become a homeland which did not require them to give up anything that they were.’ However, we must be careful not to ascribe to women of the first and second centuries the motivations which would appear more at home amongst adherents of the early women’s liberation movement. We must also surely focus upon the fact that much of the power that women possessed was informal and exercised on the boundaries between public and private, and to ignore the eschatological dimension is to deny the particular historical context the primacy it deserves (Witherington 1990: 248; Sawyer 1996: 67). Anxiety with female power – the shaping of the text Although the preceding section has touched upon the way in which the Christian movement, influenced by pagan society, could seek to limit and curtail opportunities for the exercise of female power, my focus now lies on the evidence in almost every orthodox text of male unease with female authority. Our first example of unease with the idea of female full participation in the Jesus movement occurs as early as the Gospels. In the Gospel of Mark the women are present both at the passion (Mark 15: 40–16: 8) and at the empty tomb (16: 1–11). The tradition that Mark uses must mention them,37 but it is telling that he introduces them into the narrative as late as possible (Munro 1982: 236). It also seems significant that three out of the four healings that involve women take place within the home, and the only outside healing, that of the menstruant, is not of Jesus’ choice.38 The Gospel of Luke too, although containing many stories about, and directed at women, suggesting that they might well have formed a large proportion of his primary intended audience, shows a concern with them conforming to conventional roles. Thus D’Angelo (1990: 452) points out ‘Women speak in the Gospel only to be corrected by Jesus.’ Examples include Martha (10: 41–2), the woman who blesses Jesus’ mother (11: 27–8) and the women on the road to Jerusalem (28: 28). The women who meet with Jesus’ total approval are silent.39 D’Angelo (1990: 443)

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believes that the behaviour of Christian women would be an important indicator in how the community as a whole would be perceived by outsiders, thus: ‘the Gospel offers to its women readers a wide variety of female role models who are the means at once of edification and control’. The figure of Mary, especially as depicted in John, shows a concern with her presentation as an authority figure. The growing worship of Mary as a cult figure did not gather momentum until the fourth century, and yet the Gospel of John, in its present form, dating from the first half of the second century, seems concerned to curtail the growing veneration of her as an individual. Naming again becomes important as an indication of power and respect. John never refers to Mary by her own name, but generally by a phrase such as ‘the mother of Jesus’. As Witherington (1990: 89) is surely right to observe: ‘This phrase is an honourable title for a woman who has borne a son; however, it implies no veneration of Mary’s person, but focuses on her role.’ At the wedding at Cana in John 2: 1–2 Jesus addresses her as ‘woman’, in a manner which seems to suggest that he is trying to distance himself from her and her parental authority. This is borne out by his treatment of his mother while on the cross as he entrusts her to the care of the ‘beloved disciple’, telling her to behold her new son (19: 26). Buck put forward the following interpretation: In giving her a new son, John would exclude the Mother from participating in the work of Christ. The act of redemption must be that of Jesus alone; there is no place for another. In a sense John says that Jesus is no longer his mother’s son; he is wholly the son of the Father. (Buck 1972: 176) The fact that the Christian response to female power could be contradictory and complex is nowhere demonstrated more clearly than in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. Those wishing to find evidence of women praying and prophesying will find it here (1 Cor. 11: 5) as will those who seek a proclamation on the equal obligations of husband and wife in marriage (1 Cor. 7: 3–4). However, this is also where we will find the repressive and the conformist: Let your wives be silent in the congregation, for they are not permitted to chatter, but let them be submissive, according to the law. If they wish to learn something, let them ask their own husbands at home, for it is shameful for women to chatter in the congregation. (1 Cor. 14: 34–5) This passage has provoked much scholarly debate. For some the provenance is so doubtful that these verses must be rejected when discussing reaction to women in the first century (Kraemer 1992: 149). Others have emphasised Paul’s Jewish upbringing which, in their view, continues to condition his thoughts on appropriate behaviour for women even as he recognises their eschatological equality (Parvey 1974: 127). It does seem difficult to reconcile these seemingly harsh and repressive comments with

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the casual way that Paul addresses his female co-workers. If we are to entertain the possibility that these verses do contain the apostle’s own sentiments, perhaps they should be taken in conjunction with his apparent concern over the veiling of women in 1 Cor. 11: 2–16, and perhaps thought of as a response to a particular situation arising in the Corinthian community. Even here, different suggestions have been offered in explanation of the exact focus of Paul’s anxiety. The most coherent arguments emphasise his concern to keep the symbolic difference between the sexes (O’Connor 1980: 489; Meeks 1983: 161), and his sensitivity to the visibility of Christian ritual (MacDonald 1996: 145), activities which take place on the boundary between public and private. Tension over conferring authority to women, or being seen to do so is also evident in Paul’s omission of women from the resurrection tradition in 1 Cor. 15: 6–8. Kraemer (1992: 130) sees this passage as being concerned with the legitimisation of authority and therefore: ‘The absence of Mary of Magdala from the list of those who saw the risen Jesus would constitute early evidence of the attempt to exclude women from claims to the authority that such appearances confer.’ Brown (1988: 54) also sees Paul’s insistence on not ruling out marriage as part of his sensitivity to pagan sensibilities and his concern to render the Christian community attractive in the eyes of potential pagan converts. If ambiguity over the proper role of women was starting to become manifest in the writings of Paul, the so-called Pastoral Epistles written around 80–125 CE and attributed to him, show an attitude which had hardened in favour of a traditional and submissive role. Thus 1 Timothy 2: 11–12 takes away a woman’s authority to teach and verse 15 explicitly relates her redemption to childbearing. 1 Timothy 5: 3–17 is concerned with the conduct of those widows supported by the church, and seems especially anxious that they should not often leave the confines of the house. Verse 13 states: ‘At the same time they learn to be idlers, gadding about the houses; and not only idlers, but chatterers and busybodies, gossiping about things they should not.’ The Pastoral Epistles appear to represent an attempt to ‘impose upon the Christian communities the patriarchal standards of the ancient world’ (MacHaffie 1986: 26). Bremmer (1995: 35), focusing on 1 Timothy, posits a possible adverse reaction to the power wielded by wealthy patronesses, while Parvey (1974: 136) sees this repressive attitude as being closely linked to orthodox opposition to the Montanist sect, as well as to the realisation that the end times were not soon to come. A fictional representation of a strong woman abandoning her social role in the name of religion might also provoke such a moral backlash that further representations appear shaped with conformity in mind. The Acta Pauli et Theclae portray a woman who abandons an arranged marriage and her assigned social role in order to spread the word of God. Tertullian, in his pre-Montanist phase, could complain that the fiction should not dare to show a woman baptising others (De Baptismo 17, 4–5 sc 35). Aspegren (1990: 129) also wonders whether anxiety at this countercultural behaviour could have had an effect on the way women were portrayed in the other Apocryphal Acts, for example, the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena. Even when granted a vision, the heroine Xanthippe does not dare to break out of her social

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role as submissive wife: ‘Xanthippe’s vision proves that it is indeed Christ who speaks in her, but this does not lead to any greater audacity on her part nor to any intention to preach the Christian message’ (Aspegren 1990: 131). The texts speak of a great diversity in attitude and practice throughout our time period, yet it appears that the orthodox line was hardening to a degree that denied women all but the most traditional and unthreatening roles within the church structure. Of course, this is not to say that this line was always followed, hence the continuing prohibitions on certain types of activity, such as teaching and baptising. Thus widows are advised and then ordered not to perform baptisms (Didascalia III 9, 1-3 and Apostolic Constitutions III 9, 1–4) and the role of deaconess, by the third century had lost many of its early functions and had evolved into a role that was merely an extension of traditional womanly activities (MacHaffie 1986: 30). This shaping of texts to erase prominent females and minimise intimations of the possession of formal power will alert us to the possible manipulation of this theme in the novel. However, this tendency is not static, for alongside the continued discomfiture with female authority stands an equally persistent willingness to use femininity in certain texts to better express religious beliefs. Using the feminine in early Christianity Just as in Classical drama we were capable of visualising gender polarities as a convenient organising principle through which other issues could be expressed, so too should we be prepared to examine the use of gender in a religious context (Cameron 1994: 153; Bynum 1986: 2). A strong female protagonist in the Christian tradition, just as in the Classical canon, often defies a simple reading. The direct equation between a prominent heroine and a strong female interest that we have already glimpsed as an interpretative strategy often applied to the novel must therefore be treated with some caution.40 Certain texts such as the Acta Pauli et Theclae may indeed exhibit narrative patterns like a continued interest in female solidarity, which are lacking from the novel and, may at first sight appear to support this hypothesis.41 However, other narrative elements such as Thecla’s virginity and her dressing as a man, could be invested with a significance that transcends gender boundaries. The polysemic quality of gender may be illustrated with reference to a range of early Christian texts, and is as evident, I would argue, in the complicated narrative of Thecla, as it is in the condensed imagery of a Syriac Ode. However, before I commence my survey of the ways in which women might ‘mean’ I need to establish a conceptual starting point, and determine those values and qualities that cluster around the signifer ‘woman’. In our brief treatment of the place of ‘woman’ within Classical discourse we established the importance of the woman–home equation within the conceptual dynamic. In this related though distinct conceptual universe we initially need to locate the place of woman within the complex theological equation of flesh, spirit and salvation.

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One of the most problematic texts for the Church Fathers’ understanding of where women were to be placed in God’s plan of salvation is Genesis 1: 27 which stated that God created man, both male and female, in his own image. Since it was unacceptable to think of God in bodily terms ‘image’ had to be redefined. In Greek thought spiritual reality was unitary or monistic. As Ruether (1974: 153-4) explains: ‘This could be stated by identifying maleness with monism, making femaleness secondary, or else by a nonsexual monism, but not by a true androgyny.’ Augustine’s writings exemplify the first line of thought. Adam is compound, containing the spirit of man and the corporeal nature of woman. When Eve is taken from his side she comes to symbolise this corporeal nature. However, to be capable of salvation woman must possess a rational nature and must be also seen as a compound of spirit and body, ‘Yet in relation to man she stands for body vis à vis male spirit’ (Ruether 1974: 156).42 The virgin and the monk were redeemed ‘from the duality of bodiliness to return to the monism of the heavenly world’ (Ruether 1974: 154). It is possible to see, however, how a woman who had remained virgin could become a more powerful image of salvation, since woman’s association with sexuality makes her achievement of a higher spiritual state all the more remarkable.43 The use of the female image in early Christian literature is complex and a detailed study of all the possible permutations and meanings is of course beyond the scope of our present discussion. For now I am choosing to focus on one aspect of symbolism pertinent to our present study, the maintenance or subversion of social and biological roles. In Clement of Alexandria’s Paidagogus III 49.3 we find a startling image of the reversal of biological roles in the picture of God’s relationship to man as Christ is pictured as the one who gave birth to man, nourishing him with his own milk. Motherhood is appropriated as the most powerful image of nurturing and connection, and yet Mary, the mother of Jesus, can be eulogised in the second century Judaeo–Christian Odes of Solomon in a way that emphasises her virginity and transcendence of normal sexuality. In 19 10 a, it states that Mary, in Lagrand’s (1980) translation ‘brought forth as a man, by will’. The Holy Spirit is envisaged as female, and Mary’s virginity is associated with maleness. Corrington (1989: 410) explains that ‘The Virgin Mother is thus a different model of salvation for women. By yielding her female will, Mary as a virgin, both escapes the domination of the human will and becomes the cause of salvation.’ This imagery not only emphasises ‘the discontinuity between Jesus’ origins and the natural order’, but also the discontinuity between normal biological function and salvation (Lagrand 1980: 104). Two other images emerge in this context to describe the church’s relationship to God, that of woman as bride and that of woman as virgin or male. In some respects this division reflects the early church’s divided attitude to social conformity, and its resultant emphasis on this world or the next. Both Brown (1988: 16–17) and Meeks (1974: 149) have recognised that in the Later Empire the image of the married couple could stand as ‘a reassuring microcosm of the social order’. Thus, the exhortation to the Ephesians:

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So, in this way husbands ought to love their wives, as they love their own bodies. He who loves his wife, loves himself, for no-one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, even as Christ does the congregation. (Ephesians 5: 28–9) This emphasises reintegration, conformity and stability. In contrast perpetual virginity could be desocialising. Perkins (1994: 303), following Brown (1988: 64) states: ‘By ending sexual congress Christians displayed their hopes for ending contemporary society.’ The chastity of a group of women within the community could come to stand for the sanctity of the community as a whole. MacDonald (1996: 180) claims that: ‘The woman whose chastity was beyond question to such an extent that she neither married nor remarried came to symbolise the boundaries that separated the whole community from the outside world’ (see also Clark 1998: 107 and MacDonald 1996: 181). Perpetua’s dream of her forthcoming ordeal in the arena is also important in this context. Instead of being thrown to the beasts she is ordered to fight a gigantic Egyptian. She is stripped and finds herself to be male. As Salisbury observes: … the most compelling part of this image is its signalling of transformation. If one is looking for a metaphor of personal change, one cannot do better than a transformation of one’s gender, which is at the heart of one’s self-identity. (Salisbury 1997: 109) It signifies her dramatic change from catechumen to baptised Christian; the attainment of spiritual perfection. Of course, if Perpetua was indeed part of the New Prophecy, there would have been less connection between maleness and spirituality, and perhaps the important point is the abandonment of all gendered preconceptions of correct behaviour. MacHaffie (1986: 36) rightly observes that Perpetua also appears as the peaceful daughter given the branch of victory: ‘Perpetua represents the Christian who is freed from society’s expectations of women and men.’ Aspegren offers the following explanation: … when the sensations (the female trait in man) are under the influence and dominance of spirit and reason (the male principle), the male and female can be harmoniously united in one and the same individual. This complicated personality represents all mankind, just as Adam and Eve are together a symbol of all mankind. (Aspegren 1990: 139) Transformation will signal salvation, but it is the ‘fleshly’ female becoming male which will hold the most power and fascination as an image.44 The novels too appear to utilise the chastity of the heroines as a way of indicating the status and hopes of continued stability of their readership. These heroines also

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exhibit some male traits, but never go so far as to usurp the male role completely. Rather their ability to exercise power in social situations, instead of symbolising a hope for the ending of the social order, seems to signify a subtle re-ordering of priorities; the privileging of the personal over the social.

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3 HEROINES

Negotiating the theoretical minefield It should now be clear, from the methodological outlines given in preceding chapters, that I do not feel that approaches focusing entirely either on the question of readership, or on the issue of improved status can on their own form a coherent explanation for the patterns of femininity found in the texts. It is not my intention, however, to disregard all those insights into generic gender patterning which have, in the past been generated by such theories. Instead, in addition to providing a brief overview of previous scholarship in this area, I deem it appropriate at this point to demonstrate the extent to which elements of these and other associated approaches can aid us in our present investigation. While it has become a commonplace of recent scholarship on the novel to note the exceptional strength and prominence of the heroines, approaches to this topic have varied widely. Much of the work may be separated out into several main strands. A purely socio-historic approach seeks an answer in the ‘context’, and holds that the heroines’ representation must be in some way mimetic of the improved status of women in the first few centuries CE. Wiersma (1990) has sought to establish that the female protagonists actually do operate within the bounds of socially acceptable behaviour,1 while Johne (1989) cites philosophy as evidence for changing attitudes to women, and also provides us with a helpful list of influential female figures of the period. While these arguments are helpful, and seek to remind us that literature does not exist in a vacuum, this approach also holds the danger of forgetting how these texts function as works of fiction. In contrast, an approach like that of Pernot (1992) is far more alive to the possibility of the influence of earlier literary forms, and with his suggestion that the character of Charikleia may best be read as a literary conceit, he raises a timely warning hand to those who wish to treat the genre as some form of straightforward social documentation. At this point the fray is joined by proponents of the ‘female readership’ hypothesis. Often taking as their starting point the vexed question of ‘improved status’ as allied to increased levels of literacy, the centrality of the heroine and her superiority to the hero is offered up as a point of possible identification for a primarily female readership (Sandy 1982: 61; Hägg 1983: 95–6; Johne 1987: 24, 1989: 158, 44

HEROINES

1996: 204, 207; Holzberg 1995: 35; Fusillo 1996: 304). Such a view may now seem a little simplistic in light of more recent work on reader identification undertaken by Winkler (1990), Elsom (1992), Montague (1992) and Egger (1994). Their readings (usually taking as their focus one particular heroine) have provided a vital insight into the way these artistic creations may work on different levels, emphasising that the dominant reading is by no means the only one. The possibility of female identification is allowed to remain as one possible reading option, while the foregrounding of tensions and ambiguities within the texts also offers the potential vision of the feminine functioning as somehow emblematic of the concerns of the dominant social group. We now encounter the argument of ‘deeper significance’. This has been taken to its extreme by Merkelbach (1962: 337), whose Mysterientexte theory denied the genre its status as literature by identifying the characters as [my translation] ‘merely figures in a holy drama’.2 Establishing, as Doody (1996) has done, however, that the association of the feminine with the divine is important to our understanding of the genre as a whole, is of course different from demanding a direct equation between the heroines and any particular goddess. Of course, it is not only advocates of the Mysterientexte theory who claim a deeper significance for the strong female characters. Dowden (1996) has argued that we must not underestimate the ‘serious intentions’ of an author such as Heliodoros, going on to demonstrate how a character such as Charikleia may function as part of a neo-Platonic allegory. In the secular sphere Konstan (1994) wishes to see the narrative equivalence of the protagonists’ roles as a condensed expression of an individual’s new possibilities of self-definition within a large international Empire. The sheer diversity of such approaches may at once seem perplexing and daunting, and any attempt to reconcile the different strands fraught with danger. Again, I am drawn back to my earlier observation that the dominant reading should not be prescriptive. Earlier scholars (such as Rohde), by designating the novels ‘women’s literature’, may have sought to consign the genre to the literary scrap-heap, and yet, ironically, modern gender-based studies, with their emphasis on the tensions and ambiguities within the texts, have helped to establish at least some of the novels as works of some literary sophistication, capable of sustaining different readings. My own method entails some necessarily delicate negotiations with many of the aforementioned theories. Earlier readings of the heroines’ portrayal informed by the insights of feminism or gender-studies have alerted me to the issues of speech and space, violence, gaze and objectification, as well as the manipulation of the theme of chastity, and the stability of identity. I have chosen to deal with each heroine separately at first, in the hope that the nuances in presentation can be made to stand forth as clearly as the obvious continuities. I intend my readings to be in sympathy with the heroines as literary product, and hope to be sensitive to the way that literary allusion and appeal to the shared intertext, and knowledge of the generic conventions come to play an important part in their representation. I am particularly interested in establishing the exact nature of the heroines’ strength, and the extent to which they actually usurp male prerogatives. To this end I have found it useful to compare

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their behaviour to that of the heroines of the novelistic fragments and the Victorian novel. An approach informed by the insights of anthropological theory may also help to define general narrative patterns, deviations from which can help to highlight socio-historical specificity. A focus on ideology provides a useful method of analysing apparently contradictory depictions of femininity within each text, and leads on to a consideration of the functioning of femininity as a sign within a larger discourse of self-definition.

Kallirhoe Her story? Even within a genre that appears to place unusual emphasis upon its female characters Chariton goes to some trouble to explicitly frame the novel as the heroine’s story. At the very beginning of the narrative it is Kallirhoe who is mentioned first (1.1), her situating as the daughter of the historical figure Hermokrates serving to elevate her status and establish her as a figure of some consequence. This focus is made even more explicit in the final line (8.8): ‘This is what I have written about Kallirhoe.’3 As Johne (1989: 165) states [my translation]: ‘The heroine determines the course of events in the novel, which is why it is named after her alone.’ There may be occasions in the novel when Chariton appears to focus upon his hero, as at 3.2 where he delineates his reaction to the discovery of the empty tomb, but Kallirhoe consistently remains the driving narrative force behind almost every event. In 4.2, for example, tension mounts as Chaireas and the ever faithful Polycharmos are threatened with crucifixion. Chaireas, rendered almost completely passive by the force of his emotions, is not allowed to dominate reader attention for very long before Polycharmos’ mention of Kallirhoe’s name brings an abrupt change in their fortunes. It surely must be significant that Chaireas is the only novelistic hero whose own chastity is not threatened: the emotional interest must not be allowed to waver from the heroine even for an instant. Of course, establishing that the narrative focuses upon the heroine still leaves open the question of female subjectivity.4 The contradictions and ambiguities inherent in this particular text render a thorough examination of this issue especially difficult. The spotlight may indeed fall on Kallirhoe, but the camera angles are constantly shifting. These conflicting textual cues will form the basis for my subsequent investigation of the issues of gaze, identity, the coding of physical and social space and the representation of the manipulation of chastity. However, an example of how the narrative may leave open the question of female empowerment can be found even at the most basic level of plot development. The force of Kallirhoe’s beauty is such that all men wish to possess her, yet this attraction is something the heroine neither wishes for nor is able to control. Not even informed of the identity of her first husband until the wedding itself (1.1), Kallirhoe moves from tomb to villa to palace at the whim of the powerful men who desire her. Sold by tomb robbers to the rich Dionysios Kallirhoe herself recognises that she has become an object (1.14): ‘I have

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been handed over like a piece of furniture (VNHàRM)5 to I know not whom.’ However, the fact that the heroine herself articulates these sentiments simultaneously gives them emphasis and renders them problematic. The reader is invited to view an object who at once asserts her own subjectivity through her keen awareness of events. Private fantasy, public image If Kallirhoe’s beauty renders her an object of desire within the narrative, it simultaneously situates her as an object of the reader’s gaze (Elsom 1992: 213; Egger 1994: 37). Kallirhoe is constantly being looked at, and the reaction of these internal audiences must surely constitute a set of narrative cues which guide the reader into viewing the heroine in a particular way. However, these cues appear to send conflicting messages, at one level elevating her as spectacle for the wondering masses,6 and on another framing her as suitable material for private fantasy and contemplation. The bath scene in 2.2 provides the most striking example of the heroine as sexual fantasy, but even here there is some attempt to retain a light veiling of modesty. Kallirhoe is viewed through the admiring glances of the maidservants sent to wash her; offered up to the gaze of the reader through the gauze of respectability. Tellingly, there is a distinct lack of anatomical detail in the description: Chariton is not dealing in pornography: ‘Her skin shone white, sparkling like some shimmering surface, but her flesh was so delicate that you were afraid that the touch of a finger would cause a serious wound.’ The mention of wounding perhaps draws attention to the penetrative nature of looking, but this sign-posting does not necessarily mean a complicity with the patriarchal economy: the revelation of Kallirhoe’s fragility could just as well function as a reaction against such values.7 Set against such scenes of private contemplation8 are those far more frequent occasions where Kallirhoe acts as spectacle for a large civic audience.9 Examples include her appearance at the public feast of Aphrodite (1.1), her wedding to Dionysios in Miletus (3.2), the funeral procession for the missing Chaireas (4.1), the journey to Babylon (4.7), the beauty contest with Rhodogune (5.3), and her spectacular return to Syracuse (8.6). Again, there is a distinct lack of descriptive detail: what the author has chosen to emphasise is not her corporeality, but the very impact of her beauty. As the crowd follow her from Aphrodite’s shrine in 2.3 Chariton provides the reader with some vivid images of empowerment: ‘Then you could see that royalty is inborn, just like the Queen bee in a swarm, for everyone followed her spontaneously, as if she had been elected their mistress on account of her beauty.’ These images of royalty and mastery are rendered even more striking by being embedded in a part of the narrative which lays great emphasis upon her change in status. In this particular fictional reality beauty is the birthright of the noble.10 Public reaction to the heroine’s appearance is also depicted in such a manner as to question the intrusive power of the gaze of the onlooker: Kallirhoe’s beauty possesses

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a physical force of its own. For example, the satrap Mithridates is rendered powerless before her (4.1): ‘He fell down speechless, like a man hit unexpectedly by a slingshot.’ Mithridates’ reaction may perhaps best be coded as sexual attraction, but the blinding power of her beauty can affect even a large crowd of both sexes, as is the case at Babylon (5.3): ‘The radiance of Kallirhoe’s face shone out, dazzling everyone’s eyes just as if a great light had blazed out suddenly at dead of night.’ The power of the gaze is somehow distorted: the onlookers are unsettled in the very act of looking. If the text does not fix the way we must view the heroine, and indeed problematises the act of viewing itself, it does provide, by mythic and literary allusion an alternative set of identities which would have provided further narrative cues for the original audience. Goddess or hero? Alternative identities The most striking and persistent identification is, of course with the goddess Aphrodite.11 This particular divinity would, at first sight, seem the obvious choice, given the heroine’s beauty, and the emphasis on the bond of love that exists between the protagonists. However, Artemis might have functioned as a more conventional association for a virginal bride, and the Aphrodite connection draws attention to her sensuality, and perhaps unintentional complicity in the events leading to her second marriage. If we are to take Chariton’s autobiographical details at face value the goddess’s secondary function as civic deity may also be pertinent.12 Any interpretation of the heroine’s portrayal that wishes to emphasise the influence of religion, must also be acutely aware of the multiple associations of the religious in the ancient world.13 This identification of Kallirhoe, is, however, not exclusive: she is read as Artemis by the onlookers at her wedding to Chaireas (1.1) and is dressed as the virgin huntress in the Great King’s fantasy (6.4). These particular associations with the goddess of chastity are indicative of the author’s sympathetic stance towards his heroine’s predicament: she cannot remain chaste for Chaireas, though she believes herself technically faithful, yet she receives no explicit criticism. The repeated identification of Kallirhoe with the abandoned Ariadne (1.6, 3.3)14 would also intensify reader sympathy: Kallirhoe is placed in a difficult position through the unwarranted jealousy of her husband, rather than through any fault of her own. Chariton’s utilisation of the Trojan war myth as sub-text is also interesting in this context. While the text is peppered with direct Homeric quotations, implicitly identifying the heroine with an ambiguous Helen, aware of her own guilt, it is the Euripidean intertext which is more consistently, although indirectly alluded to. This appeal to the tale of the phantom Helen has the effect of exculpating the heroine through her identification with this essentially positive figure, the pawn of others’ scheming.15 The most surprising identification though, is found in 2.5, where the heroine’s reference to Alkinoos in her conversation with Dionysios allies her with Odysseus, the cunning trickster of epic tradition. The main point of similarity is, of course, the shame of the wanderer whose present reduced circumstances bear no relation to his

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previously high reputation. However, this allusion may also focus reader attention on Kallirhoe as the subtle manipulator of circumstance. If we do credit Chariton with more literary ability than he is generally allowed,16 we can entertain the possibility that such an identification may function at many levels, and may hint that the heroine is not as innocent as first appears. Mapping modesty – showing people how to behave The coding of space along the lines of social acceptability is perhaps clearest in this first extant example of the genre, although the extent to which this preoccupation with observation of the social niceties is due to conscious archaism remains problematic. It is made explicit at the beginning of the narrative that Kallirhoe’s first public appearance is at the festival of Aphrodite (1.1), and her mother only makes the decision to let her appear at the prompting of the god Eros. Even after her marriage Chaireas cannot take her with him when he goes to visit his sick father; as a newly married woman who has not yet borne a child it is not acceptable for her to leave the house (1.2). As a slave of Dionysios Kallirhoe carries with her a keen awareness of the social rules that applied to her as respectable citizen wife: left alone in the shrine of Aphrodite she does not dare to leave on her own and has to be led away by Leonas (2.3): ‘Embarrassed (D„GRXµšQK) in front of the crowd Kallirhoe did not know what to do.’ Kallirhoe is not happy in a crowd and yet her beauty and nobility often place her there. As has previously been noted, she often functions as spectacle for the masses, though it is important to note that these occasions are still governed by complex social coding. So the appearance in public of a respectable woman is either connected to religion, or to familial obligation. At the festival of Aphrodite the virgin walks with other maidens in a ceremony both civic and religious that emphasises her status as respectable citizen daughter (1.1). Later, at her funeral, the daughter of the general and wife of one of the foremost citizens is the entirely passive focus of the city’s grief (1.6). The slave of Dionysios with her beauty as dowry becomes his legal wife in a ceremony before the whole city that collapses the boundary between public and private (3.2). On her return to Syracuse the general’s daughter decked in royal purple greets the assembled populace graciously before returning home via the temple of Aphrodite, leaving her husband to relate the story of her adventures (8.7–8.8). On each of these occasions Kallirhoe remains virtually silent. Her personality and her emotions, which can be so forcefully asserted within the private sphere recede into the background, leaving her to function as a sign of something essential to Greek values and integrity. The manipulation of chastity Kallirhoe is the only heroine of a Greek romance who does not remain chaste, and yet far from receiving any authorial censure, she is treated with great sympathy and humanity. She is possessed of an inherent modesty which is far from the coquetry of

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the flirtatious Leukippe and is constantly signalled through the downcast eyes of the respectable woman.17 It is circumstance which conspires to force her into a second marriage against her will: a fact which Chariton underlines in his clear direction of reader sympathies found in his summary of the first half of the narrative (5.1). He states that his story has told of ‘the loyalty (S…VWLQ) of Kallirhoe to Chaireas, and the necessity of marrying because of the pregnancy’.18 Kallirhoe, sold by the pirate Theron, and living in the household of the well-born Dionysios as his slave, finds she is pregnant by her first husband. Chariton makes it clear that she is outmanoeuvred by the wily slave Plangon, who persuades her to marry her besotted master in order to save her unborn child. Much emphasis is placed on the cunning of slaves (2.10), and reader sympathy is further directed towards the heroine through the detailed depiction of her conflicting emotions. In her soliloquy in 2.11 Chariton redefines fidelity as loyalty to a partner’s interests rather than physical chastity. Kallirhoe wishes to die rather than wed Dionysios, but as her love for Chaireas is paramount she will marry again in order to protect their unborn child: ‘I wish to die as Chaireas’ wife alone. This is dearer to me than parents or homeland or child, not to take another husband.’ This rejection of parents and country and child is a clear departure from Classical values as expressed in Antigone.19 Kallirhoe is totally focused upon Chaireas yet she is loyal rather than pure; an emphasis on intention rather than physical integrity which finds its exact antithesis in the work of Achilles Tatius. In this novel it is the ideal of self-control, rather than simple chastity which is elevated, and affixed to the sign of Greek culture rather than simply inscribed upon the heroine’s body. Kallirhoe is thus freed, to some extent at least, from continuously functioning as cultural sign, and is instead presented as a fallible, but nevertheless engaging, human being.20 Informal power Kallirhoe gains great dignity from her modest behaviour, yet the constraints of the narrative mean that she is unable to derive power from her purity in the manner of a Charikleia. Silent in the public sphere, she does not attempt to usurp male prerogatives in the same way as a Thecla or Perpetua, and yet she still commands the respect and admiration of the reader through her spirit and highly refined social skills. Allied to her inherent modesty is an endearingly proud spirit: the love-struck maiden falls at the feet of Aphrodite and makes a direct request (1.1): ‘“Give me the man you have shown me.”’ Her angry retort to her jealous husband is likewise direct and full of fire: she turns his accusation of infidelity back upon him, and suggests his male lovers will be angry at his marriage (1.3).21 She bridles again when Dionysios implies she might be hiding something shameful in her past (2.5): Dionysios himself reckons her spirit too proud to be swayed by gifts or moved by force (2.8); later he is afraid of her anger over his deception regarding the journey to Babylon (5.4). Even at the court of the Persian King she can laugh off the threat of torture from the eunuch

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Artaxates (6.7), and as a prisoner of war can assure the Egyptian soldier that she will not submit to marriage (7.6). Her ability to read character correctly and successfully to manipulate people in a variety of social situations is also displayed throughout the narrative, and forms an illuminating counterpoint to her function as silent public spectacle. When kidnapped she is fully aware of her true plight but plays along with the pirate’s plans to ensure her own safety (1.11). She is also fully conversant with the most effective way to manipulate Dionysios, a man with pretensions to culture, appealing to him as an inhabitant of a civilised city and a man of learning (SDLGH…D) (2.5). All too painfully conscious of the deleterious effects of a husband’s jealousy, she neither confides in Dionysios that she believes Chaireas has come to find her (3.9), nor tells Chaireas of her letter of consolation to Dionysios (8.4). However, the most surprising example of her intelligence and sensitivity comes in the form of the wise military advice that she gives Chaireas on the occasion of the pharaoh’s death: ‘Where are you hurrying off to?’ she said, ‘before considering the situation. If you publicise this you will have a big revolt on your hands. When everyone knows the problem they will lose confidence in you. We will be captured again, and our troubles will be worse than the first time.’ (Kallirhoe 8.2) It is perhaps tempting to see this as an example of the acceptable informal power that could be wielded by wealthy women in the Greek East in the first few centuries CE. However, speculation aside, what can be stated with more certainty is that female intelligence and initiative are less upsetting to authorial sensibilities when firmly connected with conjugal loyalty, and displayed well off the public stage. Charikleia, as the obvious and enigmatic exception to this rule will merit more detailed discussion later, though it is fair to state now that Kallirhoe is allowed to bend the rules without sacrificing her essential femininity.

Anthia Narrative focus It has been noted that the portrayal of Anthia and Habrokomes displays a certain parallelism, a concern with symmetry, however crude the actual execution of this desire within the extant text (Johne 1989: 166; Fusillo 1990: 203; Konstan 1994: 38).22 While this symmetry is immediately apparent from the narrative technique of constantly alternating the focus between hero and heroine, I am interested in the extent to which the heroine is still allowed to dominate the textual space. If her presence does not shape the textual dynamics in the same way as a Kallirhoe or a Charikleia, I would still argue that there are certain cues which point to the unfolding events as her story. This narrative emphasis, however, does remain

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problematic, since the developing account does appear to invite the reader, in some senses at least to register her as desirable object, rather than subject in her own right. The parallelism between the two protagonists is most noticeable in the first part of the narrative. So, both are equally delighted at the prospect of marriage (1.7), are worshipped as Gods at Rhodes (1.12), beg for mercy from the pirate chief Korymbos (1.13) and despair together when approached by the amorous pirates (1.16). While separated they each undergo their own set of trials which are designed to test their fidelity to their partner, and yet it is here that the important differences start to emerge. Habrokomes must withstand the advances of Manto and Kyno, but otherwise his search for Anthia is not punctuated with events of such emotional intensity as his wife has to endure. He travels with Hippothoos and learns the sad tale of Hyperanthes, but here the emotional focus shifts to the despairing brigand. His attempt to earn a living in the quarries of Nuceria is not a trial in the same way as the repeated attacks that Anthia has to endure, and cannot be expected to generate the same emotional interest. In contrast, more narrative time is given over to the series of men who desire the heroine. Their very number emphasises her desirability, and their machinations, of narrative interest in themselves, allow the author to delineate the heroine’s emotional response to her trials in greater detail. Anthia’s relationship with the kindly Perilaos provides an interesting example. Rescued by him from the robber band (2.13) she makes some excuse to postpone their wedding, when, as is almost inevitable with novelistic heroines, he pays homage to her beauty and breeding by falling in love with her. Her encounter with the doctor Eudoxos (3.5) increases the pathos of the situation, as the reader focuses upon her as a stranger, stranded, like the doctor, far from her native Ephesos. This encounter also provides the impetus for two emotional outbursts, in which she recalls her oath to Habrokomes as she pleads with the doctor, on the name of their shared ancestral goddess Artemis, to provide her with poison. The old man’s pity for her situation, which manifests itself in his decision to substitute a sleeping draught, is also surely intended to intensify reader sympathy for her plight. Finally the setting of the bridal chamber as the scene for her apparent suicide adds poignancy to the situation, a poignancy which Anthia herself is quick to seize upon (3.6): ‘“In this way”, she said, “I was led before to my bridegroom Habrokomes; the fire of love was our escort and the wedding song was sung for a happy marriage.”’ After another declaration of her fidelity she obtains water in which to take the poison (3.6), a small detail which might excite reader admiration, as she steadfastly prepares to keep her oath. Even a writer like Xenophon of Ephesos, regularly accused of a lack of sophistication, possesses the requisite skill to wrest every last ounce of emotional impact from the situation. However, it is telling that this interest in the heroine’s plight is embedded in a narrative which regularly positions her as object. If the emotional intensity that surrounds her regularly invites us to ‘read’ her as the centre of the narrative, it is also true that this reading will often confirm her as a passive plaything, either of fate, or of the men who are drawn to her beauty. So, after the adventures she has shared with Habrokomes, she is sold by the goatherd Lampon (2.9), found by robbers after a

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shipwreck and subsequently rescued by Perilaos (2.13), captured again by tomb robbers after her attempt at suicide (3.8) and sold to merchants at Alexandria, who in turn sell her on to the Indian prince Psammis (3.9–3.10). Almost predictably she is captured again by Hippothoos (4.3), rescued by another man of authority, the brave Polyidos (5.4) before being sold to a brothel-keeper (5.5) and back again to Hippothoos (5.9). While it is true that her husband also undergoes the degradation of slavery, this theme does not gain similar prominence. Anthia’s treatment lays great emphasis on the attraction of her beauty, and yet this self-same beauty may reduce her to the level of desirable commodity. Gaze For scholars whose work has been informed by feminist discourse, ‘gaze’, or how woman is viewed, becomes an important methodological tool with which to uncover the dynamics of power within a text.23 The mechanics of the plot may reduce Anthia to valuable object, but Xenophon’s descriptions of her appearance, her body and her sexuality are also pertinent to a discussion of the possibilities of female subjectivity. However, here again we can find no clear cut gendered ideology, merely tensions and apparent contradictions. For example, our introduction to Anthia in the festival scene contains a sensuous depiction of the beauty of her hair (1.2): ‘Her hair was golden, a little plaited, most falling loose and moving in the wind.’24 Such a depiction might well give the impression of a curious mix of artifice and nature, of control and freedom.25 If the description does hint at the sensuous side to Anthia’s nature, this impression is immediately rendered problematic as her delineation continues (1.2): ‘Fiercely bright (JRUJR…) eyes, radiant like a young girl, yet formidable in their self-control (VèIURQRM).’ ‘JRUJR…’ and ‘VèIURQRM’ pull the reader up short: Anthia’s self-control is blazoned across her face as surely as her famed beauty, inscribed upon her body. If the male gaze is attracted by her beauty, male subjectivity is assured through her chastity. The female reader too, may find opportunities for identification, as God-like beauty is allied to a respectable manner, but there is nothing to affront the sensibilities of patriarchal society here. Later though, as Anthia is entrapped by Eros, we are informed that she uncovered as much of her body as she could, so that Habrokomes could see (1.3). This unveiling, ostensibly for the benefit of her lover, exposes the heroine to the male gaze. However, no further details are disclosed: Xenophon has placed a discreet, though titillating, textual veil over the heroine to replace the clothing which had so firmly identified her with the goddess Artemis. This identification, in the civic realm, allows Anthia to function as sign of the honour and cultural integrity of the social group: an identification which would become de-stabilised by too direct an intrusion into her personal space. This authorial delicacy in exposing his heroine to the reader’s gaze is also apparent in his depiction of violence. So Anthia, like Habrokomes, is repeatedly exposed to the danger of violent attack: dangers include being hung from a tree as a target for the

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javelins of Hippothoos’ men (2.13), shut up in a trench with wild dogs (4.6) and being physically beaten by Rhenaia, wife of Polyidos (5.5). However, none of these attacks are given much narrative space: the heroine’s apparent pain does not function as spectacle in the same way as the attacks on Leukippe in the work of Achilles Tatius. Mapping Anthia – physical and social space If Anthia’s dominance of the narrative space is ambiguous, her negotiation of social space within the text also gives rise to certain tensions. Her spectacular appearance at the festival of Artemis (1.2) at the beginning of the narrative, and her travels in the wider world may blind the casual reader to the fact that Anthia only appears out of doors under certain special circumstances. Anthia’s identification with the goddess herself allows her appearance in the public sphere to be coded as acceptable. This association of the feminine with the religious experience also manages to negate any sense of impropriety arising from the heroine venturing outside alone: Anthia is not censured for her visits to the temples of Isis or Apis while Polyidos’ slave (5.4). These visits are, however, motivated by the heroine’s distress at her situation, and it is interesting that her planned visit to the temple of Helios at the end of the narrative requires a chaperone in the somewhat unlikely form of Hippothoos (5.11–12). The temple is a space which is not coded as public in the same way that the agora might be. However, by offering up a lock of her hair to the god, and making a show of her distress Anthia is drawing attention to herself, a revelation which must be offset by male protection. There are other minor narrative signals which help to define the boundaries of conventional female behaviour. Having extracted an oath from the kindly bandit Amphinomos to the effect that he would respect her chastity, Anthia finds herself in the socially ambiguous position of travelling with a man who is not her husband or relative. However, when Polyidos’ men recapture the stray brigand, acting on a tip off from another member of the band, we are told (5.4): ‘She happened to be inside the house.’ Away from her native polis, and in difficult circumstances, Anthia does not make a spectacle of herself. When closely associated with family and city she may indeed function as spectacle, and stand as a sign of something greater than herself, but otherwise she remains hidden. This need to remain out of public view is highlighted more clearly after her slaying of the would-be rapist Anchialos. Having possessed the presence of mind and strength of will to seize the conveniently placed sword and stab her attacker, her subsequent inaction may appear inexplicable. Terrified, she cannot decide whether to kill herself or flee. However, this option is quickly discounted (4.5): ‘But this was impossible: the road was not known to her, and there was no-one to show her the way.’ These eminently sensible sentiments may mask another fear. Anthia will indeed demonstrate initiative in private, because even a robbers’ cave can function as home ground in this respect. In contrast, the territory outside is alien, and metaphorically she would be as unable to find her way along a street in her native Ephesos, as she would in a barbarian landscape.

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Unstable identities Anthia’s movement through social space is closely connected with the idea of identity. In Ephesos she is Anthia the virgin, made in the image of the civic deity, respectable daughter of respectable parents. During her travels, however, she displays a marked reluctance to reveal her true identity or share her story with her captors. So, captured again by Hippothoos she identifies herself as a native Egyptian by the name of Memphitis (4.3), a ruse she employs once more with the relatively sympathetic Polyidos (5.4). Other alternative histories include ward of the goddess Isis (the lie told to the superstitious Psammis in 3.11) and unfortunate girl attacked at a festival (the more elaborate tale related to the brothel-keeper in 5.7). In both these cases Anthia is able to pander to her captors’ preconceptions. Psammis with his barbarian credulity in matters religious is capable of reading her as consecrated virgin, while for the brothel-keeper she expertly creates a reading of herself that emphasises violation and possession (Puiggali 1986: 328). Anthia, to some extent is able to function as all things for all men, while keeping her true self intact and unsullied. As a sign of the superiority of her class and race she cannot allow herself to be dirtied by those who possess her: to reveal her name would allow the honour of her social group to become tarnished. She will only do this as a last resort, when Hippothoos, who had captured her for a third time, becomes insistent in his sexual advances (5.9). The sparseness of Xenophon’s prose means that this discomfort with revealing her identity outside her home city is not elaborated upon or properly explained. The obvious affinities with the plight of Kallirhoe, ashamed before Dionysios, and the returning hero Odysseus, are telling. Purity and power The preceding sections have sought to establish Anthia’s position within the text in narrative, social and physical terms. I now intend to examine her thematic function, and establish the extent to which her character provides the locus for the novel’s implicit code of chastity. I will also attempt to ascertain whether the power she derives from her role as chaste woman is entirely at the service of the patriarchal order. It is noteworthy that for all the alleged equivalence between the protagonists’ narrative roles, and the emphasis on Habrokomes’ self-control, only the hero is given the possibility of leeway in terms of physical continence. So, Habrokomes may give a robust rebuttal to Manto’s advances (2.5), and yet it is only circumstance which prevents him giving in to the repulsive Kyno (3.12). His situation here is almost analogous to that of Kallirhoe, since he is prepared to act in order to forestall a greater evil, in this case the murder of Kyno’s husband Araxos. It is significant that he only leaves the house when he realises she has already committed the murder, in disgust at her heartless behaviour – if this had not happened the text indicates he would not have been physically faithful to Anthia. With Habrokomes there is none of the certainty that is ascribed to Anthia: his falling in love is a struggle against his much

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vaunted self-control (1.4). In contrast, Anthia’s chastity is not a site for conflict, it is something she defends with ingenuity, bravery and spirit, and also a given that she advertises to the reader (if not generally to large audiences within the narrative) through repeated emotional outbursts. If Anthia’s declarations of fidelity strike the reader with their emotional intensity, this must not obscure the fact that they are rarely addressed to other characters26 within the story. Anthia speaks with force and passion, but she speaks to herself, if not, in some senses, for herself. Her voice is not heard in the public realm: in those cases when she appears outside it is her image which must communicate with those who look upon her. Her voice also speaks for Habrokomes, and for the male reader, whose own honour and personal integrity is maintained through her unwavering loyalty. Of course, on the occasions when Anthia does speak with others, her voice can be powerfully persuasive, enabling her to deceive her captors and so maintain her honour. Her sophistry persuades Psammis she is consecrated to Isis (3.11), and provides a plausible explanation to the brothel-keeper for her illness (5.7). She is even capable of defending herself in a physical way, as proved by her stabbing of Anchialos (4.5). Yet Anthia is no Thecla, provoking sexual interest by her deliberate flouting of the conventions, and prepared to use violence against a man of authority in the public street. Xenophon codes her behaviour as that of an exceptional woman, rather than an asexual androgyne when he has his heroine reflect upon her behaviour thus (5.8): ‘I undergo every misery and endure all sorts of terrible mishaps, inventing strategies to preserve my chastity that are beyond a woman’s usual capabilities (ØS|U JXQD‹NDM) all for the sake of Habrokomes.’ Anthia’s behaviour, when subjected to close scrutiny, may appear surprisingly conventional, and yet she still affords some opportunities for reading against the text, in addition to her narrative and thematic centrality. For example, while it is Habrokomes who initiates contact on their wedding night, it is noted that Anthia kisses him passionately, and indulges in two declarations of love, to his one (1.9).27 Her bravery as she prepares to commit suicide is striking (3.5), as is her determination to starve herself to death when she wakes from her drugged sleep to find herself confined in a tomb (3.8). Tellingly it is also Anthia who gives the first, and most detailed account of her adventures when the lovers are reunited (5.14). Anthia may be, by her own admission, an exceptional woman, but it is still interesting that Xenophon could imbue his flower with such flashes of fire.28

Leukippe Out of the picture? Narrative focus, gaze and subjectivity While Achilles Tatius’ comic tone and willingness to play with novelistic conventions has long been established (Reardon 1994: 84), less time has been devoted to examining the effect this has had on gender roles. The author’s technique of situating the hero as narrator and scattering learned digressions throughout the text

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may have the effect of pushing the heroine out of the frame.29 Recent work undertaken by Bartsch (1989: 6–7) and Morales (1997) has focused attention on the extent to which these digressions, and particularly the ekphrases may be taken as useful pointers to the reading of the central narrative. The punctuation of this tale of love with the male narrator’s appreciation of images of female victimisation frames any reading of the heroine and raises important questions regarding subjectivity and female identification. The issues of narrative technique and gaze become more closely intertwined as the shape of the narrative provides the reader with greater guidance on how to view the heroine. The narrative starts with an ekphrasis: the reader is treated to a detailed description of a picture of the abduction of the mythic heroine Europa. Her watching companions themselves provide an image of sensuality and fear (1.1) while the description of Europa consists of a shopping-list of desirable characteristics (1.1): ‘Her body could be glimpsed through her clothes: the deep-set navel, the taut stomach, the narrow waist, broadening towards the hips, breasts jutting out a little; a girdle fastening tunic to breasts, so that it mirrored her form.’30 This amount of anatomical detail is not found anywhere else in the genre,31 and while it is true that in his description of Leukippe the author only focuses, much more decorously, on the beauty of her face, the narrative also points to ways in which Europa can stand for the heroine, whose modesty, according to the conventions of the genre, should be preserved. So, Kleitophon, relating his reaction to first viewing his beloved states (1.4): ‘She was like the picture which I had just seen, of Europa32 on the bull.’ The reader is also invited to ponder on Leukippe as picture; the itemisation of her beauty and its sometimes detailed comparison to man-made objects or the beauty of nature leading to a certain objectification (1.4): ‘White cheeks, pale shading to red in the centre like the dye with which a Lydian woman stains ivory: the mouth a rose, a rose where the lips of the petals are just starting to open.’33 Kleitophon’s representation of his beloved as feast for the eyes (1.6) takes this objectification one stage further: such beauty is metaphorically there for male consumption.34 The subject position is that of the male narrator: throughout the first part of the narrative in particular the emphasis remains upon his thoughts and feelings, the reader is not even informed in any detail of Leukippe’s reaction to Kleitophon’s request that they consummate their relationship (2.19). Kleinias’ advice on how to conduct a relationship with its repeated generalisations about female behaviour at 1.9 also has the effect of further distancing us from the heroine, as her actions seem to confirm her conformity to the stereotype. As the narrative progresses other ekphrases depicting the fate of Andromeda (3.7) and Philomela (5.3) both emphasise the connection between beauty and violence seen in the depiction of Europa, and go on to prefigure the violent attacks on the heroine. The situating of these digressions almost immediately before the mock sacrifice (3.15) and the apparent beheading (5.7) clearly demonstrates the thematic connection, a connection which is made explicit in Menelaos’ advice to delay the trip to Pharos (5.4): ‘Those who interpret signs tell us to regard the stories of those

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pictures that we happen to see as we set out on business: events will turn out in the same way as the plot of the story.’ The display of violence perpetrated upon the female body and offered up as a feast for the eyes to the male spectator is nowhere made so explicit as the mock sacrifice in 3.15.35 Kleitophon watches, immobile, as the sword plunges into Leukippe’s stomach, and her intestines are pulled out and eaten by the bandits. The male narrator can only depict his own feelings, and in likening himself to the grief-stricken Niobe appropriates for himself the ultimate image of female suffering. Leukippe, her guts spilling out of the wound becomes a graphic image of body, while Kleitophon’s own dissection of his emotions emphasises the insistent power of the male voice.36 The hero’s identification with speech becomes ever clearer as he prepares to commit suicide by plunging the sword into his throat (3.17). The narrative erases the presence of the heroine for long periods at a stretch37 before presenting her as a picture of apparent suffering in great set-pieces whose graphic detail seems to afford some guarantee of reader interest. It is only at the conclusion of the narrative that Leukippe’s own subjectivity is at all addressed in her depiction as spectacle: she informs the insistent Thersandros that the new sight offered for his delight is one of female resistance (6.21): ‘“Look at a fresh contest: a single woman struggles against every kind of torture and conquers all.”’ Her own comment and coding of her behaviour offers a radical departure from the male readings of female representation that have littered the narrative so far. It is noteworthy that this entrance into subjectivity is closely connected with Leukippe’s forthright defence of her chastity. In a strange reversal of the conventions of New Comedy Leukippe, as the apparently available object of Kleitophon’s sexual attentions, is rendered silent, and only acquires a voice when it is necessary to defend herself against accusations of lewd behaviour.38 However, even during her ordeal in the cave of the Syrinx, her greatest moment of triumph, the emphasis is still allowed to fall on the feelings of the male narrator, as the troubled Kleitophon fears Pan will play Leukippe false (8.13). Leukippe, then, does not function as spectacle in the same way as Kallirhoe. Attention is often focused upon her as sexual object for private male consumption (figuratively by Kleitophon himself, and literally for the bandits).39 It is only at the end of the narrative that Leukippe’s display value is fully exploited before a large civic audience. In Achilles Tatius’ work the gaze is all consuming; the narrative itself seeming to insist that the reader look at women rather than listen to them.40 Leukippe is at once the centre of the picture, the sum of various beautiful parts, and at the same time out of the frame, regarding emotional engagement with the heroine as character. Identity and social space Achilles Tatius appears to treat this theme with greater levity than the other authors. However, apparently frivolous narrative strands such as Kalligone’s abduction and Thersandros’ vituperative attack on the heroine’s reputation may well mask serious concerns about the connection between identity, reputation and purity. Kalligone is

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abducted by Kallisthenes because she appears at a sacrifice in the company of Leukippe’s mother Pantheia. Kallisthenes has never set eyes on Leukippe, who as a respectable unmarried girl would only appear in public (in the fictional reality of the novel at least) on certain occasions coded as socially acceptable.41 He has therefore made the decision to marry her entirely on the hearsay evidence of her beauty (2.13). When he sees Kalligone with Pantheia he makes an assumption about her identity based on the codes of conventionally respectable behaviour (2.16): Leukippe should be chaperoned by her mother, therefore the girl with Leukippe’s mother must be Leukippe. The apparent beheading of Leukippe that occurs before Kleitophon’s terrified gaze in 5.7 also underscores this connection between identity and reputation. It is later revealed (8.16), tellingly, by Leukippe herself, that the woman decked out in Leukippe’s clothes who was beheaded by the pirates anxious to deceive their pursuers was a common prostitute lured on board the ship. Leukippe’s real value is highlighted by the substitution of a woman who sets a particular monetary value on her favours, and who is, ultimately dispensable. The swapping of their clothes deceives Kleitophon and highlights the instability of both identity and reputation: Leukippe’s simple shift transforms the prostitute into the valued Leukippe, while the whore’s adornments aid in Leukippe’s metamorphosis into the Thessalian slave Lakaina. The complex social coding of a woman’s identity may be destabilised by something as apparently simple as dress and location. Levels of adornment, the extent to which a woman invites or seeks to avoid the male gaze, and her negotiation of social boundaries are directly connected to her respectability.42 The virginity test in the cave of the Syrinx allows the author to satirise, albeit mildly, patriarchal society’s preoccupation with female chastity. Such assurance of purity is not available in reality. It is important that Leukippe’s recognition as the free-born daughter of a Byzantine general depends on her passing the test: if she had failed Thersandros would have claimed her as his slave. His diatribes against her focus upon her servile status along with her allegedly licentious behaviour. Thus at various times Leukippe is a wretched servile thing (NDNÒGDLµRQ ¢QGU£SRGRQ)43 (6.20), a slave-girl (GRÚOK) (8.1), a false virgin (\HXGRSDUTHQRM) (8.3), a woman without self-control (JXQ» WLM ¢NÒODVWRM) (8.8), and a whore (SÒUQK)44 (8.11). These insults may constitute mocking fragmentary echoes of Leukippe’s proud recitation of her social identity, a speech that Thersandros overhears but tries to ignore. Leukippe states Do not think, Thersandros, that I am some wretched slave. I am the daughter of a Byzantine general and wife of one of the first in rank in Tyre. I am not Thessalian and my name is not Lakaina: this is an insult from the pirates who robbed me of my name. My husband is Kleitophon, my nativeland Byzantium, my father is Sostratos, my mother Pantheia. (Leukippe and Kleitophon 6.16) Leukippe’s removal from her home city throws her real identity into question: in the novel the proof of her virginity allows her identity to be established beyond

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question. A woman’s location affects her reading by others, but what she is constitutes who she is. Power Achilles Tatius’ playful stance towards patriarchal society’s concern with chastity may render problematic the extent to which Leukippe is empowered by her protestations of innocence and her determination to remain chaste. Kleinias’ description of the false modesty of virgins (1.10) informs our reading of Leukippe’s apparent shock when Kleitophon boldly kisses her (2.7). This mask of modesty is almost immediately dropped as she goes on to look favourably on his attempt at seduction: ‘She understood what I said and smiled.’ The seriousness of Leukippe’s decision to remain a virgin until her marriage, though made with divine authority (4.1) is still undercut by the comic nature of Kleitophon’s disappointment as his advances are firmly repulsed. The zeal with which Leukippe now defends her sudden decision may certainly appear amusing in its new intensity, but this cannot completely disguise the sheer force of Leukippe’s pronouncements on the subject of her chastity. Physical proof of her determination to remain chaste is provided by the effects of Sosthenes’ tortures (5.17), a graphic representation of continence and bravery which imbues her later speeches on the subject with a new sincerity. Far from being cowed by Thersandros’ threats and Sosthenes’ suggestions of further torture, Leukippe takes ownership of these threats in a speech full of fire and passion, the repeated imperatives giving immediacy and urgency: Set out the instruments of torture, bring the wheel; here are my arms, stretch them. Bring the whips as well, here is my back, beat it. Bring fire, here is my body, burn it. Bring the sword as well, here is my neck, slice through it. (Leukippe and Kleitophon 6.21) As has been previously noted Leukippe’s entry into the text as a speaking subject is closely associated with her articulation of her purity, and yet by reading against the text the resisting reader may still focus on other occasions where positive characteristics are not so clearly allied to the maintenance of the patriarchal order. So she is represented as a woman who cares about her maid sufficiently to tend to her when she is stung by a bee (2.7). She is cultured and can perform part of the Iliad to harp accompaniment (2.1), later writing a letter to Kleitophon in her own hand (5.18). She has the spirit to flee away with her lover (2.30), and to address her mistress directly while in the guise of the slave Lakaina (5.17). Amazingly it is Leukippe, the woman who has just spent some time imprisoned in a coffin, who has the presence of mind to try to reassure the hysterical Kleitophon, warning Menelaos not to continue the deception (3.18): ‘“Stop, Menelaos” she said, “don’t alarm him …”’

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Her social skills and sensitivity to the feelings of others far surpass those of Kleitophon, and are displayed on many occasions throughout the text. For example, her supplication of Melite is calculated to press all the right buttons: she appeals to Melite’s sense of female solidarity and emphasises her own free-born status and the vagaries of fortune before modestly falling silent (5.17). She also has the common sense to play along with Melite’s reading of her as a Thessalian witch with knowledge of herb-lore: a protestation of innocence would not be believed (5.22). While her own reading of others’ emotions allows her to flatter others, she is also able to wound them as occasion demands: Thersandros so proud of his reputation as a respectable citizen is thus worse than a barbarian pirate, worse than a slave (6.22). This apparent superiority, though a persistent narrative feature, is, however, generally obscured by a narrative technique which goads the reader into appreciating the heroine as a pretty picture and listening to the hero’s voice, as narrator and principal subject. The extent to which Kleitophon’s authority is itself undercut by the sententiousness and downright absurdity of many of his statements can only further complicate the issue of female subjectivity and empowerment.

