Ancient Narrative Echoing Narratives: Studies of Intertextuality in Greek and Roman Prose Fiction 9077922857, 9789077922859

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Echoing Narratives: Studies of Intertextuality in Greek and Roman Prose Fiction

ANCIENT NARRATIVE Supplementum 13 Editorial Board Gareth Schmeling, University of Florida, Gainesville Stephen Harrison, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Heinz Hofmann, Universität Tübingen Massimo Fusillo, Università degli Studi dell’Aquila Ruurd Nauta, University of Groningen Stelios Panayotakis, University of Crete Costas Panayotakis (review editor), University of Glasgow Advisory Board Jean Alvares, Montclair State University Alain Billault, Université Paris Sorbonne – Paris IV Ewen Bowie, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Jan Bremmer, University of Groningen Stavros Frangoulidis, Aristotelian University of Thessaloniki Ronald Hock, University of Southern California, Los Angeles Niklas Holzberg, Universität München Irene de Jong, University of Amsterdam Bernhard Kytzler, University of Natal, Durban Silvia Montiglio, Johns Hopkins University John Morgan, University of Wales, Swansea Rudi van der Paardt, University of Leiden Michael Paschalis, University of Crete Judith Perkins, Saint Joseph College, West Hartford Bryan Reardon, Prof. Em. of Classics, University of California, Irvine Tim Whitmarsh, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Alfons Wouters, University of Leuven Maaike Zimmerman, University of Groningen Subscriptions and ordering Barkhuis Zuurstukken 37 9761 KP Eelde the Netherlands Tel. +31 50 3080936 Fax +31 50 3080934 [email protected] www.ancientnarrative.com

Echoing Narratives: Studies of Intertextuality in Greek and Roman Prose Fiction edited by

Konstantin Doulamis

BARKHUIS PUBLISHING

&

GRONINGEN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GRONINGEN

2011

Book design: Barkhuis Cover Design: Nynke Tiekstra, Noordwolde ISBN 978-90-77922-85-9 Image on cover: Hans Horions, The first meeting of Theagenes and Charicleia, 1649. © The Hunterian, University of Glasgow 2011

Copyright © 2011 the editor and authors All rights reserved. No part of this publication or the information contained herein may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the authors. Although all care is taken to ensure the integrity and quality of this publication and the information herein, no responsibility is assumed by the publishers nor the authors for any damage to property or persons as a result of operation or use of this publication and/or the information contained herein.

Table of contents Introduction K OEN D E T EMMERMAN AND K RISTOFFEL D EMOEN Less than Ideal Paradigms in the Greek Novel

VII

1

K ONSTANTIN D OULAMIS Forensic Oratory and Rhetorical Theory in Chariton Book 5

21

M ARIA -E LPINIKI O IKONOMOU The Literary Context of Anthia’s Dream in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca

49

M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS Petronius and Virgil: Contextual and Intertextual Readings

73

I AN R EPATH Platonic Love and Erotic Education in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

99

M AEVE O’B RIEN ‘larvale simulacrum’: Platonic Socrates and the Persona of Socrates in Apuleius, Metamorphoses 1,1-19

123

J.R. M ORGAN Poets and Shepherds: Philetas and Longus

139

E LIAS K OULAKIOTIS The Rhetoric of Otherness: Geography, Historiography and Zoology in Alexander’s Letter about India and the Alexander Romance

161

S TELIOS P ANAYOTAKIS The Divided Cloak in the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri: Further Thoughts

185

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TA BL E O F C O NT E N TS

Abstracts of articles included in the volume

201

List of contributors

205

Indices Index locorum General index

207 207 208

Introduction K ONSTANTIN D OULAMIS University College Cork

This collection of articles originated in the colloquium ‘The Ancient Novel and its Reception of Earlier Literature’, which was held at University College Cork in August 2007, with funding from UCC’s Faculty of Arts and the Classics Department. As the conference theme indicates, the purpose of that two-day event was to explore the reception of antecedent literature in Greek and Roman narratives, to consider ways in which earlier texts are assimilated in prose fiction, and to reflect on the implications that this assimilation may have for our understanding of the works discussed. The colloquium, which comprised papers on a variety of texts, from the ‘canonical’ Greek romances and the Roman novels to Alexander’s Letter about India and the Alexander Romance, gave birth to stimulating discussions, both in and out of conference sessions, in a relaxed yet productive ambience of fruitful academic exchange, constructive criticism and collegiality, and yielded some interesting conclusions. The following are some of the main questions that were raised and debated during the colloquium: Is the ancient novel distinctive in its reception of earlier literary production? To what extent can we talk of a ‘sociology of reception’? Can intertextuality in the Greek and Roman narratives be used in order to define a specific type of reader or social model? What role does the author of a text play in all this? Should emphasis be placed on authorial intent or on textual relations? The revised version of the nine conference papers collected here explore these and other similar broad questions, focusing on various types of literary echoes in ancient narratives. Intertextuality1 has been recognised as an important feature of ancient prose fiction and yet it has only received sporadic attention in modern scholarship, despite the recent explosion of interest in the ancient novels. This ————— 1

This is not the place to discuss the history of intertextuality. For a concise introduction to intertextual theory, see Allen 2000. Echoing Narratives, VII–XV

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may come as less of a surprise if one takes into account that, until recently, the intertextuality of the genre had too often been associated with the origins of the novel, which is also pointed out in John Morgan’s and Stephen Harrison’s recent synoptic view of the subject.2 The overall aim of this volume is to make a contribution towards filling this gap by drawing attention to, and throwing fresh light on, the presence in Imperial prose fiction of earlier literary echoes. And while one volume is by no means sufficient to remedy the problem of the relative lack of scholarship on the topic, nevertheless it is hoped that the present collection of articles will create scope for debate and will generate greater scholarly interest in this area. In what follows I shall first outline the argument of each essay by way of introduction, highlighting some of the main questions raised in each contribution, and then I shall bring out the link between individual topics and the overarching theme of this volume. In their chapter ‘Less than Ideal Paradigms in the Greek Novel’, Koen De Temmerman and Kristoffel Demoen look at ways in which well-known mythological, literary and historical paradigms from earlier literature inform the characterisation of certain protagonists in the Greek novels, especially in relation to the construction of sōphrosynē. Concerning the paradigms that underlie some of the main characters in the novels by Xenophon of Ephesus, Chariton, and Achilles Tatius, the authors argue that sometimes there is noticeable distance between the original meaning of the paradigm and the meaning that it acquires in the context of its evocation in the narrative concerned. What is more, the function that the paradigm has for one or more characters within the story and the way it is understood and interpreted by the reader do not always coincide either. The chapter concludes that interplay between Eigenbedeutung and Ernstbedeutung and between the key function and argument function that these paradigms evoke makes problematic an ‘idealistic’ reading of the protagonists and shows that, at least in that respect, the Greek novels in question may not be as ‘ideal’ as they are often assumed to be. Konstantin Doulamis’ chapter ‘Forensic Oratory and Rhetorical Theory in Chariton Book 5’ is concerned with the use of rhetoric in Chariton’s novel. Examining the rhetorical speeches delivered in the course of the trial episode that dominates the novel’s central book, the author argues for consider————— 2

Morgan – Harrison 2008, 218-236. Their chapter, entitled ‘Intertextuality’, falls into two parts. The Greek section includes a brief analysis of specific examples from Longus and Heliodorus on the Greek side of things, while the section devoted to the Roman novel looks at the literary texture of Petronius and Apuleius.

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able influence from Imperial rhetorical theory upon Callirhoe. This manifests itself not only in echoes of arguments and manoeuvres known from Classical orations that were canonically prescribed by rhetorical theorists in Chariton’s time, but also in the structure, argument, and stylisation of the prosecution and defence speeches in the courtroom scene under discussion. Chariton’s skilful exploitation of these echoes and of style-markers known from his contemporary rhetorical prescriptions reinforces characterisation in his novel and, at the same time, serves to subvert cultural stereotypes of his time. By alluding in the narrative context of this episode to his subtle but active engagement with forensic oratory and rhetorical theory, the novelist appears to be giving a knowing nod to his alert, pepaideumenoi readers, who would have shared his appetite for (and training in) rhetoric. Maria-Elpiniki Oikonomou takes a closer look at Anthia’s dream in Book 5 of Xenophon of Ephesus, which is central to what she sees as a multifaceted, multifunctional episode, and discusses the presentation and treatment of dreams in the Ephesiaca in relation to other texts. After demonstrating that Anthia’s dream is the direct result of the heroine’s mental state and circumstances at that point in the narrative, the author argues that the passage in question is part of a long tradition of dreams presented in a similar way in authors earlier than Xenophon (Herodotus, Hippocrates, and Lucretius), in the near-contemporary writer of oneirocritic theories Artemidorus, and in Xenophon’s (later) fellow-novelist Longus. The essay also brings out the foreshadowing function of the heroine’s dream, which not only aligns this passage with Habrocomes’ prognostic dreams that occur earlier in the narrative but may also be seen as alluding to the presentation and interpretation of two similar dreams in the (probably earlier) novelist Chariton. An additional function of the episode constructed around Anthia’s dream is to heighten suspense by deferring the anticipated reunion of the protagonists shortly before the novel’s happy finale. Michael Paschalis’ ‘Petronius and Virgil: Contextual and Intertextual Readings’ examines the presence of Virgilian elements in the Satyrica, considers the contextual significance and intertextual implications of allusions to Virgil’s Aeneid, and explores the interaction between Homeric and Virgilian intertexts in Petronius’ novel. Focusing primarily upon chapters 79-99, but also looking at 100-103, Michael Paschalis shows that Virgilian allusions in Petronius, far from being merely sporadic echoes in isolated scenes, have a sustained character. He also argues that, despite Petronius’ interest in Homer, Homeric influence upon the Satyrica is ‘Virgilianised’ in terms of both language and content, because for Petronius’ audience the Aeneid carried