Chloe Narrative focus The tale of Daphnis and Chloe is a deceptively simple narrative, with an underlying structure of some complexity. It is also related in an arch and self-conscious manner which problematises the issue of any direct reader identification. Combined with these particular tendencies the constant apparent contradictions which abound in the narrative perhaps offer more opportunities than did the earlier novels for reading against the text. The tensions and ambiguities on which Longos appears to thrive, and which give his work such density, do of course, have important implications for any appreciation of gender roles. This becomes obvious even at the level of plot development, as the parallelism of the protagonists’ roles and experiences at the beginning of the narrative is replaced by a technique that alternately privileges then excludes the heroine. At the very beginning of the tale the equivalence of the protagonists’ situations is marked as both are abandoned as infants, suckled by animals, and rescued by rustics (1.1–1.6). Upon the children reaching adolescence both adoptive fathers have the same dream on the same night, which determines them to send them out to act as shepherds to their flocks (1.7–8). The reader is charmed by a summary of the simple pleasures they both experience, such as observing the animals, and weaving little garlands of flowers for the Nymphs (1.9). We are told that they did everything together, even grazing their flocks near one another (1.10). However, the narrative does not long regard the couple as a single entity. As the protagonists become increasingly aware of their emergent sexuality the story evolves into one of difference. Surprisingly, though, it is the heroine, Chloe, who is first to experience love (1.13),45 and she is also characterised as the more active of the two in

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the first half of the narrative, playing an instrumental role in Daphnis’ rescue from the wolf-pit (1.12) and his escape from the pirates (1.29). More narrative space is devoted to Chloe’s abduction by the Methymneans and subsequent triumphant return (2.20–2.30) than was allocated to Daphnis’ adventures (2.14–17), while the divine assistance that she merits appears to elevate her over her beloved. This apparently privileged position is, however, eroded in the later part of the tale. It is Daphnis who demonstrates initiative by visiting Chloe, trapped inside by domestic responsibility in Winter-time (3.6). His sexual initiation by Lykainion (3.16–3.19) places him in a position of superior knowledge and increased responsibility, and ends the mutuality of their care-free experimentation. Chloe’s subjectivity is further erased in the description of the formal courtship (3.25–3.34), while the arrival of the townsfolk (4.8–4.13) proves the final straw, causing her to flee and take refuge in the countryside (4.14): ‘So Chloe ran away into the wood, embarrassed (D„GHVTH‹VD) and frightened (IREKTH‹VD) in front of such a big crowd.’ This perhaps provides one of the clues to unlocking the mystery of her erasure. Chloe the woman, child of nature, she who was saved by Pan, and garlanded with pine, is uneasy when confronted with the trappings of the city. The man Daphnis, although not fully at his ease must still attempt to negotiate his way through such ‘civilised’ situations as the improvised law-court, and the settling of a marriagecontract. These and similar scenes crowd the second part of the tale, and, into such space, seemingly coded as ‘masculine’ Chloe dare not intrude. A simple dyadic structure corresponding to the thematic opposition of countryside and city, and firmly attached to the signifiers ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ does not, however, do justice to the subtleties of Longos’ narrative technique. Such an explanation might rely too heavily on those sometimes static markers of recent anthropological and feminist debate, ‘nature’ and ‘culture’, with its assumed hierarchical opposition: culture dominating nature just as men dominate women. Longos’ thematic use of such concepts is never clear-cut and poses some awkward obstacles to any allembracing theory. For example, nature, and the feminine principle to which it is so closely associated is seemingly privileged by its almost equally firm association with innocence. It is also important that it is to the countryside that the married protagonists return at the end of the tale. The bald narrative outline which I have attempted above may also obscure other nuances in thematic presentation, and so it would seem appropriate to subject the character of Chloe to an examination similar to that undergone by the other heroines in order to more fully explore the various tensions inherent in her portrayal. Violence The issue of violence, as in the work of Achilles Tatius, is closely bound up with the narrative structure, but is not so closely allied to the appreciation of the heroine’s physical beauty. This would seem, almost immediately, to lessen any sense of objectification, yet apparent contradictions in the presentation of male violence against women prevents the formation of any quick conclusions.

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Male violence directed against either women or the symbolic feminine in this text falls broadly into several main categories. The first type, that either attempted or actually perpetrated against the heroine herself, would appear to be the most closely integrated into the plot dynamics, but is actually the least striking. Actually more disruptive to the narrative texture is symbolic violence, where brutality against the heroine is displaced onto another object, and finally the inset stories which may be interpreted as a commentary upon the protagonists’ relationship. Of the first category, the attempted rapes of Dorkon (1.21) and Lampis (4.28) which function as the most direct threats on Chloe’s physical integrity, are fairly rapidly dealt with, with the perpetrators experiencing physical retaliation from the guard-dogs and Gnathon respectively. The only violence that Chloe receives aside from the light brushing of a swallow’s wing (1.26) remains her rough treatment at the hands of the Methymnean raiders (2.20), and the problematic final scene where the protagonists consummate their relationship (4.40): a scene which has been the site of much scholarly debate. Winkler (1990: 124) isolated as important the description of the discordant singing that accompanies the protagonists’ physical consummation of their love: ‘and when they got near the door they sang with harsh rough voices, as if they were breaking up the earth with forks, not singing the wedding song’. This ‘ominous tone’ for Winkler hints at Chloe’s pain, and yet, as is often the case with Longos, a definitive interpretation seems elusive. Epstein (1995: 71 n36) calls for an alternative reading, since ‘Other aspects of the text suggest that the song’s roughness may indicate the rusticity of the proceedings rather than the more sinister tone that Winkler outlines.’ Epstein (1995: 68) also insists on the mutuality of such phrases as ‘they embraced and kissed one another’ (SHULšEDOORQ ¢OO»ORXM NDˆ NDWHI…ORXQ), stating that the reciprocity of their kisses function ‘as explicit specification of shared physical joy’ (1995: 71). Both readings, grounded in a meticulous and sensitive reading of the text appear equally valid, and so bear testimony to the author’s continued playful promotion of the ambiguous. Goldhill (1995: 41) is perhaps on safer ground, when instead of proffering a unified and consistent interpretative scheme, he highlights some of the obstacles in the way of recovering Longos’ stance towards patriarchal norms. He points out that the authorial reminder of Lykainion’s lesson which also occurs in the final scene, carrying with it the dark overtones of her warning of the pain of defloration, must be treated with extreme caution. Before we happily conclude that this warning carries with it an implicit criticism of patriarchal society, we must beware taking, as Goldhill accuses Winkler of doing, ‘a teacher as selfinterested, as framed as Lycainion, for an authoritative insight into the text’s or the author’s questioning stance towards conventional – patriarchal – attitudes and norms’. Setting aside for a moment the idea of direct authorial intent, I am also intrigued by Winkler’s suggestion (1990: 126) that the contradictions inherent in the text’s sexual ideology could arise ‘from internal inconsistencies in the dominant cultural discourse’ of the age. Chloe’s abduction also merits closer attention since it raises some important questions regarding female subjectivity in this text. The raiders from the city treat

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the heroine merely as a desirable piece of booty, herding her like an animal (2.20): ‘and they drove off the flocks and her too, hitting her with rods as if she was a goat or a sheep’. This is somewhat different from Kallirhoe’s complaint that she is passed around like a piece of furniture. The people from the city misread the heroine in her country setting; for them she is an animal. Chloe’s spectacular rescue provides a different reading, as she appears garlanded with pine (2.26), marked out as the God’s favourite, and on whose behalf wondrous events are effected. Elevated by this association with divinity, she is, however, denied the opportunity to take an active role in her own rescue, and even refused a voice to articulate her fears. As in the Scheintod in Leukippe and Kleitophon female subjectivity is seemingly compromised as the focus falls on Daphnis’ suffering (2.21–2). If Chloe herself is in the main protected from the realities of violence, the symbolic and mythic violence enacted against women and scattered throughout the text may help to provide a commentary upon the apparent equality of her relationship with Daphnis. Each book contains a tale of violence, the first three narrated to the ignorant/innocent Chloe by a man, while the violent destruction of the garden in the fourth book serves inter alia to prefigure Lampis’ attack, and displace his intention to destroy her virginity onto the nature with which she is so closely associated.46 The placing of the three earlier inset stories is also accomplished in such a manner as to comment implicitly upon the events of the main plot (Wouters 1994: 135). This is not, of course, to claim for this particular author the imposition of a prescriptive set of narrative cues. Instead the textual echoes and resonances may enrich our understanding of those aforementioned tensions in the dominant sexual discourse. The first example, the tale of the stock-dove at 1.27 occurs a little after Dorkon’s attack (1.21), and immediately after the incident of the grasshopper and swallow (1.26), and before Daphnis’ abduction by the pirates from Pyrrha (1.28). The story is one of rivalry between the sexes, as a young girl who guards the flocks (like Chloe) and who is garlanded with pine (also like Chloe) has her herd lured away by a young male singer, and asks to be transformed into a bird. Though not a tale of actual violence a girl is damaged (and transformed) by male rivalry and superiority. While it does not act as an exact comparand to any of the narrative’s main events certain aspects do form telling counterpoints to the above-mentioned incidents. For example, as in the Dorkon incident, inequality between the sexes leads to a violent transformation. The boy’s disregard for the girl’s feelings highlights the gentleness with which Daphnis has treated the frightened Chloe, while the rivalry between the sexes helps to illustrate the mutuality of the protagonists’ feelings as Chloe helps to effect the successful rescue of her beloved (Winkler 1990: 116). The other two stories follow a similar pattern: the tale of Syrinx in 2.34, told by Philetas after the Methymnean attack, is explicitly characterised as a tale of unequal love (2.34): ‘and he fastened together reeds of unequal length, because their love was unequal, and so invented the pipes’. This inequality, so different from the protagonists’ mutuality, is disturbingly re-enacted by the innocent couple themselves.47 Daphnis, in his taking up of Philetas’ pipe (2.37) appears to

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countenance the inequality that in the end underwrites a patriarchal tradition that oppresses women. The story of Echo, which in its culmination in the graphic rending of the female body is the most violent of the tales, is a narrative concerned with Pan’s anger at Echo’s confirmed virginity, his lust for her body and his envy at her musical prowess.48 Again, it is disturbing that Daphnis tells Chloe this story (3.23) not long after his own instruction by Lykainion, and her warning of the pain that would accompany Chloe’s defloration (3.19). However, ample opportunities exist for the resisting reader to rescue the female victim from male oppression: Daphnis does not learn aggression from these tales, and interestingly all end with the female voice sounding on: the stock-dove, Syrinx and Echo still possess the power of articulation. Looking at innocence The focus upon innocence through the lens of the sophisticated narrator has important implications for our consideration of gender roles, and our concomitant examination of female subjectivity. Chloe is not a chaste heroine in the manner of an Anthia, whose monochrome morality renders each successive assault on her chastity as an ordeal to be overcome through ingenuity or sheer force of will. Chloe is perhaps closer to a Kallirhoe, whose moral dilemma calls for a recasting of chastity as loyalty to the partner’s interests rather than simple sexual continence. Longos, though, is more playful than Chariton: his replacement of chastity as a central topos with innocence allowing him to deconstruct societal concern with virginity, at the same time that he gains more leeway in his depiction of sexual play. The viewing of innocence by experience opens up the text to charges of exploitation, but once more the issue is complicated by the sophistication of the author’s narrative technique. Chloe’s beauty only once functions as civic spectacle (4.33), for the most part she remains the object of Daphnis’ private contemplation and enjoyment. However, this is no peeping in at the bath-house: the reader views Chloe through the innocent gaze of Daphnis, which acts as a protective gauze of respectability just as it problematises the very act of looking. While Chloe is asleep Daphnis looks at his beloved without shame (1.25): ‘and he gazed at all of her insatiably (¢SO»VWZM) and without shame (µKG|Q D„GRÚµHQRM)’. The viewer’s innocence in this case might in part legitimate the reader’s own enjoyment of the scene. Longos also remains true to generic conventions by keeping anatomical detail to the not so bare minimum. Some details are volunteered and here Daphnis’ bucolic simplicity provides a suitable excuse for the author’s expert manipulation of the tropes (1.17): ‘Then for the first time he marvelled at her hair gold as fire, and her eyes that were as big as a cow’s, and her face that was truly whiter than the milk from his goats.’ Such a direct response to her charms is amusing, but the sincerity of the rustic’s feelings, in comparison to the tired tropes of the love-poets calls into question the reader’s immediate response of superiority and perhaps lessens any sense of objectification.49 Chloe’s almost constant identification with nature starts to establish her innocence even before she speaks, but the revelation of her thoughts, even more

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than the descriptions of her body causes problems when considering reader identification and female subjectivity. In 1.14 Chloe, who does not know the name of love, relates the symptoms of her sickness with charming simplicity: ‘Now I feel ill, but I don’t know what the illness is; I’m in pain, but there’s no wound, I mourn, but none of my sheep have died; I burn, though I sit in deep shade.’ The technique of first person narration, so often used in engendering sympathy and the sensation of intimacy, here reveals an innocence so remarkable as to render a direct identification almost impossible. Rather than delineating a distinct personality, such frank admissions of unbelievable ignorance run the risk of reducing the heroine to a mere sign of purity, and so deny her subjectivity. Montague (1992: 238) recognises the problem of identification when she states that ‘Chloe is often presented as unaware, even sympathetic because of her lack of awareness.’ She goes on to claim that: ‘Great emphasis on Chloe’s innocence makes more delectable the numerous threats to it.’ The ever-present problem of how to read the heroine is here further exacerbated by the author’s refusal to provide a consistent set of cues. Only consistent in his playful tone, Longos delights in manipulating the boundaries between appearance and reality, simplicity and art. So, in the space of the first book the heroine persuades the hero to strip naked and bathe in front of her (1.13), receives presents from another man and passes them on to her beloved (1.15), and kisses him straightaway after the beauty contest (1.17). Indulging in behaviour that would normally be coded as wanton, the heroine’s complete unawareness of her sexuality is stressed at every turn. That Chloe’s innocence is perhaps a more desirable state than physical integrity alone is suggested by the author’s treatment of Chloe’s foster mother Nape, regarding her daughter’s virginity as a valuable commodity (3.25). Again, though, we must be careful not to ascribe to Longos any programmatic and sustained criticism of received values: Chloe’s very lack of credibility as a fully-rounded character lessens any sense of engagement with her plight. Power and personality Just as Chloe’s association with nature and undoubted innocence may elevate her above Daphnis for certain portions of this text, the manner of her elevation may cause any element of individuality or sense of personal engagement with her character to recede quickly. The general sense of the female voice remaining unsilenced by male brutality given by the inset stories cannot obscure the fact that Chloe’s voice itself is rarely heard. Although, as has already been mentioned in my earlier section on narrative focus, there are occasions in the text when she emerges as a powerful figure, close examination of these incidents does reveal her capacity for action to be somewhat restricted.50 Leaving aside her glorious rescue by Pan in which she remains in a state of glorified passivity, she actively demonstrates initiative on two occasions: the rescues of Daphnis first from the wolf-pit (1.12), and then from the pirates from Pyrrha (1.30). However, it is telling that in both these incidents she receives vital male assistance; in the first case enlisting Dorkon’s physical help to pull Daphnis up

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from the pit, and in the second following the dying Dorkon’s advice to play upon the pipes. While the fact that she helps at all may stand in pleasing contrast to Daphnis’ own paralysed inaction during her own abduction, there still remains a lingering sense that what Chloe stands for is more important than who she is.51 Demonstrations of spirit, or indeed of any distinct personality traits at all are painfully few compared to the other heroines (Egger 1990: 64),52 although once more there remains some emphasis on the heroine’s own ability to correctly read the feelings of others and react accordingly in social situations. So, with a sensitivity belying her years Chloe hides from Daphnis the fact that other suitors are paying court to her (3.25), and is concerned about the way in which the rustic Daphnis should appear before his lord (4.6). That this theme, rather than any other, should achieve some prominence in a portrayal which seems to suppress distinct character traits, speaks of its importance to our understanding of how femininity may function in the genre as a whole.

Charikleia Who exactly are we looking at? The Aithiopika, as the latest, and arguably the most polished and erudite of the three novels dating from the Second Sophistic, poses the most problems regarding the interpretation of gender roles. Leaving aside for the moment the question of how serious or playful the author’s use or abuse of generic conventions actually is, at the most basic level the complexity of his narrative technique has immediate implications for our reading of Charikleia, the heroine and central character (Johne 1987: 31–2). Ascribing the term ‘centrality’ to any aspect of this novel, with its convoluted plot and constant shifts in perspective is immediately problematic, but it is fair to say that Charikleia functions as the driving force of the narrative in a way equalled by no other heroine, with the possible exception of Kallirhoe. However, Charikleia is no piece of furniture to be passed from one owner to the next: the narrative is the tale of her nostos, and she is given far more opportunities to take an active role in events. While, as with the earlier texts there is some attempt at emphasising the mutuality of the protagonists’ relationship through a parallelism of behaviour at certain points,53 Charikleia’s superiority is obvious even at the moments of their greatest triumph. So, in the spectacular Delphic procession Charikleia’s beauty eclipses that of Theagenes (3.4), while the divine comparisons that are made to the heroine in her chastity test (10.9) serve to move the focus of interest and admiration away from the hero, who is also without stain. Charikleia remains the focus of emotional interest throughout the narrative despite the shifts in perspective. At the beginning her beauty, nobility and association with the divine dominate attention in the beach tableau, despite Theagenes’ handsome appearance (1.1–2). Her response to their predicament while imprisoned in the bandits’ cave is at once more emotional and more spirited (1.8),

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and events such as her dream (2.16), her experience of love-sickness (3.7, 3.19, 4.4–11) and her demand for an oath of loyalty (4.18) allow the author more opportunity to delineate her feelings. Charikleia can thus emerge from a narrative already rich in detail as a distinct personality in the way that Chloe cannot. Even when her gender appears to exclude her from participation in key events, such as the expedition to find Theagenes (6.5) her outcry on their return re-focuses attention upon her as principal subject. Even when the narrative apparently focuses on other female characters, such interest may in fact function as a photographic negative of the heroine: talking about Thisbe and Demainete, the author is in fact determining what the heroine is not. The Athenian sub-plot, which is related by Knemon even before the protagonists’ identities have been firmly established, functions as an exemplar of the wrong sort of love, and its two principal female characters provide templates for the wrong sort of female behaviour.54 The fact that Charikleia is mistaken for Thisbe, the avaricious flute-girl, and even takes over her identity for part of the plot should alert the most careless reader to this thematic connection.55 Perhaps more subtle, though still important to our conception of what the heroine is, are the comparisons to the sexually aggressive courtesan Rhodopis, ‘a Thracian woman, in the bloom of youth, second only to Charikleia in beauty’ (2.25) and to the Persian Queen Arsake (7.2). While Arsake’s machinations and her desire for Theagenes, which occupy the greater parts of Books Seven and Eight would seem to divert attention from the heroine, these episodes, upon closer attention actually serve to highlight her positive qualities. The initial description of the handsome, noble and intelligent woman (7.2) establishes her as a suitable candidate for direct comparison with the paragon Charikleia. However, the statement that she is ‘powerless before unlawful pleasure’ alerts the reader to the fundamental difference and prepares them for her violent and unrestrained reaction to falling in love with the hero. The tortures, both emotional and physical that Theagenes has to undergo as a result of Arsake’s feelings perhaps call for a re-evaluation of the effect that the heroine exerts on the hero. Charikleia’s love is inspirational, it elevates the hero so that he may look upon their relationship as a chaste and spiritual bond. The temporal wealth and power offered by the infatuated Arsake in return for his sexual favours provides a vital counterpoint to the spiritual enrichment he gains from his chaste bond with Charikleia. If the structure of the narrative means that the character of Charikleia remains the locus of the tale’s emotional and thematic interest, it does not immediately, either literally or metaphorically, solve the problem of who she really is (Schubert 1997: 258). The reader is kept in suspense right until the conclusion of the narrative, wondering if the white heroine’s identity as the long-lost daughter of the Ethiopian King will be confirmed. However, in addition to those above mentioned characters who function as alternative Charikleias, the narrative also provides the heroine with many other alternative identities. While the question of female identity has been central to the portrayal of the other novelistic heroines, Heliodoros’ re-working of this theme places the emphasis not on one idea such as reputation, or the sense of superiority of the élite, but on the questioning of a variety of fundamental

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assumptions. Charikleia’s assumption of the guise of Theagenes’ sister (7.12) calls for a reconsideration of the marriage bond, and her disguise as a beggar (6.10) with its Odyssean56 overtones alerts reader attention to the possible deliberate subversion of gender roles. It is the heroine, rather than the hero whose cunning and use of disguise ensures her safe return to her native-land. The manner in which the noble and beautiful Charikleia can so convince as the humble beggar may also raise questions regarding her assumption of other roles, including that of the modest and subservient female.57 However, it is Charikleia’s most persistent identification, with the goddess Artemis, that causes the most problems with regards to interpretation, and also problematises the relationship between gaze and knowledge in the text. The first description of the heroine, as part of the beach tableau58 eschews a detailed depiction of her charms in favour of an approach that emphasises the general effect of her beauty: Upon a rock sat a girl of such inexpressible beauty that you might have thought her divine. Although greatly distressed at her plight, she breathed spirit and nobility. She wore a crown of laurel on her head, a quiver hung from her shoulders, her left arm leant on a bow. (Aithiopika 1.2) Morgan (1991: 87n9) has noted this general avoidance of direct description of the heroine, in favour of an approach which conveys her beauty through third party reaction. This may indeed prevent him ‘compromising perfection with banal specificities’, but may also have the added effect of facilitating a more direct access to the heroine as subject. The overloading of detailed description can mask the particular woman so that she evolves into stylised object of contemplation. Michie (1987: 85), in her examination of the mechanics and paradoxes of heroine description in the late Victorian novel, focuses on the distancing effect of metaphor and synecdoche, and the increasing ornamentation of language. She states: ‘These details themselves … bore the burden of disclosure and concealment as each code in its different way contributed to a double and self-erasing portrait of the heroine.’ In terms of a physical description of her body the relative lack of detail allows this heroine, in contrast to her unfortunate sister Leukippe, to retain her identity as a discrete individual. Yet, if she is not lessened, as Leukippe is, by the itemisation and commodification of her charms, there is an immediate destabilising effect through what should be a straightforward and unproblematic allusion to a seemingly appropriate deity. The heroine’s accoutrements signal the possible identification with Artemis, yet Heliodoros withholds the possibility of such a simple conclusion through the interpretation of events by the first of a series of internal audiences. This audience, bandits who are spying upon the scene, are terror-struck at the sight of a formidable female figure surrounded by corpses. They speculate that she may be Artemis, or Isis, or a priestess possessed by one of the Gods, and yet the omniscient narrator is quick to assure us that (1.2): ‘This is what they thought, but they did not yet know the reality.’

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Readers of the novel, like the bandits, possess only partial knowledge of events, and are continually called upon to reassess and refine their ideas as the narrative progresses. The narrator’s warning coupled with the barbarian credulity of the bandits may suggest that the heroine’s repeated association with the goddess is not as straightforward as might first appear. It may even demand constant re-reading and adjustment, and the acknowledgement that her character is open to interpretation at many levels. So, for example, the narrator’s commentary on the reaction of the second group of bandits underlines the notion that Charikleia as a mere reproduction of the goddess is a superficial observation (1.7). Their conjecture that their leader has plundered a temple or that the girl was a breathing image of the goddess is ascribed to boorishness. However, this view of the heroine as image, an idea echoed by Charikles’ observation that (2.33) ‘she is like a model image (¢UFšWXSRQ ¥JDOµD) that turns all eyes and thoughts towards itself’, with its Platonic overtones,59 underscores the notion that her character may indeed function on the symbolic plane.60 The symbolic resonances of her character are also apparent in the powerful effect the mere sight of her has upon others. While some of the responses to her supreme physical attractiveness cannot escape being coded as a purely sexual reaction, her ability to arouse a wider variety of positive feelings is given far greater prominence than was the case with any of the previous heroines. So, the sight of Charikleia inspires the wounded Theagenes to stay alive (1.2), can dispel Charikles’ gloom (2.33), dazzle savages (5.7) and arouse the pity both of the Persian judges (8.9) and of her mother Persinna (10.7), even before the formal recognition. Thyamis’ kind treatment of his captives (1.4) allows the author an opportunity for a short digression on beauty’s beneficent effect: ‘So, in this way, innate dignity (HÙJHQH…DM) of appearance and a beautiful face may overwhelm a pirate’s heart and have the power to rule over the harshest of natures.’ The recognition that the author’s treatment of the heroine leaves the way open for a re-definition of beauty as more than sexual attractiveness, leads us on to a consideration of his similarly sophisticated treatment of chastity. Chastity The problematic nature of Charikleia’s identification with the goddess of chastity has already focused attention on how Heliodoros’ manipulation of this perennial generic theme is going to defy straightforward interpretation. The most striking difference between Heliodoros’ conception of chastity, and those favoured by the earlier novelists, is perhaps the manner in which the idea of chastity is elevated to a new level of spiritual purity and allowed to permeate the whole text. Although the heroine’s pre-eminence can be noted in this aspect, as in many others, the code of chastity is not simply inscribed upon her body, but also finds its expression through the presentation of other characters such as Kalasiris and Theagenes. However, it is primarily through the detailed representation of the heroine’s thoughts and feelings that the author can re-examine the meaning of chastity.

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Although undoubtedly fiercely loyal to Theagenes61 Charikleia’s chastity means so much more. Charikles’ description of Charikleia’s decision to live a virgin life dedicated to the service of Artemis appears to allude to the fateful decision of a Hippolytos. He concludes (2.33): ‘She has made a god out of her virginity (™NTHL£]RXVD µ|Q SDUTHQ…DQ), elevating it to the status of the immortals.’ That Charikleia’s initial determination to retain her physical integrity is somewhat empty of meaning is perhaps underlined in the later incident where Bagoas must guard the heroine’s purity in readiness for her ritual sacrifice at Meroe (9.25). In some senses to be chaste is not enough: it must be a conscious decision taken for the right reasons. The physical integrity of the victims will lead to their lives being squandered: perhaps an oblique authorial swipe at those for whom virginity does not mirror an inner spiritual purity.62 Charikeia’s decision, made on the advice of Kalasiris, to cure her love-sickness through honourable marriage allows the author to go on to redefine the nature of the conjugal bond through her relationship with the hero. Having extracted from Theagenes an oath to the effect that he would respect her virginity until marriage, Charikleia insists on restraining her fiancé’s romantic ardour. Left alone together in the cave after Knemon’s departure the author assures us of the protagonists’ blameless behaviour, albeit in somewhat sensuous language (5.4): ‘They glutted themselves (NRUHQQÚµHQRL) with a pure and virginal love, their moist warm kisses mingling (NHUDQQÚµHQRL), their only union one of chaste kisses.’ For Charikleia the conjugal bond is a spiritual link, one that does not depend on physical consummation. In her conversation with Kalasiris after her grief-stricken reaction to his failure to return with Theagenes, she responds to his rebuke of her silly behaviour with a robust defence of her feelings (6.9). It is not a depraved love, such as the common folk feel, but a chaste longing (NDTDUÒM SÒTRM) for one who is already her husband. If chastity must be elevated to the spiritual plane, this does not preclude an authorial interest in the observation of the proprieties. Charikleia’s awareness of what constitutes acceptable behaviour stands in direct contrast to Chloe’s innocence, and is demonstrated throughout the text. For the heroine modesty can be indicated through stance, (1.21, 5.11), expression (1.20), reaction to the presence of men (1.28, 2.13), and even continued reluctance to mentioning the very fact of her relationship with Theagenes.63 Perhaps the most tangible expression of Heliodoros’ concern with the preservation of his heroine’s maidenly modesty is the manner in which she is consistently segregated from male company, mapped as respectable in the most exceptional and extraordinary circumstances. So, setting out to travel on the road she is decently accompanied by the aged Kalasiris, while her disguise of rags marks her as socially and physically undesirable, and grants her the freedom to journey unmolested (6.11). Newly recognised as the scion of the royal family, her purity established beyond all doubt Charikleia retires to a pavilion, out of the sight of the male populace (10.18). Frantic with worry about the missing Theagenes, she can get no further than the porch of Nausikles’ house (5.34).64 At various other points in the narrative the protagonists require chaperones in the form of Knemon the Athenian

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and Bagoas the Persian eunuch. In the bandits’ hide-out (1.8), as in the houses of Tyrrhenos (5.18) and Nausikles (5.34) the sleeping arrangements are all detailed: though not strictly needed for plot development the author feels obliged to emphasise the fact that Charikleia sleeps well apart from the men. Such obvious and serious concern with acceptable manifestations of female behaviour is significant. Coupled with Heliodoros’ equally tenacious concern with purity this has, in the past been ascribed to a possible Christian influence,65 though an examination of the extent to which the heroine transcends the bounds of normative female behaviour in other respects might actually prove more pertinent. Just as in her bravery, spirit and exceptional eloquence the author has created a potentially countercultural anomaly, Charikleia’s extreme modesty acts as an effective counterbalance to ensure her ultimate conventionality. Power If Charikleia’s strength of character is obvious, the extent to which she negotiates the delicate boundaries of acceptable behaviour is less immediately apparent. For example, her eloquence is striking, but it is rarely employed in the public sphere. While she has no qualms about arguing with her adoptive father Charikles in private, employing the self-same rhetorical devices he has taught her to best him in the discussion about marriage (2.33), her address to the group of bandits demonstrates a keen awareness of male attitudes to female speech (1.21–2): ‘It would have been more appropriate for my brother Theagenes here to speak, for I think that silence becomes a woman and a man must answer among men.’ It is also striking that while she is more than capable, like the other heroines, of delivering forthright statements of her loyalty or chastity (1.2), the power of her voice is not confined to such pronouncements. Her assured, confident and irony-laden speech to Kybele (7.21) underlines the impression of the heroine as a force to be reckoned with. Direct force, however, is something that the heroine, like her other counterparts, gets few chances to employ. Her skill at archery does allow her to make a decisive contribution to the pirates’ brawl, killing many of the combatants,66 but the identification of this form of weaponry with Artemis, coupled with Charikleia’s ability to avoid directly sullying her hands with blood, renders her actions acceptable. Authorial discomfort with even masculine heroics notwithstanding, other incidents seem engineered to emphasise feminine frailty. For example, in 2.19 Charikleia is characterised as someone who cannot walk long distances, and in 8.14 even riding a long way pushes her to the limits of endurance. For Heliodoros femininity may be associated with physical, or, in the case of the antagonists, moral weakness; a fact which renders the presentation of the heroine’s intelligence and spirit even more remarkable. Charikleia’s intelligence is given great prominence throughout the text, but while some mention is made of her learning (2.33, 4.7),67 far more emphasis is given to her cunning and ability to read others. Her speech before the bandits demonstrates a masterly understanding of traditional male attitudes, and allows her to deceive them

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easily by playing up to their image of the submissive and compliant female (1.21–2). Her explanation of her behaviour to the frightened Theagenes gives the author further opportunity to place emphasis on her depth of human understanding. She explains (1.26): ‘Resistance, as you know, only increases the force of a violent passion whereas apparent submission can check the first impulse of desire and the allurement of promises dulls the pangs of lust.’ Such a sententious announcement underscores her complete confidence and composure, but lays her open to the charge of having compromised her humanity. Further evidence of her confident manipulation of events such as her pretended acquiescence in Kybele’s plan (7.21), and her caution regarding the revelation of her identity to her parents (9.24), punctuates the plot at regular intervals with constant reminders of her inherent superiority. Displays of jealousy perhaps help to create an impression of human failings (2.8, 7.26), though vivid demonstrations of personal bravery, such as her behaviour on the pyre (8.9) elevate her once more beyond the level of mere mortals. An immensely powerful figure in a number of respects, though ultimately obedient to many of the strictures of patriarchal society, her very power diminishes her as a person. Composed, supremely self-assured and tremendously exacting in the standards she applies to herself and others, she loses credibility as a human female. Heliodoros may have created a heroine more powerful than any other, but there is certainly a sense where he has ceased to talk about real women at all.

Interpretative strategies Women on the edge – the heroines of the fragments While our examination has emphasised that each heroine stands out as an individual literary creation, it has also amply demonstrated the truth of the well-worn banality regarding the heroines’ obvious superiority. Kallirhoe may not be powerful in the same way as Charikleia, but there are certainly sufficient similarities in the portrayal, or, to gauge the matter in slightly different terms, the use of femininity across the range of canonical texts, to justify their discussion as a group. However, before I start upon any possible explanation, or further exploration of this ‘superiority’, I would like to borrow from Heliodoros’ narrative technique: to establish definitively what the heroines are, it first pays to delineate what they are not. My earlier chapter on ‘Contextualising the feminine’ having to some extent at least explored how the novelistic heroines differed from earlier models of Greek womanhood, I now wish to focus upon the heroines’ closest literary relations: the heroines of the fragments. The fragments, of course, pose their own very real problems of interpretation: lacunae are tempting spaces to be filled with academic conjecture. From this manyhued literary mosaic, however, it is possible to discern a generally familiar image from those fragments which have been attached to the label ‘ideal’.68 So, in Ninus, one of the earliest examples of the genre, columns A IV and A V provide us with a picture

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of a painfully shy heroine, who is too tongue-tied to speak of her marriage with the hero to her Aunt Thambe: The girl may have had similar feelings, but did not have the same freedom of speech to address Thambe, because as an unmarried girl she lived in the women’s quarters and could not construct plausible arguments on her own behalf. So asking for an opportunity to speak she cried, and wished to say something, but stopped before she had properly begun. (Ninus A IV 20–9) Given that, from the admittedly scarce fragments we possess, the male protagonist appears to conform more closely to the epic model of warrior-hero, the heroine’s extreme passivity may point to a more complete polarisation of gender roles than is the case in the fully extant novels. This apparent polarisation could well be attributed to the author’s closer reliance on earlier literary models such as the Cyropaedia which were primarily oriented towards adventure and warfare.69 Other heroines demonstrate a spirit equal to, or in some cases greater than the heroines of the extant romances. So, Kalligone reacts violently when a man called Eubiotos removes her sword to prevent her harming herself (PSI 981: 35–42): ‘I am no Amazon, no Themisto, but Kalligone the Greek, with a spirit no weaker than that of an Amazon. Go and bring me the sword, or I will kill you with my hands.’ Though both Anthia and Charikleia are capable of killing those who threaten their chastity and well-being, this threat of barely contained physical violence is subtly different. Sinonis, the heroine of Iamblichus’ romance, is also characterised by spirited and violent behaviour that would seem to set her apart from the other novelistic heroines. The fairly full account of the narrative that survives in Photius’ Bibliotheca 94 provides us with a picture of a woman prepared to deceive a would-be seducer before killing him with a sword as he lies in a drunken stupor (76b). Sinonis is also possessed of an extreme jealousy normally only exhibited by the antagonists of an ideal romance. So, she has to be restrained from killing the woman who tends to the wounded hero Rhodanes (77b), and is also prepared to marry the King of Syria out of a desire for revenge on the hero (77b). Sinonis thus stands as a literary creation distinct even from the indomitable Charikleia. She lacks the modesty and sense of loyalty so intrinsic to the portrayal of the other heroines, and serves to highlight their essential conventionality. Femininity is not utilised in the same manner in this text as in the extant novels: the heroine’s independence means that she cannot function as confirmation of male subjectivity. However, this very independence is of great interest in light of the apparent increase in women’s socio-economic freedoms in the period. The variations in representations of femininity that the fragments offer may even go some way to confirm the notion that the five canonical texts stand on their own as a homogenous group.

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The chaste woman – eighteenth and nineteenth century paradigms While a comparison to the heroines of the fragments should have helped to establish the extent to which the novelistic heroines act to confirm male subjectivity, another ‘control’ is needed in our examination of the novels’ obsession with (or even fetishisation of) chastity. It may, perhaps, be considered a provocative gesture to use as this control novels from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a time period oft trumpeted as the era of the sexual double standard, and the monolithic oppression of women. ‘Victorian England’, like ‘Ancient Greece’, that satisfyingly whole and stable entity established by the scholarship as an appropriate site for the study of gender, must be approached with care by anyone engaged in a study of sexual ideology. It is certainly not my intention here to claim that ‘Victorian attitudes to female chastity’ can easily be recovered from my chosen texts, any more than the Greek novels can provide us with an unclouded mirror on the past. Pamela70 and Tess of the D’Urbevilles71 do, however, share as literary creations a concern with the physical integrity of the heroines that does provide a fairly clear window on some of the contradictions and ambiguities inherent in the sexual ideology of the period. This in turn should help us to clarify how chastity does function as a controlling narrative force in the Greek novels: to be sure about what chastity is, it is easier to be clear about what it is not. The first striking feature about Richardson’s novel is its subtitle, Virtue Rewarded. Poor Pamela Andrews, the maidservant, struggles valiantly against the repeated attempts of her master Mr B, to ‘ruin’ her, and make her his mistress. Finally, by resisting all these attempts and putting such a high premium on her ‘honour’, she is rewarded, both financially and socially by becoming Mr B’s wife. Richardson’s novel was castigated in some quarters of the contemporary literary world for its ‘levelling’ tendencies, and was regarded as revolutionary in that he was seemingly encouraging even the lowest classes of women to set great store on virginity until marriage. However, what might strike the modern reader most forcibly is the inequality in the relationship between Pamela and Mr B, compared to the central relationships in the Greek novels, made more obvious by the difference in age and status as well as moral worth. Mr B may confess to Pamela, when he has secured her consent to marry that (301): ‘I love you with a purer flame than ever I knew in my whole life.’ However, he still recognises Pamela as his moral superior, and his previous moral inferiority is stressed by the mentions made of his affair with Sally Godfrey. His servants don’t consider him a seasoned rake by the standards set for the gentry, but his complete lack of moderation in his pursuit of Pamela marks him out as a very different creature from the heroes of the Greek novels. The union of Pamela and Mr B is not intended to be a partnership of equals. When he decides to marry Pamela he sets down a list of rules which she joyfully accepts and codifies. Her moral worth is important, but she still must happily embrace her complete subordination to her moral inferior. She may still, however, be rescued by the ‘resisting reader’, through the power of her voice. Although as a social inferior she is frequently reminded that she should be meek and voiceless even in the face of such unfair treatment, she is voluble on the

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subject of her chastity, both in her forceful speeches to B, and in the letters she is constantly writing. The psychologising tendencies of eighteenth and nineteenth century fiction of course mean that Pamela’s interior life is depicted in far more detail than is the case with any of the heroines of the Greek novel. However, just as she emerges more clearly as subject, her acceptance of her subordination in marriage to her moral inferior strikes a discordant note after the relative moral equality of the novels. Turning now to Tess of the D’Urbevilles, and leaping forward in time some 150 years to the end of the Victorian age, we find in place of a woman elevated by the ideal of chastity a heroine destroyed by the ideology of purity and passivity. Tess is the story of a young and beautiful peasant girl who is seduced by the almost comically melodramatic villain Alec Stoke-D’Urbeville, and is later rejected by her hypocritical husband Angel Clare when she confesses her ‘sin’ to him on their wedding night. This in turn sets a tragic series of events in motion leading eventually to Tess’s murder of Alec, and her own execution. To this story Hardy provocatively added the subtitle A Pure Woman. It is interesting that the story provoked such differing reactions on its publication with both fiercely anti-feminist and feminist critics finding something to praise. Throughout the novel Tess is identified with nature, which led some to interpret Tess’s ‘fall’ as indicative of the natural weakness and inferiority of woman. On the other hand, one could read her as a second Chloe, her behaviour as mirroring the innocence of nature, with her problems only stemming from the construction that society put on what had happened. The mixed narrative cues perhaps stem from Hardy’s own confused reaction to contemporary sexual ideology which was seeking to absorb Darwinist theories of nature. However, the shifting focus and the contradictions in logic, so familiar from our study of the Greek novel, and which Boumelha (1982: 132) has identified as threatening the coherence of the narrative voice, do allow us the opportunity to read against the text. Thus, when for Angel, Tess is ‘no longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman – a whole sex condensed into one typical form … He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names’ Tess is allowed to reassert her identity, her sense of self as a woman, with all her faults rather than an ideal: ‘ “Call me Tess”, she would say askance, and he did’ (135). At the end of the Victorian age an author is trying to argue, however incoherently, for a different measure of a woman’s moral worth, rather than simple chastity. The privilege of moral integrity awarded to Pamela has become an insupportable burden for Tess. The Greek novels do not deal in such uncertainties, and in some senses are not so focused upon women at all. While the heroine is undoubtedly superior to the hero in terms of standards of sexual continence, the code of chastity is not simply inscribed upon her body, but is rather diffused through the text so that the whole becomes suffused with an aura of VZIURVÚQK.72 The different ways in which chastity is formulated within the texts, as loyalty, physical integrity, innocence or purity demonstrate an on-going dialogue on the subject of self-control, discourse as much playful as serious (Goldhill 1995: 4). This discourse is as much concerned with class and race as with gender, and is certainly not couched in the same terms as the

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seeming nineteenth century preoccupation with the meaning of female physical integrity. That in both societies female chastity could function as a sign integral to that society’s formulation of identity is not in doubt. However, in the Greek novel there appears the sense that the link between female subjectivity and the power derived from their chastity is tenuous at best: the more obvious power that they possess has somehow become abstracted from the female body and attached to the sign of femininity. Sexing the novel – re-coding the ‘readership’ debate At the risk of some slight repetition, it is worth addressing the old ‘female readership’ hypothesis once more, this time with specific relation to the heroines, if only because it is an interpretative strategy which refuses to be put to rest. My readings of the individual heroines have not only highlighted a sometimes remarkable difference in tone and emphasis between the different authors, but have also focused on the tensions and contradictions inherent in each text’s construction of the feminine. So, in Chariton’s novel the reader not only gets a glimpse of the heroine’s thoughts, a narrative technique surely designed to enhance sympathy and the possibility of identification, but also of her body, as she is displayed through the eyes of the admiring attendants in the bath scene. If scholars have recovered the ‘muted’ text, or in Fetterly’s terms have become ‘resisting readers’,73 this cannot negate the dominant text, the constant reminders of the restrictions on feminine activity, the almost casual misogyny and violence, the strong streak of conventionality, especially when compared to the truly ‘subversive’ Christian texts. It is not my intention here to deny the possibility that women could have formed part of the potential readership. Indeed, there are many occasions in the genre when the heroines’ spirit, intelligence and generosity could have provided opportunities for identification or wish fulfilment. However, it is vital to remember that these positive qualities, not generally exhibited in a display of selfish independence, could often equally well function as an expression of a male ideal of femininity. Elsom states: Callirhoe and the other heroines of romance offer themselves willingly to confirm the phallus, the male subjectivity of men who feel insecure. For women readers, they offer themselves as models of strength and subjectivity who nevertheless willingly take their place in the patriarchal order. (Elsom 1992: 229) Perhaps it is more fruitful to code the readership argument in a new way. Instead of seeking out elements, that, coloured by our present cultural expectations, make best sense when attached to the labels ‘male’ and ‘female’, we might be better employed in a recognition of the competing claims of patriarchal and personal values. I now wish to focus on a statement made by Elsom (1992: 227), that to make a woman the centre of a narrative in a patriarchal culture is both conformist and transgressive. This genre, in its sometime willingness to let these pretty pictures,

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these objects of male gaze and contemplation speak out forcefully, appears to be compounding the initial transgression. The heroines’ supremacy in the emotional sphere and the area of social interaction demonstrates a possible subversive streak, which is nonetheless accompanied by a strong desire to keep these strong creatures hemmed in by convention. Women in the wild – liminality and gender inversion We are making a vitally important step towards understanding the representation of the female protagonists, or indeed any literary creation, if we determine that there is no single magic key with which to unlock all the subtle nuances in presentation. It is my intention here, then, not to propose one fundamental solution, but rather to uncover another layer of meaning in the text, and establish another way of making sense of the apparent inversion of traditional gender roles. In a recent article Dowden has utilised the anthropological concept of ‘liminality’ in his exploration of initiation patterns in ritual, myth and certain narrative forms, including the epic and novel. He identifies as important the area in actual ritual between the rites of separation and incorporation in which the initiate is freed from the system and its usual constraints (1999: 224): ‘this “liminal” period may be characterised by marginal locations and inverse practices: place and behaviour are distanced from the central and the standard’. This notion of liminality would provide one explanation for the novelistic protagonists’ apparent departure from traditional gender roles: in a wilderness peopled by those whose behaviour encapsulates the antithesis of civilised values they are free to deviate from normative gender behaviour.74 Crowd scenes at the protagonists’ departure and return thus find new significance as markers of separation and re-incorporation.75 To the objection that other forms of literature do not exhibit initiatory patterns or role inversion to the same extent as epic and the novel, we may counter with the observation that the dynamics of travel, integral to these narrative forms, are similar to those of the rites of passage (Van Gennep 1960: 35–8; Dowden 1999: 228). We do not have to posit a direct and exact influence of a particular ritual on the novel, in order to recognise that the constituent elements of the rites may constitute a set of signs in a shared intertext, that may be drawn upon by the writers of novels, as by the makers of myths. Dowden (1999: 239) states: ‘The rite of passage is a framework for experience, a “myth” or an intertext, which is capable of being meaningfully identified across a huge range of human thought, activity and literary production.’ Such an admission does not, of course, have to deny historical specificity. This appeal to a shared intertext perhaps means that any deviation from normal expectations of feminine behaviour will always jar less when it occurs in the so-called ‘liminal space’. However, it cannot provide a full explanation for the heroines’ curious mix of conventional and counter-cultural traits. The complex process of literary creation cannot be explained away as one or two simple ‘influences’, and so we must

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continue with our pragmatic and eclectic utilisation of different theories to come closer to an understanding of the way that the feminine works in this genre. The sacred and profane The study of the individual heroines has proved that the association of the female protagonist with the divine holds true right across our range of texts. This of course does not necessarily have to lead to a wholehearted acceptance of Merkelbach’s equation of the heroine with the goddess Isis. On the other hand we would do well to heed Dowden’s (1996: 285) warning that the current critical climate is susceptible to underrating the philosophical (and religious) significance of ancient texts: it would be easy to go too far to the other extreme and dismiss the references to various deities as rhetorical flippancy. Perhaps we also need to make a conceptual leap when considering the nature of religion. For example, Doody’s (1996: 172) acceptance of the novels as ‘religious’ has more in common with Foucault’s hypothesis of a new emphasis on the self, than with Merkelbach’s theory of the novels as religious tracts: ‘Novels, supporting our private allegories with their own, persuade us that self-consciousness is valuable and the “self” worthwhile … To love oneself is, like loving God or one’s neighbour, a religious activity.’ Such an approach allows Doody to smooth over any objections to the idea that the work of the wickedly subversive Achilles Tatius could be considered ‘religious’. This elevation of the self can equally well be proclaimed in a ‘comic and unpriestly voice’. She is quick to identify an association with the holy in all that may be called feminine in the novel. To isolate the feminine as a sign which, in life, as in literature may have multiple, and sometimes contradictory associations, may be an ultimately more fruitful way of examining the question than a straightforward reading of the heroine as Isis. If we can accept the Foucaultian vision of an increasing emphasis on the self, on the subject as individual, in the first few centuries CE, then perhaps we can entertain the possibility that the feminine, as traditionally associated with the personal, could, in some contexts gain a greater emphasis as a projection or articulation of this self.76 In this milieu the growing popularity of the mystery religions can also be read as symptomatic of this new emphasis on the individual. The powerful image of Isis may go on to imbue certain formulations of the feminine with a renewed mystical charge. The novels, as literature intended for extended private reading and contemplation, favour the feminine as the most suitable expression of the personal, and the ultimate expression of the cult of personality – the romantic. However, the connection of the feminine with the personal is as unstable in the genre as it would be in life, as another examination of the religious dimension of the novel will clearly demonstrate. On many occasions when the heroine is identified with a particular goddess she functions as spectacle for the masses. At a festival or other public gathering the heroine’s divine appearance serves to underline the inherent superiority of the upper classes to which she belongs. The wonderment of

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the mob, and their inability to identify her or ‘read’ her correctly only serves to emphasise the vast social divide. The heroine’s chastity or divine purity is also important in this context. Time and again the heroine’s fidelity is proved in the public sphere. The heroine can thus be seen to function as the visible sign of the integrity and superiority of the élite.77 Her dazzling appearance at a festival, coupled with her inherent modesty operates in a similar manner to the civic benefactions of upper class women: honour is conferred on the male relatives through a display in the public domain which also emphasises traditionally feminine virtues. The fact that the superiority of the heroine is often defined through her relation to the barbarian male or male authority figure is another telling point, and one upon which I will elaborate further in later chapters.

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Measuring masculinity – ideologically invested assessments A complete examination of the construction of feminine experience in the Greek novel appears to demand a complementary study of the various manifestations of the masculine encountered in the narratives. To concentrate purely on the feminine runs the risk of repeating the mistakes of early feminist criticism and seeking to understand conceptions of what ‘woman’ might mean in isolation, when uncovering the operation of gender as a coherent relational sign system is actually more helpful. While Chapter 6 will take as its focus the other roles assigned to men in the novels, in this chapter I will be concentrating on the male protagonists and attempting to articulate what heroism means in the genre. Recent scholarship has generally not deviated far from Rohde’s assessment of the heroes as ‘schwachlich’ or weakly (1914: 356), especially when compared to the unusually strong heroines. Although attempts are occasionally made to exonerate individuals from charges of weakness and cowardice, a recent example being MacAlister’s more positive interpretation of Chaireas’ suicide attempts (1996: 28), the weight of opinion is generally lined up squarely against them. So Anderson (1982: 88, 1984: 64) finds Chaireas and Theagenes particularly weak and puppet-like, while Bowie comments that set beside Kallirhoe ‘Chaereas is a feeble figure’ (1985: 689) and Johne (1996: 178) regards all the heroes as ‘colourless, nearly unimportant and often absolutely well-behaved’. However, regardless of the dismay expressed by modern day scholars, this particular representation of the masculine was obviously expected to commend itself to the élite male readership, with the image of the hero remaining remarkably consistent, as we shall see, from Chariton through to Heliodoros, despite changes in tone and emphasis. This is not, of course, to claim anything so simple as a direct reader identification, or to suppose that the male protagonists accurately reflect received notions about what constitutes acceptable modes of male behaviour. Instead, just as proved possible in our study of the heroines, we might better visualise how these representations are mediated through a wider and potentially more complex discourse of self-construction. The novels do not function in the same manner as a Plutarchan treatise, or a work on physiognomy in the sense that they do not purport to offer a programmatic definition or exploration

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of correct behaviour, or self-regulation on an individual basis. They are not ‘conduct manuals’ or improvement literature, and yet, as narratives intended for ‘pure’ entertainment, recurring patterns of characterisation may come to express, in a formulaic manner, important truths about how the élite male viewed himself, or his culture, in relation to the wider world. If we are prepared to treat novelistic manifestations of masculinity not as a given, but as a construct determined by a number of inter-related factors, we should be equally as willing to de-construct the standpoint from which we usually judge these behaviours. Thus Egger is right to ask, Is the brunt of conventional criticism partly based on the Greek novel ideal of ‘She was the purpose of his whole life’ (X 5.8.2) – a highly ‘unmasculine’ orientation, if seen from modern male scholars’ standards and cultural androcentrism (particularly Protestant work ethics)? (Egger 1990: 185) In addition to the problems presented by any definitions of masculinity, we also again encounter the difficulty of laying bare the set of tacit assumptions that inevitably accompany any invocation of the word ‘novel’. The male protagonists can thus be dismissed as uninteresting because they do not demonstrate enough development, in a manner that would seem to suggest that Homer’s creation must be artistically compromised for not exhibiting the complex nuances of, for example, James Joyce. In contrast, a more recent approach, such as that of Billault (1996: 127–8) actually seeks to claim for the Greek novel that very template of psychological development, in order to explain away any awkward inconsistencies in characterisation. In asserting, as I have done, that the novels aspire to a fair degree of sophistication and erudition, I do not claim for this genre an anomalous interest in the subtle delineation of a character’s inner life, that we have come to expect from those pieces of fiction we currently designate ‘literature’. On the other hand, the ahistoricity of such approaches must be set against their undoubted merit of treating individual characters as discrete literary phenomena. The wider explanatory frameworks of Hellenistic myth (Perry, Reardon) and Mysterientexte (Merkelbach) that have, in the past, been utilised to rationalise the heroes’ apparent weakness cannot hope, on their own, to account for all the contradictions and differences in portrayal. My own approach, then, strives to be in sympathy with the heroes as literary construction, but also hopes to be alive to all those factors, whether psychological or socio-historical, that may be viewed as shaping the text. In advocating such eclectic pluralism I am, at the very outset, negating the possibility of locating the one totalising theory that can somehow account for the genre’s construction of masculine behaviours. Instead, as was the case with the female protagonists, a multiplicity of methods allows us to come closer to deciphering some of the conflicting textual cues regarding masculinity in the novels. The starting point for this study must, as always, consist in a careful examination of shared characteristics and recurrent narrative

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patterns, with an emphasis on how these privileged modes of behaviour compare to those favoured in the representation of the heroines. The relative homogeneity of the heroes’ portrayal, in comparison with their female counterparts, renders a thematic approach more practicable, and will prepare the ground for a brief comparative study that will aid our investigation of the extent to which the novel might actually subvert traditional expectations of masculinity.

Constructions of novelistic heroism Heroic qualifications The one defining characteristic of heroism, whatever the particular generic or social codes in operation at any given time, has to be the hero’s segregation from the crowd. Hero is another word, like novel, that can conjure up a whole set of normative expectations, which is why ‘male protagonist’ may often function as a more neutral and therefore helpful appellation. However, in this case it is imperative that we at first seek to uncover those often unacknowledged assumptions that have attached themselves to the conjunction of the two signifiers ‘classical’ and ‘hero’. Since Homer has become the benchmark for assessments of ‘heroic’ behaviour in Greco-Roman antiquity, it seems appropriate first to delineate the manner in which the Homeric hero is perceived as being ‘set apart’. Redfield provides a useful summary: The anonymous mass may appear on the battlefield, but … battles are won and lost by those who step forward from the mass, the promachoi, those who ‘fight among the foremost’ … heroism is for Homer a definite social task, and the heroes are a definite social stratum. The name is given to those who are, have been, or will be warriors. (Redfield 1994: 99) This brand of active heroism is something that will be examined with regard to the novelistic heroes in the next sub-section, though it is fair to note now that ability as a warrior or as a speaker does not function as the primary emblem of superiority in the genre. Instead, the principal markers of separation and predominance in this particular narrative reality are high birth and outstanding physical attractiveness. Here again though, as in epic, the crowd perform an important thematic function in that they are there not merely to provide background colour, but to define and magnify the protagonists’ greatness (Billault 1996: 116).1 If beauty and breeding have become the indicators par excellence of the main focus of narrative interest, it is worthy of note that in nearly all cases it is the heroines who are endowed not only with greater beauty, but also higher social standing. The centrality of the heroines to the narrative structure of the novels has already received a fairly thorough discussion in the individual treatments of each character. However, it does seem worthwhile here to focus upon those initial descriptive details which may act as narrative pointers to the relative importance of the protagonists.

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To illustrate, while Chaireas’ attractiveness is like that of ‘Achilles and Nireus and Hippolytos and Alkibiades’ Kallirhoe resembles ‘the maiden Aphrodite herself’ (1.1). Despite the impressive catalogue of names, it is made clear from the beginning that Chaireas is an extremely handsome mortal while Kallirhoe’s appearance blurs the distinction between the human and the divine. Kallirhoe’s superiority is again evident in terms of social standing. While Chariton is at pains to demonstrate that Chaireas is indeed a worthy suitor for Kallirhoe in that ‘His father Ariston was second only to Hermokrates in Syracuse’ (1.1) it is the heroine whose father is the famed military leader, and the author again demonstrates the distance between the two in Ariston’s own awareness of the social divide (1.1). He warns his son that: ‘It is certain that Hermokrates would never give his daughter to you, since he has so many rich and royal suitors for her. You must not even try to win her, in case we are publicly humiliated.’ The gulf between hero and heroine is again apparent in the Aithiopika. In the description of the Delphic procession, we are explicitly informed of the impression that Theagenes made upon the crowd (3.3): ‘just like a flash of lightning he obscured everything we had seen before, such was the extent he dazzled our vision’. However, the feelings of awe and admiration generated in both the crowd and the reader are almost immediately capped by the appearance of Charikleia (3.4): … when the wise and beautiful Charikleia came out of the temple of Artemis we then realised that it was possible for Theagenes to be surpassed, but only surpassed in the sense that sheer female beauty is more attractive than the first among men. (Aithiopika, 3.4) Again, it is the heroine who is of higher rank; Theagenes, as leader of a band of Thessalian youths on a mission to Delphi, must be of reasonably high status, yet Charikleia is discovered to be heir to the Ethiopian throne. This apparent inequality is perhaps not as marked in the other novels, and yet, even in these cases features of the narrative, such as the amazing effect that the heroines’ beauty has on so many admirers, serve to focus reader attention on the heroine from the outset. The question of social status, which might fairly be assumed to have a greater ideological centrality to appreciations of worth in patriarchal society, is not as clear cut, though even here there might be some small indications of female superiority.2 For example, in Leukippe and Kleitophon Hippias, Kleitophon’s father, possesses a sizeable estate; Leukippe’s father Sostratos is Hippias’ half-brother and can therefore be assumed to be of similar standing. However, the outbreak of war which causes Sostratos to assume the responsibilities of a leading general, serves to designate him implicitly a more important and resourceful figure. Finally, in Daphnis and Chloe Daphnis’ parents, the estate-owning Dionysophanes and Kleariste are at least as wealthy as Chloe’s father Megakles. However, for much of the narrative he does seem to suffer from the fact that his adoptive slave parents, Lamon and Myrtale, are not as wealthy as Chloe’s foster-parents, Dryas and Nape.

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Active heroism – planning and fighting The initial markers of the protagonists’ superiority thus favour the heroines, and immediately appear to highlight the genre’s ideological distance from epic. However, there are other narrative patterns which, in their partial reproduction of the traditional heroic model, destabilise this first impression, and further problematise how to read the male protagonists. Chaireas is the hero who is the most paradoxical in terms of active heroism, since he is one of the least independent male characters, and yet the one who is allowed the most glorious aristeia. In fact he is the only hero who is given the opportunity to excel in the most traditional of heroic experiences – full scale battle. His lack of independence and general initiative is displayed on many occasions, most notably when it is Kallirhoe who gives him the wise military advice, not to spread the news of the Egyptian defeat (8.2). In fact, it is only during the period of his aristeia, when he is fighting in the Egyptian army, that he is presented as being conspicuously brave and eloquent.3 Psychoanalytical and sociological explanations for this will be offered in later sections, although it is also possible to offer an interpretation on a literary level, based on the influence of earlier fictional forms. Without rehearsing the vexed question of generic origins, it does appear possible to postulate that Chariton, as the author of the earliest extant example of the genre, was perhaps the readiest to draw on such historiographical works as the Cyropaedia. This might help to explain the pressing need he apparently felt to give his hero military experience at the expense of consistent characterisation. If recent scholarship is correct in assuming a very early date for Ninus then this novel could well have bridged the gap between works such as the Cyropaedia and Kallirhoe both in terms of date and relative emphasis on the themes of love and warfare.4 To return to our analysis of the other heroes, Habrokomes is given even less opportunity than Chaireas to display bravery, or an independent spirit. Throughout his adventures he is given almost constant assistance, both human and divine (for example, from Hippothoos in 2.14 and by the Nile God in 4.2), since he is a young and handsome member of the Greek élite, and in the fictional world of the novel, in contrast to that of the Homeric epics, the protagonist does not need to perform conspicuous acts of bravery in order to be thought worthy of the gods’ help. While he is willing to undertake hard physical labour, as demonstrated by his sojourn in the quarries at Nuceria (4.8), he never demonstrates his commitment to Anthia by his willingness to fight against their attackers, passively submitting to Apsyrtos’ tortures (2.6), and begging for mercy when captured by the pirate Korymbos (1.13). Kleitophon also lacks a measure of independence, requiring advice on love from his cousin Kleinias (1.9) and practical help from his slave Satyros during his travels, the most notable incident being his plan to rescue Leukippe from the sacrifice (3.17). The role of the male adviser will be discussed at greater length in Chapter 6, though it is fair to note now that the multiplicity of Kleitophon’s friends only serve, by contrast, to further emphasise the heroine’s isolation and independence. However, the scenes that are engineered to create the most impact are those in which the author

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tweaks the conventions to continually offer us the image of the hero passively enduring physical abuse. This is deliberately exaggerated until the effect becomes grotesque. Thus he submits to Thersandros’ rage on many occasions (5.23, 6.5 and 8.1) and in one memorable scene, when he believes Leukippe dead, is quite willing to allow her father to exact a most gruesome revenge: … and crying aloud and beating himself around the head he rushed at me and almost gouged my eyes out, for I did not prevent him, but presented my face for his violence. (Leukippe and Kleitophon, 7.14) The scenes involving Thersandros outside the temple in particular have provoked radically different responses from scholars. Merkelbach (1962: 152) within the context of his reading of the novel as Mystierentexte stated that [my translation] ‘Kleitophon receives in the temple of Artemis those very blows received by the initiate in the temple of Isis’ and Rohde (1914: 511) was sure that this passage was not intended as parody, yet it is Durham’s (1938: 5) interpretation of this scene as parody which appears to make most sense given the tone of the work as a whole.5 This is not to say that the authorial attitude to the concept of self-control was purely dismissive. Instead, we might better visualise this particular mode of selfpresentation as so integral a part of the discourse of identity surrounding the élite male, that it formed an appropriate target for gentle mockery when subjected to the author’s usual playful exaggeration. This interest in passivity as a badge of breeding is a narrative pattern which also finds expression in the representation of the other male protagonists, although it is not fore-grounded to the same extent. In just the same manner, an aura of youth and innocence also colours their portrayal, though this impression is only fully exploited by Longos, who further emphasises this trait with the addition of a patina of rustic simplicity. The fact that Daphnis is no coward is established in typically ‘artless’ fashion when he climbs the tallest tree to fetch the last remaining apple for Chloe (3.34), and yet he is unable to help himself either when captured by the pirates from Pyrrha (1.28) or by the Methymneans (2.15). He is also established as resourceful and competent enough in his daily tasks, but is in constant need of assistance in the emotional sphere in particular, a fact neatly demonstrated by the way Chloe is rescued from Lampis by Gnathon, when all Daphnis feels capable of doing is standing and loudly bewailing his fate (4.28). Turning now to our last, and most sophisticated author we find a lack of consistency in his hero’s portrayal to rival the somewhat confusing impression given by Chariton. For example, in the battle at Thyamis’ camp Theagenes stays away from the thick of the fighting in order to preserve his life for Charikleia (2.1), but later takes a brave stance when the threatening Thermouthis enters the cave (2.13). He does not strive actively to defend himself and Charikleia when attacked again by bandits (5.7) but shows his mettle by killing Peloros ‘a man of great courage, practised in very many slaughters’ (5.32). Responses to this erratic behaviour have

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varied from an assertion that he represents no more than a stereotyped symbol of chastity (Sandy 1982: 60), to an assumption of a modern model of psychological development (Billault 1996: 127–8). Setting aside for a moment the fact that the impression given is never one of consistent and sustained development (Helms 1966: 120; Sandy 1982: 56), I wish now to explore the idea that such inconsistencies stem not from defects in narrative technique, nor from an authorial lack of interest in the hero, but from a desire to deliberately subvert reader expectation. The manipulation of stereotypes of race6 and gender7 can thus be seen to belong to the author’s drive to unsettle the reader as much as retardation of the plot, and the creation of suspense. This particular conception of Theagenes too can be seen to correspond to this overall scheme. As a man who is willing to abandon his own native land and ambitions in order to follow his future wife, who has extremely high standards regarding his own bodily chastity, and who is brave without being overtly aggressive, he stands as a highly provocative presentation of masculinity. As a coda though, I would suggest that Heliodoros never lets his creation descend to the level of outright mockery. The spirit, strength and intelligence demonstrated in his pursuit of the runaway bull (10.28) and the defeat of Meroebos’ champion (10.32) are important in this context in that they lend him vital credibility at a crucial point in the text (Morgan 1993: 317; Egger 1990: 179). Bravery and independence may not then be antithetical to the novelistic ideal, but neither do they form the ideological focus of the heroes’ characterisation. The thematic centrality given to the concept of honour by Homeric epic is here replaced by loyalty, and a concomitant emphasis on the inviolability of the protagonists’ relationship. However, before I turn to the personal and affective side of the heroes’ portrayal, I am also concerned to establish the generic attitude to that other constituent part of traditional heroism, rhetorical competence. Active heroism – speaking out Turning away for a moment from an examination of the supposed influence of a privileged literary paradigm, we may still find in the first few centuries CE an emphasis on the importance of rhetoric in the education of the élite male, that might lead to an expectation of it functioning as a privileged trait in the heroes’ portrayal. In contrast we find a consistent tendency in the genre to remove eloquence from the public sphere, or to dispense with it altogether as a defining male characteristic. Chaireas shows unease in the civic realm, demonstrating little enthusiasm for addressing a public assembly on two separate occasions until actively encouraged by others. For example, people crowd the theatre on his return from his quest to find Kallirhoe, wishing to hear his news, yet … he did not want to go up onto the speakers’ platform, but stood below. At first he wept for a long time, and though he wished to speak out, he wasn’t able to. The crowd shouted ‘Take heart! Speak!’, so with difficulty he

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looked up. ‘This is a time for mourning’, he said, ‘not for making an oration … (Kallirhoe 3.4) Again, at the end of the novel he is reluctant to tell his tale to the assembled citizens until encouraged by the great Hermokrates himself (8.7). When he does speak in public, it is nearly always in overtly emotional terms; he is not fully in control of events. So, he reacts in a forthright manner when arguing with Dionysios over who is legally married to Kallirhoe (5.8), yet even here he is no wily Odysseus who can use subtlety and charm to win his case, his words alone are not enough to carry the day. The only occasions in which he can be described as eloquent in the Homeric sense, for example, his bold advice to the Egyptian King and his council (7.3) and the subsequent rallying speech to his men, are located within the problematic period of his formal aristeia. Skilful oratory is also noticeably lacking in Habrokomes’ portrayal: he is unable even at a very simple level to put together a convincing enough argument to persuade the pirates to take his paedagogus on board ship (1.14). Despite his pleading with them we are told ‘they paid no attention to his plea’. Unlike Anthia, who must often talk herself out of unpleasant situations such as undesirable marriages, there is no special emphasis placed on Habrokomes’ ability to persuade. Turning next to Kleitophon we should perhaps not be too surprised to discover the most eloquent of the male protagonists, with his speech about Eros having the desired effect of impressing the object of his desires (1.17–18), yet we should not forget that such a set-piece is primarily the means by which the author can demonstrate to best advantage his knowledge of the strange and exotic. Like Kleitophon, any eloquence Daphnis possesses is entirely at the service of love. He can thus relate myths to amuse his beloved, but can only gain enough courage to construct a reasonable speech in his own defence when accused by the Methymneans, when he glances at Chloe. Any impact the speech may have had is surely diminished by his bursting into tears immediately afterwards (2.16).8 Theagenes is perhaps the hero who suffers the most from unkind comparisons to his heroine when discussing the theme of rhetorical excellence. Charikleia is easily able to better Charikles in their debate about marriage, but Theagenes is given no corresponding opportunity to demonstrate his eloquence to such great effect. It must be emphasised that while he is occasionally allowed to make his point in an effective manner (7.25), these outbursts, as with the other heroes, are generally directed to proving his commitment to his beloved rather than demonstrating his superiority in the public realm. Personal relations The two brief surveys of bravery and rhetorical skill undertaken above having established their ideological marginality to the genre, it seems appropriate to assess the heroes’ ability in the area which we have seen privileged in the portrayal of the

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heroines – the realm of personal and affective experience. The heroes’ role within the central relationship requires separate discussion, but first their manner of selfpresentation, and the way in which they conduct themselves in their relations with others merits a thorough examination. The heroines’ remarkable ability to read others and manipulate various situations, at the same time as they defy the readings and interpretations of others has already generated some discussion. At one basic level the close association of the female with duplicity and cunning is unsurprising in any situation where social restrictions are placed on the direct assumption of power by a woman. However, the consistent narrative privileging of this theme does pose some problems for our reading of favoured modes of masculinity in the texts. If, as we suspect, a major ideological shift has occurred whereby the emphasis has moved from the public sphere to the personal realm, then we might reasonably expect to find (on the old hegemonic model of power relations between the sexes) some evidence of male pre-eminence in this newly privileged site. However, an initial glance at the heroes’ manner of self-definition only finds further apparent proof of their inferiority. The heroines of the Greek novel (with the possible exception of the naive Chloe) all possess an innate nobility, linked to their attractiveness, which is at least partially helpful in repelling unwanted advances. The heroes’ assumption of this mantle of nobility is, however, complicated by the complex system of coding that still surrounds male passivity. So, to be quietly compliant in a potentially dangerous situation may confer dignity upon a heroine, that elevated sign of cultural superiority, but can be coded as cowardice in a male subject. Chaireas provides a good example. He is given privileged treatment on campaign, when the Egyptian King deems that he is showing good sense, courage and loyalty (7.2) ‘since he was not without a noble character or education’, yet earlier, when his ship had been captured we were told that he and Polycharmos ‘begged to be sold to one master’ (3.7), an action that while sensible and indicative of a commendable sense of loyalty, lacks the dignity that Chariton seems generally at pains to accord to him, particularly later in the novel. The portrayal of Kleitophon also seems problematic in this respect. His refusal to fight back against Thersandros (5.23) can be read at one level as indicative of a sense of dignity and self control appropriate to his station. Kleitophon, as narrator, himself informs us that ‘I did not defend myself, although I would have been capable of doing so’ and yet he endures so much physical punishment that the effect becomes one of overblown and grotesque passivity. This emphasis on passivity finds slightly different expression in the representation of the male protagonists’ relations with friends and acquaintances, though it is still noticeable in comparison with the heroines’ assured handling of a variety of personal and social situations. So, when Chaireas agrees to send Stateira and Rhodogune back to the King, this is at Kallirhoe’s suggestion (8.3): his initial desire to make them Kallirhoe’s slaves lacking both compassion and foresight. This inability to cope with the diverse situations created by capricious fortune finds further expression in Chaireas’ matchless gullibility – easily being duped by both Mithridates (4.4) and

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Dionysios’ servant (7.1). The other heroes fare no better in this respect, with Habrokomes being particularly deficient: drifting from one crisis to another, he displays little or no initiative or capacity for active decision making. Daphnis is cunning enough to formulate the plan to see Chloe in Winter (3.4) and is knowledgeable on the subject of various myths, such as that of the wood pigeon (1.27), but is easily deceived by the sophisticated Lykainion into believing the story of the eagle and the goose (3.16). Kleitophon too is possessed of a certain amount of natural cunning, as demonstrated by the way he manipulates the bee incident in order to gain a kiss from Leukippe (2.7), but later seems at a loss in how to deal with the blandishments of the sophisticated Melite. Theagenes is clever enough to form his own plan to forestall Achaimenes’ advances to Charikleia (7.26), but his intellect is unable to deal with the demands made upon it by her clever dissembling (1.25). The love-hero It is now time to examine the second part of the affective sphere and establish the extent to which the male protagonists live up to the exacting standards set by the heroines in emotional matters. I will thereby address the question of whether as the male protagonists of a romance, they deserve the appellation ‘love-hero’, which Beye (1969) coined in relation to Jason in the Argonautika. In all the novels there seems to be a perhaps surprising emphasis on self-control for those male characters who regard themselves as ‘civilised’. However, the novels, as products of an androcentric society place much more emphasis on bodily chastity for women, and therefore allow their heroes sexual experiences outside the central relationship as long as these do not compromise the hero’s desire to maintain a permanent relationship with the heroine. For example, Daphnis receives a lesson in sexual technique from Lykainion (3.18), but Longos is careful to maintain an aura of rustic innocence about the whole escapade, with Daphnis almost pathetically grateful for his newly acquired knowledge and eager to return to Chloe to practise the new skill straight away. Kleitophon too gives in to temptation when he sleeps with Melite ‘as a cure for an afflicted soul’ (5.27), but this incident does not affect his sincere desire to remain with Leukippe.9 Chaireas is not tempted by another woman in the course of the narrative, but Kallirhoe hints at his previous sexual experience when she counters his allegations about the riotous party with the suggestion that (1.3): ‘perhaps the doorway to your house is used to revels, and your marriage has upset your lovers (WRÝM ™UDVW£M)’.10 The other heroes do remain resolutely chaste, but even here Habrokomes experiences a moment of weakness as he comes close to giving in to the repulsive Kyno (3.12). Theagenes is permitted a violent outburst in defence of his moral strength when Charikleia suggests that he might sleep with Arsake (7.25), and is also given his moment of glory as he passes the test of the grid-iron at Meroe (10.9), but again he is eclipsed by Charikleia who appears more like a vision of the divine in her own test.

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If the heroes are assigned different standards regarding bodily chastity, if not fidelity, what of the intensity of their love for the heroines? It does appear that here we have discovered the main focus of their characterisation – their sphere of excellence – although as before there are nuances in presentation which mean that it is the heroines who are given the greater emotional strength. However, the particular manifestation of their love for the heroines, including extravagant lamentation and tendency to despair when separated from the object of their desires poses more problems with reference to the expectations surrounding ‘manly’ behaviour. Habrokomes is a fine example of a hero rendered passive from the outset by his love. He is completely captured by Eros and is so much in love with Anthia that he wastes away out of desire for her (1.5) and is later prone to bouts of despair when they are separated (2.8, 3.10, 5.10). His emotional outburst when imprisoned through Manto’s machinations is a fine example of the type of extravagant lamentation which seems to at least partly feminise the heroes: … where is the happiness that we once thought we possessed in Ephesos? Where are the brilliant and admired Anthia and Habrokomes, the beautiful ones? She is living a prisoner in a far off land, and I have been deprived of my only consolation, and will die in prison, miserable and alone. (Ephesiaka 2.8) We are also told that when he is unable at first to find news of Anthia while with Hippothoos’ band ‘he threw himself on the bed and wept, and lay there without taking any food’ (3.9). However, he is not rendered so passive that he ever abandons his search for her, even when he believes her dead and thinks that it is only her corpse that he will be able to embrace (3.10).11 As a coda, though, it must be observed that however sincere and dedicated Habrokomes is portrayed as being, it is Anthia who is allocated the greater glory. For example, at the beginning of the narrative, it may be Habrokomes who speaks first about oaths of chastity, but it is Anthia who speaks at the greatest length, sounding the most vehement in the protestations of her love (1.9). Of the other heroes both Daphnis and Theagenes are prone to bouts of melancholy and attempt to commit suicide on at least one occasion. For Daphnis this is when he prepares to throw himself off a huge rock into the sea at the thought of being carried away to become Gnathon’s play-thing (4.22), and for Theagenes when he wishes to stab himself, while under the delusion that Charikleia lies dead in the blazing bandit village (2.1). Theagenes in particular seems overshadowed by Charikleia’s emotional strength, but both demonstrate an unwavering commitment to their beloved, and again this commitment is often given an outward manifestation in terms of emotional outpourings. Thus Daphnis wails in despair when he hears of Chloe’s abduction: ‘O bitter recognition’, he said. ‘How much better it was to look after the animals, how much happier I was when I was a slave; then I looked on

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Chloe, then I kissed her, but now she lives as Lampis’ prize, and when night falls he’ll sleep with her. Meanwhile I am drinking and living in luxury and the oath I swore to her by Pan and the goats is worthless.’ (Daphnis and Chloe 4.28) Theagenes’ most melodramatic and highly charged speech is ironically given over the dead body of Thisbe, whom he believes is Charikleia: Alas, you do not speak, your prophetic god-inspired voice is silent, darkness holds the bearer of light, chaos has taken possession of the temple guardian; the eyes that dazzled all with their beauty are darkened. Your murderer did not see them, I’m sure of that … O Charikleia, be of good cheer, your beloved is loyal, and you will recover me in a little while. I will make you a grave offering of my own death, and pour you a libation of the blood you love. (Aithiopika 2.4) It is only Kleitophon who can appear less sincere in this respect due to Achilles Tatius’ often ironical treatment of the generic conventions. So, his attitude when Leukippe falls down in a fit is tinged with self-pity (4.9): ‘Why should I continue to live, if Leukippe doesn’t even know that I’m here?’ He also allows himself to be persuaded by Menelaos to keep on living after he believes Leukippe to have died (5.8). Kleitophon thus emerges as much more of a pragmatist in matters of love than the other heroes, although even he is allowed to demonstrate a certain measure of commitment to the heroine through his refusal to consummate his marriage to Melite until they have left the area of Leukippe’s supposed murder. Finally we must turn to Chaireas as the example of the hero whose expression of his commitment to the heroine renders him the most passive and despairing. His refusal to give the usual speech in defence when accused of Kallirhoe’s murder, and his determination that he should be punished provides the ideal opportunity for a highly emotional speech, typical of novelistic heroes: Stone me to death in public: I have robbed the people of their crowning glory. It would be a kindness to hand me over to the public executioner. That would have been my due if I had killed Hermokrates’ slave girl. Search for some unspeakable form of punishment. Don’t bury me, don’t pollute the earth, but plunge my wicked body to the bottom of the sea. (Kallirhoe 1.5) It is, though, the persistent functioning of suicide as the sole perceived solution to his problems that appears to mark him as the most passive of the heroes.12 The question now seems to be what the original readership might have thought of his apparent predilection for suicide. Of course, this is impossible to answer with any degree of certainty, although Walcot does provide some interesting (and often

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conflicting) evidence. For example, he cites the contradictory views found in the tragedians: According to a fragment of Euripides (fr 1070 N2 ) it is folly to believe suicide the answer to anguish; yet a fragment of Aeschylus tells us that death is preferable to a painful life (fr 401 N2) while a snippet of Sophocles claims that whoever loves life in the midst of evils is either a coward or unfeeling (fr 866 N2 ). (Walcot 1986: 235) In the face of such a confusing melange of detail perhaps we would do better to re-trace our steps and relativise our position. Does posing the original question at all bespeak more of a modern anxiety with the topic, implicitly conditioned by the strong feelings engendered by Christian doctrine? Perhaps we need to look for clues in those narrative patterns internal to the text: there is no criticism either implicit or explicit of behaviour we might choose to term cowardly.13 Following Schmeling (1974: 133) I am inclined to believe that Chaireas’ role as a love-hero or ‘romantic aristocrat’ means that he must be judged by his commitment to the heroine, and his desire to end his life if left without her is a measure of this commitment.14 Modern unease with the extravagance of these laments should also benefit from reassessment in this context. Birchall (1996: 2) has made the useful observation that many novelistic laments take the form of a rhetorical exercise called êthopoiia. Skill in the composition of these exercises would have been acquired during a rhetorical education and so demonstrate the authors’ erudition and ability to manipulate emotion through rhetorical display. Bearing this in mind, we must surely reconsider the coding given these outpourings of grief when ascribed to the heroes. Instead of the modern disdain at proof of apparent weakness, the place of the lament within the education of the élite male might well have ensured that such emotional displays engendered less unease in the primary intended readership. This is not to say, though, that the novelists do not, on occasion, revel in the melodramatic opportunities generated by the heroes’ commitment to their love. This particular brand of masculinity may well be deliberately intended to provoke some level of wry amusement, but the underlying generic commitment to the ideal of a sincere love is not completely compromised: a fact best illustrated by comparison to other Classical genres.15

Interpretative strategies Sincerity in love Having attempted to define accurately what heroism means in the Greek novel, my task is now to assess the extent to which this is a distinctive configuration of masculine identity. Since love forms the ideological focus of their characterisation, it seems appropriate to initiate my search for comparanda in the fields of love elegy, and

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Hellenistic epic: genres notable for their subversion of masculine/heroic roles. In particular, the unusual passivity and sincerity exhibited by the heroes within the central relationship will form the basis of my study. Turning first to the tradition of love poetry, we find countless examples of representations of disappointed love which could have provided formulae for the scenes of lamentation which punctuate the novel at regular intervals.16 However, despite protestations of true feelings, and expressions of bitterness and regret, we also encounter an unfamiliar distancing between the ‘ego’ and his grief, exacerbated by the technique of first person narration. Just as the ego-narrative of Achilles Tatius threatened to deny Leukippe’s subjectivity, so can the lavish lamentations of elegaic poetry function as a reassertion of the traditional balance of power within a relationship. Kennedy notes: The lover, by making such a spectacle of his suffering, and by implying that this pain is knowingly inflicted by someone hard-hearted, is trying to impose on the beloved a self-image of hard-heartedness which she may well wish to reject as not being ‘really’ her. (Kennedy 1993: 73) This display of pain is thus associated with the issue of control in a manner which is not a factor in the protagonists’ relationship.17 Buffeted by fate the heroes offer up their feelings of sorrow as a sign of their commitment to the beloved, rather than evidence of the asymmetrical nature of their bond. The elegaic lover manipulates and controls the image of the puella as much as he casts himself in the role of slave. In contrast, the part-knowledge of current events that Kleitophon possesses only serves to highlight the poetic persona’s omniscience: lacking the ability to provide a neutral relativising gloss on the entire situation his role as reluctant voyeur is imbued with a measure of vulnerability and sincerity.18 The narrative form and content of the Argonautika make it a useful comparand: a sustained tale of a hero embarking on a long and hazardous adventure, and succeeding in his task due to the love and help of a maiden later to become his wife, it might well have influenced the novelists in its general scheme. Jason’s resourcelessness does appear to put him in the same category as the male protagonists; for example his reaction, paralysed by helplessness when his crew realise they have inadvertently abandoned Herakles should seem strangely familiar to readers of the Greek novels (2.1286). The fact that Jason does not conform to the standards of independence and bravery set by the heroes of Homeric epic has, in the past, necessitated the creation of a new category of heroism in which he could be situated. Thus Beye (1969: 43) coined the term love-hero, and attempted to show that the emotional was firmly established as Jason’s sphere of excellence.19 He states that after the weaknesses he has displayed at the beginning of the epic: ‘another kind of Jason emerges, a more positive man, and here he is associated with love. Jason is more formally heroic on the Homeric model, specifically when he goes forth to an audience with the princess Hypsipyle.’

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However, Lawall (1966: 166) is surely right to point out the immediate destabilising effect of any reading of the scenes upon Jason’s cloak: ‘The scenes teach success and survival – distinctly unheroic goals.’ Jason turns out to be even more of a pragmatist in these matters than Kleitophon, and is prepared to make use of both Hypsipyle and Medea to ensure a successful journey. He may be initially attracted by the intensity of Medea’s love for him, but he has no sincere commitment to her, and is later prepared to abandon her to ensure his own safety and that of his crew.20 Theodorakopoulos (1998: 196) has clearly identified the focus of the poem: ‘Medea’s love for Jason, and his love for the princess, appear … to be surrounded by anxiety and doubt. The wedding is clearly neither a nostos or telos, in the sense of a goal, of the poem.’ This is in clear contrast to the novels, where an equal and mutual desire is the focus, and the weddings/final unions do form a telos. Jason is a hero with few principles and therefore is an appropriate protagonist for a narrative which has a much darker view of the world than anything found in the Greek novels. Paradigms of passivity The complete passivity of the heroes having been thrown into sharp relief by the manipulations of the elegaic personae and the pragmatism of the aheroic Jason, it now seems useful to attempt to situate this passivity more generally within the contemporary discourse on self-control. The Cyropaedia has been chosen for comparison for two reasons. Firstly, despite its early date in relation to the novels Holzberg (1995: 41–2) has suggested that it was a major source of inspiration for the earlier novelists, and second, the basic premise of a ruler’s education allows for a full and interesting exploration of desirable male traits. Due (1989: 159) has pointed out that Xenophon’s attitude to aggressive behaviour can be clearly seen in the shaping of the plot. Thus, instead of being presented as an aggressor against Media, Cyrus becomes an ally and defender. Self-control is an important theme; as an ideal it occurs several times when Cyrus sets forth his philosophy (Cyropaedia 7.5, 75: 1 and 8.1, 31: 1), and yet Xenophon is careful to point out that there are occasions when fighting can be justified. Due states (1989: 160): ‘The enemies of Cyrus and Cyaxares are doing something morally wrong … when they assault another country. On the other hand, it is morally right to defend yourself against aggression.’ In contrast, the heroes’ refusal to defend themselves in the face of unprovoked aggression seems more and more to be functioning as an extreme and somewhat subversive version of the ideal. This impression finds further confirmation in a brief examination of Plutarch’s application of philosophical values to biographical data. Although many of his subjects were warriors, he appears to be retrojecting the contemporary preoccupation with moderation21 on to a different milieu when he describes such a figure as ‘patriotic and extremely mild, except in his vehement opposition to tyranny and evil’ (Tim. III. 2–3). However, this advocator of selfcontrol has a surprising admiration for those who lack this very quality in their struggle for excellence; Agesilaus being described as ‘the most obstinate’ and ‘hot-

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tempered’ of his companions in his ‘unconquerable’ accomplishment of his goals (Ages. II.1). The Lives, unlike the Moralia, are explicitly concerned with social goals, yet the emphasis placed upon what these historical figures achieved through their own endeavours, and particularly their strength, forms an interesting contrast to the privileged place assigned to ‘noble passivity’ within the novels.22 Gender and class It is to this idea of nobility that I first wish to turn in my examination of the novelistic conception of masculinity. To talk of expectations of male behaviour as an undifferentiated and uncontested discursive site is as potentially careless as trying to locate that mythic entity, the ‘Greek woman’. If I talk of masculinity as a social construction, partly determined by factors such as class and age,23 this is not to deny the value of a cross-cultural comparative approach, which is as sensitive to continuity and similarity as it is to difference. Schmeling (1980: 121), in his study of Xenophon’s novel identified the fact that while both protagonists (more particularly Anthia) are capable of taking defensive action to preserve their fidelity, they initiate few positive actions. He attributes this ‘studied passivity’ to the expectations of a class which expects slaves and those of the lower orders to do whatever is necessary to make the world run smoothly. Contemporary film analysis can offer a further insight into the representation of gender, class and violent struggle. In her analysis of the Rocky films Walkerdine (1986: 173) states that ‘Physical violence is presented as the only way open to those whose lot is manual and not intellectual labour.’24 For figures like Rocky, as for many of the bandits and brigands in the novels, violence is the only means of masculine self-expression, and violent struggle the only means they perceive to betterment. The heroes, however, have been born into a class which places more emphasis on self-control, and which does not expect to have to endure prolonged conflict to attain its desires.25 In the Classical city-states a man even of the upper classes may have defined himself primarily as a warrior-citizen. This would have surely remained a potent image of self-expression even when the city-states were relying increasingly on the power of mercenaries. Roman domination could have brought a shift in modes of self-definition in that aggressive behaviour was now associated with the ‘Other’ in the shared imaginaire. It is this shift in self-definition that I now propose to consider. Self-definition through language To borrow from Mitchell’s (1982: 5) analysis of Lacan’s linguistic theory: ‘The human animal is born into language and it is within the terms of language that the human subject is constructed.’ She states (1982: 4) that ‘In the Freud that Lacan uses, neither the unconscious nor sexuality can in any degree be pre-given facts, they are constructions; that is they are objects with histories and the human subject itself is only formed within these histories.’

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Armed temporarily with this somewhat extreme constructionist viewpoint we may now usefully turn to Loraux’s recent study of the feminine and the Greek man. She identifies ‘ponos’ as an important signifier in terms of masculine and feminine self-definition in the Classical period, with the primary signification being respectively warfare and childbirth. She states (1995: 46) that ‘Ponos serves to indicate the cardinal opposition between sexual roles that, perhaps more than all others, serves as the basis for Greek society.’ Moving on from Loraux’s theory I would like to suggest a movement away from this mode of self-definition in the novels. Instead of the old ‘social’ model of self-definition from the Classical period where man was primarily defined as ‘warrior’ and woman as ‘mother’, I detect in the world of the novel a new ‘personal’ model with man as ‘husband’ and woman as ‘wife’. Within this model there is an important shift in signification where ‘ponos’ as work, as one’s means to self-definition becomes ‘ponos’ as suffering itself. Thus, in the fiction of the novel both man and woman define themselves as husband and wife through their suffering and lamentation which is the proof of the strength of their bond. This perhaps represented a sharp move away from conventional thinking. Gleason (1990: 401) paraphrasing Clement finds that the view which was held in the Classical period and persisted for centuries afterwards in conventional thinking was that ‘another divinely ordered mark of the male is activity, as opposed to passivity, in social and sexual behaviour: “To do … is the mark of the man; to suffer … is the mark of the woman.” ’ In the novels, both male and female protagonists prove their love through their suffering, their unwillingness to break the bond despite adversity. However, just as shifts in the meaning of language are unstable, so is the new mode of masculine definition in the novels. It is the hero who has moved furthest; part of his new means of self-expression is a traditionally feminine passivity. However, we can detect some unease with this position, seen in the consequent shifts from the ‘personal’ model to the ‘social’ for two of the heroes at least, in certain key points in the narratives. Chaireas’ prowess in battle occurs just before his reunion with Kallirhoe, which may be read as a symbolic re-marriage. Theagenes’ famous bull-wrestling and defeat of the Ethiopian champion likewise takes place immediately before he is recognised as Charikleia’s future husband, another connection between a return to a more traditional manner of self-presentation and the social institution of marriage. Masquerade and parade Having examined possible unease with this new representation of masculinity from one perspective I now intend to use the Freudian and Lacanian theories of the assumption of femininity and masculinity to shed further light on the issue. If we can accept that sexuality is at least partly a construction, then it may follow that it also may be de-constructed by the subject; a wardrobe of socially delineated behaviours that may be assumed or discarded. Utilising part of Freud’s theories of infantile sexuality and the Oedipus complex, Rivière produced a case-study of a female intellectual, the daughter of a noted

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academic, who found it necessary to flirt with father-figures after her successful lectures, with the particular intention of eliciting compliments on her work. Rivière postulated that the public exhibition of her intellectual ability proved that she had appropriated her father’s masculinity, and anxiety at his probable retaliation caused her to assume a pose of exaggerated femininity, and to offer herself to him sexually in the form of various father-substitutes. Rivière (1929: 38) concluded that ‘Womanliness therefore could be assumed and worn as a mask, both to hide the possession of masculinity and to avert the reprisals expected if she was found to possess it.’ This assumption of femininity was termed the ‘masquerade’, but it wasn’t until Lacan’s work in the field that the term ‘parade’ was coined to express the assumption of masculinity. Perhaps we might be able to entertain the notion that the exploits of Chaireas and Theagenes could express in narrative terms the ‘parade’ or assumption of masculinity to avert the father’s anger at their previously ‘feminine’ behaviour. The fact that the actions which demonstrate their masculinity (Chaireas’ generalship and Theagenes’ bull-wrestling) are performed at least partly as a display for the benefit of certain prominent father-figures might lend weight to this theory.26 Segmentation of the masculine Since a psychoanalytical approach has already offered one interesting theory on the contested nature of sexuality, I shall now attempt to read the apparently ambiguous textual cues offered by the narratives with regards to masculinity from the perspective of an expression of fragmentation. Farber, in an article on the segmentation of the mother in Greek myth states that: … like many dreams ... some myths organise unconscious infantile sexual wishes into a narrative sequence ... Therefore, within the myths there are representations of the incestuous longing for the mother, who appears in disguised form ... for this reason many female characters appear as segments of the mother, while the whole mother rarely appears. (Farber 1975: 29) This is certainly a fascinating argument, and one which begs the question of whether more elaborately constructed narratives such as the novels also contain a similar representation of infantile sexual wishes. Can the heroines be read as the ‘mother’ in disguised form, since they often appear to have taken on her nurturing role, without being aggressively or even actively erotic? Perhaps the father too, as a frightening figure can be seen to be segmented, in that real fathers rarely play a major part in the narratives, but are generally absent, or undiscovered. The erotic threat that the father represents is itself represented in the narrative by such figures as pirates and bandits. The child (hero) assumes a mask of femininity before these frightening figures, so as not to appear a sexual rival, but the final threat

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of loss, of complete separation from the mother (heroine) goads him into a display of masculinity which approaches direct confrontation. Fantasies of powerlessness? As I near my conclusion I now intend to turn from a psychoanalytical to a more directly sociological approach. Holzberg (1995: 31) among others, has identified the possible alienating effect of Roman domination in the first three centuries CE, which might have caused the men of the leisured classes in the Greek cities to put more emphasis on the personal than the social, and to turn to the fantasies offered by escapist literature. Heiserman (1977: 18) writing of the Argonautika thought that the crew of the Argo stimulated fantasies of power, while Jason himself stimulated fantasies of powerlessness. We have already encountered Hägg’s (1983: 96) identification of the beautiful and faithful heroine as a typically male product in our discussion of a possible readership. Following such a strategy we might be tempted to question whether the image of disempowered masculinity represented by the heroes also functions as a ‘typical male product’, if there could ever be anything quite as straightforward and unproblematic. Turning our attention from the universality suggested by Hägg’s phraseology to the socio-historical specificity of the élite Greek male living in the Empire, we might well ask whether the powerlessness of the heroes was attractive to those men who felt politically marginalised by the imposition of a new power structure.27 This theory, although attractive, implicitly postulates a simple reader identification along gender lines, that does not encompass all the possible permutations of text–reader dynamics. Instead of visualising the hero as a direct projection of his concerns and aspirations, the male reader might equally well have derived pleasure from a deliberately distorted version of ideal masculinity that reaffirmed specific cultural values at the same time as it undermined other traditional sexual constructs. I may even tentatively suggest that the handsome ephebes, like the beautiful parthenoi can also function as objects of desire for the reader. The victory of the disempowered hero over the traditionally aggressive male, though not perhaps as subversively satisfying as that of the heroine is rendered more delicious with each successive proof of apparent feminisation. These vastly differing perspectives have hopefully shed some light on that old problem of the heroes’ ‘inferiority’, but our study is not complete without a brief consideration of the textual dynamics. Reardon (1991: 119) expressed an important truth when he avowed that ‘In romantic psychology, the female is a better focus for romance than the male.’ Our exploration of the heroines’ representation having confirmed their thematic centrality, we must now be prepared to recognise the problems encountered by the authors in attempting to provide them with credible counterparts. This is not, I would seek to emphasise, an attempt to return to the old academic pose of alleging artistic incompetence, but a recognition of the contradictions inherent in any portrayal of a ‘love-hero’. To be sincere and convincing lovers they must display lovers’ ineptitudes and naivety, but as the male protagonists in an adventure story they must possess some traditional heroic qualifications, such

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as bravery (Anderson 1984: 63). If love and the emotional can be seen to be a traditionally feminine area, the novelists do not seem entirely comfortable with their heroes stepping into that sphere and so becoming feminised,28 even when that feminisation is an integral part of their cultural representation. Explanations for this unease can be sought at many levels, psychological, sociological or literary, as I have attempted to demonstrate, but the textual outcome remains the same. Unease generates the need for proofs of masculinity, such as Chaireas’ generalship, which disrupts earlier textual signals and makes it difficult to find a consistent set of values by which to judge heroic actions. The heroine, by contrast, thrives on this concentration on a sphere of activity with which she is more traditionally identified, and so is the ideal emblem for the new emphasis on the personal, coupled with the ideal of Hellenic superiority.