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greater weight and, therefore, constituted a more important and familiar intertext. Entitled ‘Platonic Love and Erotic Education in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, Ian Repath’s chapter examines Longus’ reworking of well-known Platonic dialogues on desire and love, such as the Phaedrus and the Symposium, and brings out an interesting aspect of the intertextual dialogue between Longus and Plato. Focusing on several episodes from Daphnis and Chloe, Ian Repath argues that various types of allusion, ranging from general thematic echoes to closer parallels and associations triggered by the use of specific key-terms, prompt the reader to think of Plato, while certain differences and divergences from the Platonic intertext evoked may be seen as inviting a humorous, ironic or even cynical reading of Plato. This analysis adds a new dimension to Longus’ already recognised rich and complex intertextuality. Maeve O’Brien’s essay on Aristomenes’ story in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 1,3-19 examines the allusions in this episode to the Platonic persona of Socrates. She argues that, in addition to the obvious allusion evoked by the name of the Apuleian character Socrates, which is hardly surprising given the novelist’s fascination with the Socratic persona as demonstrated, for example, in his De deo Socratis, the passage under discussion contains multiple echoes of Platonic works such as the Phaedrus, Symposium, Phaedo, and Crito. The resemblances between the Apuleian and the Platonic Socrates, which are not limited to the characters’ circumstances and personality but also extend to their human environment, invite further comparison between the two personae, and, in fact, it is the divergences from one another which, according to the author, are telling of Apuleius’ intention. She concludes that the juxtaposition of Platonic philosophical discourse with the entertaining, un-philosophical discourse of the novel, which dominates the Socrates episode in Apuleius, leads to the reshaping of Socrates into a ghostly image, a revelation that ‘constitutes the first pleasurable step on the road to true wisdom.’ John Morgan’s ‘Poets and Shepherds: Philetas and Longus’ explores the significance of the novel’s key-character Philetas as a figure that may be inscribing the Hellenistic poet Philitas, and considers the implications that an association between the two would have for our reading of Daphnis and Chloe. After gathering and presenting the scattered information that has survived about Philitas and his work, John Morgan offers a survey of modern scholarship on the connection between Philetas and Philitas, before proceeding to explore the complex interplay between Longus and Philitas. He identi-

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fies several areas of possible Philitean influence on Daphnis and Chloe, exerted both directly and through the medium of Hellenistic and Roman poetry, in scenes such as Philetas’ first appearance, his eulogy of Eros and advice about love to Daphnis and Chloe, the story of the invention of the syrinx, and the transformation of the female cowherd into a wood-dove, and suggests that specific lexical terms in the Philetas scenes as well as character names in Longus may also betray Philitean influence. Going beyond merely identifying possible allusions to Philitas, John Morgan reflects on ways in which Longus’ intertextuality may advance our understanding of the novelist and his work. In ‘The Rhetoric of Otherness’ Elias Koulakiotis draws attention to the reception of geography, historiography, and zoology in Alexander’s Letter about India and the Alexander Romance, two closely related, multifaceted texts that ‘blend the most diverse literary genres and present them as an engaging unity.’ More specifically, the author sets out to investigate whether human ways of communicating with the ‘Other’ (by which he means mainly animals and gods) that were already known in Greek societies are also operative in the exotic world described in the popular, fictional accounts of Alexander’s deeds in the East on which the article focuses. Special attention is paid to the themes of hunting, sacrificial ritual, and oracle consultation, which can help to illuminate aspects of the relationship between humans with fauna and flora as well as with the divine world. Concentrating upon the episode of the encounter between Apollonius and the fisherman, Stelios Panayotakis reflects on the significance of the ‘divided cloak’ motif that marks this scene out. An examination of the terms tribunarium and sagum, which are used in order to describe the fisherman’s garment, and of the relation that these bear to various literary traditions, lead to a consideration of the possible symbolism behind the scene in question. The author argues that the word tribunarium, with its negative connotations of a superficial attitude towards the life of a philosopher, serves to undermine the fisherman’s offer of a frugal lifestyle to Apollonius, a lifestyle that is eventually abandoned by both characters – by Apollonius as soon as he marries king Archistrates’ daughter a few chapters later, and by the fisherman when he is richly rewarded by Apollonius at the end of the narrative. In different ways, then, the essays collected here all analyse the interconnection between Graeco-Roman narratives and earlier or contemporary works, and consider ways in which intertextual exploration is invited from the readers of these texts. In doing so, they confirm what modern scholars have already recognised: that the allusive range of all ancient novels is ex-

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tensive.3 This, to a large degree, is a corollary to the dating of these works in the Roman period and, consequently, to the rich literary production that had preceded them. The diverse allusive character of the texts studied is reflected in the variety of approaches adopted by the contributors to this volume, which are almost as varied as the texts that they set out to analyse. Nevertheless, there are certain questions that are persistently raised in all articles. First of all, how do we identify an allusion? There are various ways in which the reader may be prompted to associate a passage with an earlier text. One element that may trigger this type of intertextual association is aligning a character with one or more well-known figures from earlier literature, often through implicit comparison – an association that can be evoked by the behaviour and general portrayal of that character. Thus, Ian Repath discusses the evocation of the Platonic Socrates in Longus, which, he argues, is not without a humorous effect resulting from the ironisation of Socrates. Sometimes, the same character may be tacitly ‘cast’ in more than one role. Michael Paschalis, for example, analyses the way in which Petronius evokes an implicit comparison of Giton with Odysseus but also with Dido, Iulus, and Euryalus. And as Koen De Temmerman and Kristoffel Demoen demonstrate, the assimilation of contrasting characters can sometimes undermine the evoked earlier paradigm. But setting novelistic characters up against earlier figures can be more explicit than that. Thus, Maeve O’Brien argues that the association in the Metamorphoses of the Apuleian Socrates with the Platonic Socrates, which is instantly triggered by the character’s name, brings about the ‘reshaping’ of philosophical Socrates, ‘a transformation that leads to literary pleasure within the context of Apuleius’ novel.’ Then there are also thematic connections residing in the preoccupation of the authors of narratives with the same ideas as antecedent authors and in the exploration of themes or the evocation of motifs from earlier literature. Ian Repath, for example, sees a thematic connection between Longus and Plato in both authors’ concern with erotic themes and in the emphasis they both seem to place on beauty and on visually stimulated desire. He also traces, however, divergences from, and hinted re-writings of, Plato in Daphnis and Chloe. Michael Paschalis identifies thematic borrowing from Homer in the episode of the fight between Encolpius and Ascyltus over Giton in the Satyrica. John Morgan discusses the possible links between Longus and the poet Philitas through the association of the latter, and also of Callimachus, with a grove and cave setting in Propertius’s third book. Konstantin Doulamis con————— 3