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5 MINOR FEMALE CHARACTERS

Patterning femininity The first and most obvious question to pose here is why attempt a survey of the minor female characters at all when it is the alleged unconventionality of the heroines that appears to warrant scholarly exploration? The somewhat bald and straightforward response must be that to understand the heroines in isolation is not to understand them fully at all. Apart from the surveys of Egger (1990) and Johne (1996) little attention has been paid to female characters other than the heroines. The main exceptions have been the more colourful female antagonists such as Lykainion (Levin 1977) and Melite (Cresci 1978), deemed interesting enough to merit discussion as individuals. More marginal characters such as the Witch of Bessa (Billault 1980) and Persinna (Anderson 1997) have been dealt with as part of an appreciation of wider themes such as the creation of melodrama, or an understanding of Heliodoros’ narrative strategy. Rather than focusing on these glimpses of interesting women I believe there is a real need for a discussion of how those patterns of femininity displayed across all the texts might inform and complement our readings of the heroines. I have chosen to utilise Egger’s (1990) classification of female roles and types, but intend to move away from her primary focus on reader identification in order to allow more time for a detailed exploration of issues such as sexuality and power. As was the case in my study of the heroines, the images of femininity presented by the text will not be visualised as a simple mirror on reality. Instead, the novelistic conceptualisation of the intersecting factors of age, class and nationality will be scrutinised as symptomatic of the élite’s discursive formulations of concepts such as ‘self’ and ‘other’. However, even if all the female characters are constructs, in the portrayal of those most marginal to the narrative dynamic (and therefore less carefully constructed), we might expect to find clues to normative attitudes to female behavioural patterns. Although the scope of this study has sometimes rendered a thematic approach more practicable, I have tried to keep sight of each text as a discrete literary entity. I therefore hope my readings of various narrative patterns will be in sympathy with the overall schema of each artistic unit, thus allowing me to recognise when the

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representation or suppression of certain traits have become subordinated to the needs of the textual dynamic. As I stated in my introduction, the relative similarity in gender ideology in the five extant texts makes this a useful basis for their discussion as a homogenous group. However, to deduce from this observation that the texts’ concepts of femininity must be identical, is to ignore the often subtle discursive fluctuations that occur in any given era. Our texts’ conceptualisations of various female types thus become indicative of the different ideological shadings present in any social group, and provide a more nuanced picture of femininity than could be gained from an appreciation of the heroines alone.

The female antagonists The antagonist as ‘type’ The female antagonist of the five extant novels, as Egger (1990: 67) has stated: ‘Generally ... serves as a foil or antithesis to the ideal feminine personality typified by the protagonist, particularly to her kind of non-aggressive sexuality.’ This holds true even when there is a shift in emphasis in terms of primary plot function. Thus figures as diverse as Manto, Kyno, Melite, Lykainion and Arsake all act as rivals for the hero’s affection, although there remains a vast difference in the extent to which their actions pose a threat to the stability of the protagonists’ relationship. Demainete performs a similar function in the sub-plot of Heliodoros, as does the very minor character Rhodopis, whose aggressive sexuality drives Kalasiris from his homeland. Rhenaia is in opposition to the heroine Anthia, because she perceives her as a rival for Polyidos’ affection, and Queen Stateira in Chariton may also be placed in this category, since her jealousy of the King’s interest in Kallirhoe, though never fully realised, is evoked as a threat. The female antagonists may be grouped together according to a similarity in narrative function, but the diverse treatment they receive at the hands of the different authors is interesting both from a socio-historical and a literary perspective. In addition to illuminating the different points on the ideological spectrum on which the novels stand, this study should accentuate the difficulty of ascribing to the genre a direct and simple evolution in ‘attitudes to women’. The heterogeneity of the texts’ approach to the female antagonists demands that I treat each author individually. However, instead of a diachronic organisation of data I have chosen to deal with the texts in an order representative of the extent to which the particular author tends towards a polarisation of female roles. Once the empirical data gathering has established certain narrative trends and patterns I will again situate various literary comparanda within the sign systems generated by their particular time periods in order to understand what larger implications this particular configuration of femininity might have.

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Chariton – Stateira, the noble queen As Egger (1990: 69) has noted, Chariton is the author least given to the polarisation of the female image, with the result that even ‘barbarian’ women such as Stateira and Rhodogune can be sympathetic characters. Although Chariton is at pains from the outset to differentiate Stateira in some respects from the Greek ideal, seen in her denigration of Greek beauty (5.3), the custom of proskynesis (6.9), these deft touches are added to evoke Oriental flavour, not, as with Xenophon and Heliodoros to further characterise the antagonist as sexually menacing ‘Other’. She is really the ideal Hellenised woman in Oriental fancy-dress, although the aforementioned differences do function as discreet markers of inferiority, ensuring that she cannot be read as alternative heroine. These markers assume new significance when we register the sheer number of positive characteristics this antagonist shares with the heroine. Kallirhoe is, of course, pre-eminent, but the care with which Chariton chooses to foreground Stateira’s excellence at all forms of social communication provides us with a further set of narrative cues to the decipherment of the functioning of femininity in the genre. Her reaction when Kallirhoe is entrusted to her care shows her to be of naturally kind disposition (5.9), but her sensitivity to the feelings of others is a trait which resonates throughout the text. So she is perceptive enough to be aware of Kallirhoe’s distress on first being delivered to the women’s quarters (5.9), but also at a deeper level can empathise with her friend when she realises she will be parted from her child (8.4). Her generosity extends to acknowledging to her husband that it was her own rival’s generosity that ensured her safe return (8.5), and she is possessed of sufficient sense to fulfil her obligation to Kallirhoe by handing the letter to Dionysios ‘unobtrusively’ (8.5).1 Like the heroine her humanity is assured through the admission into her characterisation of traits that could be coded as faults, but which are never permitted to degenerate into pure negativity. So her jealousy at the King’s interest in her ward, first activated by the increasing frequency of his visits to her quarters (6.1) is expressed through deliberate inaction, rather than violent reaction (6.9). On the occasion of their departure from Babylon: ‘She did not mention her to the King, or even ask what his orders were regarding the foreign woman.’ This can be favourably compared to the violent physical reaction of Rhenaia in Xenophon’s novel. Jealousy is not in itself a negative characteristic, and is displayed on some occasions by the heroines themselves (1.3), since it can demonstrate intensity of feeling and depth of commitment. However, jealousy without moderation, as demonstrated by Rhenaia, Kyno, Manto, Demainete and Arsake can lead to violent behaviour with disastrous consequences, and is associated with manifestations of uncontrollable female sexuality. Stateira’s own sexuality does not really enter the equation, but the way in which Chariton chooses to frame her attitude to her own attractiveness, acts as further authorial coding of factors such as class and respectability. While the Queen is beautiful, her looks are not on a par with Kallirhoe’s divine appearance. It is

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important that it is Rhodogune, a woman of lower social status, who invites direct comparison with the heroine at the ‘beauty contest’. The assembled Persian women acknowledge Stateira’s supremacy when the idea of the contest is first mooted by crying out all together (5.3) ‘If only you could be seen, mistress.’ This incident serves to emphasise the Persian servility that sets them apart from the free speaking Greeks, but it also avoids the necessity of Stateira displaying vanity through a direct, personal favourable comment on her own looks. The insensibility of the heroines and other positive female characters to the power of their beauty is an important novelistic topos, but one that it is almost impossible to code as indicative of a particular gender orientation. In this case, it would be tempting to conclude that such behavioural patterns bespeak of the patriarchal desire to contain female sexuality. However, Stateira, like Kallirhoe, remains hard to read: by admitting a second positive female figure into the text, and by refusing a polarisation of female roles Chariton appears to be creating a fictional reality conducive to female reader identification. Yet, in a final twist, the antagonist’s extreme passivity, even in comparison to the dignified heroine demonstrates the author’s continuing adherence to conventional values. Achilles Tatius – Melite, a real sweetheart If Chariton’s characterisation of Stateira caused certain problems of categorisation, then the narrative pointers that Achilles Tatius lays down for the interpretation of Melite seem more deliberately engineered to engender confusion. Here though it is not the distinctions between friend and rival that are blurred, but those between antagonist and protagonist: in Melite we have, for the first and only time a character to rival the heroine in terms of complexity and interest (Cresci 1978: 76). The display of jealousy that nevertheless can be controlled is a topos we have already seen in the portrayal of the heroines and the other positive antagonist. When she discovers the letter from Leukippe to Kleitophon the careful delineation of emotions that we have already seen in the characterisation of the protagonists allows for reader sympathy and identification: … her soul was torn apart by different emotions, shame and anger, love and jealousy (]KORWXS…v).2 She felt shame regarding her husband, and she was angry at the letter. Love extinguished her anger, yet jealousy inflamed her love, and finally love was victorious. (Leukippe and Kleitophon 5.24) Supremacy in the sphere of social interaction gives further confirmation of the positive generic coding given to female possession of this trait. Her eloquence is displayed on many occasions, most notably when trying to persuade Kleitophon to consummate their union (5.15–16), and also when attempting to placate the irate Thersandros (6.9–11). She shows intelligence and initiative in the plan to swap clothes in order to facilitate Kleitophon’s escape (6.1); with commendable foresight realising that the trick would provide the guard with an exonerating alibi (6.2).

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This ability to manipulate situations may be a trait also strongly identified with the heroine, whose continued disempowerment only emphasises her capacity for outmanoeuvring others, but Melite’s wit and humanity threaten to overshadow the protagonist. For example, her reaction when the guests at the wedding wish them well allows her to display a sense of humour, which although sharp, is not as potentially alienating as Leukippe’s cold sarcasm (5.14): ‘ I seem to be suffering a unique experience, rather like the dead whose bodies can’t be found. I’ve seen an empty tomb before, but not an empty marriage.’ Here the neologism NHQRJ£µLRQ (empty marriage) punning on NHQRW£ILRQ (cenotaph or empty tomb) serves to underline Melite’s wit. Interpreting this apparent superiority has generated a tendency in modern scholarship again to retroject the current concern with realism onto an ancient art form, and to deny the possibility that the author was deliberately trying to subvert reader expectations.3 This notion becomes slightly easier to substantiate if we undertake a survey of the complex interplay of sexuality and power manifest in her characterisation. Our initial glimpse of this unusual antagonist generates a picture of active female sexuality, which if not actually positively endorsed by the author is exploited for its erotic possibilities and only subjected to the mildest of satire. So, in the midst of a positive itemised appreciation of her physical appearance to rival that of the heroine we are given the first indication of her predatory nature (5.13). We are told that ‘her eye shone with the gleam of Aphrodite’. The hero’s irritation at her constant pestering (5.12) must be registered as ironical given his earlier feverish pursuit of Leukippe, and also starts to intimate a gender reversal which finds repeated echoes throughout their courtship. Thus, after Kleitophon has finally acquiesced to her wishes and slept with her during her visit to the prison, he immediately assumes the role of courtesan and peevishly demands his ‘payment’ (6.1) (see Cresci 1978: 79): ‘Now give me a safe escape, and do what you promised regarding Leukippe.’ This reversal is underlined in suitably comic fashion by the exchange of clothing (6.1), an incident that graphically reveals the author’s stance to the female assumption of the male role. It is perhaps best to visualise Melite’s behaviour as the assumption of a mask of masculinity that partly hides, but does not completely obscure a core of oikos-protecting femininity. Her pursuit of the man she desperately loves is characterised by moderation and understanding. When Kleitophon reminds her that their union is not to be consummated until they reach Ephesos (5.14) she lets him go reluctantly and with regret, but without the violent histrionics exhibited by the antagonists of other novels. Her acceptance of the protagonists’ relationship is spelled out clearly for the reader in a manner which inspires a sympathetic reading (5.26). While still requesting the one night of passion that will cure her of her malady her words demonstrate that she presents no threat to the oikos that will be established by the end of the tale. She states: ‘Since you have discovered Leukippe and marriage is impossible with another woman, I concede this willingly. I know when I’m beaten. I do not ask for more than I am able to receive.’ The authorial stance to what is technically now adultery, is established through Thersandros’ negative

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characterisation: his violent attempted rape of the heroine functioning as a far greater threat to the stability of their own oikos.4 Melite may be a strong figure who has no qualms about using the power accorded to her through her status as apparent widow, but it is important to note that she never seeks to abuse this power. She is adept at administering matters on her estate in her husband’s absence (5.17), being so firm in her dealings with corrupt underlings that Sosthenes cowers before her (5.17), though she is not presented as either power-hungry or unjust. Her actions can thus be clearly differentiated from the immoderate ambitions of negative antagonists such as Arsake and Demainete. However, the coding of this power, and of her active sexuality does remain somewhat ambiguous. Her role as ‘male seducer’ with her accompanying characterisation as enslaved by her desires to the comically cold Kleitophon does lead to a certain emotional distancing from her plight. It is also impossible to ignore the fact that she derives much of her immediate power from her status as widow, and that however sympathetic her portrayal in general, she is denied the possibility of a truly happy ending. Scenes such as her passing of the chastity test on a legal technicality also must be read less as a marker of female liberation, and more as a symptom of the authorial desire to satirise the concern of patriarchal society with female chastity (Goldhill 1995: 121). An interesting parallel to this tale of forceful female sexuality is provided by Plutarch’s Amatorius, where the rich young widow Ismenadora falls in love with, and eventually abducts the younger and poorer Bacchon. This allows Plutarch to structure a debate regarding the nature of authority in marriage, prompting him to ask (754D) whether it is so terrible for a sensible older woman to govern the life of a younger husband, since she will be useful because of her greater intelligence and pleasant because of her love for him. Almost straight away, however, the ordered atmosphere of the debate is disrupted by the news that Ismenadora has kidnapped Bacchon. Goldhill (1995: 154) states that: ‘The useful and pleasant “rule” envisaged by Plutarch is immediately instantiated in rape. The surprising position that Plutarch has adopted about female rule is immediately framed and qualified by the erotic narrative it is meant to be commenting on.’ Ismenadora, like Melite, is an appealing figure5 through which the author may exploit the erotic and comic possibilities generated by the theory of female rule in marriage. The ambiguities inherent in the portrayal of these characters are interesting for the discomfort they reveal with a reversal of the hegemonic power balance that appears acceptable or even potentially desirable when confined to philosophical theorising. Longos – Lykainion, little she-wolf Lykainion, as the only other positively portrayed female antagonist permitted to have a sexual experience with the hero, provides further evidence on the generic coding of female sexuality and power. Before we take the bold step of seeking something as straightforward as female liberation in her portrayal, we would be best advised to

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situate Longos’ seemingly liberal stance within his playful treatment of generic conventions, and his deeper thematic concerns. My first, and perhaps most obvious, observation is that while Lykainion is, for the most part, presented in a positive light her motivation is represented in a far more ambiguous manner than was the case with Melite. So, while experiencing a longing for Daphnis, she assumes the role of male lover and gives him presents, at the same time as recognising his love for Chloe and having the sensitivity to proceed with caution (3.15). Her natural cunning helps her to find a plausible excuse to leave the house in order to see Daphnis, inventing the excuse of visiting a neighbour in childbed to convince her ‘husband’ Chromis (3.15). This trait is again evident in the story of the eagle and the goose that she tells the innocent Daphnis in order to lure him into the wood (3.16).6 Spying upon the lovers, she has sympathy for their predicament (3.15), but her motives are not completely disinterested.7 The reader is informed that ‘Sympathising with their misfortunes she saw a double opportunity, to act as their saviour and satisfy her own desire (™SLTXµ…DQ).’ Her warning to Daphnis regarding Chloe’s virginity is likewise ambiguous (Winkler 1990: 122), since she exaggerates the pain Chloe will suffer (3.19): ‘she will cry out and weep and bleed heavily’. The leeway accorded to Lykainion in terms of sexual freedom is very much bound up with Longos’ exploitation of her marginality. The ambiguity of her status thus functions in much the same way as Chloe’s innocence in that both characteristics allow the author to tread the very fine line between respectability and lascivious display. This ambiguity is evident in her initial description, with the connotations of prostitution conjured up by the wolf-imagery in her name hinting at her less than perfect respectability.8 Although she has a ‘husband’ in the form of the elderly Chromis, the vagueness of Greek terminology relating to marriage makes it difficult to determine whether theirs is a legal union, though the use of the diminutive JÚQDLRQ might suggest that this is unlikely (Egger 1990: 72).9 The fact that Longos refrains from clarifying the point is entirely in keeping with the playful tone of the work as a whole. Her behaviour is nowhere condemned, and she performs an important function in preventing a narrative stalemate, by providing an opportunity for Daphnis to complete his sexual instruction while maintaining the heroine’s purity until marriage. The representation of her sexuality is also closely connected to Longos’ exploration of the complex interplay between art and nature. So, we are told that after the basic mechanics of foreplay (3.18): ‘She didn’t do anything strange ([šQRQ), for nature herself taught him (™SD…GHXVH) the rest of what had to be done.’ The ‘arts’ of love would be the territory of the hetaira, the professional, and yet by merely providing the hero with an unhindered opportunity to learn, rather than any fancy refinements, Lykainion avoids any negative connotations. However, the statement about nature’s role is contradicted when on Daphnis and Chloe’s wedding night (4.40) ‘Daphnis did some of the things which Lykainion taught him (™SD…GHXVH).’ Longos enjoys de-stabilising the precarious relationship between art and nature10 as much as he does the balance of power between the sexes, and Lykainion plays a vital role in facilitating the accomplishment of these aims. If the

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author seems even more detached from his artistic creation than did Achilles Tatius with Melite, then this can, in part, be ascribed to the greater importance he attaches to artistic unity and thematic coherence. None of his characters, including the protagonists, exhibits the fully rounded characterisation ascribed to Achilles Tatius’ Melite, and it is important to note that Chloe’s unbelievable innocence may have just as much of a distancing effect as Lykainion’s self-interest. Xenophon – the barbarian maiden, bitch and the jealous wife Xenophon uses repetition of incident to foreground the theme of chastity, leading to multiple would-be seducers of both sexes, though there are of course many more male characters who fulfil the role of antagonist. This is both a reflection of the sexual freedom accorded to men in real life, and on the narrative level, the means to emphasise the heroine’s outstanding physical attractiveness. The three female antagonists, although given more textual space than their male counterparts, conform more to a single stereotype. After the complexities and subtleties of a Lykainion or a Melite they strike the reader with their almost unrelieved negativity, and are demonstrative of Xenophon’s polarisation of the female image. Although Rhenaia’s plot function differs from that of Manto and Kyno, they share a set of characteristics which are indicative of the author’s strict stance towards active female sexuality. The first of these shared characteristics is a modification of a trait which we have already encountered as part of the essential novelistic make-up of the protagonists and more positive antagonists – jealousy. Here though, allied to an all-pervasive lack of control it quickly degenerates into a violent rage whose sheer abandonment is shocking after the heroines’ quiet dignity. With Manto, daughter of the bandit chief Apsyrtos Xenophon chooses to reinforce the impact of her rage by utilising the stereotype of violent barbarity eschewed by Chariton. In an oddly self-conscious pronouncement Manto threatens the servant Rhode when she wishes to enlist her help in securing the hero’s affection (2.3): ‘Know that you are my slave, and if you wrong me, you will experience the anger of a barbarian woman.’ Kyno, who appears later in the narrative is, as her name suggests, a much cruder portrait of the sexually frustrated vengeful woman. It is through her character that Xenophon takes the notion of violence to its logical extreme, as she carries out her threat to murder her husband Araxos so that she and the hero might marry (3.12). Finally, in the portrayal of Rhenaia, jealous wife of the official Polyidos, who has taken Anthia into his house Xenophon stresses the grotesque physicality of uncontrollable female rage. While Habrokomes’ torture, although instigated by Manto, was actually carried out by her father and his servants, and Kyno’s murder of her husband is quickly glossed over, Xenophon actually details Rhenaia’s direct attack on the body of her rival (5.5), tearing at her clothes and disfiguring her body. The second set of characteristics may also be visualised as a transformation, or even mutation of the novelistic endorsement of female supremacy in the sphere of social and emotional interaction. Here intelligence is translated into cunning, and the ability to manipulate metamorphosed into the capacity for causing direct harm. So,

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the spurned Manto fabricates a tale of attempted violation so convincing that her father does not investigate the matter further, but commences Habrokomes’ punishment straight away (2.6). Her treatment of Anthia is likewise calculated to inflict maximum psychological torment, not only condemning her to become the wife of a low-born serf, but also enjoining him to use force to consummate the relationship (2.9).11 Even Kyno, who receives the sparsest characterisation is presented as a skilful actress: going quickly to the authorities after Habrokomes’ desertion to accuse him of her husband’s murder, where (3.12) ‘she appeared to grieve so much that she persuaded the crowd that she was telling the truth’. While in all three cases the characters’ active sexuality, or sexual jealousy sets them in direct opposition to the chaste and unselfconsciously beautiful heroine, the extent to which this opposition is foregrounded varies considerably. So while no details are given of Rhenaia’s appearance Kyno functions as a complete contrast to the heroine (3.12). She is ‘a disgusting woman to look at … surpassing all in her intemperance (¢NUDV…DQ)’.12 Manto, in contrast, is treated with more subtlety. In her initial description we are informed: She was beautiful, and already of an age to be married, but was far surpassed in beauty by Anthia. This Manto, through close contact with Habrokomes was completely overcome by her feelings and did not know what to do. (Ephesiaka 2.3) Her youth and beauty function along with the direct comparison to the heroine as a reminder of the standards to which she should conform.13 Her deviation from these correct patterns of behaviour thus finds increased emphasis, although the care which Xenophon takes to delineate her emotions does generate a certain amount of sympathy (Fusillo 1990: 211). Despite her characterisation as barbarian other, a topos which merits further discussion later in this chapter, the positive authorial coding given to youth in this novel might go some way to accounting for the attempt at engendering a possible emotional identification. Rhenaia too can be dealt with lightly, perhaps as a consequence of her status as potentially wronged wife. The concern with the stability of the oikos manifest in this portrayal is made explicit in the treatment meted out to Kyno, destroyer of the family unit. The punishment of the ultimate insult to patriarchal authority is given divine sanction, and this antithesis of ideal womanhood is simply erased from the narrative without the luxury of a grand scene in her final defence. We are simply given the terse announcement that (4.4) ‘The archon of Egypt sent for Kyno and had her crucified.’14 Heliodoros – the alluring courtesan, the wicked stepmother and the evil queen If Xenophon’s monochromatic moral stance is unsurprising given the overall simplicity of his narrative, then Heliodoros’ similarly unforgiving view of active female sexuality, and desire to polarise female roles forms a more startling

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counterpoint to the complexity of his prose. While his female antagonists may stand as more fully realised artistic creations, completely integrated into both the narrative and thematic structure of the work, his moral conceptualisation presents little advance on the world of Xenophon. Both the major antagonists, Demainete and Arsake, exhibit the same brand of spiteful jealousy, calculated cunning and inappropriate sexual desire that we previously encountered in the earlier author. For example, the revenge exacted by Demainete, antagonist of the major sub-plot, against her step-son Knemon in reprisal for his refusal to comply with her wishes, is both swift and cruel. Fabricating the story of an assault resulting in a miscarriage she creates a deep mistrust between father and son which also has the added effect of ensuring Knemon’s immediate punishment. Heliodoros’ greater literary skill is evident in the detailed monologue he assigns to his antagonist, though the effect of cunning coupled with rhetorical skill is familiar from Xenophon. Her explanation for the provocation for the alleged attack is both dangerously persuasive and alarmingly disingenuous: … I awaited your departure, then, when I was advising him in the usual way, urging him to have self-control (VZIURQH‹Q) and not to resort to women or drinking (this behaviour had not escaped me, but I did not say anything to you in case I was thought of as a typical stepmother) … he kicked me in the belly … (Aithiopika 1.10) The author’s double imperative to create distinct literary creations and to emphasise suitably discrete thematic concerns means that a different trait is foregrounded in the characterisation of each antagonist. In his representation of this most dangerous of wicked stepmothers he deploys some of his most subtle and complicated plotting to emphasise the sheer power of her intelligence and depth of her cunning. Encouraging her slave-maid Thisbe to gain Knemon’s confidence, she devises a situation where he believes himself to be avenging an adulterous act, but in fact commits the unforgivable sin of threatening his own father with the sword (1.12). It is entirely appropriate that she can only be out-matched by another sexually active and selforientated female character – her own slave Thisbe, a fact which is also indicative of the generic attitude to class, as much as it is revealing of attitudes to gender. Equally revealing of normative attitudes to female behaviour is the emphasis on the abuse of power in the representation of the Persian Queen Arsake.15 In our first glimpse of her we are informed (warned?) that she is highly intelligent (7.2),16 a fact which is immediately confirmed by her adroit handling of the crowd, refusing their request for extra troops, and giving them the sensible advice to go upon a reconnaissance manoeuvre (7.3). It is important to note that Heliodoros deems her capable enough in her assumption of military power, before her slavery to her passions drives her out of control. She is not an incompetent because such a person would not have been nearly so dangerous, but she does constantly abuse her position of power to attain her own desires. Thus her quick mind seizes on the idea of the

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combat between Petosiris and Thyamis as a suitable way of revenging herself on the weak Petosiris as well as seeming to settle the dispute in a fair manner (7.4). Her lack of principles enables her to utilise Achaimenes’ information about Theagenes’ slave status in order to force him to his will (7.24) and clear evidence of her excessive cruelty is provided in her admonition to Kybele to warn him that should he prove recalcitrant (7.25): ‘he will feel the wrath of both a rejected lover and a displeased mistress. He will suffer the worst and most dishonourable kind of slavery and be subjected to every punishment.’ Her misgivings about actually subjecting her beloved to physical pain when confronted with the reality of his refusal are swept aside when Kybele accuses her of ‘being weak as a woman (µDODN…]V)’.17 Her nurse is of course intending her to make the identification of womanly behaviour and lack of willpower, although the author may also have intended the alert reader to realise that in one sense at least Arsake is already ‘behaving like a woman’ by being totally without restraint and moderation. Through the figure of Arsake Heliodoros warns of the dreadful consequences when an uncontrolled woman abuses her power. The key to understanding why Arsake’s assumption of power is so objectionable, when in other circumstances manifestations of female authority might be rendered acceptable, is the recognition of the fact that she always acts for herself, and never for others.18 The description of her determination to out-do the processions that have followed the protagonists to the city, in spontaneous recognition of their superiority thus functions as a pivotal scene (7.8): ‘Not even Arsake was to be left behind in these proceedings, rather she swaggered self-importantly in an over-the-top procession of her own, made up of her own guards.’ Although Heliodoros’ conceptualisation of female sexuality may not actually have advanced much further on the model provided by Xenophon, his greater literary ability frees him to make his points more forcefully. We thus see an explicit appeal to the Euripidean intertext functioning as a clear marker of his antagonists’ complete lack of self-control. For example, the total shamelessness of Demainete is clearly established through her own identification of her step-son Knemon as Hippolytos (1.10). Her carefree claim to the identity of the shamed and tormented woman is most eloquently expressive of her distance from the early model at the very moment of articulation: Phaidra can barely bring herself to speak of her shame. An examination of the language and imagery used in the description of each of the three characters also demonstrates how the more monolithic theoretical realisation of active sexuality visualised by Xenophon has become fragmented. Each antagonist is primarily associated with certain imagery or associations which ensures that she emerges from a text rich in detail as a distinct individual. So after a brief reference to Demainete’s beauty, almost instantly dismissed because it does not function as a sign of purity (1.9), we are given a description of her behaviour that marks her as pseudohetaira: ‘She was clever; if ever a woman knew how to make a man mad for her, she did, so well skilled was she in the art (WšFQKQ) of seduction.’ The key-word here is WšFQK or skill: the artifice that Plutarch was so afraid of in his Coniugalia Praecepta. Reinforcing this imagery is a narrative structure that surrounds this legal wife with

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either semi-professional courtesans like her slave Thisbe, or full time working girls like Arsinoe, and allows the reader to make the inevitable comparisons regarding behaviour and motivation. It is through the figure of Rhodopis, another professional courtesan that Heliodoros more fully exploits the notion of usurpation of the male role, that was treated with comic deftness by Achilles Tatius and Longos. While both Lykainion and Melite assumed the role of seducer, complete with gifts, and appropriately persuasive speech, Rhodopis is presented as a hunter, with all the connotations of danger and entrapment. We are told that (2.25): ‘escorted by many attendants and much wealth she was well-trained in setting Aphrodite’s snares. Any man who happened upon her was overpowered, unable to escape or resist the net of sensuality that trailed from her eyes.’ While the sight of the heroine may have a beneficent effect on the beholder, as previously discussed, the ‘net’ cast by this woman spells only confinement, rather than transformation. Finally, in his depiction of Arsake Heliodoros utilises the imagery of weakness and madness to emphasise her lack of rationality and the force of her passions. Her initial characterisation includes the information that (7.2) ‘she is powerless before unlawful pleasures’19 while Theagenes’ refusal to comply with her wishes causes her to fall sick. We are told (7.9): ‘Her love (œUZM)20 was proceeding imperceptibly towards madness.’ The idea of madness seems perfectly calculated to highlight the abnormality of this active sexuality, and can be unfavourably contrasted to the sickness that Charikleia endures as she struggles to come to terms with her chaste love for the hero. In fact, it is Heliodoros’ female antagonists who best fit Egger’s description of foil to the protagonist. In a text peopled by exotically memorable yet negative female characters Charikleia is increasingly set apart from the race of women. In such a milieu she functions less as an exceptional woman and more as a cultural sign masked with a somehow false femininity. The foreign woman To complete our consideration of the presentation of the female antagonists in the genre we need to ascertain how the factor of ‘barbarity’ can affect the reading of active female sexuality, and how it functions with femininity as part of the discursive formation of ‘self’ and ‘other’. It is interesting that the oppositional relationship of ‘barbarian’ to ‘Greek’ is not utilised by all the novelists. For Longos the primary thematic opposition is between ‘town’ and ‘country’, while Achilles Tatius, in attempting to erase the difference between antagonist and protagonist makes Melite a civilised Greek.21 Even for Chariton, Xenophon and Heliodoros the concept of barbarity or foreignness comes to be used in different ways. For Chariton, author of the earliest extant novel, the most important index of behaviour was status rather than nationality. Differences in custom, such as proskynesis or the wearing of abundant jewellery (5.8) are thus invoked to give Oriental flavour, rather than being given any distinctly negative connotations. While, as has already been mentioned in my discussion of Stateira these details do function as subtle

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markers of inferiority, they do not negate her essentially positive characterisation. In contrast Xenophon and Heliodoros use supposed differences in temperament and moral standards to create a vision of the foreign woman as menacing ‘Other’. Despite the increasingly cosmopolitan atmosphere of the Roman Empire, for the Greek élite at least there was still a set of characteristics which might, on occasion, be safely ascribed to foreign characters in literature (Kuch 1989a: 82). So they could be savage, unrestrained and slavish in contrast to the Greeks, who were typically civilised, possessed of self-control and democratic. Xenophon’s barbarian maiden Manto is thus characterised as having a violent temper, while Heliodoros’ Arsake is associated with all kinds of excess. In both these cases such traits are the means to emphasising their culturally transgressive sexual desires. However, it is important to our understanding of the functioning of gender patterns in the genre that ‘barbarity’ is not a stable concept even within these two particular authors. The foreign male, as a type, will be discussed more fully in my next chapter, though it is safe to assert now that while their characterisation will often stress their inferiority to the Greek or Hellenised male, they are rarely as frightening as their female counterparts. It is perhaps most useful to see the sign of ‘barbarian’ and the sign of ‘female’ intersecting (and reinforcing one another) in an area of ‘menacing other’. The idea of the female image as ‘Other’ is not, of course new, and neither is it stable.22 As we have speculated, the chaste heroine is a sign of cultural superiority, and therefore in some senses actually a projection of the ‘self’.23 In this scenario, male fears about any real power wielded by actual women could become displaced onto the negative antagonists, whose role as ‘Other’ is then reinforced by the negative associations which could be attached to cultural difference. The foreign woman of Xenophon and Heliodorus is thus a later incarnation of that perennial ‘Other’ of the Classical Age – the Amazon. Hardwick (1996: 161) notes the interest in the fifth century of ‘presenting the Amazons and their life-style in direct opposition to the developed conventions of the Greek oikos’. Such women had to be distanced geographically as much as morally from the dominant Greek male culture (Hardwick 1996: 175). They define by opposition correct and desirable modes of behaviour, and perhaps have most hold over the shared imaginaire at times when there are most tensions about those very standards (Lefkowitz 1986: 26). The interest shown in the genre in the menacing foreign woman is significant, but it is equally telling that this particular strategy of self-definition was not adopted by all the authors. This potentially complex relationship between sexuality, power and self-construction is perhaps best explored through a comparison of how the representation of adulterous wives in other genres can be situated in the discursive patterns of their particular age. The tart with a heart, the fallen woman and other missing types On occasion the absence of a particular figure from a particular literary genre may actually be more telling ideologically than its presence. New Comedy is a valuable genre for comparative purposes, since several novelistic character types such as the servus callidus and the passive young lover are thought to have found their origins

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there. We will, however, search in vain for an adulterous wife as found in the novels. Trenkner (1958: 128) points out that the concern for adultery is dealt with in an allusive fashion.24 The dictates of middle class morality meant that actual seductions were not portrayed on the stage. Freeborn women who did indulge in pre-marital sex were generally powerless young virgins, raped at festivals, who had their reputations restored through marriage. The seduction theme was transferred to the hetaira (a figure largely absent from the novel) a sexually active female figure who could usually be presented in a sympathetic light since her behaviour did not constitute a threat to the stability of the oikos. The courtesan could be a positive figure, well disposed towards the male protagonist, but not generally motivated by love. The concern with mutual love and marital stability in the novels and the focus on the behaviour of women who should be respectable, means that the courtesan is inevitably a more marginal figure, though some of her traits, such as wit and sympathy for the protagonists, have been displaced onto the more atypical antagonists, such as Melite and Lykainion.25 Although it would be foolish to suggest any direct intertextual borrowings or influence between Roman satire and elegy and the Greek novel the differences in the portrayal of the adulterous wife are still illuminating. The figure of the lustful wife is intended to provoke amusement rather than moral indignation,26 and thus neatly illustrates the ideological distance between such genres and conventional values. It is interesting that the few examples of the powerful adulterous wife that can be found in ancient literature date from the Classical period, and may thus be expressive of the tensions inherent in the structure of marriage and the sometimes mutually exclusive demands of oikos and polis.27 Continuing our relation of this character type to societal concerns, it is significant that the powerful adulteress is again a figure largely absent from Victorian fiction, particularly of the early period.28 The ‘fallen woman’ who allows herself to be seduced and then is cast out forever from polite society is a victim (Auerbach, 1982: 115), not a monster, and is not dangerous in the same way as Manto, Kyno or Arsake. Winnifrith (1994: 76) claims that: ‘In standard Victorian novels like East Lynne the fallen woman is clearly guilty of sexual immorality, and with varying degrees of condescending broadmindedness the author pities but never pardons her fall.’29 It appears that some Victorian authors display a brand of realism that goes with an interest in social reform, in contrast with the Greek novel which would often use idealism to entrench social values. Of course, the Victorian novel, like its ancient predecessor is not renowned for its uniformity, either in literary quality, or in moral standpoint. It is therefore interesting to view what an accomplished novelist like Thackeray could achieve in his adept manipulations of the conventions: his creation of the charming, amoral Becky Sharp marking him as a latter day Achilles Tatius. Winnifrith (1994: 76) asserts ‘We do not know for certain if Becky Sharp is guilty, of what she is guilty, and how far Thackeray disapproves of her guilt.’ 30 Authors such as Dickens, Mrs Gaskell, Collins and Hardy31 questioned the automatic placing of women in strict categories of sinner and saint (Watt 1984: 7), but this awakening social conscience is not the same as the sophistical tweaking of

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the conventions regarding female sexuality indulged in by Longos and Achilles Tatius. The power balance is inverted in early and mid-Victorian fiction’s portrayal of adulterous wives and unchaste women in general: in direct contrast to the Greek novel they are marginalised victims oppressed by society, not threats to the very fabric of that society.32 To find a representation of the sexually threatening powerful woman we must turn to the literature of the 1880s and 1890s, decades which saw the rise of feminism and ‘The New Woman’. These women sought financial independence and equality in all spheres, and found that their demand for power led some of their opponents to attack their sexuality: Richards (1995: 147) states that: ‘The opponents of the “New Woman” depicted her as radical, aggressive, overintellectual and sexually voracious.’33 Here, as in the Greek novel, the link between attitudes to power and sexuality may be clearly established. The supposed fear of female sexuality is a topos which has received much attention with relation to Greek myth (Walcot, 1984: 39), and Greek literature in general (Humphreys 1983: 34). However, a full understanding of any portrayal of women that fore-grounds this trait demands a sensitivity to the functioning in discourse of discrete yet interrelated concepts. The particular combination of characteristics which are allied to sexual aggression in this case need closer consideration: strength, intelligence and a usurpation of the male role perhaps hint at a male uneasiness with the increased socio-economic power that women were gaining in the first few centuries CE. We have already seen how difficult it could be to present actual political power wielded by a woman in a favourable light, and how, in late Victorian England an attempt could be made to brand the assertive woman sexually voracious. The relative socio-economic independence gained by the average woman of the first few centuries CE, while of course defying a simple comparison to the larger political demands of fin-de-siècle woman, could have generated enough discomfort to encourage writers of the period to split the female image. We thus have the young innocent heroine empowered to speak out in a male world by her unassailable chastity, though lacking real power, and as her antithesis the older antagonist who abuses any temporal power she may have in the pursuit of her own sexual ambitions. This is the mainstream view espoused by Xenophon and Heliodoros, but even the authors who bend the generic rules use their female antagonists to foreground their concern for such themes as sex and knowledge, gender and power.

Mothers Turning now to mothers we necessarily move away from the examination of feminine sexuality that has framed our reading of the heroines. Although marginalised by the emphasis on romantic love these older figures remain important for our understanding of the generic stance towards female authority, and of the complex relationship that exists in the novel between gender and patriarchal structures. Compared to the female antagonists, who, as we have seen, can sometimes rival the

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heroine in terms of interest, mothers and mother figures play only a small part in the genre. When they do appear, they are either extremely negative figures, or at best, the relationship between mother and child is strained and awkward (Johne 1996: 202–3). Although much work has been done of late in the field of psychoanalysis to explain ambivalent or negative feelings towards mothers, I also intend to use sociohistorical and literary approaches in my examination of the characteristics exhibited by mothers in the novels in order to explore apparent inconsistencies and contradictions in terms of portrayal. Missing mothers As we have already discovered in our discussion of the adulterous wife motif, in ideological terms absence from a text can sometimes be more significant than presence. There are surprisingly few mothers in the genre, of which only one or two play a major part in the narrative.34 Of the older generation, there are many more fathers than mothers: some, like Kleitophon’s mother (1.3) and the wives of Kalasiris and Charikles are dead, but others, like Nausikleia’s mother, are simply omitted from the narrative without explanation.35 Of course, this could have been mimetic of social reality, since the risk of death in childbirth was high, and yet there are other narrative cues which could point to alternative explanations. So, added to the missing mothers are those given a low profile. For example, in the initial introduction to the characters in Kallirhoe, the two protagonists are described by their relationship to their fathers (1.1); their mothers are simply not mentioned. It is also Kallirhoe’s nurse rather than her mother who rushes to her aid when upset, and it is she who gives the heroine the news of the forthcoming wedding (1.1).36 In the Ephesiaka, although both of the protagonists’ parents are mentioned together in formulaic phrases, the mothers are not characterised by any special display of affection towards their children in scenes like the love-sickness episode and the farewell where this might have been expected. Finally, in Daphnis and Chloe, Chloe’s natural mother Rhode is not even present at the recognition feast (4.36) and has to be summoned. It is her father who embraces her (4.36) and we are given no indication of her feelings. It is difficult to ascertain at this stage whether the mothers’ absence, or the reduction in their narrative function, is due to a lack of interest on the authors’ part or to some deeper discomfort with mother images. To investigate the matter further we need now to examine the set of shared traits and behaviour patterns which occur on the few occasions where the role of the mother is given increased prominence in the texts. Misunderstandings and melodrama One trait associated with mothers in the texts is the display of excessive emotion. While the heroes and heroines may indulge in emotional outbursts which only serve to emphasise their loyalty and the intensity of their feelings for one another, the depth of feeling exhibited by some mothers in the novels is not presented in a wholly positive fashion. So, Chaireas’ mother is allowed her own scene before his departure,

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in which Chariton uses a Homeric reference (Il. 22.82–3), which should add dignity to the incident, but undercuts this with a distinctly unheroic description of her behaviour (3.5): ‘I beg you my child’, she said, ‘Don’t leave me here on my own but take this light cargo on board ship. If I should prove too heavy and a nuisance, throw me into the sea you are sailing on.’ (Kallirhoe 3.5) Her concern for her son is not in doubt and yet, torn between his duty for his parents and his love for Kallirhoe he chooses to abdicate responsibility by jumping into the sea. Despite reader sympathy for her plight, her overly emotional melodramatic appeal has the effect of disrupting the main emotional focus of the narrative which is on the protagonists’ relationship. In contrast, Achilles Tatius’ portrayal of Pantheia’s melodramatic outburst on her discovery of her daughter’s apparent seduction has the effect of diminishing sympathy for the distraught mother. Her first reaction is to faint (2.24) and then to take out her anger on Leukippe’s chambermaid: ‘she slapped Kleio around the face and grabbed her by the hair’ before berating her daughter. She does not believe her daughter’s explanation and indulges in further histrionics (2.25), falling to the floor and groaning. She is a strong, forthright character, whose determination to investigate the incident thoroughly, beginning the next morning with immediate preparations for Kleio’s torture surely cannot endear her to the reader (2.28). The fear and antipathy Leukippe exhibits towards her mother is clearly demonstrated in her threat to hang herself when left behind (2.30). From an unpleasant mother, we turn to another whose emotions are not kept properly under control. Persinna’s reaction when she sees Charikleia’s birthmark and is finally convinced of her true identity places her in immediate opposition to the coolly rational heroine (10.16): Persinna could no longer contain herself but suddenly leapt from her throne, and running towards Charikleia flung her arms around her. Clinging to her she wept, and in her uncontrollable joy howled aloud like an animal (since extreme happiness can often produce a mournful sound), and very nearly pulled Charikleia to the ground. (Aithiopika 10.16) Even when not characterised as actively hostile the relationship between mothers and their children in the genre is notable for a lack of understanding. So even though Daphnis puts enough trust in his foster-mother Myrtale to ask her to act as gobetween in his proposed marriage to Chloe (3.26) she does not perceive the depth of her son’s affection, and deems her proposal of getting Chloe to talk her father around as merely a delaying tactic (3.27).

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Even the kindest mother is not attuned to her child’s feelings. While Persinna can sense Charikleia’s agitation at the threat to Theagenes’ life, her explanation of its probable cause is frustratingly inaccurate (10.29): ‘Even if it is some youthful stirring, something unworthy of your virginity, a mother’s feeling knows how to forgive her daughter’s lapse, and a woman’s sympathy can veil a feminine failing.’ Charikleia is left to weep with despair and frustration. We can see that the authors of the novels discounted any meaningful communication between mothers and children, however tolerant both parents could turn out to be of their child’s choice of marriage partner, in this supremely idealised world view. Callous creatures? Mother-love and the dictates of patriarchy An aspect of the presentation of motherhood in the genre which might prove especially disturbing to the modern reader conditioned to expect a more sentimental view is the way in which mothers consistently put the concerns of the family or society before their feelings for their children, to the extent that they are even prepared to abandon them.37 This is demonstrated clearly in the portrayal of Kallirhoe in her role as mother. While Chariton is at pains not to present her as a cold monster, a fact established by Kallirhoe’s self-distancing from a notorious figure like Medea (2.9), the focus is always on her fidelity to Chaireas rather than on maternal feelings for her child (2.11): ‘I wish to die the wife of Chaireas alone. This is dearer to me than parents or country or child.’ It is telling that the deciding factor in her decision to keep the child is the appearance of Chaireas in a dream in which he states (2.11): ‘I entrust our son to you.’ The young child allows Chariton to create a pretty mother and child tableau (3.8), but when the heroine holds the baby up to Aphrodite, her prayer is not one of sentiment, but instead serves to reinforce patriarchal norms (3.8): ‘May he too sail on a flagship and let someone say of him as he takes part in battle, “He is greater than his grandfather.” ’38 She gives up her son because she has no legal right to him, but her letter to Dionysios (8.4), while demonstrating a concern for the child’s future well-being has a tone which is better described as briskly practical rather than deeply sentimental: ‘… don’t let him find out what a stepmother is like. You not only have a son but a daughter as well; two children are enough for you. Marry them to one another when he is the right age and send him to Syracuse so that he may see his grandfather.’ (Kallirhoe 8.4) This view remains consistent across the extant texts. In Achilles Tatius’ work the views of Pantheia on discovering the apparently ravaged Leukippe are exactly those of patriarchal society, undiluted by any maternal tenderness or concern:

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‘Would you have suffered violence, as is the way in war. It would have been better if you had been raped by a victorious Thracian: a disaster brought about by force is no disgrace. Now you wretch, you will lose your good reputation along with your happiness.’ (Leukippe and Kleitophon 2.24) Amid the pastoral prettiness of the world of Daphnis and Chloe we also encounter the hard mercenary streak of Nape, who views Chloe’s virginity as a valuable commodity. Motivated by self-interest, she wishes Chloe to be married quickly to the richest suitor (3.25), her opinion being that: ‘she should be made the mistress of a house, and making a lot of money out of her for themselves, they should keep it for their own real son’. Finally, in his presentation of Persinna Heliodoros creates a figure who although suffering real grief and regret at the loss of her child is too entrenched in the conventions of patriarchy39 to stand up before society and persevere in her fight to be believed about her child’s paternity. Her pain is not questioned: the band on which she writes her sad story and that of her daughter is depicted as being written in (4.8): ‘the tears shed for you, and the blood of the one whose first child-bearing was the cause of so much mourning’. Yet her judgement is open to criticism; her excuse for the abandonment of her child being (4.8): ‘I was persuaded that your complexion would attach to me the label of adulteress (for no one would believe the story of this radical transformation).’ This attitude is indicative of a certain amount of common sense and yet perhaps there is an implicit authorial hint that she lacks true strength of character, since Charikleia perseveres in a public and difficult demonstration of her paternity. We may pity Persinna, but we surely cannot admire her.40 The malevolent mother It is noteworthy that the two most negative portrayals of motherhood occur in the work of Heliodoros, the novelist who so decisively splits the female psyche into ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Along with the wicked stepmother Demainete, who is defined primarily in an erotic rather than a nurturing role, there is also the Witch of Bessa, who despite her relatively minor narrative function is important because of the insight we gain into Heliodoros’ perception of the wrong sort of mother-love. She is first seen performing the traditional womanly rites for the dead (6.12): ‘They happened upon a little old woman (JXQD…J)41 clinging to the dead body of a native and making all sorts of lamentation.’ She is presented as expressing the wish that someone would kill her and so end her suffering, but this initial impression of apparent motherly devotion is almost immediately branded as something far more excessive and dangerous. Undertaking magical rites to raise one son from the dead (designated ‘barbaric’ at 6.14 to further guide reader reaction) she hopes to ascertain the welfare of the other. In a scene of almost comedic grotesquery (Billault 1980: 33), the animated corpse itself acts as authorial mouthpiece to outline the extent of her transgression of natural laws (6.15): ‘ “I”, he said, “spared you at first, mother,

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although you have committed an outrage against human nature and the laws of destiny.” ’ Heliodoros goes on to hint at the mutual obligations inherent in this particular familial tie: the obedient son had obeyed his mother’s wishes out of respect, but her failure to perform her obligation to bury him decently has caused her to forfeit this very respect (6.15): ‘“Concerned only for your own advantage you neglect the rites due to the dead and prevent me mingling with the other souls.” ’ Her death is significant: showing the same rage and lack of restraint as the negative female antagonists she madly pursues those who have spied on her necromancy and ends her life by accidental impalement through the groin on a broken spear (6.15). Like other negative female figures she meets a fittingly violent end, but perhaps she is punished in this particularly gruesome way, with the broken spear driving into her womb, because she has abused her essential motherliness. Psychoanalytical readings – guilt and the mother-in-pieces Having surveyed the host of negative and ambivalent characteristics associated with mothers in the novels it is now appropriate to subject their portrayal to a combination of different readings in order to discover the exact significance of this particular set of traits. Since so much significant research has been done during the twentieth century in the field of psychoanalysis with regard to the mother–child bond in the early period of infancy, and subsequent feelings of hostility towards the mother, it seems sensible to start here. Freud’s work on the Oedipus Complex is well known (for example Freud 1905, 1924: 315) but has been subsequently reworked and refined. Klein sees the mother as the first object of love and hate: the source of all comfort and all frustration. When the mother fails to interpret the child’s cries and end its discomfort: … hatred and aggressive feelings are aroused and he becomes dominated by the impulses to destroy the very person who is the object of all his desires and who in his mind is linked up with everything he experiences – good and bad alike. (Klein 1975: 305–6)42 In Lacan’s reworking of Freudian doctrine, at the pre-Oedipal stage, at the imaginary or subconscious level, the child at once clings to an illusory oneness with the mother at the same time as it becomes aware of the mother as an object distinct from itself. The child-adult does not forget the world of the imaginary, and continues to desire, unconsciously, this illusory oneness with the mother. However, matters are complicated as the boy tries to find his place in a symbolic order organised around the phallus as signifier. Fear of castration at the father’s hands if he continues his desire for the mother forces the boy into identification with the father and with the phallus. Kaplan (1992: 30) states: ‘The original feminine identification still remains a problem, something that troubles him, that is disturbing and needs to be defended against, as in negative/ derogatory representations of the mother.’

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We have already speculated whether Farber’s (1975: 29) theory of the fragmented mother can be applied onto complex narratives such as the novels.43 If this is indeed the case, then we can visualise the protagonists and antagonists as recipients of displaced motherly characteristics. Following this schema, it is the heroines who have generally acquired the more positive traits: it is only they who may be classified as erotic and nurturing where nurturing means (1975: 30): ‘the role of the female is enacted in a protecting relationship with a child or an adult who needs help’. While these interpretations provide a useful general background explanation of the negative connotations associated with real mothers in the novels we need now to look at the problem from a socio-historical perspective in order to assess the significance of particular traits. The power within the home – the angry mother Talking most specifically of the Classical period Slater views the segregation of women within the home and their power over the household and their growing children as intensifying the tension in the mother–son bond.44 The isolation and frustration of the young mother leads, in his opinion, to an ambivalent or even hostile relationship with her male offspring: 45 The wife is alone among strangers and will remain so. As a child she could perhaps vent her feelings in doll play. As a wife she vents them on her children. This is particularly likely to affect the male child. If the wife resents her husband’s superiority, she can punish arrogance (or even masculinity) in her son. (Slater 1968: 28) Even if it is possible to envisage greater freedom for women in the Roman period, childcare would still have to be primarily the concern of the mother, and there could be no career in the modern sense open to her. Any tension stemming from thwarted ambition could lead to emotional outbursts, envisaged by the novelists as typical motherly behaviour. However, any increase in the socio-economic power of mothers may also have had a direct influence on their portrayal in the novel. Cantarella (1987: 91) sees an improvement in the status of mothers as early as the Hellenistic period as mothers as well as fathers appear in the marriage contract giving the daughter away in marriage,46 and as mothers not legally married and widows could exercise a broad materna potestas over their daughters. In the Roman period the ius trium liberorum explicitly linked independence to the bearing of children since a free-born woman with three children or a freedwoman with four was freed from male guardianship.47 Could the exercise of such power, however limited it was in practice, have influenced the authors in their creation of strong-minded but ultimately negative mothers such as Pantheia? Perhaps it was a fear of female solidarity, intensified by the new socio-economic freedoms which could explain the absence of close, loving

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mother–daughter relationships characterised by a depth of understanding, in the novels. The mothers’ concern with the well-being of the oikos over and above their children’s needs renders them safe, in male eyes. It would be far too subversive to portray mothers directly confronting the kyrios on the subject of the exposure of children. The socio-historical perspective has, as always, provided a useful base for our exploration of gender patterns. However, the relation of character types and narrative patterns to the larger social context, will benefit from a brief comparative study. As usual I do not claim any exact equivalence between the novel and the ‘controls’ I have chosen, but wish to use the differences to illustrate more clearly the relation in which the novel stands to tradition. Mothers and tradition Old Comedy would at first seem to provide a direct contrast to the novel in its representation of mothers, in that, unlike fathers, they were presented in a generally positive way (Henderson 1987: 11, Lévy 1976: 111). Written in the Classical period, these plays would appear to at least partially contradict Slater’s notion that the segregation of women would have a detrimental effect on the quality of mother-child relationships. Of course, this is a gross over-simplification of the problem, and, to introduce a new dimension, we should not underestimate the power of great political change to distort the image of such a potently symbolic figure. The wars that Athens was engaging in could have imbued the mother-image with positive value, as representative of a treasured stability. Henderson writes: Mothers were in fact protectors, role-models and transmitters of the skills and values of women’s culture. Unlike the male sphere, the women’s world was private and co-operative, with little stimulus to change or motivation for conflict … Thus in tragedy and comedy it is older women who, in time of crisis, represent the continuity of tradition when it is threatened by men. (Henderson 1987: 113) In the novels mothers again represent the traditional view, the undiluted views of patriarchal society, but this is now regarded in a negative, or at least ambiguous way, as this brings them into conflict with the favoured protagonists whose love is in part symbolic of a new emphasis on the personal. In one sense the male authors actively desire mothers to be securely hemmed in by the dictates of patriarchy, while at the same time triumphing in their ultimate defeat as personal wishes appear to be given priority over those of the family. However, the emphasis that I have placed on the importance of the particular discourse of the age in dictating the ‘use’ of femininity in any text must not blind us to the many competing influences that may shape the literary product. Turning again to the Victorian novel as suitable comparand we encounter an interest in the scholarship in seeking to place the surprising neglect of the maternal within a generic

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context usually so adept in embracing the sentimental. Speaking of the many motherless heroines of nineteenth century novels Cosslett postulates that: … it represents an ideological polarity for women of family/autonomy: on the one hand, the safe female world in which, by definition, nothing happens, and a woman’s identity replicates her mother’s: on the other, the dangerous world of the unprotected female, who has to find her own identity, about which stories can be written. (Cosslett 1988: 23) On the narrative level the lack of a mother, or of her influence, can free the heroine from an unwelcome chaperone and allow her to experience the frightening and interesting adventures unthinkable in the closeted female world. These diverse literary comparisons seem to have one universal constant: the mother figure carries far too many associations to sit comfortably in most texts, of whatever period, and not disrupt the narrative flow. McKnight says of absent mothers in the Victorian novels: It seems that mothers are often missing in these works because the complex of emotions surrounding the idea of mother and the contradictory and impossible expectations of mothers make these creatures best left out of the story because of the confusion and antipathy they inspire.48 (McKnight 1997: 18) These ‘contradictory’ and ‘impossible expectations’ surface in the novel as mothers oscillate between wildly emotional outbursts and calculating assessments of their daughters’ worth on the marriage market. It is not then surprising that the authors have chosen to omit these unsatisfactory creatures from the narrative altogether in certain cases.

Confidantes Our study of the female antagonists and mother figures within the genre has forced us to entertain the possibility that their portrayals were primarily conditioned by male fears and anxiety. Egger’s (1994) work on female reader identification has emphasised the way in which the focus on the romantic aura surrounding the heroine might invite female interest, yet any study of the minor female characters seems to de-stabilise this view, or at least qualify it. I would suggest that the presentation of minor characters, who are less likely to be subject to careful authorial construction, can be extremely revealing with regard to generally held assumptions about female behaviour. Any examination of these assumptions tends to undermine the theory that the genre was geared towards a chiefly female readership. The role of confidante, though relatively unimportant in terms of narrative function, is thus important in our exploration of fictional patterns expressive of gender interest. In this section I

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have therefore focused upon the quality of female friendship, and its centrality to the narrative. It is telling that most of the female characters who fulfil the role of confidante are slaves, demonstrative of a certain male devaluation of female friendship (Egger 1988: 49). The female slave as type therefore would seem to merit a separate discussion, with particular emphasis on the ways in which the authors have chosen to construct both the sexuality of slave confidantes, and their ability to influence events. Fast friends? As previously noted in the section on female antagonists, it is Chariton who comes closest to portraying a full friendship between two women of equal status. However, the many examples of male friendship in the genre puts the developing friendship between Kallirhoe and Queen Stateira, and also the tentative suggestion of a friendship with Rhodogune (7.5) into perspective. In contrast to the isolated heroines, the heroes’ various companions and helpers cover the complete social spectrum. Even in Chariton’s novel where the author apparently feels no unease in representing an equal relationship between female characters, it is significant that it is not a major theme.49 Much greater time is given to the relationship between Kallirhoe and Plangon, the steward’s wife, because of the demands of the narrative, but however benevolent Plangon’s intentions turn out to be, their relationship is not initially characterised by mutual trust and respect. Although she shows kindness to the new arrival from the beginning50 it is made clear in the text that her motives for initiating the friendship are not entirely disinterested (2.6): ‘So she spent her time in Kallirhoe’s company, but did not reveal that she had been told to serve her, rather she showed a personal friendliness: she wished to be her trusted adviser.’ Plangon’s primary concern is earning her freedom as a reward; the fact that Kallirhoe’s interests can be reconciled with her own and those of Dionysios in the wedding that allows the heroine to avoid aborting Chaireas’ child is a happy coincidence (Schmeling 1974: 142). Other authors give even less prominence to the theme of a sincere female friendship, even between women of unequal status.51 Rhode, ‘the childhood companion (VÚQWURIRQ)52 of Anthia, a young girl of the same age’ (2.3) is introduced to heighten the dramatic tension of the Manto incident. However, although we are informed that ‘she loved (ILORàVD) Anthia’ (2.3), we are given no indication of a special closeness either before or after the incident. Kleio, Leukippe’s chambermaid, is her companion in her daily activities, such as taking a walk in the garden (1.16), and the bee episode, which is recounted in the scene in which Kleitophon pretends to have been stung, shows that there is a certain bond between the two girls: … and suddenly a bee flew in from somewhere and stung Kleio on the hand, and she cried out. So Leukippe jumped to her feet, and putting down her lyre examined the wound carefully, comforting her and telling her not to worry. (Leukippe and Kleitophon 2.7)

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However, this seeming affection is not referred to again, with Leukippe showing no especial concern for her servant either when she is threatened with torture, or sold abroad. The relationships between the female antagonists and their confidantes in Heliodoros have moved even further away from the ideal of sincerity and trust. These ‘friendships’ are based on mutual need, with self-interest being the primary motivation. Both Thisbe and Kybele function to some extent as extensions of their mistresses’ personalities, and so emphasise their undesirable characteristics. Thus Thisbe acts quickly when she suspects Demainete bears a grudge against her despite her help in the execution of her plan (1.15): ‘Noticing that she bore such resentment in her grief and might lash out she forestalled her by securing her own safety through plotting her downfall.’ She has no compunction about setting in motion a plot at least as complicated as her mistress’s own, and one which would lead almost inevitably to her death. Kybele, Arsake’s old nurse, is not disloyal to her mistress, but appears to use their relationship primarily to gain rewards for herself and her family. When all her pleading with the resolutely chaste Theagenes has failed she confesses her fear of the consequences to her son Achaimenes (7.23): ‘since she is caught in a storm of distress I expect that my life will be in danger. I know that Arsake’s sadness and madness will thunder down on me’. Female friendship in the Greek novel is either marginalised or visualised as a destructive force, which appears to be a distinctly male orientation.53 This hypothesis is reinforced if we examine the female orientation of Sappho’s poetry, where female friendship is celebrated in all its varied aspects.54 Hatherly Wilson (1996: 121) states that ‘Interactions of all kinds, from discussions of dress, music and correct behaviour to expressions of group solidarity and/or exclusion … abound in these songs.’ This bonding and notion of equality absent from the novels would appear to invite female identification and interest. Of course, female friendship need not be a threat if it is used to reinforce social norms. Mid-Victorian novels with their relatively uniform narrative patterns again can provide us with an instructive parallel to the Greek novel in that they demonstrate how male anxiety about the role of women within society could be translated into distinct and comforting fictional structures. Cosslett (1988: 5) provides us with a clear description of the prevailing ideology: ‘Women together could support and admonish each other, keeping each other in line, but also helping each other to bear the hardships of women’s position, and increasing their collective force for good in the world.’55 Female friendships in Victorian fiction were thus often invested with moral validity. In contrast, the authors of the Greek novels, anxious about female solidarity in a climate of increased social freedoms either sought to render female friendship safe by devaluing it, or attempted to advertise its dangers by carefully delineating the plotting of evil women and their disreputable servants.56 Johne (1996: 201) sees the fact that in the novel a girl of the upper classes has no intimate girlfriend as simply ‘social reality under the cover of preserved idyll’, though it is surely also a possibility

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that the novelists used archaising Classical flavour to play up the isolation of the heroines and so render them safe. The reality might well have been closer to the Gorgo and Praxinoa of Theokritos’ Idylls wandering down the street to visit one another (admittedly on the occasion of a festival),57 but the young girl with only a trusted maid to comfort her was perhaps a romantic fiction more palatable for the male reader. The way in which the novelists chose to construct female friendship does indeed appear to reinforce our hypothesis of male anxiety over female power. However, as was the case with the female antagonists and the mothers, the organisation of other characteristics in the portrayal can in turn shed more light on the conceptualisation of the more major characters. The slave confidantes thus act as accessories in a dialogue about the free, and an examination of the authorial coding of their sexuality and their intelligence is important for a more complete understanding of what constitutes generic femininity. The sexuality of slaves Since Stateira’s sexuality has already been dealt with in her role as female antagonist, and considering the relatively minor nature of Rhodogune’s narrative function, in focusing on the sexuality of those who perform the role of confidante we are in fact looking at how this idealised genre regarded the sexuality of female slaves. It is interesting that other than the heroines, where it is generally only the threat that is evoked, the only female slave who has a sexual relationship with her master in the genre is Thisbe, who far from being forced, is only too willing to fall in with a plan that allows her to gain power over Knemon.58 This tendency in the genre not to confront directly what might be the brutal reality of a slave’s sexual availability can probably be safely ascribed to a strong generic idealising gloss over the potentially unpleasant.59 Documentary ‘evidence’ can be cited in relation to this availability of slaves to their masters,60 and clear indications are given in the novels that the promiscuity of female slaves was to some extent acceptable as long as it did not conflict with the master’s interest.61 Thus Rhode is not criticised for her relationship with Leukon, her fellow slave, since legal marriage is an option denied to her (2.3). In Leukippe and Kleitophon the slave-girl Kleio is a sexual victim, easy prey for the unscrupulous Satyros, who makes it clear that he has manipulated her feelings in order to gain her assistance in his master’s seduction of Leukippe (2.4). He explains: ‘For Kleio, who has been entrusted with the care of her chamber has dealings with me and looks on me as her lover. I will prepare her in stages so that she will assist us in our task.’62 Her role as victim is highlighted by Satyros’ comment that he had also pretended to be in love with Leukippe’s second maid (2.31). This somewhat casually callous attitude was probably indicative of a commonly held belief that slave-girls existed for the pleasure and profit of men. However, Heliodoros demonstrates another aspect of the ideology of female sexuality when he chooses to cast his female confidantes in the role of sexual predators rather than victims, using them as thematic

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extensions of the female antagonists to firmly associate active female sexuality with other undesirable characteristics such as cruelty and excess. So Thisbe’s beauty, like that of her mistress Demainete is dismissed, since she misuses her gift. She is ‘not an unattractive sight’ (1.11). Although she had previously ignored Knemon’s advances, when Demainete tells her to fall in love with him she does so on the spot (1.11). Her characterisation as a trainee hetaira adds the correct archaic Athenian flavour at the same time as distancing this milieu from the stricter morality of Delphi, Egypt and Ethiopia. The description of her selfish behaviour is deliberately juxtaposed to the strong familial obligations felt by her master. While he prepares a voyage to search for the son who she had played an instrumental part in getting banished, she takes the opportunity to make money for herself (2.8): ‘She sold herself and her skill (WšFQKQ) at drinking parties.’ Heliodoros manipulates her image not only to emphasise Demainete’s evil, but to place her in polar opposition to Charikleia.63 Attractive, she makes active use of her desirability in a way that the unselfconscious heroine never does. As a hetaira she is the antithesis of Charikleia’s radiant purity, but her cunning does not give her the ability to clear-sightedly take control of a situation in the way that the heroine does. Her skills are those of the hired entertainer rather than those of the orator, and she is never loved and respected by those around her; they merely take advantage of her sexual availability. While Kybele, as the mother of a grown-up son, is too old for the focus to be on her own sexual behaviour, her lax morals do allow her to encourage her mistress’s sexual depravity. Her name, with its connotations of barbaric hedonism, is a fair indication of her character; immediately the reader is informed that she is (7.9) ‘one of the waiting women who was accustomed to assist her in her love affairs’. Her moral laxity is clearly connected with a streak of aggression; it is she who first suggests putting Theagenes to the torture in order to secure his sexual compliance (8.5): ‘Since he is unresponsive to you as a lover, let him learn what you are like as a mistress; let whips and rack force him to your will.’ Kybele is a development of such figures as Phaidra’s nurse in the Hippolytos, but where that old woman was genuinely concerned for her charge’s welfare Kybele is a cynical exploiter of her mistress’s weakness. Her self-interest aligns her more with a character like Gyllis from Herodas’ mimes, who preys on the respectable wife Metriche in the hope of gaining some profit for herself. Herodas exploits the stereotype of the old bawd for comic effect, as does Ovid in the Amores (1.8), but although these authors present the bawd in an unappealing light, nowhere is she represented in such a darkly menacing way as the novel.64 We can entertain the possibility that figures such as Thisbe and Kybele might owe their menacing aspects to an intensified fear of female solidarity. We have already speculated that the greater visibility of women in the public sphere at this time might be a factor affecting the generic coding of certain female characteristics. Since the interrelation of sexuality and power was an important theme in our study of the antagonists, it would seem sensible now to turn again to the trait of female intelligence in order to complete this particular investigation.

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Servae Callidae? Cunning and the slave type Billault (1996: 117) assigns Plangon along with Satyros, Kleitophon’s manservant to the category of servus callidus,65 a type familiar from New Comedy, but does not explore the obvious implications this statement holds for expectations of gender. Witty, clever female slaves may abound in New Comedy66 but they cannot steal the limelight from the servus callidus. In the novels it is now the female slaves whose cunning is the focus of reader attention, and who are allocated greater narrative space. However, it is important to note that here their cunning is not intended to provoke amusement, but rather to engender fear, or at the very least unease. Plangon is the most positive of the female slaves who play a major part in the narratives and yet even here her portrayal is ambiguous. Her ability to exploit situations and her knowledge of the workings of the female psyche are emphasised throughout the ‘courtship’ of Dionysios and Kallirhoe. Thus she transforms Dionysios’ mild reproach of her ‘husband’67 into a terrible rage when reporting it to her charge, and pleading with her to intercede on his behalf ensures that the heroine will feel under some obligation to the master for the supposed favour of sparing the life of a friend (2.7). Her discovery of Kallirhoe’s pregnancy generates an opportunity for further manipulation. She is quick to tell the heroine that her plan to keep the child is impossible, because she wishes her to despair and so be more willing to fall in with her own plans. Her talk of ‘unnecessary labour pains and a futile pregnancy’ (2.10) is calculatedly heart-wrenching. Her postponement of advice is another clever psychological move (2.10), as is her association of abortion with the servile condition (2.10). This advice is of course calculated to make Kallirhoe eager to keep the child and so fall in with the proposed marriage. Plangon’s intelligence and energy make her in some respects an attractive character, but Chariton also explicitly designates her the manipulator, the one to blame for Kallirhoe’s apparent betrayal of Chaireas (2.10): ‘Kallirhoe was not at all suspicious of Plangon’s advice: she was a well-born young lady and was ignorant of slavish trickery.’ Egger (1990: 106) sees the ambiguous portrayal of the confidante as inextricably linked with the author’s concern to maintain the innocence of his heroine: ‘He has to depict Plangon as scheming and cunning in order to exonerate the heroine and relieve her of all blame of adultery.’ Plangon is no monster, but neither is she innocent. It is noteworthy that of all the characters who set plans in motion in the novel, it is only the lowly female slave who is entirely successful in achieving her objectives. If Plangon may have engendered some unease in the male reader, the cunning of Thisbe and Kybele was so alarming that both characters needed decisive punishment to demonstrate authorial censure. So Thisbe is stabbed by Thyamis in place of Charikleia, and Kybele suffers an agonising death from the effects of the very poison that she had hoped to administer to the innocent heroine (8.8): ‘The old woman’s eyes bulged and when the spasms stopped her limbs were paralysed and her skin had blackened.’68 The plot that Thisbe sets in motion to entrap her mistress is notable for its complexity and for its author’s single-mindedness and lack of remorse. Convincing

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Demainete that she will be able to achieve her heart’s desire of sleeping with Knemon, she tells her that by pretending to be in love with him herself she will ask Arsinoe, his mistress, for a night in his bed, surrendering her place to Demainete so that she might satisfy her desire. She then ensures that her plan will not be disrupted by asking Arsinoe to lend her a room but not to disturb her, under the pretext that she had arranged to sleep with the shy Teledemos. Finally, leading her mistress to the supposed assignation she goes to Aristippos and informs him of his wife’s adultery, receiving her freedom as a reward for the information. The fact that she even bangs the doors when Aristippos has just entered the room on the pretence that Demainete’s lover had escaped shows attention to detail and foresight (1.17). Her plan is carefully constructed, and having apparently tied up all the loose ends she can, without a pang of regret, turn to the important business of making money by hiring herself out (2.8). A cynical exploiter of every opportunity, she has no qualms about attempting to latch onto the very man whose life she had destroyed, when trying to escape from Thermouthis’ clutches. On the writing tablet found on her dead body is further evidence of her dangerous ability to twist the truth. Having destroyed her mistress to ensure her own safety, she can blithely assure the man she betrayed (2.10): ‘I brought about Demainete’s death for your sake.’ While Kybele does not have the opportunity to execute such an elaborate plan, she does display a dangerous intelligence in her efforts to force Theagenes to comply with Arsake’s wishes. She, like Thisbe, is an exploiter of opportunity, suggesting that the foreign couple should be housed within the palace after Kalasiris’ death (7.11), thus bringing them directly into Arsake’s power. Just as Thisbe had used her sexuality as a means of gaining power over others, Kybele tries to manipulate her charges through the pretence of maternal affection (7.12): ‘So they followed Kybele who kept on exhorting and encouraging them to cheer up, calling them her dearest children and assuring them they would be pleased at what awaited them.’ Her cruel suggestion to Arsake that physical torture might secure Theagenes’ compliance (8.5) has already been noted, but even more chilling is her advice to her mistress to rid herself of her rival (8.6). Her suggestion that news of Charikleia’s death would soon prompt Theagenes to a change of heart underlines both her callousness and the superficiality that characterises her emotional horizons, placing her in polar opposition to the protagonists. She wisely advises the Queen that her death must be accomplished by subterfuge and offers to provide a potion that will allow the deed to be done by stealth. Going to the heroine she persuades her to break her fast by convincing her that Theagenes is to be released as part of a traditional feast day celebration (8.7). Her powers of persuasion are such that even the supremely intelligent Charikleia cannot see through her dissembling (8.7): ‘So with some difficulty Charikleia was persuaded; although she was used to expecting deceit she was partly convinced by the oaths, and was pleased to hear such pleasant news.’ If even the woman who can best orators in debate is deceived, then this serva callida is dangerous indeed. If the cunning of female slaves is being foregrounded in the novels and given greater prominence than ever before, this says less perhaps about attitudes to women slaves themselves than it does about anxieties arising from the increased freedoms

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given to respectable free women. Female intelligence was being highlighted in everyday life as women demonstrated their competence at such tasks as the buying and selling of property. The theme of female cunning in literature was of course not a new one; even as far back as the Odyssey Penelope was demonstrating a keen intelligence as she sought to preserve the integrity of the oikos, but it is important to note that it was always the actions of her husband, the supreme trickster Odysseus, that were given greater prominence. In the novels the narrative focus is often on how women of all social classes display their intelligence to dangerous effect, which would seem to suggest that there might have been new factors which were intensifying the traditional male concern with female autonomy.

Marginal female characters There are relatively few female characters who do not conform to one of the four major roles of protagonist, antagonist, mother and confidante. Of these, most have a basic plot related function, or else are of mainly thematic interest. However, these few characters, scattered across the extant texts are significant to our study of narrative features indicative of a particular gender interest, providing us with an insight into such interconnected topics as female family members and the interests of patriarchy, correct and incorrect manifestations of female sexuality, and age and class as determining factors in social visibility and mobility. The old woman merits discussion as a distinct type. Woman as familial strategy Several of the minor female characters (who are sometimes, though not always related to the protagonists or other main characters) serve to emphasise the patriarchal view of woman as part of a familial strategy; a pattern already demonstrated in such incidents as Nape’s calculating assessment of Chloe’s worth on the marriage market. Thus Dionysios’ unnamed daughter from his first marriage can be casually betrothed to her supposed half brother by Kallirhoe herself (8.4) a woman who at least in her first marriage had married the man she loved (though admittedly this was also the wish of both sets of parents). This child can be used to cement an alliance: even when her son realises his true parentage, he will still be bound to Dionysios, a man of great wealth and influence, through his marriage. The use of a female family member as a reward, and a way of integrating a friend into the family group is seen when Chaireas betroths his unnamed sister to Polycharmos as a suitable reward for his valuable assistance (8.8). He announces to the crowd that ‘He has shown devotion and true loyalty to us, and if it seems a good idea to you let us give him my sister as bride, and he shall have a share of the spoils as dowry.’ This woman appears to be a last minute authorial invention, designed to satisfy the requirement of a romantic narrative that all worthy characters should live happily ever after. It is interesting to note that the assembled citizens are consulted about the match while the bride is not,

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in a move which appears to contradict the genre’s apparent insistence on the importance of the personal. Hippothoos’ old bride in the Ephesiaka, also fits into the category of woman as commodity and into the theme of marriage as a means of securing wealth. Hippothoos is penniless in Tauromenium and (5.9): ‘as time went on an old woman fell in love with him and necessity and lack of means forced him to marry her’. She dies conveniently quickly, thus giving Hippothoos the sort of wealth needed to be able to buy a slave of Anthia’s quality, and so progress the story on to its inevitable happy conclusion. The idealised nature of the genre can be illustrated clearly by comparing the treatment of a similar theme in Roman Satire.69 There, the old hag who has to beg and offer money to get the man to have sex with her is a stereotype, and one whose attempted subversion of traditional gender roles is negated by the satirist’s description of her disgusting body.70 Richlin posits that: … the narrator wants to make it clear that the money itself is the only attraction – the woman is worthless in herself, and the narrator is doing her a favour even to touch her. (Richlin 1984: 5) In the Ephesiaka, Hippothoos’ bride, having lost her beauty and desirability is also worthless, important only for the money she brings to her bridegroom, but in the novel attention is focused on her worthlessness not by descriptions of her ugly body, but through her absence from the text: she is allocated only a few lines and is disposed of quickly. In Leukippe and Kleitophon, the treatment of the hero’s half sister Kalligone again demonstrates how the dictates of patriarchy appear to lie firmly entrenched beneath the genre’s romantic façade. She is first mentioned in relation to her father’s desire to marry her to her half brother Kleitophon (1.3), but no indication is given of her feelings about the matter. At this point her value lies in her ability to strengthen the family’s interests by allowing her dowry to remain within the family unit. She does, however, acquire romantic value through Kallisthenes’ recognition of her desirability when he mistakenly identifies her as the fabled Leukippe (2.16): ‘he did not ask anything further because he was so overcome (˜DOZNëM) at the sight of her that he pointed the girl out to the most trusted of his servants and ordered him to gather together a band of robbers’. He kidnaps her, but she is not mentioned again until the tying up of various narrative strands at the end of the novel makes it desirable that her fate should be disclosed. We are informed that (8.17): ‘He treated her with respect, and as he had promised did not touch her, with the result that he soon captured her heart.’ We only hear about her feelings second-hand, and they are not the focus of our attention. Although this inset story appears to echo elements of the main plot, the dynamics are subtly different in that the passivity of the female character gives the impression that she is simply an object, a reward for the young man having grown up and assumed his obligations towards the city.

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In Daphnis and Chloe Chloe’s daughter Agele is mentioned at the end of the narrative (4.39) to complete the pleasing family tableau. She becomes a desirable possession, not of course as important as the first-born, the son, but proof of her mother’s fecundity, as well as being her mother’s duplicate, symbolic of the continuation of their pastoral idyll (4.39): ‘and the little daughter that was born second they made suck at the teat of an ewe’. Finally, Heliodoros also provides an example of the way in which a woman could be used to further the interests of the family. Knemon the Athenian falls in love with Nausikleia, the daughter of Nausikles the merchant, and the ever observant Charikleia watches his reactions with interest (6.7). She notes both the signs of interest that Knemon has displayed and the machinations of the girl’s father. Again, the bride’s feelings are not important, or at least their direct expression is not felt to be appropriate. This is another confusing textual signal in a genre that generally values the heroine’s articulation of her romantic feelings for the hero. We are increasingly requested to confront the problem of how the reduction of so many minor female characters to marriageable commodity can be reconciled with the new emphasis on personal feeling seen in the representation of the protagonists’ relationship. This is a problem to which we will return in the discussion of marriage in the final chapter, though it is fair to comment now that these throwaway vignettes perhaps illustrate a strictly conventional view of female behaviour so deeply entrenched in the public imagination that they can be slipped into the narrative texture without comment. Different kinds of love The second set of female characters are those who exist almost solely to demonstrate the authorial standpoint on love and female sexuality.71 So, in the Ephesiaka and Daphnis and Chloe the characters of Thelxinoe and Amaryllis possess erotodidactic aspects, becoming emblematic of the intensity and strength of true love. Thelxinoe is only a mummified body by the time that Habrokomes encounters her husband Aigialeus and yet she is supremely important in that she represents the unchanging nature of true love. Aigialeus informs his young guest:

‘… and if I come home very tired from fishing the sight of her consoles me. For she seems different to me than the way you now see her. I think of her, my child, as she was in Sparta and when we fled. I think of the night-festival and our agreement.’ (Ephesiaka 5.1) In Longos’ work it is the intensity of the young male’s desire for the female which is emphasised. In his paradigm on the nature of young love Philetas tells of his feelings for Amaryllis, who later became his wife (2.7): ‘and I forgot to eat and did not drink, nor could I sleep. My soul ached, I had palpitations, my body froze’. It is

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telling that we hear nothing about her reaction to being in love, and she disappears from the story after Philetas has consummated his desire; as a wife she lacks interest. It is also important that the two minor female characters who are symbolic of the more positive aspects of love are entirely passive, a strong indication of traditional male attitudes. To explore this matter further we also need to examine the treatment of those minor female characters who display a more active sexuality. In Leukippe and Kleitophon it is a prostitute (8.16), ‘a wretched woman (JXQD‹ND NDNRGD…µRQD) … who sells the pleasures of Aphrodite for money’72 who is duped by the pirates and killed in the place of the more valuable Leukippe. As a prostitute she is not vilified for her willingness to go with the pirates; she does not constitute a threat to the fabric of society in the way that the adulterous wives do, but she is expendable. A woman commonly available to all, she has no value to anybody. The hetaira Arsinoe in the Aithiopika, initially (1.15) described as a ‘flute girl’ is a straightforwardly negative character who fits into this author’s polarisation of the female psyche into good and evil. She is in some respects a duplicate of Thisbe, another opportunity for Heliodoros to display the undesirable characteristics associated with active female sexuality. Thus when Thisbe’s charms and nimble harp playing lure away Arsinoe’s lover, the rich merchant Nausikles, her immediate reaction is one of jealousy and she quickly takes revenge on her rival by informing Demainete’s relatives of Thisbe’s plot (2.9). Heliodoros is, however, also capable of treating a demanding female in a more light-hearted manner, as shown in his description of the Lady Isias of Chemmis.73 She does not appear directly in the narrative but her behaviour is described by her besotted lover who must obey her every whim. He explains that (6.3): ‘I provide everything for her, it’s for her that I do not rest by night or day, but whatever I’m ordered to do, whether it’s large or small I accomplish, even though it costs me money or distress.’ She indirectly fulfils the role of messenger, since her lover is able to give information about Theagenes’ whereabouts, but her primary function is to inform the reader’s view of the stable and mutual love that exists between Charikleia and Theagenes (Egger 1990: 143). This incident may be humorous, but a serious point is also surely being made about the destructive, asymmetrical nature of this love. The incidents involving the minor female characters so far appear to reinforce the impression gained from our examination of the antagonists, mothers and confidantes, that the characterisation of these types was to a large extent dependent on male anxieties about female power. The final category of minor female characters, those who perform the function of messengers and chaperones/guards, should also provide us with some important insights regarding ingrained attitudes to gender, class and occupation.

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The socially invisible So far the minor female characters have conformed to traditional expectations of the role of women within society. They have either functioned in the plot primarily as a family member, someone’s wife or daughter, or have been linked to the world’s oldest profession. The characters who fulfil the role of messenger also conform to this pattern of patriarchal expectation and include a priestess, an innkeeper (a profession allied to that of prostitution) and various slaves. In all cases their role within the plot has been of an extremely minor nature. For example, the priestess of Aphrodite in Kallirhoe appears briefly on only two occasions, to inform Chaireas and Polycharmos of Kallirhoe’s whereabouts when Chaireas faints on seeing her golden image in the temple (3.6), and to tell Kallirhoe of the incident (3.9). Chariton shows no interest in describing her religious tasks, perhaps too mundane for an audience who would have been at least partly familiar with such things, and simply designates her a reliable source of information. This minor messenger role occurs again in the Ephesiaka as Habrokomes and the bandits are informed of Anthia’s proposed marriage to Perilaos and her supposed subsequent death by ‘an old woman by the name of Chrysion, who was there’ (3.9). Her occupation is not clear – Egger (1990: 141) convincingly argues that she was an old hetaira – since only a social undesirable would consent to live in such a socially undesirable place as a bandits’ lair. She is of course also part of the literary topos that associates old women with bandits’ hideouts: in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses it is an old woman who kept house for them who recites the tale of Cupid and Psyche (4.27). Xenophon’s lack of narrative detail also makes it difficult to identify Althaia’s profession with any great degree of certainty. She could be a private acquaintance of Hippothoos’, but it is perhaps more likely that she is an innkeeper of sorts. We are told that Hippothoos, arriving at Rhodes (5.11), ‘brought her to a certain old woman, Althaia by name, who lived near the sea and entrusted her to this foreign woman before himself resting for the night’. It seems that, however dubious her profession, her primary function in the text is that of chaperone. After all the adventures that the heroine has undergone, including her brief sojourn in a brothel, the author seems concerned to have her observe the proprieties as they near her reunion with her husband, and her reintegration into respectable society. The remaining characters of this type all occur in the Aithiopika. In her letter to Knemon Thisbe mentions an old woman who shares her dwelling (2.10) who she had intended to deliver her message. There is also an old Persian slave who guards the door for Kybele (7.14) and the young Ionian slave who reveals how Kybele had intended to poison Charikleia (8.9). All these women share the characteristic of social invisibility: old women and slaves, they can move freely about and yet excite no interest. They also excite no especial concern in the male reader; performing a basic task and conforming to a role assigned to them by a male-orientated society, they melt into the background and do not disrupt the narrative flow. Since many of these characters are old, it now appears appropriate to briefly discuss the old woman as a type.

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The old woman The relative scarcity of mature women in the texts compared to mature men, seems to confirm the view generated by the way in which reader attention is focused on the heroine, that it is only in her erotic aspect that woman is valuable.74 Older women are frightening (the Witch of Bessa, Kybele)75 and are often relegated to the margins of polite society (Chrysion, Althaia, the old woman at the bandits’ lair in the Aithiopika). They may move around freely, but this is probably because, as Demand states (1990: 28): ‘The male community accorded them less value and interest once they had lost their childbearing capability.’ Of course, as we have already seen in the discussion of mothers, older women could acquire a positive symbolic value in genres such as Old Comedy as perpetuators of tradition76: the reason that they are so marginalised in the novel could have as much to do with an intensified fear of women with authority, as the way in which the romance concentrates upon the young and the beautiful.77 Falkner, talking most specifically of Classical Athens and drawing on Gutmann’s work in the field of gerontology, speaks of … the frequency of a certain ‘matriarchal shift’ in anthropological studies, in which women in old age assume a higher and more aggressive profile than before. Such increased assertiveness and independence often become a social liability, a perception that elderly women have a particular capacity for evil translated into local and negative stereotypes such as that of the ‘witch’. (Falkner 1989: 125)78 It is possible that the freedom to take charge of one’s own affairs that we saw being granted to Greek women in the Roman Empire, under carefully circumscribed conditions, was mainly, in practice, confined to mature women. This might provide a partial explanation for the actively negative, rather than casually dismissive portrayals of mothers and older women in general. Female collectives Consideration of groups of characters seemingly incidental to the main narrative progression, and apparently functioning merely as additional descriptive decoration, can actually be very revealing of the tensions regarding acceptable behaviour that we have sometimes seen masked in the representation of thematically more important characters. In the novel groups of women sometimes venture outside the traditional confines of the home, and thus appear to de-stabilise the private woman – public man cultural dichotomy that has often been projected onto modern conceptualisations of ‘ancient Greece’. However, in our eagerness to sweep away evidence of apparent ‘patriarchal oppression of women’ we must not ignore the obvious discontinuity between present and past cultural formations. Just as we noted the web of behavioural

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proscriptions that seem to shroud the heroines’ public appearances, we must be prepared to recognise the complex social coding that governs any apparent transgression of the unwritten rule against female participation in public life. The first, and perhaps most obvious code is that which allows female participation in festivals as part of the traditional association of the feminine with the religious. So in the Ephesiaka local girls march in a procession at the festival of Artemis (1.2),79 while in Leukippe and Kleitophon women of all ages go to attend a female only sacrifice, the occasion for the abduction of Kalligone (2.15). Other scenes might also be interpreted in terms of this socially sanctioned religious connection. The widespread public mourning that greets news of Kallirhoe’s apparent death at 3.4 might fit into this category, along with the procession of the maidens of Memphis that accompanies the radiant Charikleia into the city (7.8). In addition to the religious connection the functioning of class as an important social determinant must not be ignored: in Longos the women who share the task of grape gathering with the men-folk, and who are free to throw suggestive comments at the hero, are of servile status (2.2). The above instances all seem to confirm the set of behavioural rules which governed the representation of the major characters, but there are some interesting anomalies. So, in Chariton the women of Syracuse are present at Theron’s trial (3.4) and also attend the hero’s leave-taking (3.5), the return of both protagonists (8.6) and the final assembly (8.7). Even Heliodoros provides an extraordinary example of female participation in public events, as the female Delphians actually take up arms in the hunt for the abducted heroine (4.21). However, these seemingly more obvious transgressions of cultural norms may in turn be governed by another, more subtle set of textual codes. On all the occasions mentioned in Chariton’s novel, the women appear at times of intense emotional interest, and could thus be functioning as a dramatic device for heightening this interest still further. The Heliodoran example ends by acknowledging the female defeat as their natural weakness (a perennial Heliodoran topos) overcomes their desire to help. Chariton’s sympathetic portrayal of the female condition and Heliodoros’ almost misogynistic stance clearly continue to find their expression in the most casual of references as they did in the more elaborate and carefully constructed representations of the major characters. There remains, however, the possibility that these women on the very narrative edge may actually be providing a clearer glimpse into expanded female opportunities, and female visibility than did their more important textual sisters.

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6 MINOR MALE CHARACTERS

Constructing masculinity Just as any understanding of the patterning of generic femininity cannot be restricted to a survey of the heroines, so too our complementary study of the construction of masculinity requires more than an appreciation of the workings of novelistic ‘heroism’ alone. So far little scholarly attention has been paid to how the minor male characters as a group may inform our understanding of normative behaviours. Instead the academic spotlight has fallen on characters such as Kalasiris (Winkler 1982, Futre Pinheiro 1991 and Levin 1992), Knemon (Morgan 1989), Hydaspes (Rogier 1982) and Hippothoos (Alvares 1995), figures felt to be pivotal to a full understanding of a particular text. I believe that a complete study of the male subsidiary characters is essential for our comprehension of gender functioning in the genre as a whole. If, as I have posited, gender functions as a relational sign system, then an exploration of privileged male behaviours, and the value accorded to certain male roles and types, is needed in order to situate and evaluate the formulation of femininity. It is also important to remember that masculinity itself does not function as an uncontested discursive site, even within this genre. If the heroes appear to deliberately subvert traditional expectations of male behaviour, then it seems sensible to ascertain the extent to which these expectations actually surface in the representation of more minor characters. The intersecting factors of class, race and age will also be considered as integral components in the genre’s formation of masculinity, and discrete differentiating markers of what ‘male’ might come to mean in any given context.

The male antagonists The subsidiary male characters, like their female counterparts, may be, for the most part, assigned to one of three major roles: antagonist, friend, or parent. It is telling, however, that among the male characters there is far greater scope for an individual to fulfil more than one of these roles,1 perhaps reflecting the tendency of patriarchal society to be less restrictive in its definitions and categorisations of male behaviour.

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MINOR MALE CHARACTERS

The male antagonists, those who seek a relationship with the heroine, are the most important of the subsidiary male characters in terms of narrative interest and plot development. However, the most striking point of comparison between this group and their female equivalents is that, although they are far more numerous, they are also as a rule, less developed as characters (Egger 1990: 191). Their very number serves to focus on the heroine’s desirability, but at the same time may blur any direct comparison which could be made to the hero. However, a detailed examination of such characters is still essential to complete the view of privileged masculine traits offered by the genre, and to complement the picture of femininity given by the subsidiary female characters. Being in love – ranges of behaviour In this genre, the authors for the most part avoid any heavy-handed judgement of male sexuality in their treatment of the male antagonists. Konstan (1994: 41) has rightly observed that the themes of insincerity in love, and self-conscious deception and seduction are only marginal to the genre. He wishes to emphasise the uniformity of the male antagonists’ reactions to the heroine, and stresses that all are motivated by Eros. He claims that this emotion is not qualitatively different from that experienced by the protagonists, which can really only be differentiated by its mutuality, and the passivity of the Liebespaar in seeking to attain their desires. The difficulties of overcoming the conceptual slippage that occurs between ancient and modern conceptions of love will be dealt with at greater length in my final chapter. However, it is useful to clarify now that even in those characters portrayed as motivated by love rather than lust,2 there can sometimes be a great deal of difference both in the amount of force they are prepared to use to achieve their desires, and the concern they show for the well-being of the beloved. This point has important implications for the way femininity can be read in certain novels, in addition to positing a primarily male or female orientation for particular works. For example, Chariton and Heliodoros do not expose their heroines to the danger of direct physical assault (Egger 1990: 197), while, in contrast, the behaviour of the male antagonists in Achilles Tatius’ work threatens the almost complete objectification of the heroine. Kings and satraps may desire Kallirhoe, but ironically, she only suffers physical violence from her jealous husband (1.4), who is punished for his behaviour by being deprived of his wife for the majority of the narrative. This apparent delicacy on Chariton’s part, coupled with other narrative features, such as the emphasis on female friendship and solidarity, might suggest a strong female orientation to the novel. Any such assumption, however, should be tempered by the acknowledgement that the correct treatment of women is an integral component of Chariton’s conception of cultivation and high breeding.3 The interpretation of Heliodoros’ treatment of women also demands a certain caution and sensitivity. He too demands high standards from all his male characters; all, whatever their station in life are expected to observe the proprieties. Nearly all those characters who express an interest in Charikleia do so through a proposal of honourable marriage, usually

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made to her male guardian. Even traditionally wild bandits such as Trachinos and Peloros eschew direct advances for marriage negotiations, addressing themselves to Kalasiris as the heroine’s supposed father (5.28, 5.30). In this case, though, the manner in which purity is exalted through the entire novel, and the direct contrast between the surprising continence of the male antagonists and the uninhibited and dangerous passions of their female counterparts become pertinent. Such factors demand that we place the exalted heroine within the web of neo-Platonic influences that shrouds the text, rather than necessarily reading her as an example of a new belief in female power or influence.4 In contrast, all the attempts on the heroine’s virtue in Leukippe and Kleitophon seem to strip her of dignity and reduce her to the level of object. Thus Charmides, the commander of the Egyptian army, who had previously treated the hero with kindness, is ‘overcome (˜DOèNHL) straightaway’ (4.3) by the sight of Leukippe, and is so insistent in his desire to possess her that Kleitophon’s friends have to invent the excuse that she is having her period. Such a naturalistic detail, offered without her knowledge, is unnerving and intrusive. On another occasion Gorgias, an Egyptian soldier, is responsible for concocting an aphrodisiac, which, erroneously administered full strength, causes Leukippe to experience the symptoms of an epileptic fit in which she displays ‘those things a woman does not like to be seen’ (4.9). She is whipped by Sosthenes, the brutal slave overseer when she refuses to comply with his advances (5.18) and also has her head shaved, a cruel gesture which de-humanises her and renders her unrecognisable to her own fiancé. The repeated violence against women in this novel would seem to suggest that this text was not primarily for female consumption.5 Self-control – matters of class and race In addition in helping to posit a particular orientation for the novel, the presentation of self-control not only aids in providing each text with its defining ‘flavour’, but also provides an important authorial insight into matters of class and race. We have already noted the importance of such defining factors in our study of the heroes, yet the relative importance accorded to either factor, although consistently functioning as an index of social acceptability, varies widely from author to author. So, for example, in Chariton’s work class is the decisive element in the regulation of behaviour, with even aristocratic barbarians such as the Great King displaying a fairly clearly defined idea of what constitutes acceptable sexual conduct.6 In his discussion of his feelings for the heroine with his eunuch, he at first professes horror at the suggestion that he might take advantage of a woman under his protection (6.3): ‘Don’t judge me guilty of such lack of self-control (¢NUDV…DQ), I am not overcome to that extent (RÙF RÛWZM ˜DOèNDµHQ).’ In the romance of Achilles Tatius antagonists either possess self-control as part of a general package of good manners appropriate to male members of the élite, as in the case of Kallisthenes, or they do not, as in the case of Thersandros: the struggle for self-control is not itself an issue. Thersandros’ lack of moderation not only manifests

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itself in sexual matters, but also in the way he resorts to physical violence as a response to most set-backs. So, when he discovers on his return from a journey that his wife has apparently re-married, believing him dead, he bursts into the house, thrusts his wife violently away from him, and immediately sets about punishing the supposed adulterer Kleitophon (5.23): ‘He pushed her out of the way roughly, and catching sight of me said: “This is the adulterer.” He leapt at me and struck me a blow full of fury on the forehead.’ The hero’s bearing of this ill-treatment without complaint throws Thersandros’ lack of restraint into sharp relief. The functioning of class in the novels of Xenophon and Heliodoros is potentially a far more complex issue, and will be discussed in more detail in the sub-section dealing with active heroism. Suffice it to say here that the strange mixture of relative restraint and naked aggression displayed in the representations of the ‘bourgeois bandits’ Hippothoos and Thyamis, de-stabilises traditional behavioural expectations. Both originally from an aristocratic background they are to a greater or lesser extent brutalised by their surroundings, and yet their sexual moderation with regard to the heroine pre-figures their eventual societal rehabilitation, and functions as markers of their status.7 These same two novelists provide an illuminating insight into the functioning of the intersection of the cultural signs of gender and race. Xenophon, creator of the menacing barbarian female Manto creates an equally immoderate male barbarian in the guise of the violent Indian Prince Psammis. The moment he purchases the heroine (3.11): ‘he tried to force her (EL£]HVTDL) and have sex with her (FUÁVTDL SUÕM VXQRXV…DQ)’. In this case it is not the realisation that his conduct falls below that which should be expected of a man of his status that enjoins him to respect her wishes, but the extreme superstition that engenders fear at her tale of the vengeance that will be exacted by the goddess Isis (3.11). In his creation of this comic-strip villain Xenophon appears at first to be elevating race as the primary behavioural determinant, but we must not forget that the other would-be rapist, Anchialos, is a rank and file bandit whose attempted crime merits immediate punishment from the heroine herself (4.5). This novelist is thus capable of utilising the set of expectations regarding race when the narrative demands the creation of a suitable villain, but it is notable that such a figure lacks the interest accorded to his female counterpart. To be a foreign male, for Xenophon, is to be inferior, but not ‘Other’ in the same sense as the female antagonists.8 The question of race in Heliodoros is further complicated by the neo-Platonic subtext in which the geographical progression from Greece to Ethiopia could also be matched by a philosophical progression from conventional wisdom to true enlightenment (Dowden 1996). In this context it is the Persians who stand in opposition to the Greeks as true barbarians (Scobie 1973: 27), although it is again telling that the opposition is only fully exploited with reference to the female characters. So Oroondates’ desire for Charikleia and command that she be conveyed straight to him, presumably to become his mistress (8.2), is dealt with in a few lines, and cannot compare to the detail expounded in Heliodoros’ depiction of the lustful Arsake.

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Active heroism – bravery and initiative Since the dynamic of the female antagonists’ presentation generally resided in their implicit opposition to, or comment on the heroines’ behaviour, it seems wise to interrogate the manner in which their male counterparts frame the heroes’ portrayal. Although the differences in the realm of affective experience are of most importance given the protagonists’ primary orientation as ‘love-hero’, no investigation of generic masculinity would be complete without a brief survey of the various brands of active heroism. The partial reproduction of the heroic model, and accompanying ambivalence to active displays of strength and force that we saw in the generic representation of the heroes is repeated in the portrayal of the antagonists, with considerable variation occurring across the range of texts. So while many of the antagonists will demonstrate greater initiative than the heroes in their attempts to win the heroine, active bravery does not function as a privileged narrative trait in that it never enables the antagonist to achieve his goal. The lack of full authorial endorsement can be clearly seen in Chariton’s novel where Dionysios is awarded the heroine as a prize for his bravery (7.5). His glorious aristeia actually avails him nothing, since Aphrodite has already ensured Kallirhoe’s return to her first husband. For the mannered Achilles Tatius the undoubted courage of a Dionysios is replaced by the mindless aggression of a Thersandros while in Longos’ pastoral physical force descends to the level of farce. The Dorkon-wolf is attacked by dogs (1.21) in his pursuit of Chloe, while her later abductor Lampis is beaten by the parasite Gnathon, himself a ridiculous figure (4.29). For the remaining two novelists the situation is more complex. Both display an attitude towards violence, in Xenophon’s case qualified approval for initiative and strength, and in that of Heliodoros distrust for behaviours that smack of lack of restraint that are undercut through their creation of the bourgeois bandit. While Heliodoros is capable of subtly undermining any set of expectations attached to any marker, be it race or gender or status, Xenophon’s apparent destabilisation of the concept of class is more surprising. In both novels the figure of the bourgeois bandit, exemplified by the characters of Hippothoos and Thyamis, challenges traditional views of the relative importance of personal and social goals, and become emblematic of the genre’s ambiguous stance towards the social order. For example, the story of Hippothoos is mainly one of personal endeavour, and the selfish pursuit of pleasure. Originally a member of the upper classes he moves out to the very margins of society when the social structures of that society let him down. The father of his beloved Hyperanthes in effect sells the boy to Aristomachos, an older man whom Hippothoos has no qualms about murdering (3.2). Hippothoos and the boy flee their native-land to ensure they could be together, but Hippothoos distances himself still further from societal values when the boy dies, and he turns to brigandage both from necessity, and a desire to forget (3.2). He works his way up through the ranks and forms a band of his own, since those from an aristocratic background are of course naturally superior to those of low birth. He can pragmatically reconstitute this band as the need arises, and equally pragmatically

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marries an old woman for her money when destitute in Tauromenium (5.9). While loyal to his friends his position as robber chief dehumanises him to the extent that he is prepared to sacrifice the heroine by throwing javelins at her when she is bound to a tree (2.13) and later orders her to buried alive in a trench with fierce dogs as a punishment for killing Anchialos (4.6). It is significant that for all his cruelty,9 and his assumed role as destroyer of the polis he receives no authorial disapprobation. In contrast, Kyno, supposed mainstay of the oikos, but in fact its nemesis, must, in this moral universe be decisively punished. Hippothoos can be rehabilitated and share in the protagonists’ happy ending: this outcome not only speaking of the apparent supremacy of personal values, and the leeway accorded to a high status male, but also perhaps acting as an implicit comment on the unreliability of certain patriarchal structures. Thyamis, like Hippothoos, and many of the protagonists, must escape from society after an authority figure fails to react appropriately to a personal situation. In the case of Thyamis, this is Oroondates’ belief in the false accusations brought against Thyamis and Arsake by his brother Petosiris (7.2). Following the anthropological application of the notion of liminality that we entertained briefly with respect to the heroines, we might suppose that the reintegration into society of Hippothoos and Thyamis reaffirms societal values. Their aberrant conduct in the wild could also be interpreted as highlighting by opposition correct behavioural modes. However, this hypothesis is problematised by the sympathy engendered for these characters through the presentation of their initial treatment as supremely unjust: those in authority can never be entirely trusted.10 Eloquence as privileged site – isolating the essence of novelistic heroism The other element of traditional heroic experience – rhetorical excellence – does not suffer from the same authorial disapprobation that governed the representations of active force. This is unsurprising given that rhetorical training was in our period, in theory at least, still part of the education of the élite male. While such skills are not privileged to the extent that they enable the antagonists to steal either the heroine or reader interest away from the protagonists, the neutral or positive coding this trait receives acts as a semi-reliable indicator of the extent to which the heroes subvert traditional definitions of masculinity. Chariton’s novel in particular abounds with examples of characters who show greater ease in the public realm than the hero. So Dionysios provides an emotional yet carefully balanced speech in his suit against Mithridates (5.6) while Mithridates himself is capable of putting on a spectacular performance. We are told (5.7): ‘Mithridates raised his voice as if divinely inspired (éVSHU ™Sˆ THLDVµRà).’ Thersandros’ court speech, while not endearing him to the reader is an accomplished rhetorical display (8.8) which demonstrates the author’s love of the narrative setpiece. Achilles Tatius appears to wish to derive amusement from the discrepancy between what the male characters think they can achieve through oratory, and what the corresponding female characters actually do achieve through greater tact and

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psychological awareness. The trait, however, is not as negatively valued as aggression. In contrast to the floridity of Achilles Tatius’ style, the bareness of Xenophon’s prose does not allow any of the antagonists enough narrative space to shine as orators, thus ensuring that Anthia’s speeches make more of an impact. In Longos’ work Dorkon’s attempt to manipulate the outcome of the ‘beauty contest’ through persuasive argument (1.17) may fail, but tellingly does not result in the violent punishment that ensues from the abortive wolf-attack. Finally, the confidence and rhetorical flair of the bandit Thyamis (1.19) carries a positive charge despite the fact that events conspire to remove the heroine from his control (Birchall 1996: 14). It is significant that Charikleia’s accomplished response (1.21–2) immediately caps his performance, and introduces the question of comparison and narrative framing. In some cases at least it is to the heroines that we must look if we wish to seek a more direct comparison to the male antagonists’ failed attempts to manipulate events. As we previously noted, the female protagonists’ supremacy in the sphere of social interaction is a favoured narrative pattern throughout the genre. If the male antagonists, often functioning as authority figures, are their direct, yet unsuccessful rivals in this respect, then this generic pattern surely sends a powerful signal regarding the ambiguous status of social structures in the novel. The heroes aren’t their rivals, because they do not even try: who they are is ultimately more important than anything they actually do.