It is now suggested that even Xenophon’s Ephesiaca may be seen as intertextual. See Doulamis (forthcoming).

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centrates on the trial theme and on the arguments deployed in the speeches delivered by Dionysius and Mithridates in Chariton Book 5, which, he argues, echo well-known arguments from Classical forensic oratory. According to Maria-Elpiniki Oikonomou, the presentation of Anthia’s dream in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca follows a long tradition of dreams represented as reflective of the mental state and circumstances of the dreamer, which occurs at least from Herodotus onwards and is also paralleled in Petronius and Longus. And Stelios Panayotakis brings to the fore the possible symbolism evoked by the association of the ‘divided cloak’ motif, which we find in the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri, with other texts, such as Sulpicius Severus’ Life of St. Martin and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. In other cases, an earlier text may be evoked by the discourse of characters. There, it is specific lexical terms or the style employed by the speaker that establish an intertextual connection. Ian Repath, for instance, points out that the use of the Greek adjective phaidron at Longus 1,5,2 reinforces the connection with the Platonic Phaedrus. Maeve O’Brien draws attention to several examples of words evoking Plato in the Socrates episode in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Adducing, among other things, linguistic evidence, Michael Paschalis discusses the Homeric connotations of praeda in the Giton episode and, given the term’s double meaning, considers ways in which use of this specific term may affect our reading of Petronius. John Morgan, too, focuses on certain terms in the Philetas episodes in Longus and entertains the possibility that Longus’ lexical choices and interests in these scenes may reflect those of Philitas the poet, whose possible influence may also be traced in some of the proper names employed in Daphnis and Chloe. Taking into account the double meaning of the term mageiros and the associations of the proper name Andreas with the Greek word for ‘man’, Elias Koulakiotis explores the special significance that may be evoked by the name and function of Alexander’s cook in the Epistola. Stelios Panayotakis looks at how the connotations evoked by the terms tribunarium and sagum, which are used for the fisherman’s cloak in the Historia Apollonii, may affect our reading of this particular episode. And Konstantin Doulamis argues that, in the case of an important trial episode in Chariton, it is not merely what Dionysius and Mithridates say but how they say it, in other words the stylistic categories deployed in their speeches, that colours their discourse and lends an intertextual dimension to the text. In thinking about the allusive character of Greek and Roman narratives, the volume also asks how we might interpret the meaning of an identified allusion. A point that comes up in almost all of the articles collected here is

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that intertextuality often functions as a device of characterisation. This is especially pertinent in Koen De Temmerman’s and Kristoffel Demoen’s chapter, where it is argued that the connection with earlier mythological paradigms serves to characterise the protagonists of the Greek novels. Konstantin Doulamis, too, argues that the evocation of well-known models from Classical forensic oratory and Imperial rhetorical theory serves to reinforce the cultural identity of the two litigants in the Babylon trial scene, whilst also putting a playful, ironical spin on the cultural clichés shared by Chariton’s readers. Ian Repath and Maeve O’Brien examine the way in which assimilation with Platonic characters affects the portrayal of characters in Longus and Apuleius respectively. Moving along similar lines of enquiry, Michael Paschalis explores the effect resulting from the connection of Petronian protagonists with Virgilian figures. Elias Koulakiotis considers how representations of the ‘Other’ in the fictional accounts of Alexander’s deeds may impact on Alexander’s image. Maria-Elpiniki Oikonomou argues that the presentation of Anthia’s dream in Book 5 of the Ephesiaca not only contributes to the heroine’s portrayal, but also plays an important role in the movement of the plot in Xenophon’s narrative. And taking this general approach a step further, John Morgan suggests that in a genre as self-conscious and allusive as the ancient novel, possible connections may be identified not only between characters in the novels and characters in earlier works, but also between novelistic characters and the authors of earlier works, as is the case with the character Philetas in Longus who, in certain ways, may be inscribing the Hellenistic poet Philitas. I would like to thank the editorial board of Ancient Narrative, in particular Gareth Schmeling and Maaike Zimmerman, for their encouragement and advice, and Roelf Barkhuis and his team for ensuring the smooth publication of this volume. The bulk of the editing work involved in this project was carried out in the library of the Hardt Foundation in Vandœuvres, Switzerland, a most wonderful environment in which to work, thanks to two consecutive research grants from the Foundation itself. I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to the Director and staff of the Hardt Foundation for their generosity and warm hospitality. The publication of this volume was in part made possible by a grant from the Research Committee of the College of Arts, Celtic Studies and Social Sciences, University College Cork, to whom I am thankful.

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Works cited Allen, G. 2000. Intertextuality, London – New York: Routledge. Doulamis, K. (forthcoming). ‘Literary mimesis and Amatory Rhetoric in Xenophon of Ephesus’, in: M. Futre Pinheiro – J.R. Morgan (eds.), Literary Memory and New Voices in the Ancient Novel: The Intertextual Approach, Groningen: Barkhuis. Morgan, J.R. – Harrison, S. 2008. ‘Intertextuality’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 218-236.

Less than Ideal Paradigms in the Greek Novel K OEN D E T EMMERMAN Research Foundation Flanders, Ghent University K RISTOFFEL D EMOEN Ghent University

The engagement of ancient Greek novelists with earlier literature takes many different forms, some of which have been extensively documented by scholarship over recent decades. It is well known, for example, that the novelists explicitly and implicitly assimilate their characters with mythological, literary and historical figures taken from earlier literature. Such assimilation allows them to explore specific character traits through similarity and/or contrast.1 This article revisits the presence in the novels of some of these paradigms and argues that they make problematic the widely-held idealistic reading of the novelistic protagonists. As research into various literary genres has demonstrated, paradigms, or exempla, are powerful tools with which to convey meaning and ideology.2 The essence of any exemplum lies in an appeal to a similar or illustrative incident (the illustrans) which is not intrinsically connected with the matter under discussion (the illustrandum).3 This distinction reflects a double semantic layer inherent in any exemplum: the quoted history or illustrans has a meaning in itself (the Eigenbedeutung) but it also has a semantic force within the context of its evocation (the Ernstbedeutung).4 In the discussion ————— 1

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See, for example, Konstan 1994, 16-18 on the evocation of Hector as a paradigm for Chariton’s hero Chaereas (3,5,3-6) and the significant contrasts between the two heroes. See, for example, Bücher 2006 on Roman exempla in political discourse of the late Republic and Demoen 1996 on pagan and biblical exempla in Gregory of Nazianzus. See Demoen 1997, 126, with further references. Demoen 1997, 127, who traces this distinction back to ancient notions (n.8) and Lausberg 1973, §421. The English translation of Lausberg’s Handbuch (1998) does not propose clear-cut equivalents for the German terms: Eigenbedeutung is paraphrased as ‘deEchoing Narratives, 1–20

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which follows, we also adopt the distinction between the function of an exemplum as understood by the reader of the story (key function) and its function for one or more characters in the story (argument function).5 This latter distinction is only relevant for exempla in character text, that is to say in direct or indirect speech. In this article, we discuss a number of paradigms in the Greek novels, ranging from implicit intertextual allusions or brief comparisons to fully fledged narratives.6 Our discussion points out that these exempla often evoke an interplay between Eigenbedeutung and Ernstbedeutung, and between key function and argument function, thus undermining ideal readings of some of the protagonists. In Greek novel scholarship it has been assumed, intuitively and dogmatically rather than on the basis of research, that elaborated characterization of the protagonists, described as ideal figures whose perfection is never affected by their numerous adventures, is virtually non-existent.7 Typical of this viewpoint is Rohde, who presents the alleged lack of characterization as intrinsically interwoven with the narrative organization of the genre, in which Tyche determines the plot and carries the protagonists on her wings.8 Along the same lines, Perry maintains that the content of the novels precludes any concern with characterization.9 Anderson (1984, 62-63), finally, argues that one would do better not to look for any characterization of individual novelistic protagonists whatsoever: ————— 5

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fined, normal, special meaning’, and Ernstbedeutung has become ‘a presumed valid, reallife meaning in the service of the causa’. On this distinction, see Andersen 1987, 1-13. De Jong 1997, 305-325 applies this distinction to embedded narratives in Homer. We have used the following editions: Reardon 2004 (Chariton), O’Sullivan 2005 (Xenophon of Ephesus), Garnaud 19952 (Achilles Tatius) and Rattenbury, Lumb and Maillon 19943, 19602 and 19913 (Heliodorus). Anderson 1997, 2284, for example, acknowledges this tendency in secondary literature. For a more detailed account of scholarship on the characterization of the protagonists in the Greek novels, see De Temmerman 2007a, 235-238. Rohde 19143, 476: ‘Eine sonderliche Kunst psychologischer Entwicklung wird man nunmehr wohl schon gewohnt sein, bei den Autoren sophistischer Romane nicht zu suchen. Dienen diesen Rhetoren überhaupt ihre seelenlose Gestalten vorzugsweise nur als Gliederpuppen, an denen die herkömmlichen Stellungen und Drapierungen experimentartig vorzunehmen sind, so tritt bei Heliodor noch die Göttervorsehung hinzu, welche, von oben herab die Helden der Erzählung leitend, deren Bewegung aus eigenen tiefer liegenden Seelenmotiven geradezu ersetzt’ (our italics). See also Rohde 19143, 296-297. See, for example, Perry 1967, 118: ‘Preoccupation with such childishly fanciful and spectacular themes [i.e. young love and the sensational buffeting of Fortune] tended to preclude any concern with the portrayal of character or the study of human nature on its own account.’