Fathers If, as we have postulated, there is indeed some tension with regard to patriarchal values apparent in the representation of the male antagonists, then a study of fathers themselves is vital to our understanding of the generic stance towards society. The first and most obvious point which must be made when studying the representation of fathers in the genre is their number and visibility: there are far more fathers and father figures than mothers, and they are given a relatively high profile. Schmeling (1974: 143), in his study of Ariston, in Chariton’s novel, notes that the protagonists ‘being good middle-class characters needed parents’. It is true that there is a certain emphasis on lineage and respectability for the genre’s protagonists, and fathers serve to represent the family and familial obligations even where mothers are absent. However, the number of positively portrayed father substitutes or fatherly friends also serves to underline the value placed on older men by patriarchal society. To investigate the representation of the older male generation in greater detail, it would first seem appropriate to examine their portrayal in areas where mothers were disadvantaged: namely emotion, an understanding of the child’s needs and a willingness to put these before family concerns. Measuring up to mother – the relationship with the child While the mothers in the Greek novel were, as we have seen, associated with violent emotional outbursts which often disrupt the narrative flow, fathers can show their

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feelings in a way calculated not to alienate reader sympathy. Thus, in a typical scene Ariston, Chaireas’ father, although himself recovering from an illness, is carried on a litter to pay his respects at Kallirhoe’s funeral (1.6): ‘calling on Kallirhoe as his daughter and his lady’. Although Chariton is an adept at the melodramatic moment, this compares favourably to the scene where Chaireas’ mother begs to be taken on board his ship, offering to be thrown into the sea should she prove burdensome: this scene should excite pathos rather than irritation. It is only in Leukippe and Kleitophon that the father’s emotional reaction can compare to that of the mother. Sostratos’ response to the false information that the hero has killed his daughter involves an element of violence so common to this novel (7.14): ‘and when he’d heard this he cried out loud and beat himself round the head. Going for my eyes he very nearly gouged them out’. However, unlike his wife, whose anger and disbelief drove Leukippe to contemplate suicide, he is quick to reconcile himself with the protagonists when he learns the truth (8.4). The situation in the Aithiopika is slightly more complex, but does end by reinforcing the impression of care coupled with restraint. The identification of the heroine’s natural father Hydaspes with law and one’s obligation to society has the danger of rendering him cold and unsympathetic. However, Heliodoros’ insistence on moderation and balance should warn us against too harsh a judgement. Whereas Persinna’s reaction to finding her daughter is overly exuberant, Hydaspes’ response is measured but ultimately sincere: His soul was tossed between waves of paternal feeling and manly resolve and his mind was divided between these two opposing factions like the irresistible surge of the sea. Finally he succumbed to all conquering nature and not only was convinced he was a father but also showed a father’s feelings. Persinna was on the ground with their daughter. Raising them up he clasped Charikleia openly and poured out a flood of tears as a libation to acknowledge his fatherhood. (Aithiopika 10.16) If fathers compare favourably to mothers in terms of a sympathetic rendering of emotion they seem to fare equally badly when it comes to understanding their children, although they receive no criticism for this. So Sostratos in Leukippe and Kleitophon, though imitating his wife’s inability to believe that their daughter can remain chaste is surprisingly tolerant when asking her to relate her adventures (8.4): ‘and even if it should come to be painful to me most of it is not your fault but that of fate (GD…µRQRM)’. Hydaspes too shows compassion when he sees his daughter’s distress, but fails to understand her feelings for Theagenes even when she says it is her destiny to die with him (10.20), or begs to be allowed to be the one to kill him (10.21). He ends up thinking her mad (10.22). The true fathers in the genre may demonstrate a surprising degree of compassion and tolerance, but, significantly, it is from the vast array of fatherly friends in the Greek novel that the protagonists receive the most understanding and practical help.

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The wise father figure does not occur either in Chariton or in Achilles Tatius, where his function is usurped by younger male friends.11 However, in the Ephesiaka Aigialeus, the poor Spartan fisherman gives Habrokomes an important lesson in the enduring nature of love (5.1) and Philetas in Longos’ novel is the first person to name the condition the two protagonists are suffering from, going on to give practical hints regarding the successful consummation of their desire (2.6). In this case his knowledge is explicitly linked to his age: ‘If I haven’t grown these grey hairs for nothing or got a foolish mind in my old age, then you are consecrated to Love, my children, and Love is the one looking after you.’12 As usual, the complexity of Heliodoros’ narrative means that the multiplicity of wise father figures could perhaps be read as a neo-Platonic allegory of the ascent to true knowledge,13 but this does not undermine the significance of such figures as Kalasiris on the purely narrative level. It is striking that the most memorable female characters in the text (apart from the remarkable female protagonist Charikleia) are characterised in terms of jealousy, violence and negative sexuality, whereas the male characters to whom the most space is devoted are notable for their wisdom and restraint.14 Old men are generally wise and revered for that very wisdom in this genre,15 but class16 is more of a determining factor in terms of behaviour than is the case for old women. For example, Lamon and Dryas, the protagonists’ foster fathers in Daphnis and Chloe are rustic labourers17 and while they both exhibit certain skills, Lamon being an accomplished storyteller (2.34) and Dryas an excellent dancer (2.36), in general they lack the dignity accorded to other old men in the Greek novel. So, there is an element of farce in Dryas’ chasing of the dog that stole his dinner (3.7): ‘He picked up a club and followed on his heels, just as if he were a dog himself.’ Also lacking in dignity is Dryas’ own description of Lamon as a ‘snub-nosed old man’ (3.32). To return to our comparison of those traits which are less privileged in the depiction of mother figures, fathers too are inclined to put the larger needs of the family before their feelings for their children, but again, there is no censure either from the authors or indirectly from other characters (Egger 1990: 214).18 Thus there is no adverse comment in Kallirhoe when the hero’s father Ariston reacts unhelpfully (although not angrily) to his son’s confession of love for the heroine (1.1): … when he’d heard this his father groaned and said, ‘then I’ve lost you my child. It is certain that Hermokrates would never give you his daughter when he has so many rich and royal suitors for her. You must not even try in case we are publicly insulted (ØEULVTîµHQ).’ (Kallirhoe 1.1) The hero accepts this decision without complaint. Patriarchal values are protected in the novel by shifting the focus onto the mother’s emotional reaction to the problem. Chaireas’ mother is thus an emotional burden, and Pantheia in Leukippe and Kleitophon an all-seeing ogress. This technique is also demonstrated in the Aithiopika where it is

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the fear of her husband’s possible reaction to the white child which causes Persinna to expose her. As Egger (1990: 216) states: ‘paternal norms are executed by a killing mother, the father remains unimplicated’. Fathers thus compare favourably to mothers even where their behaviour is not substantially different. The only exceptions, where concern for the family is translated into something more closely resembling a selfish desire for profit, say less about the exercise of the power of the kyrios than they do about the character of slaves19 and the passivity of boys involved in a homosexual relationship.20 Fathers in love Having surveyed the relationship of fathers to their offspring in the Greek novel, our examination of gender patterns in general and the representation of masculinity in particular would seem to demand that we should also focus upon the sexuality of older male characters. There are a few fathers or father figures who form or attempt to form sexual relationships with younger women in the genre,21 and, significantly all of them ‘never attain their aims and represent the disadvantaged perspective’ (Egger 1990: 217). Dionysios, although undoubtedly sympathetic, must eventually cede Kallirhoe to her younger first husband. Perilaos too is destined to lose Anthia despite his obvious affection for her, and Aristippos is completely taken in by the charms of his duplicitous younger second wife Demainete. Nausikles the merchant is not purely motivated by love when he abducts Thisbe, since he intended to take her to the King of Ethiopia (2.24), ‘to be her confidante and companion in matters Greek’. These asymmetrical relationships, to borrow Konstan’s phrase, are doomed to failure, but despite this, these erotic father figures are never condemned (Egger 1990: 217) even if age and power are not associated with desirability in the male, in this genre. Between public and private Our study of father figures would not be complete without a brief examination of their representation with regards to the public sphere, to complement those undertaken with regard to the heroes and antagonists. To commence with an example from the earliest extant novel, Hermokrates, in Chariton’s work, comes closest to being an epic hero. He is defined by past heroic deeds, introduced to us as (1.1) ‘the one who defeated the Athenians’. He is confident in the public arena, suggesting a formal inquiry concerning the pirate Theron (3.4), and trying to encourage the reticent Chaireas to speak, on the occasion of his return (8.7). Schmeling (1974: 143–4) sees his depiction as significant for our interpretation of the hero’s character: ‘What Hermocrates represents to the people of Syracuse – saviour of the nation – at the beginning of our novel, the reader is asked to look for the same from Chaereas at the end of the novel.’ I do not think, however, that his activities in the public realm are privileged in the clear cut fashion that Schmeling would like to suggest. Chaireas may indeed be given his aristeia near the end of the novel, but there is no clear

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psychological development in his character. When happily reunited with Kallirhoe he is more than happy to hand over his command to the ever faithful Polycharmos, and even to receive advice on military strategy from his own wife. It must also be noted that Hermokrates is not portrayed as taking part in battle in the course of the narrative, and is explicitly represented as being prepared to subordinate public duties to private concerns. On the day of the protagonists’ return, believing his daughter dead, ‘he was present but remained in the background’ (8.6), because he was still in mourning. In a sense he remains in the background for the entire novel: he is there to give the work the correct historical flavour (Hägg 1987: 195), but the narrative is not structured so as to privilege his mode of behaviour. The treatment of fathers in Achilles Tatius and Longos confirms this view of the mature male of the upper classes as benevolent estate owner, secure in the management of his own affairs.22 Hippias is active in the day-to day ordering of his household, including such mundane tasks as designating a suite of rooms for his visitors’ use (1.5). Dionysophanes is both fair and intelligent, rewarding those who have worked well on his estate (4.13) and thinking through the evidence logically when presented with apparent proof of Daphnis’ identity (4.20). The emphasis on restrained and intelligent behaviour in the management of one’s private affairs appears to be contradicted in the portrayal of Hydaspes, the Ethiopian King in the Aithiopika, who appears to be very much a public figure. However, his symbolic function as the embodiment of nomos,23 who must learn the importance of physis from Persinna, Sisimithres and Charikleia, the epitome of the correct fusion of the two elements, perhaps offers the author’s view on the nature of correct behaviour in general. The primacy of reasoned intelligence in the mature man of high status thus appears to be the implicit message gained from the depiction of fatherhood in the Greek novel. However, to discover the full implications of this portrayal of fatherhood to the gender patterning of the canon as a whole, it would seem appropriate to subject their behaviour to the same psychoanalytical, socio-historical and literary approaches which yielded such useful results in our examination of motherhood. Freud and the fragmented father Psychoanalytical theory having proved useful in our identification of underlying tensions that could broadly shape narrative patterns, it therefore seems appropriate to mine this approach for insight first, before turning to the literary texture of the genre. However, before we wholeheartedly accept that a theory such as Farber’s (1975) fragmentation of the mother could be enlarged to suppose that fatherly attributes could become segmented and displaced onto other characters, it would be well to ascertain whether the father is as likely to engender as much anxiety. Chodorow (1978: 183) isolates an importance difference in the child’s reaction to the paternal image: ‘Unlike their fears of a mother, boys do not react to a father’s total and incomprehensible control over his life at a time when the child has no reflective

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capacities for understanding.’ She cites the evidence of Horney (1932: 351): ‘Dread of the father is more actual and tangible, less uncanny in quality.’ It is not my intention to disregard the fragmentation theory completely, but instead to recognise that if the fear is more open to conscious rationalisation, then the segmentation is less likely to function as a universal and rigidly applied pattern. In our consideration of the male protagonists we have already witnessed the possible displacement of certain paternal traits onto mature characters such as bandits and pirates. In addition to the traits that Farber has identified for the mother: ‘erotic’, ‘mature’ and ‘nurturing’ a fourth quality of ‘violence’ can also be introduced. In Freudian terms this is the violence that the boy-child fears at the hands of the father, because of his desire for the mother. Applying this theory to the novel we can postulate that the father’s violence is displaced24 onto the male antagonist, and the nurturing aspect onto the many father figures that we have already observed. In her discussion of the various categories to which the mythic woman could be assigned, Farber noted with interest that (1975: 30): ‘The important fact is that almost no one female can be described in terms of all three roles, with the exception of Penelope.’ In the novel, however, there are characters who could be described in terms of all the male roles, for example, Dionysios in Chariton’s novel, and Perilaos in the Ephesiaka. This transgression of an apparent psychological taboo appears to confirm our suspicion that the process of fragmentation is not so complete in the case of the father: he does not engender so much unease at this level. It therefore seems plausible that other factors would have had a greater influence on the representation of fathers, than was the case with mothers in the genre. Sociological factors – the absent father An examination of the particular family structure and allocation of roles within the home again provides a useful basis for discussion. Slater’s study of Classical Athens led him to the conclusion that the father’s comparative lack of influence in the child’s early years could not only lead to idealisation of the father (1968: 53) but also to reliance on father substitutes (1968: 58).25 This sociological factor could provide an explanation for the proliferation of father figures in the novel. However, setting aside the fact that such an explanation does not take into account any changes in family structure that might have occurred in the intervening centuries, the literature of Classical Athens does not appear to use this pattern of older male advisors to the same extent as the novels.26 Literature and life – the symbolic resonance Since Old Comedy provided a useful control in examining the function of the maternal image within the text it would seem sensible to return to this genre for a similar study of the paternal image. The plays of Aristophanes illustrated how the symbolic resonance of the maternal could be utilised as part of an artistic response to a political situation. So, mothers in the Lysistrata could be portrayed positively,

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standing for treasured stability at a time when Athens was at war.27 In contrast, we note in the Nubes and the Vespae an interest in representing a father–son conflict. In purely psychoanalytical terms this seems unusual, even taking into account the decreased anxiety felt at the father image. A direct conflict should not really appear in the manifest content of a dream, myth or narrative, but should be displaced and only become open to interpretation at the level of latent meaning. However, the paternal is just as open to symbolic interpretation as the mother image, and sociohistorical factors may at times have an even greater influence over the shaping of narrative art than psychoanalytical ones. In the Nubes and the Vespae28 father–son conflict could come to represent, in a humorous and condensed way, political conflict and the clash between two opposing sets of values, often enacted by different factions in the ekklesia. In the Vespae, for example, Philokleon, the father, is representative of the older generation of the city of Athens, capable of being duped by demagogues, but still imbued with the oldfashioned virtues that made the city great, such as pride, austerity and courage. Bdelykleon, his son, may be clearer-sighted than his father, but he and the younger generation with their addiction to upper class luxuries cannot on their own provide a solution to Athens’ problems. A direct familial conflict both possesses the potential for greater humour, and better expresses the idea of a city at war with itself (Strauss 1993: 11). The household setting injects a certain comic immediacy into the point the poet wishes to make about political impotence. So, as Olson states: … there is no effective difference between Philokleon’s status in the city, understood in the way his son … insists it must be, and his position in the house. In each case, the old man has effectively ceded authority over his affairs to someone else, who makes his decisions for him and supports him as he will … (Olson 1996: 137) In the novel, in contrast, the wishes of father and son often do not coincide, but the genre carefully avoids the idea of direct conflict. Rather than oppose his father by direct confrontation, the young hero Kleitophon will elect to elope with his beloved. Though they may balk at showing disrespect to their fathers, the protagonists only get true understanding and guidance from the father figures, such as Kalasiris, who insist on the importance of true love. The narrative does not express a political conflict, but may reflect a subtle reordering of values, from public/familial obligation, to the importance of the individual. The novel, as essentially patriarchal product, has no desire (or in this case as opposed to Old Comedy, particular sociopolitical stimuli) to present a fierce generational conflict. Instead it also shows, through its representation of father–son relations that the needs of the self could now take priority over wider social duty.

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Friends Male friendship is a far more privileged theme in the genre than friendship between women, although it is given different degrees of prominence in the various novels. Egger (1990: 199) has already noted the greater social diversification of male friends, and it is through an examination of this role that we may get some important insights into the discourse on class and male self-definition in the first three centuries CE. A comparison to the representation of female friendship which again focuses on the quality of friendship and the behaviour of slaves may also yield significant results when positing a particular gender orientation to the genre. Good friends? As has been previously noted, the female confidantes are, almost without exception, their mistresses’ social inferiors. This social isolation of the well-born female may owe more to male fantasy than to historical reality, and assumes even greater significance in view of the social mobility accorded to the male characters. The heroes, along with other members of the upper classes have their faithful slaves (Leukon, Satyros), but may also be aided by free men who are their social inferiors (Polycharmos) as well as their peers (Kleinias, Menelaos, Knemon). However, the treatment meted out to these friends by the narrator as well as by other characters varies tremendously according to their status. This tendency to privilege the characters of high status is most clearly illustrated with reference to Achilles Tatius. The hero’s cousin Kleinias, although himself homosexual in inclination, is immediately sensitive to his friend’s predicament (1.7): ‘You really are in love (™U´M ¢OKTîM). Your eyes say it.’ He goes on to offer him wise Ovidian advice on the art of seduction (1.12). Their friendship is close and characterised by a mutual warmth and affection born of long acquaintance. However, even on short acquaintance the young upper class male in this novel may form a bond forged by mutual experience of life’s misfortunes. Thus, on board ship Kleitophon tries to lighten the mood of the unhappy Menelaos, whom he has just met, by starting a discussion on the relative merits of heterosexual and homosexual love (2.35). Later Menelaos, persuaded by the loyal Satyros to take part in a dangerous plan to save Leukippe opines (3.22): ‘It’s a big task, but even if we have to die, for the sake of a friend, danger is a fine thing and death is sweet.’ Such an action, prompted by the bond forged between two citizens of standing, is rewarded by the hero’s ostentatious thanks (3.23). However, the slave Satyros who had been instrumental in the formulation and execution of the plan, is ignored. As a slave, his loyalty is taken for granted. The lower class Polycharmos in Chariton’s novel also receives scant thanks for his continuous loyal service. Egger (1990: 205) states: ‘Not only is Chaereas highly unappreciative of his support, taking it for granted before suddenly recognising it at the conclusion of the book, the narrator also treats him badly and forgets about him.’ It is true that Polycharmos is suddenly rewarded at the end of the novel by becoming

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the hero’s brother-in-law and receiving a share of the spoils as dowry, but even here we are denied a glimpse of his reaction: he is the completely passive recipient of his aristocratic friend’s generosity (8.8). In this genre a reciprocal and equal friendship is generally the preserve of the upper class male. More than friends? One friendship between young males of equal status in the genre which has provoked controversy in the scholarship, is that between the hero Habrokomes and the bandit Hippothoos in the Ephesiaka. Here again the sparseness of the narrative makes interpretation of the relationship difficult. When Hippothoos first sees the young hero, he offers to help him (2.14): ‘For I see, lad (µHLU£NLRQ), whoever you may be, that you are good to look at, and manly as well.’ He shares the melancholy tale of his doomed affair with Hyperanthes with his new acquaintance (3.2), and, empathising with him on the loss of Anthia, has the honesty to admit that he had previously captured her and had been on the point of offering her as a sacrifice (3.3). When Habrokomes leaves him without warning to continue his search alone Hippothoos still cares enough to make repeated enquiries about his whereabouts (4.1). Later he forms a relationship with a young Sicilian aristocrat named Kleisthenes, but still persists in his search for the hero since, (5.9) ‘He wanted to share his whole life and all his possessions with him.’ When he later buys the heroine he respects her chastity out of respect for Habrokomes (5.9). At the end of the narrative he remains the friend of both the protagonists and adopts Kleisthenes as his son (5.15). For Schmeling (1980: 52) the relationship is clearly homosexual and the reason that Xenophon chooses not to give further explanatory detail is ‘because he supposes that every reader will understand what is happening’. Alvares (1995: 401), in contrast, reads the relationship as a ‘deep friendship’ which ‘has an ennobling effect, and the result is that Hippothous begins to retain the attitudes and behaviour characteristic of his lost status’.29 This anxiety to label the relationship perhaps says more about modern preoccupations with acceptable male behaviour than it does about attitudes to same sex relations in antiquity (Boswell 1994: 76). In addition to a recognition of modern anxiety over the precise nature of male friendship, it is important to remember that a retrospective imposition of the hetero-homosexual cultural dichotomy that exists in some Western societies today may not always be entirely helpful. This is of course not to say that same sex sexual preference which persisted throughout adult life and was not restricted to the formal brief encounters between adolescent males on the Classical model30 did not occur in antiquity.31 However, we must entertain the possibility that there were other cultural divisions in operation which were more central to the discourse on sexuality than the gender of one’s object of desire. Parker (1997: 47),32 talking of the sexuality of the Roman male citizen identifies the main opposition as active/passive. To be penetrated is in some senses to lose one’s status as citizen. It is the very permeability of the slave’s body, its openness to physical and

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sexual assault, which helps to define,33 by opposition, the citizen’s moral and physical integrity. Interesting, in this context, is Habrokomes’ reaction to the advances of the pirate Korymbos (2.1): ‘ “And what of the rest of my life, turned into a prostitute (SÒUQV)34 instead of a man and robbed of my darling Anthia?” ’ In contrast, his relationship with Hippothoos, whatever its exact nature, is unproblematic. If it is more than a friendship, a relationship between an older and younger male of roughly equal status which might involve the giving of certain sexual favours, but where the idealised element is more apparent, obviously does not offend the author’s sensibilities. However, the hero’s sexual submission to his master, a submission that might well involve penetration, and thus the loss of his citizen identity, is a fearful prospect indeed. Xenophon’s ambiguity, his reticence to clarify the relationship between Hippothoos and Habrokomes, (leaving aside any textual problems arising from any lack of certainty about whether our text is in fact an epitome) could in fact stem from a desire not to cloud the focus on the protagonists’ heterosexual union, rather than from any difficulty with the theme of homosexuality itself. It is also interesting that while male homosexuality features in all the extant Greek novels with the exception of Heliodoros, it occupies a curious position within the genre’s discourse on sexuality. It is nowhere overtly criticised, yet it remains definitely disadvantaged within the narrative structure. The homosexual affairs which feature in the novel are all doomed.35 These mixed narrative cues where homosexuality is featured but always denied a happy resolution perhaps in some way reflect the complexity and subtlety of contemporary discourse. Thus society may have a generally relaxed attitude to sexual relations between men, when this does not threaten the integrity of the male citizen, but still gives higher status to the marital union, as emblematic of the new privileging of the personal.36 However, as we have already found in our study of female representations in the novel, a simple appeal to ‘lived experience’ does not always provide the whole answer. In addition to a recognition of the possible sociological or even psychological unease regarding male identity triggered by the feminisation of the male in these stories, we might also find it useful to consider ways in which the feminised male might ‘mean’. If the heroine, by means of her virginity or confirmed chastity can function directly as a sign of the integrity of the cultural group, this function is denied to the feminised male. He cannot enjoy the narrative centrality accorded to the pure female, but his presence on the textual periphery is significant. These vignettes perhaps deliberately hark back to the Classical past, functioning as oblique references to the cultural myth of homosexuality, so often associated with the Golden Age of Athens and thus act as more subtle reminders of Hellenic cultural status. Sexual behaviour – showing who’s boss Apart from the particular sexual orientation of male friends in the novel, the way that servile friends articulate their attitudes to acceptable sexual behaviour helps to define the superior character of the élite male. The angry reactions of Dionysios and the

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Great King in Chariton’s novel to their slaves’ expectation that they will force themselves on the object of their desire has already been mentioned, but repays further examination as we focus on the élite’s discursive self definition. Class rather than race again proves to be a more powerful determining factor in terms of behaviour as the Great King proves at first to be almost as much a model of sophrosune as Dionysios. His slave, the eunuch Artaxates, goes further than mere suggestion in his attempt to ensure his master’s desires are fulfilled. When the King does give in and asks him to act as go-between, he alternates between threats and promises in a complete misjudgement of the heroine’s behaviour. Here authorial opinion is clear (6.4): ‘He estimated it an easy matter, as a eunuch, a slave, a barbarian; he did not fully comprehend the spirit of a well-born Greek, and especially chaste Kallirhoe, who so loved her husband.’ Schmeling (1974: 151) talks of the typing of slaves in this novel as ‘basically lawless characters … following the literary convention of Greek New Comedy and Roman Comedy’. The various literary influences on the portrayal of slaves cannot be denied, but it is also true that the novel places much more emphasis on the role male slaves play in helping to emphasise their masters’ self-control.37 In this case the method used is opposition, rather than the practice of using slaves as extensions of their owners’ sexuality, as seen in the representation of female confidantes in the genre. Capability and cunning If male slaves differ from their female counterparts in the way that the authors choose to manipulate representations of their sexual behaviour and attitudes, the emphasis on their intelligence and cunning is also different and helps to underline male fears of female behaviour. Thus, while the practicality and common-sense of the male friends, both slave and free allows for plot progression (Egger 1990: 206), their intelligence is not given particular prominence. Polycharmos has undoubted sense: realising the potential danger of the situation at Miletus, he silences the hero at the temple at a time when an emotional outburst could have led to their deaths (3.6). However, he is not sensitive and manipulative in the same way as Plangon, the cunning slave woman, and his exploits are not given the same amount of narrative space. His presence ensures that the romantic hero can give full vent to his feelings without putting a premature end to his sufferings and the plot at the same time, and also perhaps enhances his status as pseudo-epic hero (Schmeling 1974: 111). However, he is not of interest in himself. Satyros, in Achilles Tatius’ novel, is the character who most closely resembles the crafty slave of New Comedy. Sensitive to his master’s feelings he cleverly prompts him in the scene with Leukippe, providing him with an excuse to display his knowledge of Eros (1.17). He takes practical measures in aiding Kleitophon’s attempted seduction of Leukippe and the subsequent escape, including making duplicates of the house keys (2.19) and even going so far as to drug the heroine’s mother (2.31). However, he is never allowed to dominate the action in quite the

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manner of a New Comedy slave: he is not given the great comic set-pieces, and we are not given the opportunity to engage with his character on the personal level.38 He cannot be the focus of our attention, because he belongs to the sphere of action, rather than that of emotion, a pattern that we have seen occurring across the representation of many of the subsidiary male characters.

The male landscape – minor characters and collectives Minor characters While the minor female characters for the most part conform to the four-role stereotype, the genre abounds with examples of male characters who do not fit this pattern. There is also (as was the case with male friends) much greater social diversity. Thus the novels provide examples of slaves, both public and private, hangers-on, farmers, merchants, brothel-keepers, slave-dealers, sailors, soldiers, pirates and bandits, lawyers, doctors, priests, philosophers, magistrates, generals and ambassadors as well as more general groups of young men39 and the citizenry as a whole.40 In attempting to account for the disparity in numbers between male and female characters Egger (1990: 219) identifies as important, ‘the patriarchal outlook of the texts that reduces women to the erotic perspective, and excludes them from participating in other realms that the narratives extend to’. In contrast, even relatively minor male characters such as the pirate Theron41 in Kallirhoe, the inquisitive nuisance Nat in Leukippe and Kleitophon, Gnathon the greedy parasite in Daphnis and Chloe, and the cowardly priest Petosiris in the Aithiopika all receive fairly full characterisation. None of the female characters who do not conform to the fourrole pattern is so carefully delineated. It is also possible that the new socio-economic freedoms that women were enjoying could have intensified male anxieties about female activities, and thus ensured, in this most idealistic of genres, that women were confined to roles which corresponded more closely to traditional expectations regarding behaviour. Collectives The treatment of male collectives42 is also pertinent to our examination of male self definition. Male collectives within the city environment are often identified with emotional behaviour. For example, the ephebes are heartbroken when Chaireas stays indoors (1.1) and, in the Aithiopika the crowd of citizens in the Athenian assembly become so outraged at the story of Knemon’s alleged attempt at patricide that they decide that he should not have the right to speak in his own defence (1.13). An emotional response can help to emphasise the special nature of the protagonists’ relationship, emblematic of the importance of the personal, but the adulation of a crowd also serves to further elevate these young representatives of the élite. However, there seems to be a keen awareness in the novels of the power of the mob. When well

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disposed towards the protagonists they serve to focus attention on their beauty and innate nobility, and may even actively intervene to help them (Ascough 1996: 77–8), and yet they can also be characterised as a powerful irrational force, as seen in the description of Knemon’s trial. This tendency towards the irrational and aggressive is intensified in those groups that the protagonists encounter outside the safe haven of the city (Schmeling 1980: 62). As has been previously noted, bandits and pirates and those outside the law far outnumber soldiers and those whose job it is to maintain order.43 The view to Rome The extant examples of the genre all date, as we have seen, from the time of the High Empire, and yet there is no mention of Roman rule in the texts. According to Swain’s hypothesis (1996), the Greek élite turned to a past free from Roman domination as a suitable setting for a genre which helped to redefine their identity at a time of cultural and economic resurgence.44 It is tempting (though admittedly an extremely tentative hypothesis) to see the proliferation of bandits and pirates as substituting for the archetypal Roman (in a stereotypical military guise) in the shared imaginaire.45 The young and innocent protagonists do not defeat them on their own terms i.e. aggression, but employ more subtle methods such as intelligence, in order to achieve the obligatory happy ending. It is important that it is the heroine, the representative of the emotional and the personal, who is instrumental in subverting their wishes. The disempowered and marginalised female, in some respects, at the furthest remove from the ideal of the male citizen, may, in some way represent the partially disempowered Greek élite, reasserting its identity through promotion of a certain set of cultural values.

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7 TELOS

Love and marriage The telos of my research is consideration of what generally constitutes the narrative telos of the genre – gamos or marriage.1 The examination of the representation of masculinity and femininity has, so far, been dealt with separately: this conclusion aims to focus on the dynamics of the relationship between the sexes. My initial observation may surprise those who claim some close generic affinity between the ancient and modern romance. There is no dichotomy between lust2 and true love, as in the modern pulp romance (Radway 1984: 134): this genre is not concerned with deceit. Instead marriage, in some senses, functions as a thematic telos. Beauty engenders desire, often characterised as ”(UZM,3 which requires fulfilment in sex and marriage. For the protagonists at least, marriage is generally characterised as a relationship initially based on erotic attraction, which is frequently tested but proves itself strong enough to withstand all the diverse attacks made on the couple’s fidelity. Having proved themselves faithful to their partners’ interests, the relationship/marriage can be seen to have developed beyond the initial erotic impulse into a spiritual union which no longer takes so much account of physical appearance. Nearly all characters – even bandits – aim at marriage: Thyamis in the Aithiopika may be the ultimate bourgeois bandit, but even the rough Trachinos and monstrous Peloros want to marry Charikleia. The few characters, such as Anchialos and Psammis, who do not conform to this pattern become illustrative of generic attitudes to class and race. Marriage thus functions as a social index, with those who do not aspire to the state most expressive of adherence to civic values automatically relegating themselves to the margins of society. It is telling in this context that gender does not become an important factor; even sexually aggressive and menacing females such as Manto and Kyno are represented as seeking marriage with the hero as the ultimately conventional solution to their socially transgressive desires. The fact that romantic love (as ultimate emblem of personal choice), and marriage (as symbolic of the continuity of social institutions) are indissoluble in this genre leads to a consideration of how this representation relates to the preservation or subversion of the social order. While this brief conclusion does not purport to be an exhaustive treatment of this topic, I hope, through reference to my earlier studies of

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masculinity and femininity in the genre, to be able to sketch out some useful lines of inquiry.

Maintenance of the social order Romantic love and marriage – previous paradigms The fact that romantic love is here conceptualised as an emotion compatible with the fulfilment of one’s social duty seems antithetical to discourses on sexuality and selfregulation from the Classical Period onwards (Walcot 1987).4 In this particular fictional reality the protagonists are equally matched in age and status and socially validate their erotic feelings for one another in marriage either at the beginning or the end of the narrative. While this focus on the romantic feelings of a citizen couple does appear as a theme in earlier literature such as New Comedy, the thematic dynamics of eros and gamos remain distinct. This genre thus becomes a useful control when seeking to establish the extent of the novel’s apparent devotion to the social order. It could be argued that while the novel does not function as a ‘popular’ form in quite the same way as New Comedy, as genres they both seem to lack the sharper brand of intellectual élitism sometimes exhibited by Greek love poetry and Latin love elegy. The first striking difference between the genres is that societal obligations are emphasised to a far greater extent in the world of Menander (Henry 1986:148), with a consequent emphasis on the production of a suitable dowry which is absent from the novel.5 There may be the same happy coincidence of romantic desire and ultimate familial obligation, in New Comedy as in the novels, but eros itself does not receive the same reverence. This can be clearly demonstrated with reference to the Samia where the father, Demeas, is pleased that his son Moschion is actually in love with the girl with whom he has arranged a suitable match. Demeas’ comments on the situation, claiming that coincidence must be a divinity (163–6), show that the youth’s feelings are purely coincidental to the marriage plan itself (McC. Brown 1993: 190). It is also revealing that it is the male who, as subject, articulates his feelings of romantic love. If a woman articulates her feelings to the same extent then her courtesan status negates the possibility of uniting eros and gamos. The representation, or in fact erasure of the citizen girl as subject demonstrates a distinct lack of romantic mutuality: the feelings of the young citizen girl raped at a festival and later married to her abductor do not enter the equation. The romantic focus of the novel is also highlighted when we compare it to any programmatic definition of the duties of marriage. Plutarch’s Coniugalia Praecepta, roughly contemporary with the novel, represents an advance upon Xenophon’s Oeconomicus6 in terms of a visualisation of a marital relationship characterised by greater reciprocity and mutuality (Foucault 1990: 148). However, while he may state that the marriage of a couple in love with one another7 is an intimate union (142 F), his conception of this ‘love’ as a romantic feeling is subordinated to his mistrust of

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the morally enervating effects of sensuality (Wohl 1997: 181). He therefore issues the warning that wives who seek to gain mastery over their husbands through pleasure will find them to be dull-witted fools (139 F) and sets down strict parameters for the sexual forwardness of wives (140 C).8 These comparisons have sought to establish that the genre associates romantic love with the civic institution of marriage in a more pronounced manner than previously seen in Greek literature. However, it seems important to determine the extent to which this melding of eros and gamos actually works to affirm civic values. Arguments for the primacy of gamos over eros The primary evidence cited in discussions of how much the melding of eros and gamos affirms civic values is the public involvement in the protagonists’ meeting, wedding and triumphal reintegration into the society of their home city. So, in Kallirhoe 1.1 the people of Syracuse beg the general Hermokrates to let Chaireas marry his daughter: this private affair metamorphosed into a matter of public concern. The protagonists may meet at a public festival,9 and Achilles Tatius even makes Pantheia use the word ‘marriages’ to refer to a whole city (2.24). The involvement of the citizen body in what, to modern sensibilities at least, is often conceptualised as a personal issue, seems to locate this institution ideologically as central to the civic fabric. However, as previously discussed in the individual sections on minor characters, the ‘adoration of the élite’ motif that is recurrent at these civic celebrations emphasises the protagonists’ distance from, rather than full integration into the citizen body. This must also be understood as an important part of the élite’s strategy of selfdefinition. It is also important to our understanding of the relation in which this genre stands to social institutions that duty is not presented in a negative way. For example, Charikleia is only persuaded by Charikles to marry her cousin, not bullied. Talking of his failure to influence her view of marriage Charikles notes that he tried persuasion, promises and reasoned arguments (2.33). It is interesting that Achilles Tatius, whose novel comes closest to parodying generic conventions, chooses not to violate this particular narrative code completely. Kleitophon is prepared to go against his father’s marriage plans only to the extent that he intends sleeping with Leukippe: until Kalligone is kidnapped he has no intention of breaking off the marriage (1.11). The genre also appears to have an essentially conservative view of marriage customs: there are many examples of arranged marriages across the extant texts. This seeming curtailment of personal choice would, at first sight at least, appear to be an affirmation of societal values. The frequency with which they appear in the genre might also suggest that they still function as part of the social landscape. For example, in Leukippe and Kleitophon the eponymous hero is at first affianced to his halfsister Kalligone (1.11). Charikleia in the Aithiopika is twice betrothed to a paternal cousin (2.33) and (10.24), and the eponymous Kallirhoe can casually advise Dionysios to marry ‘their’ child to his daughter when both are old enough (8.4). Even a girl of marriageable age can be betrothed without her knowledge: Chaireas gives his

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unnamed and previously unmentioned sister to his friend Polycharmos as a ‘reward’ for his help (8.8), and Kallirhoe herself does not know the identity of her future husband on her wedding day (1.1). The arranged match seems an unquestioned reality at some levels: it is not in itself criticised, although the protagonists only go through with an arranged marriage when this happens to coincide with their desire. Although there are examples of autoekdosis, for example Kallirhoe’s second marriage, Anthia’s arrangement with Perilaos (2.13) and Melite’s arrangement with Kleitophon (5.11), these are doomed to failure. Relativising the conservatism of the texts We must be careful, however, not to treat this apparent conservatism as a simple reflection of some mythic ‘social reality’.10 It would appear prudent to consider other reasons for this generic phenomenon, adopting the pragmatic and eclectic approach that has yielded results in our observation of different character types. On a purely literary level constraint gives life to the plot, and motivates the next crisis. Incidents such as Kallirhoe 1.1 are surely engineered for increased emotional impact. Constraint also serves to highlight the free, independent commitment of true love. The restrictions placed upon the female characters, through this essentially conservative presentation of marriage customs has also generated several theories. Egger’s view that social restrictions, coupled with erotic omnipotence, may function as a powerful female fantasy is a line of argument already touched upon in previous sections. This hypothesis, based on empirical research done on the reading habits of Anglo-American audiences runs the danger of retrojecting the feelings of modern career women onto the ancient world too closely. Egger emphasises the severity of the restrictions on women inherent in generic marriage customs (1994a: 271). However, this on its own cannot stand as ‘evidence’ for this theme being a female fantasy. This seeming need to curtail female freedom in the fictional reality of the novel may be functioning as a reaction to women’s increasing social freedoms in the first few centuries CE. However, it would be dangerous to isolate this ‘attitude to women’ from the archaising tendency that pervades the whole genre. The jumble of marriage customs represented in the novels, some of which impose restrictions more severe than found in Classical Athens should perhaps be best understood as an integral part of the fictionalised image of a Classical ‘Golden Age’. This issue is very much bound up with notions of identity and superiority. Constraint functions as the badge of class and tradition.

Subversion of the social order? The texts’ relation to society Cooper’s (1996: 24) hypothesis that the association of romantic love with marriage in the genre is intended to make it palatable, and act as a goad to civic responsibility, certainly appears plausible (see also Segal 1984: 90). However, narrative cues are not

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completely consistent: often romantic love appears to be the focus, rather than the mere sugar coating upon a bitter pill. We must therefore also examine the ways in which the genre’s presentation of marriage might be viewed as subversive to the prevailing social order. Firstly, though, it seems important to reassess Reardon’s theory of the ‘Hellenistic Myth’. I do not deny that the novels stand in a clear relationship with their society, and in some senses ‘offer … a spiritual photograph of their time’ (1982: 6). However, we can scarcely see in the protagonists’ relationship ‘isolated individuals seeking, in a wide world and an open society, security and very identity, in love of their fellows’.11 I concur with Bowie that ‘such a view overplays the solitude of the central characters’ (1985: 687): the strength of the protagonists’ relationship means they are never truly emotionally isolated. The era that produced the novel may not, then, have been Dodds’ ‘age of Anxiety’, but the portrayal of the central relationship is still highly relevant to our understanding of how the genre regards society. Love as narrative dynamic Love appears to be the dynamic of the narrative, even if marriage is the telos (Furiani 1988: 278). So, in the Ephesiaka the Thelxinoe story becomes the ultimate paradigm of enduring love against the odds (5.1). While it could perhaps be argued that the couple were deprived of financial security through their decision to elope, and were cut off from the civic institutions that should have given their life form and meaning, the abiding impression given is of the couple’s happiness. Kallirhoe puts her love for Chaireas and loyalty to his interests before all other considerations (2.11). Leukippe and Kleitophon elope rather than confront Kleitophon’s father about his dynastic marriage plans (2.30). Marriage only emerges towards the end of Daphnis and Chloe, and it is to the country, not the city that the married protagonists return at the very end of the tale (4.39). The Aithiopika places emphasis on the home-coming of the heroine rather than the hero: it is her nostos rather than his. In a deliberate reversal of patriarchal values the consummation of their relationship will be delayed until the heroine regains her homeland (4.18). ‘Traditional’ asymmetrical marriages,12 such as that of Lykainion and Chromis, are not particularly successful, and, in the case of Demainete and Knemon’s father, can be downright disastrous. It is perhaps interesting that marriage is largely abstracted from the idea of ‘home’ with its traditional polarity of male and female tasks. The Greek romances are not concerned with a realistic representation of an ordinary marriage: there are no equivalents of Gorgo and Praxinoa, complaining about their husband’s inability to do the shopping properly, or remarking acidly how grumpy he becomes when made to wait for his dinner.13 It is surely vital to our understanding of the relation in which the genre stands to society that there is not absolute equality in the marriage bond: there is no exact ‘symmetry’ as Konstan would have it.14 Couples, in some senses, do not function as a single entity. In the case of the protagonists, it is the heroines who are stronger, and make the relationship work.15 This inequality appears more pronounced in

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comparison to those couples in the genre whose relationships are marginal to the progression of the narrative. For example, Dionysophanes and Kleariste, in Longos’ narrative, in some senses exist on the ‘edges of the text’, and yet their relationship appears very revealing of normative behavioural codes. Kleariste is respected, but it is clear that her husband intends to take charge of matters of mutual concern.16 If such a relationship can be viewed as more closely mimetic of the conditions of everyday life, then this again focuses attention on the question of why the heroines dominate the protagonists’ relationships. Reading marriage The study of masculinity and femininity that I have already undertaken in this work perhaps goes part of the way to providing, if not a definitive answer, at least a tentative hypothesis. Although obviously not a universal ‘given’, romance is often associated with the feminine, and the Foucaultian model of emphasis on the self helps to generate the impression of a milieu where the personal, and the feminine as traditionally emblematic of that concept, receive greater reverence. However, to focus exclusively upon the functioning or the use of femininity in the texts ignores the powerful symbolic resonance of marriage itself. As we have already seen in our examination of the narrative patterns and treatment of gender in certain Christian texts, the renunciation of marriage could act as a powerful signal of abstraction from society: a threat to the continuity of the social order. At the other end of the ideological spectrum the iconography of marriage could be used as part of the dynastic strategies of the Imperial family: the dextrarum junctio utilised as the ultimate symbol of political union.17 If marriage in the novel is more asymmetrical than Konstan would have us think, doesn’t this suggest a subtle reordering of values? The novel does not reject society: in some senses it reaffirms its values. However, this provocative view of gender relations, and the importance of the personal symbolised by the emphasis on the dynamics of eros, put forward by the Greek élite, may have a lot to do with their sense of cultural superiority. The Greek ruling classes have taken the emblem of dynastic continuity so beloved of the Imperial family, and by destabilising the usual implied hegemonic balance, have redeployed it in what could well constitute a subliminally subversive gesture. This brief discussion of the subversion or redeployment of Roman iconography and ideology can lead us full circle to a question originally posed in the introduction. Why was the feminine constructed in this particular way across these texts? This book has proffered the hypothesis that the most striking manifestations of novelistic femininity were at least in part conditioned by the need to assert an almost provocative sense of Hellenic superiority. The heroines resist violation, and so the borders of Greek cultural integrity remain uncontested. That the Romans themselves could deploy the image of sexual conquest as a figure for geographical conquest is not only attested in literature (Janan 2001: 57–8) but also in monumental sculpture such as the relief panels from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias, the home city of Chariton (Smith 1987). In one of these the Emperor Claudius, heroically naked, stands over a

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prone Britannia seemingly ready to strike the death blow. Hair artistically dishevelled to signify her status as barbarian, clothing disarranged to reveal one breast, she stretches out one arm in apparently hopeless supplication. The sexual connotations seem clear, as does the complete Roman ascendancy over the subjugated province. It is a delicious thought that the same ruling élite who could in public align themselves so decisively with Imperial ideology could reserve for their private consumption a genre that focuses upon the Greek female so resoundingly resisting the sexual advances of the violent barbarian male. In this particular reading of the novelistic heroine the conquered territory has retained her dignity (and her clothes).

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1 READING THE FEMININE 1 For recent favourable appraisals of Chariton’s style see Schenkeveld (1993: 26) and Hunter (1994: 1065), and for equally complimentary assessments of the literary quality of the whole genre see also Treu (1989a: 197) and Morgan (1995: 140). 2 It is interesting that Helms (1966: 22) believes that the fact that Chariton did not follow all Aristotelian criteria in his methods of characterisation is indicative of the work being ‘entertainment of the masses’. 3 Modleski (1982: 16) notes that this fantasy of erotic omnipotence is common to most nineteenth century novels and their twentieth century counterparts. However, it would be dangerous, on no further evidence to draw any exact parallels with the female reader in antiquity. Before we rush to embrace the essentialist viewpoint – all women want the same things – we would do well to examine the varying reactions to strong female images that co-exist within contemporary society. Kaplan (1983: 313) has noted the clamour by feminist film critics for ‘strong female screen images, … an aspirational or didactic urge’. In contrast, Snitow (1983: 251) has located the Harlequin heroine as ‘Everywoman’. 4 For a discussion of the relative socio-economic freedoms gained by Greek women in the first few centuries CE, see Chapter 2. 5 The sensitivity of the male characters is another narrative pattern which might be ascribed to a possible female orientation, although recent research should urge caution. In her study of masculinity in post-classical romantic comedy Rowe (1995: 185) observed that the appropriation of female suffering is a classic move to support and privilege male subjectivity. Suffering and subjectivity will both function as an important part of my discussions of the heroines and heroes, in Chapters 3 and 4. 6 The tension between arguments for a male or female readership could be reinterpreted as an awareness of the competing voices of emotional/personal and patriarchal values: a theme which will be prominent throughout this book, and which will receive further specific attention at the end of Chapter 3. 7 See also Thompson’s (1994: 76) discussion of a teaching manual in Ptolemaic Egypt. She notes the absence of prose from the curriculum, and observes that it was likely that only scribes and bureaucrats would have had a specific training in dealing with potentially complicated prose. 8 For the problem of assigning authorship to a particular document given the widespread use of scribes in Egyptian society see Youtie (1971: 165). Duncan-Jones (1977: 347) shed some further light on the vexed question of literacy in the Roman Empire as a whole by postulating a link between illiteracy and age-rounding (to numbers divisible by five) on tombstones. The comparison of ancient data with modern societies where literacy levels

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9

10 11 12 13

14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23

24

25 26

may be ascertained with some degree of certainty led him to believe more than 70 per cent of the population was illiterate. Stephens (1994: 406) states that ‘the rise of the ancient middle class is a myth’ and asserts that the Roman Senatorial and Equestrian classes would only have formed the top 1 per cent of the population, with the Greek urban aristocracies not accounting for very much more of the overall population. Reardon (1976: 130) believes that the lack of punctuation and word breaks in most ancient texts militates against there existing any truly popular forms in antiquity. P Munchen 128, dating from 4 CE, discussed by Horsfall (1983: 212). The average for this time period appears to be approximately 7 per cent, while 9 per cent of the surviving novel fragments are in codex form (Stephens 1994: 414). Skeat’s (1982: 175) observations on the relative prices of papyrus rolls as set against the codex do seem to suggest that the codex form was considerably cheaper. However, it would seem premature to deduce from this calculation, with any degree of certainty, that those who bought the codex were necessarily of a completely different social class. The statistics are Montevecchi’s, cited by Stephens (1994: 414). Morgan (1995: 132) notes ‘It is … likely that the whole exercise of writing and reading novels was somehow ambiguous, even ever so slightly illicit.’ Wesseling (1988: 71), Stephens (1994: 409) and Bowie (1994: 441) all cite the lack of external evidence for reading texts to large groups, as proof that it was unlikely to have been a widespread practice. O’Sullivan’s (1994) hypothesis that the Ephesiaka evolved from the oral tradition of folktales is relevant here. Martial ix 68 1–2, and viii 3 15–16. See also Pomeroy’s (1977: 52) discussion of the story of Verginia in Livy 3.44–49. If Verginia’s walking to school wasn’t a commonplace, the motif would not make sense: a different dramatic device such as going to a woman’s festival could have been used instead. Marrou (1956: 267) argues for equal footing at this level, though with perhaps a little more private tutoring in the case of girls, while Harris (1989: 239) is more cautious. McIntosh Snyder (1989) provides the most thorough recent overview of the female writers of antiquity. It is surely relevant to our present discussion that there are far more examples of educated women in the Latin tradition than in the Greek. My next chapter on ‘Contextualising the feminine’ provides a further exegesis of this view. See Hallett (1989: 62) for an exposition of this view with reference to the Roman élite. Youtie (1975: 215) provides us with instances where only one member of the family appears to be literate. In a society with limited literacy there appeared to be no stigma attached to being illiterate, even for men of the middle classes. This makes it even less likely that families would have felt pressurised into educating their daughters. See Youtie (1971: 172–3) for a discussion of the case of Petaus, the illiterate clerk of the villages around Ptolemais Hormu between 184–187 CE. See, for example MacDonald (1996). She has demonstrated how the study of women’s behaviour in modern rural Greece may engender a deeper understanding of the complex relationship between the public and the private in Greco-Roman society. She proceeds on the understanding that no one phenomenon corresponds perfectly to another, thus recognising the specificity of the particular historical context, but finds the intervention of a third cultural group useful. For a similar insistence on the importance of male-authored texts for reconstructing ‘female reality’ see also Richlin (1990: 181), Hallett (1990: 189), Gamel (1990: 171) and MacManus (1990: 226). See Eagleton (1983) for a useful summary of the work of Kristeva in this area, focusing on her identification of a uniquely feminine language, the ‘Semiotic’ which functions as the

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27 28 29

30 31 32 33 34

35

36 37

38

‘Other’ of language, and derives from the pre-Oedipal stage of development before the child enters the patriarchal ‘symbolic order’. For the tendency of female Greek writers, in contrast, to perpetuate conventional sexual stereotypes see Wiggers (1976: 50). For one of the earliest dissections of the fallacy of historical objectivity see Barthes (1970: 149). See de Beauvoir (1972: 171–3) and my discussion of alterity with regard to the conception of the female antagonists, in Chapter 5. My application of this theory does not deny historical specificity. ‘Woman as sign’ is not a static concept, and will possess increased validity under certain social conditions. See for example de Beauvoir (1972: 173–4), and my discussion in Chapter 5, for a recognition that the female as icon will have an increased allure in any era preoccupied with the personal and the individual. For an explicitly feminist exegesis of Lévi-Strauss’s hypothesis see Rubin (1975: 175). This at the same moment turns the reader into analysand, projecting her/his own concerns/experiences onto fictionalised representations of human experience. On the compatibility of psychoanalysis and feminist criticism see Kaplan (1986: 4), and for a similar approach applied to uncovering the ‘myths of femininity’ created by the media see MacDonald (1995: 39). The anthology edited by Schweickart and Flynn (1986) remains one of the best overviews of gender and reading. For the purposes of my present discussion I shall assume that the five canonical Greek novels can all be dated to between the first and third centuries. The consensus of scholarly opinion on the dating and order generally runs as follows: Chariton (late first century CE), Xenophon (mid second century), Achilles Tatius (mid/late second century), Longos (200 CE) and Heliodoros (third century). For a recent overview of the scholarship on the subject see Swain (1996: 423). These include the setting off on a journey, the frequency of danger, a pledge of fidelity as the source of trouble, a happy reunion, wrath of various deities, novella-like inset stories about other protagonists, learned digressions, and conscious imitation of the methods of historiography. I concur with Holzberg (1995: 11) that the ideology of examples of the ‘comic-realistic’ sub-genre such as the Metamorphoses of Apuleius, or the Satyrica represent an almost complete reversal of that of the ‘ideal’ form. This view is also held by Konstan, though his overemphasis of the symmetry in the central relationship leads to different conclusions regarding the genre’s relationship to society. See, though Konstan (1994: 9) for a useful brief overview of the subtle differences in the representation of love and gender relations in the ideal novel. See Holzberg (1995: 23) on the similarities between the two forms. 2 CONTEXTUALISING THE FEMININE

1 Recent studies have included Just’s (1989) study of women in Classical Athens, and Blundell’s (1995) consideration of both the archaic and Classical periods. Pomeroy’s (1975) groundbreaking study of women in antiquity covered both Greece and Rome, but did not differentiate between Greek women living in the Empire, and those sources pertaining simply to aristocratic women at Rome. This deficiency has been addressed more recently, for example by Fantham et al. (1994) and Canterella (1987). Works which have exclusively centred on periods outside the canonical ‘Golden Age’ include Pomeroy’s (1984) research on women in Hellenistic Egypt and Clark’s (1993) useful overview of women in late antiquity. More pertinent to this study is van Bremen’s (1996) impressively thorough consideration of women and wealth in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In addition to these works several anthologies have been produced which have

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2 3

4 5

6

7

8 9 10 11

helpfully moved the focus away from exclusive examination of status and the legal position of women onto areas such as the medical writers’ conceptualisation of the female, and to non-canonical texts. Examples include those edited by Foley (1981a), Cameron and Kuhrt (1983), Blok and Mason (1987), Pomeroy (1991), Archer, Fischler and Wyke (1994) and Hawley and Levick (1995). The way has only opened for more idiosyncratic thematic approaches such as Lefkowitz (1981) looking with a critical eye on such vexed questions as the ‘representation of reality’ in literature, and the more overtly theoretical stance adopted by Rabinowitz and Richlin (1993). Still other works have helpfully moved away from isolating ‘woman’ as a discrete area of historical inquiry, and have instead concentrated on areas pertinent to our understanding of femininity (Loraux 1995), or sexuality (Halperin et al. 1990), or the body (Rousselle 1988). For an example of the privileging of the Classical era as the historical ‘reality’ against which the fictionality of the texts’ presentation of women should be measured see Scarcella (1972). If an Athenian citizen had a daughter, but no son, he could either adopt a son-in-law, or at his death, his daughter became epikleros, and her nearest available male kin had to marry her, or contract with the next in line. Epikleros literally translated means ‘with the property’, which encapsulates the woman’s position more neatly than the usual rendition ‘heiress’. This would have been sufficient to keep a family of five for approximately six days: see further Kuenen-Janssens (1941: 214). Patterson (1986: 56), addressing the vexed question of female ‘citizen rights’ is surely correct to draw attention to the distinctly modern connotations of ‘citizenship’. Focusing on the terminology applied to respectable Athenian women, she states: ‘Attike and aste are words which not only reveal the fact of women’s membership in the Athenian polis but show as well the generally non-political, non-abstract “earthy” character of that membership.’ Gould (1980: 45) notes that in the private speeches of Demosthenes 27 women are actually named in comparison to 509 male names. Schaps’ study of the naming of women in lawcourt speeches demonstrated the operation of certain codes. Respectable women were only named if deceased (1977: 328), or, in a few exceptional instances where the matter was extremely important, to aid clarity (329). Women of low reputation could be named freely (326). For an explanation of this apparent contradiction which utilises an ideological rather than empirical viewpoint see Just (1989: 10–11). For a contrasting approach that seeks new evidence for ‘female freedoms’ through reinterpretation of the evidence from vase paintings see Bérard (1989: 89). For a reading which emphasises the heroic dimensions of her behaviour see Knox (1977: 197) and Boedeker (1997: 133), who also focuses attention on her ability to present herself as a typical woman – a common Charikleian device. On the changing status of women in the Hellenistic period as influenced by the end of the city-state see Cantarella (1987: 90), Pomeroy (1975: 120) and Burton (1995: 41). Apollonia may not be absent from Philiskos’ house for more than a day or night without his consent. Macurdy’s (1932) summary of the powerful women of the Hellenistic royal families remains useful. Influential figures included Laodike I, and Berenike, both wives of Antiochus II, Cleopatra Thea, Eurydike and Berenike, wives of Ptolemy I, Arsinoe II, sister and wife of Ptolemy Philadelphos, and the notorious Cleopatra VII, mistress of Caesar and Antony. Of the powerful Hellenistic Queens both Lefkowitz (1983: 57) and Carney (1991: 160) note the importance of exercising power and authority through their connections to their male relatives.