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By its nature the novel offers the most expansive opportunities for the portrayal of character and character development. Yet it is here that the ancient novels might be seen as most deficient. The major characters tend to be lacking in everything except perfection, while their minor supporting casts have natures determined by nothing more than their status and occupation. […] The main criticism of the heroes of the novel is that they are puppets. But that may be because we expect too much. Aeneas and Jason are equally difficult to evaluate if they are judged simply as characters and not in the context of their respective plots. It is much more useful to see the hero and heroine as a Liebespaar, a single organism trying to unite itself. They are lovers first, intriguers second, and characters third. (our italics for English words) More recently, however, scholars have offered less idealizing interpretations of some novelistic protagonists. Notably, Smith argues that the association of Chariton’s hero Chaereas with certain paradigms addresses realistic issues in his characterization.10 In Smith’s view, Chaereas is implicitly depicted as a new Cleon or Alcibiades, which encourages the reader to ask ‘potentially disconcerting questions’11 about Chaereas’ political and rhetorical ability to succeed Hermocrates in Syracuse. He also reads Achilles, Hippolytus and Alcibiades as ‘famous for their inability to exist on a plane equal with their fellow men’ and rightly argues that their presence at the very beginning of the narrative (1,1,3) complicates ideal readings of the figure of Chaereas.12 However, despite this and other contributions,13 the allegedly ideal nature of the protagonists is still commonly accepted and instrumental in dividing ancient novelistic literature into Greek ‘ideal’ novels and their Latin ‘realistic’ counterparts.14 In line with Smith’s insights about Chaereas, we address a number of paradigms that underlie other novelistic protagonists (Callirhoe, Habrocomes and Clitophon) and argue that these paradigms question idealizing interpretations of character and invite the reader to read character in a more realistic way. Our thematic focus centres upon a characteristic of the ————— 10 11 12 13

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Smith 2007, 95-98. Smith 2007, 22. Smith 2007, 100. See, for example, Balot 1998, Brethes 2007, 144-175, De Temmerman 2007a and 2009a and Smith 2007, 95-98, 104, 144-145, 162, 171-172. Holzberg 20063, 59-138, for example, classifies the texts under the headings of ‘Der idealisierende Roman: Ältere Texte’ (59-79), ‘Der komisch-realistische Roman’ (80111), and ‘Der idealisierende Roman: Jüngere Texte’ (112-138).

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protagonists which is invariably presented by scholars as central to the novelistic genre, namely continence, or sōphrosynē.15 Paradigms in the novels repeatedly underline the protagonists’ sōphrosynē. In Xenophon of Ephesus, for example, Anthia is explicitly compared with Artemis at the outset of the story (ὡς Ἄρτεμιν, 1,2,7).16 Heliodorus’ novel starts with an equally explicit association of Charicleia with the same goddess (1,2,6).17 In both cases, this exemplum is perfectly appropriate to introduce a novelistic heroine whose behaviour throughout the entire novel will revolve more around chastity than anything else. The introduction of Xenophon’s hero Habrocomes, on the other hand, offers a variation on this topical representation of sōphrosynē. Habrocomes’ contempt and disdain for Eros implicitly aligns him with Euripides’ tragic hero Hippolytus, who, like Anthia, is dedicated to Artemis. Habrocomes’ hunting skills (θήρα, 1,1,2) echo his association with this goddess. Like Hippolytus, furthermore, Habrocomes is also marked by the initial error of rejecting love, for which he is punished by divine power.18 Habrocomes’ introduction, therefore, stages a disconcertingly extreme and potentially dangerous type of sōphrosynē. However, Habrocomes soon yields to Eros’ power and the figure of Hippolytus virtually disappears from the novel.19

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In Greek novelistic literature, sōphrosynē is a polysemous concept. We only deal with sōphrosynē in a sexual context, where it can refer to marital fidelity, chastity and control over one’s sexual desires. See Chew 2003, 211-214 and De Temmerman 2009b. The association is further supported by her physical description: her attributes (a deer’s skin, a quiver, a bow and arrows), dogs surrounding her, a tunic down to her knees and loosely falling over her arms (ζωστὸς εἰς γόνυ, μέχρι βραχιόνων καθειμένος, 1,2,6); even her blond hair evokes the goddess’s traditional iconography. See OCD³ s.v. Artemis. Call. Dian. 11-12 mentions Artemis’ chitōn : ‘ἐς γόνυ μέχρι χιτῶνα ζώννυσθαι’. The mention of Anthia’s arms could refer to Artemis’ epithet ‘λευκώλενος’ (see Bacchylides 5,99). According to Anacr. Fr. 3,2, Artemis is blonde (ξανθή). Eur. Hipp. 82 mentions her ‘golden hair’ (χρυσέας κόμης), and Eur. Ph. 191-192 describes the goddess ‘with golden tresses’ (χρυσεοβόστρυχον). See also LIMC 619 s.v. Artemis. Unlike Anthia’s, Charicleia’s association with Artemis frequently resurfaces throughout the novel (1,22,2, 2,33,4, 5,31,1, etc.). Habrocomes is punished by Eros (X. Eph. 1,2,1). Hippolytus, for his part, is punished by Aphrodite (Eur. Hipp. 21-22: ἃ δ’ εἰς ἔμ’ ἡμάρτηκε, τιμωρήσομαι / Ἱππόλυτον ἐν τῇδ’ ἡμέρᾳ). On Hippolytus as a paradigm for Habrocomes, see Dalmeyda 19622, xviii and Cueva 2004, 39. On the Potiphar or Phaedra motif in Euripides (and Heliodorus), see Schmeling 1980, 42-48. Habrocomes’ association with Hippolytus is only reactivated when Manto falsely accuses him of attempted rape. This episode also evokes the story of Stheneboea and Bellerophon. See Cueva 2004, 37 and Dalmeyda 19622, xxii.