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12 Van Bremen (1996: 166) believes that ‘Hellenistic royal ideology took a considerable time to filter down to the level of civic élites’ and notes that the wives of great Hellenistic benefactors like Moschion and Herodas at Priene were not associated with their husbands in their benefactions, or even known by name. 13 Pleket no. 2; J, cited by Pomeroy (1975: 126). 14 Pleket no. 5; I. Priene no. 208, cited by Pomeroy (1975: 126). 15 For example, IG 2. 5. 477d cited by Pomeroy (1975: 125). 16 The fact that a sexual encounter before marriage involving a citizen girl is always presented as rape seems to demonstrate continued unease with portraying the active sexuality of citizen women. See Sandbach (1973: 33), McC. Brown (1993: 197), Rosivach (1998: 14) and Sommerstein (1998: 104–5). 17 On the question of Metriche’s status as a legal wife see Cameron (1981: 296) who focuses upon her indignant attitude and Mandris’ five month absence as pointing away from the possibility that she could be a hetaira. 18 Alongside such ‘marginality’ we must also be able to visualise the ‘freedoms’ accorded to women operating under certain conventional codes. Our appreciation of the apparent freedom of movement given to the Theokritan housewives in Idyll 15 must be conditioned by our awareness of the religious element to the poem. See Davies (1995: 152). 19 See Bitinna, in Herodas’ fifth mime, quick to interrogate her slave Gastron for alleged infidelity (1–3), and equally eager to focus on the inconsistencies in his defence (35–6). On the conceptual correlation between sex and speech see for example, Hanson (1990: 329) and Sissa (1990: 360). 20 Rosivach (1998: 138) notes that the older, independent hetairai, unlike the younger women forced into prostitution are never forgiven for their economic independence. See Plut. Mor. 712C for an ancient critique of the Menandrian treatment of prostitutes. Refer also to McC. Brown (1990: 251) for a discussion of this passage. 21 MacMullen (1986: 436) notes that ‘matrona stolata’ becomes a loan phrase in Roman Egypt, defining ‘a special, imported, desirable degree of privilege before the courts’. 22 Van Bremen (1996: 192) where she records a male to female ratio of 4:1 for foundation inscriptions, while MacMullen (1980: 213) found 17 female compared to 214 male eponymous magistrates recorded on bronze coins minted by cities in the Greek-speaking provinces. He notes that the larger the city, the fewer the women relative to the men. 23 Marshall (1975: 123) has catalogued women holding the following posts: pontarch, lyciarch, arch-priestess in the Imperial cult, agonothete, gymnasiarch, panegyriarch, archon, prytanis, stephanephoros, hipparchos, strategos and dekaprotos. 24 The concept of a female presence in public space is problematic, and one which has recently been taken up by Økland (1998: 128) with particular reference to Roman Greece. She states: ‘The gendering of spaces has little to do with the presence of male and female bodies in a place.’ The coding of the public realm might have been straightforwardly élite and male, the ‘lived experience’ far more complex. 25 See also Hallett (1989: 62) on similar strategies adopted by the Roman élite: female blood kin are publicly celebrated for qualities also associated with male members of the family. 26 The first story, that of Aristokleia, neatly exemplifies the almost complete objectification of the beloved in this series of narratives. Tugged this way and that by the supporters of her rival suitors, no one notices when they finally tear her apart (772D). 27 On the contrast between the Classical Athenian practice of not naming respectable women, and Plutarch’s own desire to recover the names of the wives of illustrious men see Bremmer (1981: 426). 28 More generally, on the problems of being aware of current prejudices and concerns see Sawyer (1996: 1). 29 MacHaffie’s (1986: 15) discussion of the story of Martha and Mary in Luke 10: 38–42 also focuses upon the question of whether Jesus’ encouragement of female followers

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30

31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40

41 42

43

44

‘contradicted accepted notions of woman’s place’. Mary, who sits passively at her Lord’s feet is told she ‘has chosen the good part’, though again, we encounter the problem of distinguishing actual practice from the views of later redactors. D’Angelo (1990: 452) discusses other examples in the Gospel of Luke, where women, although prominent, conform to traditional expectations of female behaviour. Harvey (1983: 294) links the popularity of Marcionism in the Syrian Orient to a social system which granted women positions of high responsibility, a tendency which fitted neatly into a mentality already happy to accept the association of the feminine with the religious and divine. This example should alert us to the importance of geographical location as a factor when considering the roles and status of women within early Christianity. Epiphanios of Salamis, Panarion 49: 1(1)–9(4) and Alexandre (1992: 428–9) for a discussion. Apostolic Constitutions III, 9, 1–4. Refer back to the rights accorded to older women in the pagan milieu (as linked to childbearing) in the preceding sub-section, and see also Chapter 5 for my discussion of the treatment of older women in the novel. Refer back to the preceding sub-section for a full discussion of female euergetism in the Greek world. ‘Real’ independence might, however, have been easier to cloak in the vague terminology of a society without carefully designated offices. 1 Corinthians 12: 28–30, 1 Corinthians 12: 8–10, Romans 12: 6–8 and Ephesians 4: 11. See though MacHaffie (1986: 28) for the possibility that certain Greek language tombstones refer to female presbyters in either the Jewish or Christian congregations. This is a difficult area. As previously discussed a woman might exercise power outside of a legally recognised office. The space of the house church might be recognised as at once domestic and public, but the use of sibling terminology to describe a female leader might have been easier for the community to digest than the name of an office taken from the traditionally male public sphere. Note that in the address to the leaders of the house church at Colossae Archippus is designated ‘fellow soldier’, a typically male function. The presence of women may be inferred by certain passages that mention children: Mark 9: 35–7, 10: 13–16. Those healings that take place within the home are Simon’s mother-in-law, 1: 29–31, Jairus’ daughter, 5: 35–43, and the incident with the Syrophoenician woman, 7: 24–30. That of the menstruant takes place in 5: 24–34. See Munro (1982: 227) for a discussion. The repentant woman (7: 36–50) and Mary (10: 38–40). See Kraemer (1992: 153) and Bremmer (1996: 51–7) for expositions of the female readership hypothesis. While there have been attempts, most recently by Ascough (1996) to demonstrate the affinities between the Apocryphal Acts and the novels, I maintain that despite a recycling of motifs the ideology and the gender dynamics remain distinct at certain key points. See, for example, Tryphaena’s care for Thecla, and the way in which the women in the crowd give thanks after Thecla is released from the amphitheatre (38). The same complex view is expressed by Clement of Alexandria in Stromateis IV, 60.1, where woman is seen as capable of attaining the same virtue with regard to her soul, but her bodily construction marks her out for childbearing and housekeeping. MacHaffie (1986: 37) explores how this identification of woman with bodily nature led her to be associated with the satisfaction of physical desire, and hence with sin. In this context see also Cameron’s discussion of the popularity of the stories of repentant prostitutes (1994: 160). Rousselle (1988: 132) also discusses the fact that the treatises on virginity written by the Church Fathers always have a female subject, even when addressed to men as well as women. The ambiguity felt by Christian authorities towards this particular image of gender transformation is nicely summarised by Vidén (1998: 145): to become like a man in terms

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of gaining moral strength was desirable, but adopting male attire to usurp male prerogatives was not to be encouraged. Cameron (1989: 199) has explored how ‘the rhetorical themes of “woman” and virginity served as metaphors for the paradoxes of faith’. 3 HEROINES 1 Furiani (1989: 106) believes that narrative structures confirm basically traditional relationships between the sexes, and that the idealisation of certain female characters might well be a reflection of a higher female status in the Hellenistic and Roman periods (1989: 45). Both observations contain some truth, but ignore the way that the female comes to function within cultural discourse in general. 2 For a more balanced approach that sees a loose association between mystery religions and novels as attributable to them being products of the same milieu see Reardon (1971: 398), Hägg (1983: 103–4) and Beck (1996: 148). 3 Both Goold (1995: 17–9) and Hunter (1983: 2) believe that the colophon given by P Michaelidae 1 at the end of the second book is correct in giving ‘Kallirhoe’ as the complete title. See also the possible evidence of Persius Satires 1.134. 4 Elsom (1992: 227) states: ‘She is most a subject when her status as the carrier of the phallus is highlighted, when she is the mother of her father’s grandchild and her husband’s son, and when she is her husband’s wife and guarantor of his status. Her subjectivity allows her willingly to make herself available as a woman to bestow the phallus on men.’ I am unsure that this holds true throughout the whole narrative: see my sub-section on ‘informal power’. 5 VNHàRM is not used in this context again in the genre, although the word IRUW…RQ or freight, a completely graphic image of objectification is first used of Kallirhoe by the tomb-robbers at 1.10, and is then employed to describe her on a further six occasions, including once by Chaireas himself. The only other character referred to in this manner in Chariton’s text is Chaireas’ mother at 3.5. It is perhaps significant that it is only used in the sense of a human cargo on one other occasion in the genre – at Achilles Tatius 8.10 where Thersandros’ lawyer characterises the hero as a valuable commodity bought by Melite. This ironic male objectification sits well with the gender reversal that colours the whole Kleitophon/Melite relationship. See also my later comments on Melite in Chapter 5. 6 For Hunter (1994: 1078) Kallirhoe comes to stand for ‘the interplay of public and private’. With reference to her public function he notes that the language used to describe her kidnapping by Theron at 3.14 – œODERQ – ‘would be at least as natural if used of a city as of an individual ... Callirhoe thus embodies the state’. 7 See Egger (1994: 38) for the suggestion that this bath scene with the identification with the statue of Aphrodite is a clear sexual marker, foreshadowing her not completely passive role in her relationship with Dionysios. For examples of how works of art in the novels can inform our reading of the heroine, see my later section on Leukippe. 8 See also 6.4 for the Great King’s fantasy of the heroine as the virgin huntress, and 1.14 for Theron’s spectacular unveiling of the unwilling Kallirhoe to the astonished Leonas. 9 See van Bremen (1996: 159–60) for an interestingly precise parallel between the description of Kallirhoe’s funeral, and a decree for one Apollonis of Kyzikos (SEG 28, 958), dated to the first century CE. This decree notes the spontaneous flocking together of the people at the news of her death, and the decking of her corpse in purple and gold. 10 A fact which is articulated by the tomb robbers when they discuss the perils of passing off someone as beautiful as Kallirhoe as a slave (1.10). See also 1.1, 1.14, 2.1, and 2.5 for other instances where beauty is explicitly linked to nobility (HÙJHQ»M/HÙJHQ…D). 11 See in particular 1.1, 2.2, 2.3, 3.2 and 4.7. In 1.1 Kallirhoe is likened to Aphrodite the virgin. See Elsom (1992: 221): ‘This unlikely attribute of the goddess introduces the

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12 13

14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21 22

23

24

central paradox of the novel: Kallirhoe is both desirable and chaste … That is, she presents the occasion for transgressive desire but not for actual transgression.’ See Reardon (1996: 328): ‘Chariton may simply be cashing in on his local deity, rather than expressing any profound religious enthusiasm.’ He feels Aphrodite’s intervention in the narrative is ‘less than systematic’. See also Laplace (1980: 124–5) for a reading of Kallirhoe as Aphrodite genetrix, mother of a founding hero, and thus, through oblique connection with the Aeneas myth, a celebration of Roman values. While I am quite prepared to admit that the elevation of the heroine may stand as a celebration of cultural superiority, I do not believe that the link to the Roman mythic imagination is strong enough to negate the lack of other textual signals. Kallirhoe like Ariadne is ‘rescued’ by Dionys(i)os, after suffering an injustice at the hands of a loved one. Further on the Ariadne allusion see Cueva (1996: 474). This comparison may actually serve to highlight Kallirhoe’s greater vulnerability and innocence. See Marini (1993: 211) on Helen’s active involvement in the ruse involving the false funeral in comparison to Kallirhoe’s ignorance of events. For Fusillo (1988: 20) for example, the main reason for Chariton’s use of Homeric references is ‘the wish to ennoble the narrative’. See 2.5 and 2.7 for her encounters with Dionysios, and 5.7 for her emotional turmoil at the trial. See also Bremmer (1991: 22–3) on downcast eyes as the universal sign of the modest maiden, and the ashamed male. Konstan (1994: 76) states ‘The plot seems constructed to win sympathy for her plight, by which she is obliged to play the role of autonomous woman who calculates her advantages and chooses her own husband.’ See, for example, Antigone 511: ‘for it is not shameful (D„VFUÕQ) to show respect to (VšEHLQ) those born of the same womb’ where the eponymous heroine stoutly defends her decision to bury her brother. The complex issues of loyalty to family and country that are fully explored in this play are erased in Kallirhoe’s affirmation of her very personal bond. On the frivolous elements as contributing to a fully rounded characterisation of the heroine see Wiersma (1990: 117). It is interesting that despite Chariton’s love of archaising colour, this remains the only reference to homosexuality in the novel. The question of whether we are in fact dealing with an epitome seems relevant here: the barren nature of Xenophon’s prose might then be ascribed to the inefficiency of those editing the text, rather than to the literary inadequacies of the author himself. For the contrary argument, which sees the relatively simple nature of the narrative as attributable to its origin in folk-tale see O’Sullivan (1995). This term was originally developed by feminists working within the area of film studies, but has been increasingly appropriated by critics wishing to uncover the dynamics of description and power in operation in literature. See, for example, Mulvey (1975: 11) and de Lauretis (1987: 44) for a more recent exegesis of this theory. Woman is an icon, a spectacle for the male onlooker; the beautiful object of male contemplation (Irigaray 1985: 26). Such use of psychoanalytical theory again opens up this hypothesis to the charge of universalising biological essentialism. Kaplan (1983: 310) has attempted an exploration of this problem by positing that some genres, such as narrative cinema are ‘constructed according to the unconscious of patriarchy’. A patriarchal society might well constitute the gendered subject in such a way as to confirm the dynamics of gaze as outlined above. However, in any genre, such as the Greek novel where patriarchal values are undergoing a subtle re-negotiation, these dynamics are more open to distortion. For Witt (1971: 245) this description allies the heroine still more closely with Isis Lysikomos.

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25 Artifice is a problematic concept: to be deliberately alluring is not respectable. See the Oeconomicus (x.2–13, where make-up is classed as deception) and the Coniugalia Praecepta (141E – dignity and modesty are better adornment than precious stones and scarlet dye). Make-up could make a woman seem paler (and therefore more secluded) than she was in reality. 26 She indulges in (generally impassioned) soliloquies at 3.6, 3.8, 4.5, 4.6, 5.7 and 5.8. 27 See Witt (1971: 249) for an explanation that stresses the religious significance of this action. 28 See Kytzler (1996: 344) for a highly positive assessment of Anthia’s character. She is ‘inventive, resourceful, shrewd … and colourful’. 29 Fusillo (1988: 28) characterises her as ‘an elusive being, the ideal love object’. See Migogna (1993) on the use of the Europa myth, and Laplace (1983) on the connection with the myth of Io. Constant appeals to the mythic intertext allow a definitive display of erudition, but the multiple identities may threaten the erasure of subjectivity. 30 For another example of the ‘shopping-list’ approach to the appreciation of female beauty see Philostratos 34. 31 Leukippe’s association with Europa is intensified by the similarity between the descriptions of Europa’s meadow (1.1) and Kleitophon’s own garden (1.15), as well as the further link to Leukippe’s face, which is explicitly compared to a meadow (1.19). The erotic imagery contained in the descriptions of the garden may also come to symbolise the latent eroticism in Leukippe’s character, and her initial laxity regarding the safeguarding of her virginity. 32 See Migogna (1993: 182) for a discussion of the variant ‘6HO»QKQ’ found in the MSS. If this is indeed the correct reading the author perhaps intended to allude to the picture of Europa, and the deliberately indirect nature of this allusion may be part of the author’s playful tone. 33 Michie (1987: 89) explores how cliché can work to deny individuality and subjectivity: all women are alike, all replaceable. 34 See, though, 5.13 for an example of the reverse situation: the infatuated Melite, forbidden from consummating her relationship with Kleitophon only appears to partake of food, taking nourishment instead from looking upon her beloved. The reversal of the consuming gaze, like the swapping of the clothes in the attempted prison escape marks her behaviour as male. 35 The sexual connotations of this wounding are perhaps suggested by the similarity to Pantheia’s dream of the bandit, a dream which occurs just before Leukippe is due to consummate her relationship with Kleitophon. See also Egger (1990: 310 n3). 36 Elsom (1992: 216): ‘Clitophon, the narrator, is constituted by his own discourse – the narrative voice is his – Leucippe is constituted of a messy, bloody body. “Inside” Leucippe is blood and guts; “inside” Clitophon is a subjective self.’ 37 For example, the trick regarding the false knife is entirely the men’s plan (3.20–22), while she is very much the passive object of male machinations regarding the aphrodisiac (4.6–7, 4.9–10 and 4.15–17). 38 It is surely important that the first time Leukippe speaks at any length is to assure her mother that she is still a virgin (2.25). 39 Morales (1997: 135) differentiates between the power accorded to Kallirhoe through the ‘male gaze’ (she is both objectified and subjectified), and the ‘negligible empowerment’ gained by Leukippe through the force her beauty exerts over individual men. 40 The Philomela story at 5.3 is the ultimate representation of female silence. It is also interesting that it is Kleitophon who is made to relate Leukippe’s adventures to her father Sostratos (8.5). 41 There is a somewhat surprising amount of underlying conservatism in this novel. For example, Kleio acts as a chaperone at 1.16, 2.10, and distinct parts of the house are allotted

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42

43

44

45 46

47 48 49

50

51

52

to men and women at 2.12 and 2.19. It is not clear, though, to what extent this tendency may be attributed to either conscious archaism, or the constraints of the plot. At 1.5, however, the sexes eat together, a distinctly unconventional practice by the standards of Classical Athens. Davidson (1997: 128) in his discussion of seclusion and display in Classical Athens, observes how the hetaira, she who occupied the ambiguous position on the social scale somewhere between legitimate wife and common prostitute, could increase her desirability through selective avoidance of the male gaze. See also Licht (1932: 299) for further references to the brothel prostitutes who stand naked in the doorway. This harsh term is rarely used in the genre, occurring only once in Xenophon (1.13) and Heliodoros (7.19), and not at all in Chariton or Longos. Egger (1990: 164–6) provides a useful survey of the generic language used for female slaves. Interestingly, words such as ¢UJXUèQKWRM that connote the harshness of the servile condition are only used of the female protagonists when sold into slavery, while more neutral terminology such as THUDSDLQ…M is applied to the ‘true slaves’. This word is again only found in Achilles Tatius when applied to women, which is perhaps indicative of his less idealistic stance, when compared to the other novelists. It is interesting that this is the word that Xenophon has Habrokomes apply to himself, should he choose to submit to the disgusting advances of the pirates (2.1). Winkler (1990: 114) claimed that ‘Chloe’s earlier sexual maturity and curiosity dramatise aspects of girlhood that a patriarchal order carefully guarded.’ On the symbolic associations between gardens and a woman’s virginity see my earlier section on Leukippe. See also Zeitlin (1994: 159) on the association of the destruction of the garden with the bodies of Chloe and (more surprisingly) Daphnis. O’Connor (1991: 400) provides some interesting data on the functioning of woods and thickets as sexual imagery in the novel. Maritz (1991: 63 n25) places a more positive construction on events: ‘The story of Pan and Syrinx symbolises violence, the inverse, structurally, of the harmony existing between Daphnis and Chloe which is epitomised in the dance.’ On the increasing violence and eroticism/sense of experience in the tales see Wouters (1994: 151–2). While Daphnis’ comparisons seem to emphasise not only the heroine’s own innocence, but her close association with nature, this relationship is rendered deliberately problematic by the author’s playful manipulation of the concepts of ‘nature’ and ‘culture’. For example, in 1.32 the beauty of the naked Chloe is such that it does not need adornment, while in 4.32, as Chloe is dressed for her wedding and her new role as bourgeois bride, it is stated that it is only when adorned that her true beauty could be fully appreciated. It is interesting that the notions of social space and acceptable behaviour that we have observed in operation in the other texts are also allowed to intrude into Longos’ rural idyll on some occasions. For example, in Winter, closeted inside the house Chloe is ¢µ»FDQRM with no plans for escape, despite her desire to see Daphnis (3.4). As Chloe reaches sexual maturity her foster mother becomes concerned that her freedom will lead to the loss of her virginity (3.25). Chloe’s ability to move freely through the countryside is thus directly linked to her status and her age. Unlike the other novels there is no direct and consistent identification of the heroine with any one particular goddess. On one occasion Chloe dresses herself in Bacchic fawnskin as she awaits Daphnis (1.23), which might assimilate her with Artemis, although Daphnis goes on to compare her to one of the Nymphs of the Holy Cave (1.24). Through Chloe’s affection for the Nymphs and her affinity with her surroundings the author appears to be attempting to create a more general association between nature and the feminine principle. Chloe’s anger at Daphnis’ fetching of the apple being the prime example (3.34).

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53 For example, they both weep at Knemon’s story (1.18) and both beg him for help prior to their audience with Thyamis (1.19). On the equality of their helplessness at certain points see Konstan (1994: 98). 54 A Platonic reading of this work, or any reading that is sensitive to Platonic resonances might associate Charikleia with Heavenly, and Thisbe with Pandemic love – see for example, Dowden (1996: 273) who highlights the significance of many of the misidentifications taking place in a cave. 55 Thisbe is killed in place of the heroine (1.31), and Knemon and Theagenes at first mistake her corpse for that of Charikleia (2.3). Charikleia, fearing for her life, plays along with Nausikles’ ruse and takes on Thisbe’s identity to avoid capture by the Persians (5.8). 56 Fusillo (1988: 21) has posited that the relationship between the Aithiopika and the Odyssey is hypertextual, with the later text relying massively on the earlier. This influence can be detected not only in purely narrative terms, such as the beginning in media res, but also in the division of Odysseus’ characteristics between Kalasiris and Charikleia (22). 57 Rivière’s work on the masquerade or assumption of femininity may be relevant here. See also Chapter 4. 58 For a detailed examination of the narrative technique in the initial scene see Bühler (1976: 178) who comments on its cinematic qualities. 59 See Hani (1978: 270) for a consideration of how the novelistic conception of love shows the influence of Platonic and Stoic thought. More specifically Dowden (1996: 279) reads the first scene as a new Cupid and Pysche pair, with Charikleia representing the divine beauty (Cupid) that elevates the soul (Theagenes) from the mortal condition through love. In contrast Sandy (1982a: 165) reads the Neo-Platonic components as mere ‘literary overlay’. 60 For Heiserman (1977: 195): Charikleia possesses too much character to be an emblem, yet as Doody (1996: 171) is surely right to point out, ‘ “Characters” in a novel have to represent more than “themselves” in order to be “selves” at all – they need to escape being just marks on paper.’ 61 See 5.29 where she determines to kill herself rather than submit to the advances of Trachinos, and 5.33, 6.8 and 8.7 for occasions where she states her decision to kill herself if her beloved is dead. 62 There is perhaps some matching of Charikleia’s sacrality (or depth of chastity) to her geographical progress. See Dowden (1996) for the allegorical significance of the different locations in the novel and similarly Schubert (1997: 259) on the journey of the priests corresponding to an inner spiritual progress. 63 She is ashamed to mention the cause of her love-sickness to the kindly Kalasiris (4.6, 4.10), and has several false starts (10.18, 10.22, 10.29) before finally being able to admit the truth about her relationship with Theagenes to her mother (10.33). Morgan (1989: 315) points out that her coy behaviour here is, to some extent at least, dictated by the author’s need to create suspense. While this is clearly a factor, it is also consistent with his general portrait of the heroine. 64 To stand outside the house is, traditionally at least, the behaviour of the prostitute. See Bremmer (1991: 24) for a discussion. 65 See Morgan (1996: 420–1) on the tentative identification of Heliodoros as a Christian bishop. 66 The convoluted nature of the narrative allows Heliodoros to stress this fact on two occasions: at 1.1 and 5.32. 67 For an explanation of her intelligence that stresses the work’s Neo-Platonic connections see Sandy (1982a: 166) and Geffcken (1978: 71). 68 Holzberg (1995) assigns the label ‘ideal’ to most of the fragments of romance that we possess, including Ninus, Sesonchosis, Parthenope, Chione, Kalligone, The Wonders Beyond Thule, and even, perhaps surprisingly, the Babyloniaka and the Phoinikika. This last text in its

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69

70 71 72

73

74 75 76

77

present state at least appears to lack a conventional heroine, since the girl Persis who makes love to the hero (A2 recto) is not married to him, and may even be a courtesan. The only surviving Greek representatives of the ‘comic-realistic’ form are thus The Ass Romance and Iolaus, both of which lack a central female figure. The dating of these fragments is perhaps pertinent to our discussion of gender. Swain (1996: 424) would like to suggest a first century CE date. A first century BCE date, however, might allow us to tentatively posit some correlation between the strength of the later heroines and the relatively socio-economic freedoms gained by women in the Imperial period. Samuel Richardson, Pamela [first published 1740] 1985, London. Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbevilles [first published 1890] 1990, Oxford. Both texts are hereafter referred to by page numbers alone. This is reflected in the use of this term and its compounds in the extant texts: it is used 27 times to refer to females and 18 to males. Chariton, Xenophon and Heliodoros use it roughly equally. Achilles Tatius, as might be expected, utilises the term less, though it is of note that on seven of the eight occasions on which it is used, it refers, often ironically to male self-control. It only occurs once in Longos: in the proem, where the author prays for self-control while writing of the passions of others. This invocation of the term alerts us immediately to the playful authorial stance towards the protagonists’ love. It is notable that the term is not used at any other time in the novel: at one level self-control ceases to be an issue in the face of the protagonists’ complete naivety. Both Montague (1992: 246) and Winkler (1990: 126) have found this strategy of ‘reading against the text’ useful. Winkler claimed that ‘The ambiguities and contradictions within the sexual ideology of Daphnis and Chloe – whether they derive from the author’s intention or from internal inconsistencies in the dominant cultural discourse of this age – afford us an opportunity to become resisting readers in the complex guerilla fighting of cultural studies.’ See Vidal-Naquet (1986: 116) on patterns of gender inversion in ritual. While Daphnis and Chloe exhibits a different narrative pattern from the other romances in that the protagonists do not set out from, or return to, a home-city, the novel’s pastoral setting may itself be liminal. See further Epstein (1995: 68–9). Dunand (1989: 177) is right to emphasise that the vision of the female experience that is favoured at this time, in the Christian as in the pagan milieu, is a femininity in which commitment to chastity or virginity is assimilated to male virtue. See also my earlier subsection on Christian women. The association of the feminine with a nation, or the identity of a social group can of course be conceptualised in different ways. See Higonnet (1994: 11) on the female body as metonymy for the nation in nationalist texts of the Renaissance onwards. 4 HEROES

1 More generally on the representation of crowds in Chariton see Ascough (1996). 2 The exception is the Ephesiaka, which again poses problems due to the Spartan nature of its prose. We are told that Habrokomes’ father, Lykomedes was ‘one of the first citizens of Ephesos’ (1.1). In comparison, the names of Anthia’s parents, Megamedes and Euippe, denote high status, but they are not explicitly designated important figures. 3 The two occasions on which he is explicitly designated brave or ¢QGUH‹RM both occur within the formal aristeia period, at 7.5 and 7.6. 4 Both Perry (1930: 103) and Helms (1966: 29) read the inconsistencies in Chaireas’ character as stemming from Chariton’s desire to formulate at least part of his hero’s character on the Classical historical model.

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5 Of Kleitophon’s comparison of Thersandros’ attack at 5.23 to the blows undergone by an initiate to a mystery Anderson (1982: 32) notes ‘Short of applying the title mystagogus to a brothel-keeper, Achilles could scarcely have handled the institution in a more scandalous way.’ 6 See Levin (1992: 499) and Bowersock (1994: 49) for a discussion of Heliodoros’ manipulation of traditional expectations regarding race. On the humour derived from this subversion see Anderson (1982). 7 For example, Pernot (1992: 48) has already demonstrated how Charikleia, at once modest, yet formidably effective as a speaker, may be read as a paradox, and so as part of Heliodoros’ desire to represent the unusual and surprising. 8 This is very reminiscent of Od. 2: 80–1 where Telemachos bursts into tears after the emotional speech regarding the return of his goods. Telemachos is, of course, not a hero, but a hero-in-training. The significance of the heroes’ youth in this genre will merit further discussion later in this chapter as part of my interpretative strategies. 9 On Kleitophon’s account of his actions as indicative of the moral laxity of his time see Johne (1996: 189). I would be cautious before ascribing some sort of moral degeneration to a whole era, and would rather see this particular moral code as part of a broader ideological spectrum. There is also in the author’s tone the suggestion of the deliberate subversion of conventional ideals, which merits further examination later in the chapter. 10 This specific reference to homosexuality could well be functioning as part of Chariton’s attempt at providing some archaising Athenian colour. 11 O’Sullivan (1995: 91) has noted the fluctuations of Habrokomes between utter certainty that Anthia is dead (3.9.7, 5.10.5) and confusion about whether she is alive or dead (5.8.4). He feels that ‘rhetorical appropriateness’ triumphs over consistent characterisation in a text which he regards as being heavily influenced by the oral tradition. 12 See, for example, 1.5, 1.6 and 6.2. Wiersma (1990: 120) notes that while both protagonists may lament their situation, only Chaireas bewails his own decisions. 13 Helms (1966: 119) thought Chaireas’ desire to escape the consequences of his actions through suicide ‘despicable’. 14 MacAlister (1996: 28) argues that ‘in the novel, “genuine” suicide actions are never undertaken by the protagonists (including Chaereas with his many attempts) when a vestige of hope of regaining the other is perceived (the difference with Chaereas is that he does have a tendency to perceive frequently that he has lost all hope of regaining Callirhoe)’. 15 Anderson (1982: 87–8) is one of the few scholars to look for deliberate subversion in the handling of the love theme, and the presentation of the heroes, although he does appear to exaggerate the use of authorial irony. 16 The Greek Anthology provides countless examples of the themes of decaying beauty and faithlessness, but the general tone is not as vituperative as the Latin tradition. See, for example, 5.5 by Statyllius Flaccus (5.5). For an example of a work closer to the novelistic ethos (where it is the situation rather than the question of loyalty that brings the lovers grief) refer to Paulus Silentiarius (5.221). 17 See Catullus 11 for an expression of grief which metamorphoses into a vituperative attack on the beloved. 18 See in contrast Ovid’s Amores 1.6: 4–6 for a good example of a work later in the tradition where the narrator is characteristically preciously insincere; following novelistic convention by wasting away from love-sickness, yet being active and opportunistic enough to use his loss of weight to best advantage in gaining entry to his lover’s house. 19 I feel that Clauss (1997: 197) came closer to identifying Jason’s particular area of expertise when he claimed: ‘Jason’s particular brand of heroism … entails the settling of quarrels and forging of agreements with foreigners.’ However, even here he is not totally successful: Apollonios is unable to fully endorse any set of values in the same manner as the novelists.

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20 On the inequality of the central relationship in the Argonautika see Heiserman (1977: 20) who rightly observed that it is Medea’s erotic suffering, rather than Jason’s despair which becomes the focus of our attention. 21 See Gianakaris (1970: 42) for an exposition of the view that good sense and moderation form the key-stones of Plutarch’s humanistic thought, as expressed in the Lives. 22 Unlike the novels, the Lives place little emphasis on the advantages these public figures may have been given through high status. It is of course possible that nobility stands as such a given that it need not be further articulated, but it is still interesting that it is not a focus. See further Wardman (1974: 13). 23 The heroes’ extreme youth is an important factor in their portrayal. As young men around the age of the formal ephebia their apparent transgressions of conventional behaviour may be explained with reference to rites of passage and the notion of a liminal period. See further Vidal-Naquet (1986), Dowden (1998), and the sub-section dealing with anthropological approaches in Chapter 3. This cannot be the whole explanation for their passivity, but it does demonstrate how the narrative association of certain traits can better render their inactivity acceptable. 24 See also Tasker (1998: 25) for manual labour defining a gendered class position in modern cinema. 25 Tasker (1993: 9) notes: ‘The visual spectacle of the male body that is central to muscular movies puts into play the two contradictory terms of restraint and excess. While the hero and the various villains of the genre tend to share an excessive physical strength, the hero is also defined by his restraint in putting his strength to the test.’ 26 Dionysios may be interpreted as a father-figure in that he possesses the ‘mother’/heroine Kallirhoe, and Hydaspes’ role as father is established decisively in the elaborate recognition scene immediately prior to Theagenes’ show of strength. 27 Morgan (1993: 229) suggests that this particular narrative pattern could be functioning as a more general reflection of that basic human desire for a happy ending, despite a complete relinquishing of power. 28 Beye (1969: 55) offered some interesting comparative material in this context, in his explanation of why Jason fails as a convincing love-hero: ‘The poet fails I believe, in exhibiting Jason as a fitting sexual hero, a counterpart to his anguished Medea. I think that to do so successfully would have seemed too daring.’ 5 MINOR FEMALE CHARACTERS

1 This illustrates the difficulty of placing Chariton’s female characters within one role. In the developing relationship between Stateira and Kallirhoe he comes closest of all the authors in the genre to portraying a friendship between women of equal status, and therefore there would be a case for discussing the Queen under the heading ‘confidante’. 2 The depiction of this particular emotion across the range of texts can act as a fairly reliable indicator of subtle ideological difference. For Achilles Tatius ]KORWXS…D appears to have a neutral coding: it can be used of both women (Melite) and men (Thersandros), although the relative care which has been expended on delineating Melite’s changing emotions contributes to her portrayal as a far more sympathetic character. Chariton ascribes this emotion to males far more often (on twelve occasions) than he does to females (four times), which could add weight to the theory of female orientation. For Xenophon and Heliodoros it is an emotion experienced primarily by foreigners, though it is noteworthy that it is a feeling that Theagenes is made to ascribe to Charikleia (7.21) in a rare attempt to lend this particular heroine some humanity. It is significant that it does not form part of Longos’ conceptual vocabulary: the absence of this emotion highlighting this author’s insistence on an unbelievable level of innocence for his young protagonists, a narrative topos linked to his interest in the nature/culture dichotomy.

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3 For interpretations that stress the realism of Melite’s characterisation see Todd (1940: 27), Perry (1967: 106), Reardon (1994: 87) and Bowie (1985: 694). 4 Bartsch (1989: 70) sees the Philomela painting as foreshadowing the situation of the narrative’s two overlapping love triangles, thus forcing the alert reader to modify their reaction to this adulterous act. The wronged husband Thersandros, has tried to commit a crime analogous to that of the wicked Tereus, and thus can claim little of our sympathy. 5 Such a response is necessarily subjective and is, of course, shaped by the prevailing attitudes to feminine sexuality current at any particular time. Compare Fusillo’s (1990: 215) view of Melite as a positive character, and the earlier favourable reactions detailed in my discussion of realism with Rohde’s (1914: 479) characterisation of her as ‘lüsterne’, one of those characters marked by a lack of honour. 6 See Levin (1977: 7) on the superior intelligence and subtlety she demonstrates in contrast to Dorkon in an analogous situation. We thus return to the topos of female superiority in the sphere of social interaction. 7 Morgan (1994: 70), in stressing the ambivalence of her motivation, points to the predatory connotations of her name, and its significance as part of the recurrent wolf imagery which is clearly connected to sexual awakening and the shifting balance of power between the sexes. Chloe’s sexual awakening is the result of Daphnis’ fall into the wolf-pit, and this occurs before that of Daphnis. Lykainion, the female wolf, has the power of sexual knowledge over the ignorant Daphnis. 8 Lupa or wolf being a common slang term for a prostitute in Latin. 9 See also Blomquist (1997: 77–8) on the usage of this word in the slightly earlier Plutarch: usually women so designated are non-respectable and lower class. It may be significant that nearly all the other generic usages of the word have a negative force. For example, it is the term used by the irritated Kleitophon in Achilles Tatius to refer to Melite, while she is pestering him (5.12), and also the word used by the Great King in Chariton when he wishes to generate the impression that the heroine is of little interest to him (6.9). In Heliodoros this term is applied to many negative female characters, including the witch of Bessa (6.12), the courtesan Rhodopis (2.25), the malicious Arsake (7.9) and also Demainete, the second legal wife of Aristippos (1.9). 10 For a detailed discussion of the intricate relationship between these two concepts in Longos see Zeitlin (1994). 11 See Eur. El. 197–209 for the most famous example of this topos. Manto’s cruelty finds a deliberate narrative echo in the scene where Rhenaia demands that Anthia be sold to a brothel-keeper (5.5). 12 Given the generic preoccupation with VZIURVÚQK it is interesting that this particular negative, ‘incontinence’ or ‘lack of self-control’ is mentioned so rarely – on only four occasions in the fully extant texts. It is only in Xenophon’s characterisation of Kyno that the term is deployed by the omniscient authorial voice in a description of a particular character. 13 The fact that she is literate is evidenced by the letter she writes to Habrokomes in 2.5. Johne (1996: 200) cites standard of education as one of the criteria which differentiate the heroines from the female antagonists, but this is not a factor which is foregrounded as much as the obvious differences in sexuality. 14 A brief comparison to the treatment of ‘women who kill’ in Victorian fiction should serve to highlight the differences in the underlying ideology. Both genres are similar in that they could ‘not allow women to get away with murder or destroy the established power structure.’ (Morris 1990: 5). However, the ‘latent advocacy of violence and lawbreaking’ that Morris has identified in the Victorian novel is wholly absent from the Greek novel. 15 See Fantham’s (1994: 360) discussion of the presentation of the bad Empress in Roman literature, where sexuality and power ‘go wrong together’ and act as a sign for one another.

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16 Charikleia’s rhetorical skill marks her out as outstandingly intelligent, but Arsake is not far behind; we are informed that she can understand, though not speak Greek (7.19). 17 See Herodas Mime 5 (discussed in Chapter 2) for a similar situation in which the slave can reassert the traditional hegemonic gender-power balance through the emotional hold he has over his mistress. She loves him too much to hurt him. Closer to Heliodoros in its conception of the evil wife (who even orders the execution of her reluctant slave-lover) is P Oxy. 413, a contemporary non-literary mime from Egypt. See further Arnott (1971: 124). 18 The complex coding surrounding female authority and public prominence has already been dealt with at somewhat greater length in Chapter 2. The Adoniasouzae of Theokritos provides a good demonstration of the way in which a Queen’s power could be presented as unthreatening. Here the power of Queen Arsinoe is made manifest through the tremendous scale of her public works, but she does not appear directly. Her association with the religious sphere (the occasion of this spectacle is the festival of Adonis) also serves to render this power more acceptable. See further Griffiths (1981: 258–9), and on the ‘normalising’ effects of the parallels between her public works and the mundane housework of the housewives visiting the spectacle see Whitehorne (1995: 75). 19 On the complete opposition between Charikleia and Arsake in terms of restraint see Hägg (1983: 67). 20 See further my final chapter on the difficulty of rendering into English words relating to the affective and emotional sphere. It is interesting that the feelings that Arsake harbours for the hero, and which are treated with such moral disapprobation by the author can be designated by the same word used to describe the protagonists’ mutual bond. 21 The statement that she is Ephesian by birth (5.11) and her status as ‘widow’ for much of the narrative might alert the reader to the possible exploitation of a literary topos (see Petronius’ Satyricon 111–12). 22 One of the earliest and most famous explorations of the idea of alterity was the work of de Beauvoir, as she sought to come to an understanding of the part ‘woman’ could come to play in the discursive formation of the male self. She stated (1972: 171): ‘Once the subject seeks to assert himself, the Other, who limits and denies him, is none the less a necessity to him: he attains himself only through that reality which he is not, which is something other than himself.’ In an interesting concession to socio-historic specificity she noted that woman as ‘Other’ was less likely to occur at times when man’s personal destiny had come to be eclipsed by City or State (1972: 173–4). 23 On woman as ‘same’ and ‘Other’ in the Roman élite imaginaire see Hallett (1989). 24 She cites fragments of Xenarchus, e.g. fr. 4, K II pp. 468 ff l 10, in which the subterfuges of those who embark on affairs with married women are described. 25 The complaints of the courtesan Habrotonon in the Epitrepontes, ignored by the man who has hired her have the same witty tone as those made by the frustrated Melite. See 436–41, where she claims to be qualified to carry the basket in Athena’s procession because of her client’s neglect. 26 Martial 1.73, 11.71 and Juvenal 6.277–9 concentrate on the foolishness of the complacent husband, not the wickedness of the wife. 27 Clytaemnestra and Helen are the most obvious examples. See Chapter 2 for a more detailed discussion of the relation of different female character types to the Classical discourse of self and other. 28 Works of Victorian fiction which require a direct quotation will first receive a full reference with an indication of the date of first publication, and thereafter will be referred to by page numbers alone. 29 The ‘fallen woman’ Isabel Vane is punished by the loss of her lover, her looks and her children, and must die before the conclusion of the narrative.

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30 Thackeray repeatedly raises the question of Becky’s guilt, while simultaneously refusing to provide the definitive authorial verdict. See Vanity Fair [first published 1877] 1994, London: 155, 517, 539 and 625. Her close friendship with Lord Steyne, which brings herself and her husband many advantages, is the main cause of speculation. 31 The portrayal of Lady Dedlock in Bleak House nicely illustrates the authorial sympathy coupled with a desire to indicate certain moral standards and boundaries that characterise so many portraits of the ‘fallen woman’ in mid-Victorian fiction. The author obviously sympathises with her inability to spend time with her illegitimate child, but a happy resolution is denied her. See Charles Dickens, Bleak House [first published 1853] 1985, London: 566. When sympathy looked as if it was changing into something more akin to authorial endorsement of female sexual freedom, the novel in question might be treated either with indifference (Fallen Leaves, Wilkie Collins) or a severe moral backlash (Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell; Tess of the D’Urbevilles, Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy). 32 See, for example, the language deployed by the eponymous heroine in Jane Eyre to describe her fate, had she succumbed to the temptation of becoming Rochester’s mistress. She would have been ‘a slave in a fool’s paradise’ and fallen into ‘a silken snare’ (Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë [first published 1847] 1985, London: 386). These images of slavery and entrapment form an interesting ideological counterpoint to the hunting imagery used in the description of the courtesan Rhodopis. 33 Even as women were starting to be portrayed as free-willed and sexually independent, their ultimate narrative fate might not differ very much from their older ‘fallen’ sisters. Herminia Barton, the strong-willed heroine of Grant Allen’s The Woman Who Did, dares to offer herself openly to a man she likes. Such countercultural tendencies demand that she be safely disposed of: she commits suicide at the end of the narrative. See further Cunningham (1978: 49). 34 Persinna in the Aithiopika and Pantheia in Leukippe and Kleitophon are the most obvious. 35 When Knemon reaches Nausikles’ house, where Kalasiris is staying they are welcomed in the host’s absence by his daughter and the serving women (2.22). This would have been an obvious time for a mother to appear, and yet her absence is not explained. 36 It is particularly difficult, although extremely worthwhile, to acknowledge modern preconceptions and prejudices regarding this narrative pattern. A working mother can easily be vilified for leaving her child in another’s care, and yet in many cultures, and in many time periods the nurse could function as a badge of status. 37 See for example, Daphnis and Chloe 4.24 and 4.35 and Aithiopika 4.8. It is interesting to note that mothers display no especial cruelty towards their female children, in the genre. Daphnis’ parents are quite prepared to expose a male child because of the burden he would have placed on the family’s finances. See Engels (1980: 120) on the statistical improbability of female infanticide being practised on a large scale in the ancient world. Of course, there must have been occasions when a female child would have presented an insupportable financial burden, because of the pressing need to provide a dowry, and so secure a respectable marriage. Refer to the now notorious letter of Hilarion (P Oxy. 744) where a wife is advised by her absent husband to rear a child if it is male, but expose it if it should be female. 38 This is surely a deliberate echo of Il. 6. 479–481 where Hektor prays to Zeus that his son Astyanax will be greater than he. 39 When she misinterprets the dream she had about Charikleia, it is striking that she gives it public significance rather than seeing its personal and emotional implications (10.3). 40 See though Anderson (1997: 318) for a more positive evaluation: for him her characterisation is focused upon the quality of VZIURVÚQK. 41 Refer to my treatment of Lykainion, earlier in this chapter for a discussion of the uses of this diminutive form in the texts.

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42 Melanie Klein, Love, Guilt and Reparation and Other Works 1921–1945, introduction by R. E. Money-Kyrle (1975) New York, pp. 305–6, cited in McKnight (1997: 25). 43 See my discussion in Chapter 4 regarding the effect the fragmentation of the father figure could have on the representation of the heroes. 44 Chodorow’s (1978: 181) work blends psychoanalytical and sociological approaches and appears to support Slater’s hypothesis. From empirical research she notes the negative effect on a boy’s concept of (him)self in any situation where women mother and fathers are relatively uninvolved in family life. 45 See Walcot (1987a) for a detailed description of the disappointed mother of the timocratic man in Plato’s Republic (549c–550b) which tallies with Slater’s view. 46 She cites the evidence of P Oxy. 1273 (260 BCE) and P Eleph. 1 (113 BCE). 47 See Phillips’ (1978: 70) discussion of the amount of power, albeit informal, wielded by the Roman mother in this period. 48 The sentimentalising gloss that appears to cover much of Victorian popular culture could only serve to complicate the issue further. Dickens could be particularly harsh on the ‘failed mother’, with Bleak House providing no fewer than three variations on this theme. In addition to Lady Dedlock, who is forced by her sin to abandon her role completely, we also encounter the over-sentimental and foolish Mrs Guppy, and the neglectful Mrs Jellyby. 49 Scenes such as the friends’ despair at parting (8.4) are only allocated a few lines, and are not fully exploited for increased emotional impact. 50 Ever the good psychologist, she tries in the bath scene to assure the favoured Kallirhoe of her superior position, telling her that she now has servants to help wash off the dirt (2.2). 51 In Daphnis and Chloe the female confidante is missing altogether, partly because of the heroine’s own low status throughout much of the novel, but also probably due to the generic lack of interest in the theme. 52 The use of the word ‘companion’ which is used of Rhode and her fellow slave Leukon on no less than seven occasions in preference to any terms which unambiguously refer to slavery, is part of the idealising gloss that covers the work as a whole. 53 Although I believe that male anxieties do colour a great deal of the portrayals of female characters in the canon I do not deny that other factors may be in operation. For example the ‘untrustworthy maid’ as well as being to some extent a literary topos may also be grounded in élite fears of those who serve them, stemming from their recognition of their possession of a different agenda. 54 Lefkowitz (1986: 52) notes the lack of female friendship and support in myth, acknowledging Sappho to be unique in her portrayal of intense female bonding. 55 One woman might constitute the best, or at least most acceptable way of ‘saving’ another from moral degradation. See Rose Maylie’s sincere, though ultimately unsuccessful attempts to ‘save’ Nancy in Oliver Twist, and the ennobling friendship between the eponymous Aurora Leigh and Marion Erle in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem. 56 It is interesting that the most negative portrayals of female friendship are found in the latest extant work, while Chariton, the earliest author in the generally accepted chronology seems least perturbed by female solidarity. Xenophon, Achilles Tatius and Longos give the theme little prominence. Perhaps it is possible to see distinct phases of development here. Were women of Chariton’s day less powerful and therefore less frightening than their counterparts in Heliodoros’ time? This is an intriguing theory, but we must be wary of inferring too much from such a small body of extant works. 57 Age and social class are of course vital determining factors when trying to ascertain the acceptability of female social mobility and friendship: Gorgo and Praxinoa appear to be of lower status than the novelistic heroines. For the rhetoric of seclusion functioning as a badge of status, see my earlier comments in Chapter 2. 58 Compare this situation to that of Lucius and Fotis in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.