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Achilles Tatius explores the importance of paradigms for the construction of sōphrosynē more consistently and more playfully than Xenophon. One passage in particular explicitly draws attention to the dynamics underlying the interpretation of paradigms. When Clitophon has fallen in love with Leucippe, he hears a cither player singing a song about Apollo and Daphne. In first-person narrator text, Clitophon elaborates on the content of this song: Daphne runs from Apollo and, just as he is about to grasp her, changes into a bay tree. Clitophon also reports that this song excites his love for Leucippe even more (μᾶλλον ... τὴν ψυχὴν ἐξέκαυσεν, 1,5,5). He comments upon this emotional response by offering some thoughts about the desire for mimēsis generated by exempla: This lyrical interlude fanned higher the fire in my soul, for stories of love (λόγος ἐρωτικός) stir feelings of lust. In spite of all our admonitions to moderation (σωφροσύνην), models (τῷ παραδείγματι) excite us to imitation (μίμησιν), particularly a pattern set by our betters (ἐκ τοῦ κρείττονος). And more, the shame we feel at wrongful deeds is changed by the good repute of superior people to saucy freedom of speech. (1,5,6)20 Along with others, we would suggest that the inclusion of this erotic myth, and in particular Clitophon’s reaction to it, should be read first and foremost as an indication of Clitophon’s character.21 At the same time, we suggest that this passage can also be read as a general indication of how to interpret embedded stories. It is one of the many gnomologic utterances in Achilles Tatius: through this generalising statement of his protagonist,22 the author seems to encourage the reader always to look for the Ernstbedeutung of exempla. The technical rhetorical vocabulary in this passage (τῷ παραδείγματι, ————— 20 21

22

Translations of Achilles Tatius’ text are taken from Winkler 20082. Brethes 2001, 186 reads this passage as an indication of Clitophon’s exclusive attention to sexual pleasure. Billault 1998, 157, for his part, defines Clitophon’s speech as an index of short-term egoism (‘sans rapport avec les nobles fins que lui assignait la tradition grecque classique’). Cueva 2004, 64, on the other hand, suggests that this erotic myth is proleptic of ‘the numerous ill-fated or treacherous love stories and myths that Tatius will relate’. However, he does not adduce arguments to support this suggestion and, in fact, the text itself does not offer any indication that the myth of Apollo and Daphne is to be read in a proleptic way. This generalizing character of Clitophon’s elaboration is more evident in the original than in the English translation: ὑπέκκαυμα γὰρ ἐπιθυμίας λόγος ἐρωτικός. κἂν εἰς σωφροσύνην τις ἑαυτὸν νουθετῇ, τῷ παραδείγματι πρὸς τὴν μίμησιν ἐρεθίζεται, μάλιστα ὅταν ἐκ τοῦ κρείττονος ᾖ τὸ παράδειγμα.

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μίμησιν, ἐκ τοῦ κρείττονος) emphatically marks that we are dealing with paradigms.23 Clitophon himself also casts the story as exemplary of his own situation by explicitly associating himself with Apollo (‘Ἰδοὺ καὶ Ἀπόλλων ἐρᾷ’, 1,5,7) and by mentioning his own urge to imitate (μίμησιν) the story. Establishing a model for imitation or deterrence is, in fact, a widelydocumented function of exempla, especially in later rhetoricians (more or less contemporary to Achilles Tatius).24 The story of Apollo and Daphne clearly deals with the pernicious consequences of untempered sexual lust (Eigenbedeutung). Within the context of Clitophon’s story, therefore, it becomes one of the many signposts that are placed in Clitophon’s path and warn against the consequences of the reduction of love to sex (Ernstbedeutung). As such, its function is similar to that of the story of Charicles and Clinias later in the novel.25 When Clitophon hears the Apollo myth on the very first day of Leucippe’s presence in Tyre, the reader has already been well informed about his feelings for her. Within the two pages (Budé edition) that separate their encounter from the banquet scene, the reader has been offered an ekphrasis of the girl (1,4,3), an overview of Clitophon’s (very diverse) emotions triggered by Leucippe’s beauty (1,4,5), a confession that he cannot keep his eyes off her (1,4,5), a description of his joy resulting from the awareness that the table setting allows him to admire her beauty (1,5,2) and the intelligence that he is continually gazing at her during the banquet (1,5,3). When the protagonist is, at this point, listening to the myth, his reaction is exactly the opposite of the reader’s. Whereas the reader realizes that the myth conveys a warning and should therefore be taken as a model for deterrence (key function), Clitophon himself takes it as a model for imitation and confesses that the myth excites his lust even more (argument function). Whereas the reader may understand the Ernstbedeutung of the myth in Clitophon’s overall story, Clitophon himself does not. Another passage that explicitly addresses the hermeneutic dynamics of exempla occurs in Heliodorus. When Charicleia is visibly suffering after falling in love with Theagenes, her father Charicles consults Calasiris about her behaviour. The latter says that Charicleia has been struck by the evil eye (ὀφθαλμόν τινα βάσκανον, 3,7,2), an affliction attracted by extreme physical beauty.26 Since Charicles is sceptical at first, Calasiris adduces two parallels ————— 23

24 25 26

The expression ἐκ τοῦ κρείττονος is equivalent to ἀπὸ μείζονος, the a fortiori reasoning. See Demoen 1997, 136. See Demoen 1997, 130 nn.16 and 17. See Morgan 1997, 182-183. See Yatromanolakis 1988.