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59 This might be another case where a female textual identification could be argued, although even here such an interpretation is not straightforward: it might also be indicative of the élite male’s desire to envisage his peers as paragons of self-control. 60 This practice was only strongly denounced by Stoics and Christians, and even in these cases (e.g. de Gubernatione Dei, 7.4,17, Salvian) it is interesting that more emphasis was placed on the correct behaviour of the respectable man, than any rights or considerations due to the slaves. For further examples of the exploitation of slaves see Wiedemann (1994: 167–87). 61 Evidence that a master might seek to profit from the desire of his male slaves for his female slaves is given in Plut. Cat. Mai. 21.2 where the practice of allowing the male slaves to sleep with female slaves of the household for a fixed price is outlined. On the use of female slaves for breeding the next generation of slaves see Bradley (1978: 245–6) and Dalby (1979: 257) for the view that they were primarily used for ‘decoration’ and sex. 62 This plot device also occurs in Kallirhoe where the disappointed suitors find a glib fellow to seduce Kallirhoe’s personal maid, and so to appear to the jealous Chaireas as his wife’s secret lover. We are told that a woman becomes easy prey when she is loved (1.4). 63 This connection between the slave and the priestess is emphasised on several occasions at 1.31, 2.4, 5.3 and 5.8. Is this a moral warning from the author about how easily a Charikleia could become a Thisbe if she did not possess moral strength? See also Morgan (1996: 451). 64 See, for example, Gutzwiller (1985: 106) on the sympathy accorded to the old bawd Acanthis in Propertius 4.5. 65 See also Schmeling (1974: 144). Laplace (1980: 108) in particular, notes a similarity in plot function to characters such as Habrotonon and Chrysis, hetairas who act as brokers of the happy family resolution. It is important to differentiate Chariton’s creation from her comic forebears inasmuch as Plangon’s sexuality does not enter the equation. 66 For example, Astaphium, Phronesium’s maid in Truculentus, and Milphidippa in the Miles Gloriosus. The way in which Milphidippa happily carries out her orders to trick the pompous Pyrgopolynices, while amusing, cannot be compared to the sustained, autonomous planning of Plangon, Thisbe, or Kybele. The courtesans are problematic in that it is often difficult to determine their status. Their scheming ways would put them on a par with the novelistic slave women, but they generally emerge as far more positive characters. 67 As she is a slave, this cannot be a legally recognised union, but see Varro Rust. 1.17,5, and Columella 1.8,5 for the importance of giving a slave overseer a woman, both to help him in his work, and also to make him more loyal to the master. 68 This seems to echo the horrific death of Kreon and his daughter in Medea 1156–1221. 69 Esler (1989: 172) notes the difference in tone between Greek epigram and Roman Satire in their descriptions of old women: although signs of physical decay, such as sagging breasts, may be described in Greek poetry, cruel references to the disgusting appearance and smell of the genitals are absent. See, for example, Greek Anthology 5.21 for a description of an old woman that can better be termed unflattering rather than savage. 70 The most savage attacks are to be found in Martial (2.26, 3.93 and 10.90). Horace sometimes works within these conventions, for example exploiting the comic potential of the undesirable old woman in Epodes 8, but he can also just as easily step outside them, as seen in Odes 4.13 where the ageing woman changes from an object of scorn, to one of pity, and even identification. 71 This character type is notably absent from Kallirhoe since Chariton chooses to express all the apparent contradictions inherent in a topic as complex as female sexuality within the character of the female protagonist.

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72 It is interesting that Achilles Tatius is capable of using some delicate phrasing to describe this woman, while reserving the much harsher term SÒUQK for the abuse heaped upon the heroine herself. 73 Compare Apuleius’ treatment of the demanding mistress in his portrayal of the witch Meroë in Metamorphoses 1.7–10. Although Apuleius usually has a greater propensity than Heliodoros for exploiting the comic potential in certain situations he does seem even more concerned with the maleficent effects of sexual enslavement to a woman. 74 See Bremmer (1987: 203) on the manifestation of this attitude across a range of texts from antiquity. 75 For a parallel see the behaviour of Alkmene in Eur. Heracl. and Falkner (1989: 118) for a discussion. Other vengeful old women in earlier literature include Hekabe both in the Troades and in the Iliad where she expresses a desire to eat Achilles’ liver in revenge for Hektor’s death (24.212–4) and Eurykleia in the Odyssey where she has to be restrained from gloating over the death of the suitors (23.59). 76 Even in this genre there are some extremely negative portrayals of old women to set against those scenes where they act for the good of the community. See Finley (1989: 11) for a discussion of the cruel portrayal of the undesirable old women in the Ecclesiazusae. 77 On the lack of portrayals of old women in vase-painting, another genre which tended towards the ideal see Richardson (1969: 118). 78 See also Beye (1974: 91) who draws on such material in his study of women in the Homeric poems. Billault (1980) has provided an interesting discussion of the Witch of Bessa in an article which stressed the universality of the interest and fear inspired by magic. However, his observation (1980: 35) that the witch desires to overturn the social order and compensate for her marginal status as a woman, is significant. The witch figure will thus become more menacing and more of a preoccupation at any period, or in any author who views female authority as threatening. 79 In Chariton there is a similar procession in honour of the goddess Aphrodite (1.1). 6 MINOR MALE CHARACTERS

1 Hippothoos, for example, manages to fulfil all three major roles in the space of the

2 3

4

5

6 7

narrative; being at one point the heroine’s master and would-be lover, on other occasions appearing as the hero’s friend, and, at the end of the tale even acting as adoptive father to the young aristocrat Kleisthenes. Egger (1990: 196n4) provides a survey of the vocabulary used for illicit lust. The characterisation of Dionysios, as principal antagonist, lays much stress on his education and manners: he is ‘SHSDLGHXµšQRM’ (2.4). See also 1.12, 2.1, 2.5, 5.9 and 8.5 for further mention of his SDLGH…D. On Dionysios as a Menandrian figure see Marini (1993: 211) following Borgogno (1971). The emphasis on continence appears to share some similarity with Christian belief, but this might better be attributed to the circulation of ideas within a shared intertext, rather than to any direct influence. See my earlier section on Christian women for a discussion of the treatment of female sexuality in early Christian texts. Though here, as ever, problems again surface with ascribing a particular gender orientation to the text based on internal narrative detail. It is also possible to read the sadistic behaviour of certain male characters as a female orientation: confirmation of some essential male cruelty and thus an implicit commentary on female superiority. On the ‘nobility’ assigned to upper class barbarians in general by Chariton see Kuch (1996: 217). See 5.9 where Anthia persuades the insistent Hippothoos to respect her chastity merely through the expedient of telling the exact truth about her identity. In Aithiopika 1.19 Thyamis pronounces his intention of marrying Charikleia in order to ensure the

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8

9 10

11

12

13

14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21

continuation of his line: as a member of the priestly caste he presents himself as despising ‘bodily pleasure’. There is a danger of discussing ‘barbarity’ or ‘foreignness’ as if it constituted a stable and established ‘given’, when even here there are gradations on a continuum from civilised to utterly barbaric. See for example Briquel-Chatonnet (1992: 194) on the competing ideological strands of the novelistic representation of the Phoenicians. See though Alvares’ (1995: 402) kinder assessment. For him, this action ‘is a form of misplaced loyalty to a valued friend and comrade, not simple cruelty’. This is an orientation that is pretty near universal in the genre. See Leukippe and Kleitophon 7.12 where the judges believe Thersandros’ lies and Kleitophon’s frantic self-accusations in preference to Kleinias’ recitation of the truth. For further abuses of authority see Kallirhoe 6.2, Ephesiaka 4.2 and Daphnis and Chloe 4.19. In Chariton’s case this could be because the author is more concerned with delineating the inward psychological process rather than cataloguing the influence of outside agencies. Polycharmos, the main friend, only offers advice of the most practical kind. Achiles Tatius is furthest from enshrining the patriarchal ideal which would elevate the wisdom of the elderly male. Mittelstadt (1970: 214) noted that the name Philetas might be a direct allusion to the pastoral poet Philetas of Cos. The fact that Philetas’ advice does not in fact solve the protagonists’ difficulties may actually be an oblique authorial swipe at the authority of one of his literary predecessors. Charikles might thus represent conventional wisdom: he teaches Charikleia rhetorical argument. Kalasiris is more complex: he is possessed of great cunning and human understanding. Hydaspes represents logic, while Sisimithres is the true philosopher, possessed of all these traits in the correct measure. See further Dowden (1996: 282). Merkelbach (1962: 238) notes the name ‘father’ is given to the priests in both the cults of Isis and Mithras. Kalasiris is a figure of some complexity, whose very ambiguity is an integral part of the author’s thematic and textual strategy. See for example Winkler (1982: 93). This impression is reinforced by the characterisation of even the most minor characters. See Aithiopika 7.1 for the advice given to the men of Memphis by an elderly and well respected man. The lower-class fisherman Tyrrhenos is also gently mocked for his deafness in the Aithiopika (5.18). Finley (1989: 11) notes the Greek ambiguity to the elderly and also identifies class an important factor in determining how age will be represented. It is only made explicit in 3.31 that Lamon is in fact a slave: Dryas’ status remains ambiguous, but his occupation may have signalled slave status automatically to the original readership. Pandiri (1985: 129-30) sees the fathers’ flimsy excuses for exposing their children as part of a ‘darker reality’ lurking behind a portrayal generally characterised by the easy mores of the comic stage. Though Lamon and Dryas generally treat their foster children well, their motivation is linked to the promise of future wealth given by the valuable recognition tokens. The consideration of possible brides or grooms for their children is associated with profit and possible rewards from their natural parents (3.25, 3.31). It is surely no coincidence that the only upper-class fathers in the Greek novel to explicitly treat their sons as a commodity are the fathers of Hyperanthes, Hippothoos’ beloved in the Ephesiaka and Charikles, Kleinias’ beloved in Leukippe and Kleitophon. For example, Dionysios in Chariton’s novel, Perilaos in the Ephesiaka, and Nausikles and Aristippos in the Aithiopika.

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22 Sostratos, Leukippe’s father may be designated a general, but no narrative space is devoted to his personal exploits: instead we see him displaying his intelligence through the correct interpretation of an oracle (2.14), and embarking on a sacred mission to Delphi (7.14). 23 See Snowden (1970: 148) and Rogier (1982: 459-60) on the positive aspects of Hydaspes’ character: for them he is wise and philanthropic. Anderson’s (1982: 34) very different reading at least possesses the merit of recognising that the author might be indulging in some humour at his expense. For him Hydaspes is ‘sanctimonious’ and a ‘victim of superstitious stupidity’. 24 For an interesting psychoanalytical reading of the Argonautika see Heiserman (1977: 19, 27). In this reading Jason’s fears of his father become displaced onto Medea’s father Aeetes, which in part explains his fear when faced with his test. 25 For Slater such a situation provides ample explanation for the adolescent boy turning to a relationship with an older male for comfort. 26 The genre of philosophy functions as the main exception to this rule. See, for example, Plato’s Laches. 27 The symbolic resonances attached to old men in Aristophanic comedy are perhaps more complex. Hubbard (1989: 105) notes that the elderly could both function as a potent symbol for traditional values and the primacy of familial obligations, and as representatives of an alienated and marginalised group. Perhaps the conceptualisation of old women is somehow more static, while the male image is seen to be more open to action and change. 28 See Reinhold (1976: 30–5) for further evidence of generational conflict in Classical Athens, taken from the tragedians and orators. 29 See also Konstan (1997: 117). 30 On the ‘cultural myth’ of fourth century Athenian homosexuality see Boswell (1994: 56–7). 31 For an overview of the current debate on the transhistorical nature of homosexuality see Goldhill (1995: 55). For the ‘constructionalist’ case which sees homosexual behaviours as determined by particular cultural sexual regulation see Weeks (1991: 15) and Vance (1989). 32 For an interesting discussion of the situation in Greco-Roman Egypt see Montserrat (1996: 138). On the opposition more generally see Cantarella (1992: 50–1), and with specific reference to Greece Foucault (1985: 46) and Winkler (1990: 203). The tendency to idealise homoerotic relationships, so integral a part of the cultural mythology of Classical Athens (Dover 1978: 106) did not occur at Rome. 33 See Golden (1984) for a discussion of the close association between slavery and homosexuality at Athens. Also, more generally Boswell (1994: 54), and with reference to Rome, Walters (1997: 31). 34 Both Slater (1968: 60) and Licht (1932: 386) have concentrated on the mercenary aspect when considering the reaction to male homosexuality, though it would seem that the shame associated with being the passive partner was equally important. For Effe (1987: 98 n1) the issue here is age: Habrokomes is too old to play the eromenos. 35 Hippothoos and Hyperanthes in the Ephesiaka (3.2) and Kleinias and Charikles and Menelaos and his unnamed lover in Leukippe and Kleitophon (1.12, 2.34). Merkelbach (1962: 102) explains away the death of Hyperanthes in terms of the gods’ displeasure. Gnathon’s advances to Daphnis in Longos’ novel are also comically rebuffed (4.12). For Gnathon as a figure from New Comedy see Pandiri (1985: 121). 36 On the asymmetrical nature of the homosexual encounters in the Greek novels see Konstan (1994: 115–16). 37 Though not a slave Knemon performs a similar function in the Aithiopika. See Morgan (1989: 107–10) for a discussion of his story acting as a paradigm for the wrong sort of love: egocentric, promiscuous and ephemeral.

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38 I cannot concur with Anderson (1988: 191) that ‘the plot is run by Satyros’, because his machinations do not form a consistent enough focus. Fine examples of the cunning slave type in the Latin tradition include Tranio in the Mostellaria, and the eponymous Pseudolus. In addition to stereotypical slave scenes such as his verbal abuse of the pimp Ballio (244–400) we also have an interesting focus on his subjectivity, evidenced by the scenes where he analyses his trickery, alternately talking of the difficulty of getting inspiration (405–20) and glorying in his expertise (703–7). 39 Young men appear frequently in the genre, both in groups (Kallirhoe 1.1, Ephesiaka 1.1, Leukippe and Kleitophon 2.18, Daphnis and Chloe 2.12, Aithiopika 3.3, 7.18) and as individuals, for example Astylos (Daphnis and Chloe 4.10), Charias (Aithiopika 1.14) and Teledemos (Aithiopika 1.16). 40 Kallirhoe 3.4 and Aithiopika 1.13. 41 Helms (1966: 88) states that he possesses ‘a definite personality with distinct characteristics’. 42 Again, these far outnumber portrayals of female groups. The female collective has its highest profile in Kallirhoe, where their reaction to the heroine’s story enhances the emotional impact of the narrative. 43 On the representation of bandits as a constituent element in the formation of élite Greek identity see Swain (1996: 116) and Winkler (1980: 180). For Winkler the proliferation of bandits is an example of ethnocentrism which ‘reinforce[s] the secure boundaries of cultural identity by temporarily imagining that they have been broken’. See Billault (1996: 120) on the unpredictability of bandits, a trait shared by those who should enforce the law. It is possible that this is a subversive dig at those who should be enforcing civilised values throughout the Empire – the Roman rulers. 44 Swain’s view (1996: 109, 112) is of a more confident assertion of Greek identity than has previously been espoused. Previous scholarly opinion has focused on ‘nostalgia’ (Holzberg 1995: 47; Scobie 1973: 19). For more general discussions of Greek identity in the Second Sophistic see Alcock (1993: 7). 45 See Forte (1972: 186) on the continued sense of Greek cultural superiority: she claims a strong tendency to conceive of the Romans as ‘descendants of uncivilised nomads, murderers and fugitives who had sought asylum in primitive Rome’. Of course, one’s stance would have been conditioned heavily by factors such as social class, and the particular political situation under any one Emperor. See Woolf (1994: 135) for a more modern theoretical analysis which defines the cultural positions occupied by Greece and Rome not so much as distinct division, or cultural fusion but rather as a ‘dynamic tension’. 7 TELOS

1 In the two earliest novels the marriage ceremony actually precedes the adventures, but is only when the protagonists have successfully undergone various ordeals that they can settle down to married life. 2 It is interesting that there appears to be no careful demarcation between who experiences ”(UZM and who feels ™SLTXµ…D. For most of the novelists ™SLTXµ…D on its own carries no pejorative meaning; as a rule the novelists give further amplification when they wish to designate a character’s feelings as shameful or somehow inappropriate. See, for example, Ephesiaka 2.1 for Habrokomes’ determination not to submit to W¾Q D„VFU¦Q ™SLTXµ…DQ of a pirate. 3 On the difficulty of precisely differentiating between, and identifying an exact equivalent of the Greek vocabulary for desire and love see Boswell (1994: 4–8). While ”(UZM was associated chiefly with passionate love, ILOH‹Q was the most widely used word to denote ‘love’ in every sense. McC. Brown (1993: 194) notes that since eros lacked the connotations of reciprocity and selfless behaviour generally associated with the word ‘love’ in English,

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4

5 6

7

8 9 10 11 12 13

14 15

16

17

‘desire’ might well function as the most accurate translation. On ‘romantic love’ as the best way of characterising the feeling that underlies the Greek novel see Flacelière (1960: 182) and Rudd (1981: 153). Thornton (1997: 162) does argue for a slight shift in attitudes in the Hellenistic period, to admit ‘love’ as a factor in arranging a marriage at a time when ties to the polis were weakening. Again though we see the problem of conceptual slippage: he does not believe this ‘love’ had the same idealising force as in the modern understanding of the word. Walcot (1987: 7) notes that in the Dyskolos the romantic Sostratos, prepared to marry a girl without a dowry (307–8), is exceptional by Greek standards. See for example, VII 7, where the relationship between Ischomachus and his 15-year-old bride is characterised as that of teacher and pupil. When female sexuality is discussed it is completely subordinated to the wife’s role as chaste manager of the household, in a manner which might render the Coniugalia Praecepta romantic by comparison. Here the phrase used, WîQ ™UèQWZQ, is surely best translated as ‘being in love’. However, elsewhere in the Moralia we find astonishment expressed by a character, that a husband could actually be in love with his wife. See Amatorius 761 E, and Boswell’s comments (1994: 39). On Plutarch as opposed to pleasure for its own sake see Nikolaidis (1997: 48–9). Chariton 1.1, Xenophon 1.2 and Heliodoros 3.5. Perhaps we should be wary of attaching too much significance to this particular narrative pattern: the novel needs to find some appropriate way of putting the respectable citizen girl on display. On the tension in the novels between romantic and business-like attitudes to marriage as a reflection of the diversity of contemporary discourse and practices see Boswell (1994: 45) and Calderini (1959: 39). See MacAlister (1991: 40) for a more recent exposition of this view. On the presumed age gap between husbands and wives in Classical Athens see Isager (1981), and Chapter 2. Theokritos Idyll 15, 147–8. My insistence on the primacy of romantic love in the genre does not extend to an equally tenacious belief in the idea that the love-match was now an unquestioned social reality. As Winkler (1988: 1571) stated: ‘we may say that romance was invented in Hellenistic Greek lands as a cultural form but not as a social norm, as a plot of literature, but not as a plot of life’. Konstan (1994: 231) states that ‘the symmetry of the central relationship represents possibilities of individual and communal self-definition available under conditions … antagonistic to the parochial structures of Greek city-state society’. Plutarch’s Coniugalia Praecepta might again be useful in providing normative expressions of the balance of power between the sexes in a marriage. So in 139 D we find the statement that in a virtuous household every activity is carried out by both parties in agreement, with reference to the husband’s leadership and preferences. In 142 E we also discover an expression of the exact nature of a husband’s control over his wife: as the soul controls the body. At 4.20 Dionysophanes explicitly tells his wife to leave him alone while he reviews the evidence of the recognition tokens that Lamon has just provided. Earlier, however, apparently on her own initiative she had asked Daphnis to demonstrate his ability to control the goats through music (4.15), promising him gifts in a manner reminiscent of Arete’s behaviour towards Odysseus (Od. 6.305–15, 7.54ff). Her husband does not interfere with her wishes. Further on the reciprocity and trust in this relationship see Scarcella (1972: 68) who perhaps over-emphasises the communality of their decisionmaking (ibid. 71). For the image of marriage as the ultimate expression of concordia see Brown (1988: 16–17), Veyne (1987: 165) and Perkins (1995: 48). It is perhaps worth noting that during the description of Kallirhoe’s marriage to Dionysios Chariton states that bridegrooms receive

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their brides in the temple of Concordia (3.2). More specifically on Imperial women as symbols of legitimacy and security see Lefkowitz (1983: 61) and Fantham (1994: 313), and with particular reference to these themes as realised on the coinage of 13–12 BCE see Fullerton (1985: 482–3). Walker’s (1979) study of the triumphal arch at Lepcis Magna explores how the iconography of marriage, and in particular the dextrarum junctio could be deployed in a completely different context as an image of political union.

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205

INDEX

Achaimenes 90, 111, 125 Achilles Tatius: fathers 145, 147; female antagonists 104, 108, 112, 115, female characters, marginal 131, 133, 136; female confidantes 124, 126; heroes 84, 86, 92, 94; heroines 50, 54, 56, 58, 60, 62, 69; male antagonists 138, 139, 141, 142; male friends 150, 153, 154; mothers 117, 118, 119; readers of the feminine 3; social order, maintenance of 158 see also Kleitophon, Leukippe acquaintances, relationships with 89 Acta Pauli et Theclae 39, 40 action, direct 18 adultery 114, 115 Aeschylus 93 age 101, 130; male characters, minor 137, 146; social order, maintenance of 157 Agele 132 Aigialeus 132, 145 Aithiopika see Heliodoros Aitia 25 Alcestis 22–3 Alexandre, M. 34, 35, 36 Alkiphron 29 Althaia 134, 135 Alvares, J. 137, 151 Amaryllis 132 Amatoriae Narrationes 29 Amatorius 106 Amazon 113 Amores 127 Anchialos 54, 56, 140, 142, 156 Anderson, G. 16, 81, 100 Anderson, M. J. 101 Anglo-American political activism 11 antagonists see female; male

Anthia 51–6; gaze 53–4; identities, unstable 55; narrative focus 51–3; purity and power 55–6; space, physical and social 54 Antigone 21, 50 Apocryphal Acts 14, 17, 39 Apollonios 26 Apuleius: Metamorphoses 134 archons 24 Argonautika 90, 94, 99 Aristomachos 144 Ariston 84, 143, 144, 145 Aristippos 129, 146 Aristophanes 18, 19; Lystistrata 22, 148; Nubes 149; Vespae 149 Arsake 68, 90, 102, 103, 106, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 125, 129, 140, 142 Arsinoe 112, 129, 133 art 107 Artemidoros: Oneirokritika 30 Ascough, R. S. 155 Asklepiades 26 Aspegren, K. 39–40, 42 Athenian women in drama 20–3 Auerbach, N. 114 Augustine 41 authority of the church 35–6 authority in marriage 106 autonomy 34; see also independence Babyloniaka 4 Bagnall, R. S. 9 barbarity 108–9, 112, 113 Bartsch, S. 57 beauty/attractiveness 53, 57, 83, 84, 89 Beer, G. 10 Beye, C. R. 90, 94 Bibliotheca 74

206

INDEX

Billault, A. 82, 83, 87, 101, 119, 128 Birchall, J. 93, 143 ‘bitch’ see Kyno Blok, J. 4, 18 Blomquist, K. 30 Blundell, S. 20, 21 Boswell, J. 151 Boumelha, P. 76 Bowie, E. 3, 7, 8, 81, 160 bravery 87, 141–2 breeding 83, 86; see also nobility Bremmer, J. N. 9, 39 Brown, P. 33, 39, 41, 42 Buck, H. M. 38 Butler, J. 11 Bynum, C. W. 40 Cameron, A. 26, 31, 40 canon, identification of 15–17 Cantarella, E. 121 capability 30, 153–4 Chaffin, R. 4 Chaireas 46–51, 81, 84, 85, 87, 89, 90, 92, 93, 97, 98, 100, 118, 124, 128, 130, 134, 144, 146, 154, 158, 160 chaperones 134 Charikleia 67–73; background 67–70; chastity 70–2; narrative focus and identity 67–70; power 72–3 Chariton: fathers 143–5, 146, 148; female antagonists 108, 112; female characters, marginal 134, 136; female confidantes 124, 128; heroes 81, 84, 85, 86, 89; heroines 65, 77; male antagonists 138, 139, 141, 142; male friends 150, 153; mothers 117, 118; see also Chaireas, Kallirhoe Charmides 139 chastity: centrality 16; Charikleia 70–2; Christian context 34, 42; eighteenth and nineteenth century paradigms 75–7; female characters, minor 106, 108; heroes 90–1; heroines 45, 53, 58, 59, 60, 80; Kallirhoe 46; manipulation of 49–50; pagan context 20, 30; readers of the feminine 5 children, parents understanding 144 Chloe 61–7; innocence 65–6; narrative focus 61–2; power and personality 66–7; violence 62–5 Chodorow, N. 147

Christian context 30–43; early Christianity 40–3; female power, anxiety with 37–40; power and authority 31–7; rationale 30–1 Christian women 19 Chrysion 134, 135 church, authority of 35–6 Clark, G. 34, 42 class: female characters, minor 101, 110, 130, 133, 136; and gender 96; heroines 76, 79, 80; love and marriage 156; male antagonists 139–40; male characters, minor 137, 141, 143, 145, 147, 150, 153; pagan context 29; readers of the feminine 3, 6, 7; social order, maintenance of 159; see also breeding; status Classical Athenian woman 19–20 Classical Athens 23, 27 Classical Period 18, 19; female characters, minor 113, 114, 121, 122, 125; heroes 97; social order, maintenance of 157 classics and theory 10–11 Clement of Alexandria 97; Paidagogus III 41 Cole, S. G. 6 collectives: female 135–6; male 154–5 Collins, A. Y. 114 Comedy: Aristophanic 18, 22; Roman 153; see also New Comedy; Old Comedy confidantes 123–30; cunning and slaves 128–30; fast friends 124–6; slaves, sexuality of 126–7 Coniugalia Praecepta 111, 157 control 94 Cooper, K. 14, 159 Corrington, G. P. 41 Cosslett, T. 123, 135 cost of texts 7 Cotter, W. 35, 36 courtesans 109–12 Crawford, M. 4 Cresci, L. 101, 104–5 Culham, P. 10, 12 ‘culture’ 62 cunning 89, 90, 108, 110, 128–30, 153–4; see also intelligence Cyropaedia 74, 85, 95 D’Angelo, M. R. 37–8 Daphnis 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 86, 88, 90, 91, 107, 117, 119, 147 Daphnis and Chloe see Longos De Baptismo 39

207

INDEX

De Mulierum virtutibus 30 Demainete 68, 102, 103, 106, 110, 111, 119, 125, 127, 129, 133, 146, 160 Demand, N. 135 des Bouvrie, S. 19, 20, 21 Dionysios 23, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 55, 88, 103, 118, 124, 128, 130, 141, 142, 146, 148, 152, 153, 158 disempowerment 5 Dodds, E. R. 14, 160 Doody, M. A. 3, 45, 79 Dorkon 63, 64, 66, 67, 141, 143 Dowden, K. 45, 78–9, 140 dowry 20, 23 Dryas 84, 145 Due, B. 95 duplicity 89 Durham, D. B. 86 Dyskolos 25 Eagleton, T. 10 East Lynne 114 Easterling, P. E. 7 education 6, 9; see also literacy Egger, B. 4, 5, 159; heroes 82, 87; heroines 45, 47, 67; minor female characters 101–3, 107, 112, 123–4, 128, 133–4; minor male characters 138, 145–6, 150, 153, 154 Egypt 6, 7, 19; Ptolemaic 23 eighteenth century paradigms 75–7 ekdosis 23 ekphrasis 57 eloquence 88, 142–3 Elsom, H. E. 45, 47, 77 emotion 144; excessive 116 empowerment 46, 47, 61 Ephesiaka, see Xenophon (of Ephesos) epic 78 epiklerate 20 Epstein, S. J. 63 ‘erotic’ 148 êthopoiia 93 Euripides 19, 48, 93, 111; Alcestis 22–3; Hippolytos 127 Falkner, T. 135 ‘fallen woman’ 113–15; fantasy: female 4; male 5; of powerlessness 99–100; private 47–8 Farber, A. 98, 121, 147–8, 159

fathers 143–9; absent 148; child, relationship with 143–6; father–son conflict 149; fragmented 147–8; literature and life – symbolic resonance 148–9; in love 146; public and private sphere 146–7 female antagonists 102–15; Achilles Tatius: Melite 104–6; Chariton: Stateira 103–4; foreigness 112–13; Heliodoros 109–12; Longos: Lykainion 106–8; ‘tart with a heart’ and ‘fallen woman’ 113–15; as ‘type’ 102; Xenophon 108–9 female characters, minor 101–36; antagonists 102–15; collectives 135–6; confidantes 123–30; love, different kind of 132–3; mothers 115–23; old woman 135; patterning femininity 101–2; social invisibility 134; woman as familial strategy 130–2 female friendships as destructive force 125 feminism 10, 11, 115; critique 11–12 Fetterly, J. 13, 77 fighting 85–7 Finnegan, R. 22 Flory, S. 22 Flynn, E. A. 4 Foley, H. P. 20, 21, 22, 23 foreignness 112–13 Foucault, M. 79, 157, 161 Foxhall, L. 20 fragmentation, as psychoanalytical theory 73–4, 75, 98; fathers 147–8; of the feminine 15; mothers 121 freedom 26, 27 Freud, S. 15, 96, 97, 120, 147–8 friends 150–4; capability and cunning 153–4; close 124–6; female 138; good 150–1; homosexuality 151–2; male characters, minor 137; relationships with 89; sexual behaviour 152–3 Furiani, P. L. 160 Fusillo, M. 45, 51, 109 gaps and silences in text 12–13 Gardner, J. F. 28 Gaskell, Mrs 114 gaze 45, 46, 53–4, 56–8, 69 gender 2; inversion 78–9; male characters, minor 141; patterns 3; stereotypes 87 Gleason, M. W. 97 Gnathon 63, 86, 91, 141, 154 Gold, B. K. 12, 13 Goldhill, S. 63, 76, 106

208

INDEX

Gorgias 25, 30, 139 Great King 48, 139, 153 Greek East 4, 6 guardianship 20, 24, 27 guilt and mother-in-pieces 120–1 gynesis 12–13 gynocritics 11–12 Habrokomes 51, 52, 53, 55, 56, 85, 88, 90, 91, 108, 109, 132, 134, 145, 151, 152 Hägg, T. 4–5, 7, 8, 44, 99, 147 Hamilton, P. 2, 10 Hardwick, L. 113 Hardy, T. 76, 114 Harris, W. V. 8, 9 Heine, S. 32, 35, 37 Heiserman, A. 99 Heliodoros: fathers 144, 145–6, 147; female antagonists 102, 103, 113, 115; female characters, marginal 132, 133, 134, 136; female confidantes 125, 126–7; heroes 81, 87; heroines 45, 68, 69, 70–3; male antagonists 138–9, 140, 141; male collectives 154; mothers 117; readers of the feminine 3; social order, maintenance of 158; social order, subversion of 160; see also Charikleia, Theagenes Hellenistic period 2, 3, 14, 19, 23–4; female characters, minor 121; literature, women in 25–7; myth 82; superiority 100 Helms, J. 87 Henderson, J. 122 Henry, M. M. 25, 26, 157 Hermokrates 46, 84, 88, 92, 145, 146, 147, 158 Herodas 25–6, 127 heroes 81–100; active heroism – planning and fighting 85–7; active heroism – speaking out 87–8; class and gender 96; heroic qualifications 83–4; love-hero 90–3; masculine, segmentation of 98–9; masculinity, measurement of 81–3; masquerade and parade 97–8; passivity, paradigms of 95–6; personal relations 88–90; powerlessness, fantasies of 99–100; self-definition through language 96–7; sincerity in love 93–5 heroines 44–80; Anthia 51–6; Charikleia 67–73; Chloe 61–7; importance 16; interpretive strategies 73–80; Kallirhoe 46–51; Leukippe 56–61; theoretical approaches to 44–6

heroism: active 141–2; novelistic 142–3 herstory/history – use and abuse 12 hetaira 114, 133 Hippias 84, 147 Hippolytos 127 Hippothoos 52, 53, 54, 55, 85, 91, 131, 134, 137, 140, 141, 142, 151, 152 Holzberg, N. 7, 8, 16, 45, 95, 99 Homer 3, 7, 48; female characters, minor 117; heroes 82, 85, 87–8, 94 homosexuality 151–2 Horney, K. 148 Hubbard, T. K. 22 Humphries, S. C. 115 Hydaspes 137, 144, 147 Hyperanthes 52, 141, 151 identity: alternative 48–9; heroines 45, 57, 59, 66, 68, 69, 76; Kallirhoe 46; Leukippe 58–60; masculine 93; pagan context 21; social order, maintenance of 159; unstable 55 ideology 10, 16, 46 Idylls 25–6, 126 Iliad 9 Imperial period 6, 14, 18 independence 27, 87 inequality 64 influence 28 initiative 51, 141–2 innocence 62, 65–6, 86; see also chastity; purity inset stories 63, 64, 66 integrity 49 intelligence 51, 72–3, 89, 147, 155 Isager, S. 20 Isias of Chemmis 133 Janan, M. 161 Jardine, A. A. 12–13 jealousy 103, 104, 108–9, 110, 145 Jesus movement 31–2, 37 Johne, R. 44, 46, 51, 67, 81, 101, 116, 125 Joyce, J. 82 Kallimachos: Aitia 25 Kallirhoe, see Chariton Kallirhoe: chastity, manipulation of 49–50; identities, alternative 48–9; modesty 49; narrative focus 46–7; power, informal 50–1; private fantasy, public image 47–8 Kaplan, E. A. 120

209

INDEX

Katz, M. A. 19, 20 Kennedy, D. F. 94 kinship 13 Klawiter, F. C. 32–3 Klein, M. 15, 120 Kleio 117, 124, 126 Kleinias 57, 60, 85, 150 Kleitophon 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 92, 94, 95, 104, 105, 106, 116, 124, 128, 131, 139, 140, 149, 150, 153, 158, 159, 160 Knemon 68, 71, 110, 111, 126, 127, 129, 132, 134, 137, 150, 154, 155, 160 knowledge 69 Konstan, D. 45, 51, 138, 146, 160, 161 Korymbos 52, 85, 152 Kraemer, R. S. 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39 Kuch, H. 113 Kybele 72, 73, 111, 125, 127, 128, 129, 134, 135 Kyno 52, 55, 90, 102, 103, 108, 109, 114, 142, 156 kyrios 19–20, 23, 24, 27, 122 Lacan, J. 15, 96, 97, 98, 120 Lagrand, J. 41 lamentation 97 Lane Fox, R. 32 language: ornamentation of 69; selfdefinition through 96–7 Lawall, G. 95 Lefkowitz, M. R. 12, 28, 113 Leukippe and Kleitophon, see Achilles Tatius Leukippe 56–61; identity and social space 58–60; narrative focus, gaze and subjectivity 56–8; power 60–1 Leukon 126, 150 Lévi-Strauss, C. 13, 14 Levin, D. N. 101, 137 Levine, D. 22 Lévy, E. 22, 122 Lewis, N. 7 liminality 78–9 literacy 6, 9, 44 Lives, The 96 Longos: fathers 145, 147; female antagonists 106–8, 112, 115; female characters, marginal 132, 136; heroes 86, 90; heroines 61–2, 63, 65–6; male antagonists 141, 143; male characters, marginal 154; mothers 116, 119; social

order, subversion of 161; see aksi Chloe, Daphnis Loraux, N. 22, 97 love 156–7, 158–9; different kinds 132–3; and fathers 146; -hero 90–3, 99; as narrative dynamic 160–1; poetry 94; ranges of behaviour 138–9; romantic 25, 157–8; sincerity in 93–5; theme of 3; true 156 loyalty 87 lust 156 Lykainion 106–8 Lysistrata 22, 148 MacAlister, S. 81 McC. Brown, P. G. 157 MacDonald, M. 35, 36, 39, 42 MacHaffie, B. J. 34, 35, 39, 40, 42 McKnight, N. J. 123 MacMullen, R. 28 madness, imagery of 112 male antagonists 137–43; active heroism – bravery and initiative 141–2; eloquence – novelistic heroism 142–3; love – ranges of behaviour 138–9; self-control – class and race 139–40 male characters, minor 137–55; antagonists 137–43; collectives 154–5; fathers 143–9; friends 150–4; masculinity, construction of 137 male writing female 11–12 Manto 52, 55, 91, 102, 103, 108, 109, 113, 114, 124, 140, 156 malevolence 119–20 Marcionism 32 marginalisation 125 marriage 13, 156–7, 158–9, 161–2; arranged 158–9; asymmetrical 160–1; authority in 106; pagan context 19–20, 22, 23; romantic 157–8 Marshall, A. J. 28 martyrdom 32–3 Marxism 10 masculinity: construction of 137; measurement of 81–3; segmentation of 98–9 Mason, P. 4 masquerade 15, 97–8 mastery 47 ‘mature’ 148 Meeks, W. A. 34, 35, 39, 41 Melite 104–6

210

INDEX

melodrama 116–18 Menander: Dyskolos 25; Perikeiromene 25 Menelaos 57, 60, 92, 150 Merkelbach, R. 16, 45, 79, 82, 86 messengers 134 Metamorphoses 134 Michie, H. 69 Mitchell, J. 96 Mithridates 48, 89, 142 Mittelstadt, M. C. 16 modesty 49, 50 Moi, T. 11 monism 41 Montague, H. 5, 45, 66 Montanism 32, 39 Montanus 33 Morales, H. 57 Moralia 96 morality 76, 113 Morgan, J. R. 6, 69, 87, 137 mothers 115–23; absent 123; angry mother 121–2; guilt and mother-in-pieces 120–1; malevolence 119–20; missing mothers 116; misunderstandings and melodrama 116–18; mother–child relationships 122; mother-love and patriarchy 118–19; and tradition 122–3 Munro, W. 32, 37 muted group theory 4 Myrtale 84, 117 Mysterientexte 16, 45, 82, 86 myth 78 Nape 66, 84, 119, 130 narrative focus 51–3, 56–8, 61–2 ‘nature’ 62, 65, 66, 76, 107 Nausikleia 132 Nausikles 72, 132, 133, 146 New Comedy 3; female characters, minor 113, 128; heroines 58; male characters, minor 153, 154; pagan context 25; social order, maintenance of 157 New Criticism 10 New Historicism 10, 12 New Prophecy 32–3 ‘New Woman’ 115 Nimis, S. 16 Ninus 73–4, 85 nobility 89 Nubes 149 ‘nurturing’ 148

objectification 45 O’Connor, J. M. 39 Odes of Solomon 41 Odyssey 130 Oeconomicus 157 Oedipus complex 97, 120 oikos 19–20, 21, 22, 23, 142; female characters, minor 105–6, 109, 113, 114, 130 Old Comedy 122, 135, 148, 149 old women 130, 134, 135 Olson, S. D. 149 Oroondates 140, 1 42 otherness 10, 11, 15, 96; female characters, minor 101, 103, 112 outspokenness 26 Ovid: Amores 127 pagan context 19–30; Athenian women in drama 20–3; Hellenistic literature, women in 25–7; Hellenistic period 23–4; Roman period 27–30; substantiality of Classical Athenian woman 19–20 Paidagogus III 41 Pamela 75–6 Pantheia 59, 117, 118, 121, 145, 158 parade 15, 97–8 parents 137; see also fathers; mothers Parker, H. 151 Parvey, C. F. 34, 38, 39 passivity 74, 86; feminine 97; heroes 94; male 89; paradigms 95–6; studies 96 Pastoral Epistles 39 patriarchy 63, 118–19; female characters, minor 130, 131, 134; male characters, minor 143, 145, 154 Patterson, C. 21 Peloros 86, 139, 156 peplos 24 Perikeiromene 25 Perilaos 52, 53, 134, 146, 148, 159 Perkins, J. 3, 14, 42 Pernot, L. 44 Perry, B. E. 1, 82 Persinna 70, 101, 117, 118, 119, 144, 146, 147 Persius 8 personal: choice 158; relations 88–90; space 53 personality 66–7 Petosiris 111, 142, 154

211

INDEX

Philetas 64, 132, 133, 145 Philostratos: Epistle 8 Photius: Bibliotheca 74 Pinheiro, M. F. 137 Plangon 50, 124, 128, 153 planning 85–7 Plato 70 Plutarch: Amatoriae Narrationes 29; Amatorius 106; Coniugalia Praecepta 111, 157; De Mulierum virtutibus 30; heroes 81, 95; The Lives 96; Moralia 96 polis 21, 22, 23, 114 Pomeroy, S. B. 9, 10, 23, 24 ponos 97 Polycharmos 46, 89, 130, 134, 147, 150, 153, 159 Polyidos 53, 54, 55, 102, 108 power: Anthia 55–6; and authority 31–7; balance 4; Charikleia 72–3; Chloe 66–7; covert 20; female antagonists 105, 106, 107, 110–11, 113, 115; female, anxiety with 37–40; female characters, minor/marginal 101, 133; female confidantes 126, 127; heroes 89; heroines 77; informal 50–1; of the keys 33; Leukippe 60–1; male characters, minor 139, 146; ministerial 33; mothers 121–2; pagan context 27, 30; political 28; readers of the feminine 5, 12; see also empowerment powerlessness, fantasies of 99–100 private sphere 146–7 profane 79–80 prominence 13, 44 Propertius 13 property ownership 20, 24 Psammis 53, 55, 56, 140, 156 psychoanalysis 14–15, 120–1 Ptolemaic period 24 public sphere 146–7 Puiggali, J. 55 purity 55–6, 80 queen: evil 109–12; noble 103–4 Rabinowitz, N. S. 10, 14, 21 race: female characters, minor 101; heroines 76; love and marriage 156; male antagonists 139–40; male characters, minor 137, 141; stereotypes 87; see also foreignness; otherness Radway, J. A. 156

reader: identification 45, 99; response criticism 15 readership 44; debate 77–8; female 4–6, 9–10; popular 2–3, 6–9 reading the feminine 1–17; canon, identification of 15–17; classics and theory 10–11; comparanda 11; constructed feminine 13–14; female readership – external evidence 9–10; female readership – internal evidence 4–6; framing questions 1–2; gaps and silences 12–13; herstory/history – use and abuse 12; male writing female 11–12; ‘popular’ form – external evidence 6–9; ‘popular’ form – internal evidence 2–3; psychoanalysis 14–15; text as literature 15 Reardon, B. P. 3, 8, 56, 82, 99, 160 Redfield, J. N. 83 reintegration 42 religion 54, 79, 136 repression 39 reputation 21, 59 respectability 21, 29, 59 restraint 145, 147 Rhenaia 54, 102, 103, 108, 109 Rhode 108, 116, 124, 126 Rhodogune 47, 89, 103, 104, 124, 126 Rhodopis 68, 102, 112 Richards, J. 115 Richardson, B. E. 75 Richlin, A. 131 ritual 78 Rivière, J. 15, 97–8 Rocky films 96 Rogier, A. 137 Rohde, E. 1, 45, 81, 86 Roman Comedy 153 Roman Imperial period 6 Roman period 4, 27–30 Roman Satire 131 Rose, P. W. 10 royalty 47 Rubino, C. A. 10 Ruether, R. R. 41 sacred 79–80 Salisbury, J. E. 33, 42 Samia 157 Sandy, G. N. 4, 8, 44, 87 Sappho 125 Satyros 85, 126, 128, 150, 153

212

INDEX

Sawyer, D. F. 32, 37 Schaps, D. M. 20 Schmeling, G. L. 3, 93, 96, 124; male characters, minor 143, 146, 151, 153, 155 Schubert, P. 68 Schweickart, P. P. 4 Scobie, A. 15, 140 seclusion 19, 20, 21 Second Sophistic 15, 67 seduction 114 Segal, S. 159 Selden, D. L. 15 ‘self’ 79, 101, 112, 113 self-construction 113 self-control 50, 90, 95, 96, 139–40, 153 self-definition 96–7, 113, 150, 154 self-esteem 21 self-expression 97 self-interest 125 self-presentation 29, 89 servus callidus 113 ‘set apart’ 83 sexing the novel – ‘readership’ debate 77–8 sexual behaviour 152–3 sexual desire 110, 113 sexual voracity 26 sexuality: contextualising the feminine 18; female antagonists 103, 105–7, 109, 111–13, 115; female characters, minor 101, 130, 133; heroes 97; male characters, minor 146, 151; negative 145; pagan context 30; shedding of 33; slaves 126–7 Shaw, M. 21, 22 ‘she-wolf’ see Lykainion Showalter, E. 11–12 silences 12–13 silencing of female citizens 25 sincerity in love 93–5 Slater, P. E. 15, 121, 122, 148 slaves: and cunning 128–30; female characters, minor 124, 134; male characters, minor 150, 153; sexuality 126–7 Smith, R. R. R. 161 social: acceptability 49; boundaries 29; conformity 41–2; invisibility 134; order, maintenance of 157–9; order, subversion of 159–62; roles 33; space 46, 55 socio-economic freedom 154 sociological factors 148 solidarity, female 138

Sophistic novels 3; see also Second Sophistic Sophocles 22, 93; Antigone 21, 50; Tereus 22 Sosthenes 60, 106, 139 Sostratos 59, 84, 144 space 45; coding of 49; physical 54; readers of the feminine 12; social 54, 58–60 speaking out 87–8 speech 14, 18, 45 spirit 50, 74 stability 42 Stateira 103–4 status: Christian context 42; contextualising the feminine 19; female characters, minor 112; heroes 84; heroines 44; Kallirhoe 47; male characters, minor 141, 150; ministerial 32; pagan context 27, 29, 30; social order, maintenance of 157; see also wealth Stephens, S. A. 6, 7, 8 stepmother, wicked 109–12 Strauss, B. S. 149 strength 16, 44, 45 subjectivity 13, 46, 56–8, 75; heroines 53, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65–6, 77 subordination 14, 75 subversion 41, 77–8 suffering 97 suicide, predilection for 92–3 superiority 159 Swain, S. 14, 16, 155 synedoche 69 ‘tart with a heart’ 113–15 Taubenshlag, R. 24 temperament, differences in 113 Tereus 22 Tertullian: De Baptisme 39 Tess of the D’Urbevilles 75–6 texts: conservatism of 159; cost of 7; distribution of 6; as literature 15; in relation to society 159–60 Thackeray, W. 114 Theadorakopoulos, E. 95 Theagenes 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 81, 84, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 97, 98, 111, 112, 118, 125, 127, 129, 133, 144 Thelxinoe 132, 160 Thermouthis 86, 129 Theron 50, 136, 146, 154 Thersandros 58, 59, 60, 61, 86, 89, 104, 105, 139, 140, 141, 142

213

INDEX

Thisbe 68, 92, 110, 112, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 133, 134, 146 Trachinos 139, 156 Thyamis 70, 86, 111, 128, 140, 141, 142, 143, 156 Theokritos 25–6; Idylls 126 Thucydides 19, 20, 30 Todd, F. A. 16 Todd, J. 11, 12, 13 Todorov 15 tradition 122–3, 159 Trenkner, S. 114 values 49 van Bremen, R. 20, 27, 28 Vatin, C. 23 Veeser, H. A. 10 Vernière, Y. 30 Versnel, H. S. 19 Vespae 149 Victorian fiction 69, 75; female characters, minor 114, 115, 122, 123, 125 violence 96; against women 139; Chloe 62–5; female characters, minor 103, 108; heroines 45, 53–4, 57–8, 74; male characters, minor 140, 141, 145, 148; mythic 64; symbolic 63, 64; see also barbarity; fighting visibility 24, 26, 27, 30, 143 vulnerability 94 Walcot, P. 92–3, 115, 157 Walker, S. 20 Walkerdine, V. 96

Watt, G. 114 weakness, imagery of 112 wealth 28 Wesseling, B. 6, 8 White, H. 12 Wiersma, S. 44 Williamson, M. 22 Wilson, L. H. 125 Winkler, J. J. 8, 45, 63, 64, 107, 137 Winnifrith, T. 114 wisdom 145 Witch of Bessa 101, 119, 135 Witherington III, B. 31–2, 37, 38 Wohl, V. 21, 158 worth 30 Wouters, A. 8, 64 Wright, E. 14 Xenophon (of Athens) Cyropaedia 74, 85, 95; Oeconomicus 157 Xenophon (of Ephesos) fathers 145, 148; female antagonists 103, 109–112, 113, 115, 134; female characters, marginal 131, 132, 134; female collectives 136; female confidantes 124, 126; heroes 95–6; heroines 55, 56; male antagonists 140, 141, 143; male friends 151, 152; mothers 116; readers of the feminine 3; see also Anthia, Habrokomes youth 86 Youtie, H. C. 6, 10 Zeitlin, F. I. 13, 21

214

Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel

Fashioning the Feminine: Representation and Women's Fashion from the Fin De Siecle to the Present

The Eternal Feminine

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Tara The Feminine Divine

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Feminine and the Sacred

Tara The Feminine Divine

Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance (Greek Culture in the Roman World)

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The Feminine and the Sacred

Luce Irigaray: Philosophy in the Feminine

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Writing the Feminine: Women in Arab Sources (The Islamic Mediterranean)

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The Sacred and the Feminine in Ancient Greece

Feminine Intuition

The 'Improper' Feminine: The Women's Sensation Novel and the New Woman Writing

The New Testament in the Original Greek

The Asterisked Materials in the Greek Job

Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century

Modal Subjectivities: Self-Fashioning in the Italian Madrigal

Appearance and Identity: Fashioning the Body in Postmodernity

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The Self-Fashioning of Disraeli, 1818-1851

Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel

Fashioning the Feminine: Representation and Women's Fashion from the Fin De Siecle to the Present

The Eternal Feminine

The Feminine Mystique

The Feminine and the Sacred

Tara The Feminine Divine

The Feminine Mystique

Feminine and the Sacred

Tara The Feminine Divine

Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance (Greek Culture in the Roman World)

Beginner's Greek A Novel

The Feminine and the Sacred

Luce Irigaray: Philosophy in the Feminine

Feminine Appeal

The New Testament in the Original Greek (Greek Edition)

Feminine Knits

The Novel in the Americas

The Prothetic Vowel in Greek

Perichoresis in the Greek Fathers

Writing the Feminine: Women in Arab Sources (The Islamic Mediterranean)

Fashioning the Body Politic: Dress, Gender, Citizenship

The Sacred and the Feminine in Ancient Greece

Feminine Intuition

The 'Improper' Feminine: The Women's Sensation Novel and the New Woman Writing

The New Testament in the Original Greek

The Asterisked Materials in the Greek Job

Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century

Modal Subjectivities: Self-Fashioning in the Italian Madrigal

Appearance and Identity: Fashioning the Body in Postmodernity

Fashioning London: Clothing and the Modern Metropolis

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