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from the animal kingdom to support his point that eye contact is likely to transmit diseases (3,7,4-3,8,2). One of these examples is explicitly presented as such (παραδείγματος, 3,8,1). Finally, Charicles is persuaded and compliments Calasiris on having solved the problem ‘in an extremely wise and convincing way’ (σοφώτατα καὶ πιστικώτατα, 3,9,1). This reaction clearly casts the exempla as inductive tools of persuasion, an important function of exempla discussed in ancient rhetorical theory from Aristotle onwards.27 However, like the passage from Achilles Tatius discussed above, this passage also infuses the use of exempla with ambiguity. On the one hand, Calasiris inserts the examples in a gnomologic elaboration that claims to convey general truths about the infectious power of gazing. He explicitly informs Charicles that this theory also explains the origin of love (ἡ τῶν ἐρώτων γένεσις, 3,7,5). Accordingly, the reader recognizes Charicleia’s behaviour as a topical, novelistic representation of lovesickness.28 In his first-person narration, moreover, Calasiris explicitly informs Cnemon that Charicleia’s behaviour is indeed the result of lovesickness (τῷ ἔρωτι, 3,7,1), but in his explanation addressed to Charicles he discusses love in general terms along with eye diseases and silently passes over Charicleia’s case. Consequently, while tantalizingly providing Charicles with all the clues needed to diagnose his daughter’s behaviour correctly, he leads him to believe that she has been hit by the Evil Eye rather than by love.29 Again, a character’s (Charicles’) interpretation of exempla differs from that of the reader. The two passages, then, seem to highlight the hermeneutically ambiguous character of inductive logic in general and implicitly encourage the reader to approach critically any argumentation based on paradigms. We may now return to Achilles Tatius and the representation of Clitophon’s sōphrosynē or lack thereof. Clitophon explicitly presents himself as sōphrōn (8,5,2), but a number of paradigms complicate Clitophon’s sōphrosynē. According to Fusillo (1989, 102), Clitophon is cast as an antihero because he is the only novelistic hero who is not associated with heroic and/or divine paradigms. We agree that Clitophon’s paradigms may indeed characterize him as a radically atypical novelistic hero but, in our view, such characterization does not result from the absence of divine or heroic paradigms. In fact, Clitophon is only associated with divine and heroic paradigms ————— 27 28

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See Demoen 1997, 129-131 on the exemplum as a type of proof (πίστις/probatio). See Létoublon 1993, 145-148 on the topical representation of lovesickness in the novels (and 146-147 on Charicleia in particular). See Sandy 1982, 142-146 and Jones 2004, 80-81 on Calasiris’ characterization as a cunning and charlatanesque deceiver.

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(such as Niobe, Apollo, Heracles, Achilles and Odysseus), many of which are also paradigms of protagonists in other novels. The difference between Achilles Tatius and other novelists, rather, lies in how these exempla function within the story. First, Odysseus’ only occurrence in the novel. When Clitophon is about to enter Leucippe’s bedroom and have sex with her for the first time, Satyrus informs him that Conops has been knocked out by a sleeping potion: ‘Your Cyclops (ὁ Κύκλωψ) is fast asleep; now prove yourself a good Odysseus (σὺ δὲ ὅπως Ὀδυσσεὺς ἀγαθὸς γένῃ)’ (2,23,2). At the level of argument function, Satyrus’ association of Clitophon with Odysseus is part of a word-play drawing upon the phonological resemblances between ‘Conops’ and ‘Cyclops’. Moreover, both figures also display thematic resemblances. Both represent obstacles that are eventually overcome by sleep. As all readers of Homer know, the Cyclops falls asleep after drinking (Od. 9,371-374). It is, therefore, no coincidence that Conops is also put to sleep by a sleeping potion placed in his drink (κύλικος ... ἔπιε, 2,23,2). At the level of key function, on the other hand, Satyrus’ wordplay evokes significant differences between Clitophon and his paradigm. These differences characterize Clitophon as a non-Odysseus. First, the spatial organization of this episode is significant. Whereas Odysseus puts the Cyclops to sleep in order to escape from a cave, Conops is put to sleep to allow Clitophon to enter Leucippe’s room. Moreover, Clitophon does not reach his aim of sexual union with Leucippe but is discovered by her mother and escapes only at the last moment. He also admits to being afraid (φόβου, 2,23,3) and trembles before and after his visit (τρέμων τρόμον διπλοῦν, 2,23,3; τρέμοντα καὶ τεταραγμένον, 2,23,6), which characterizes his flight as cowardly and him as a coward, rather than as a courageous Odysseus.30 Thirdly, his marked dependence upon Satyrus also dissociates him from Odysseus. Whereas it is Odysseus himself who invents the plan to blind the Cyclops, Clitophon needs Satyrus’ help to put Conops to sleep. He does little more than follow his servant’s advice, which makes this episode emblematic of his behaviour throughout the novel.31 ————— 30

31

On fear and flight as traditional indications of cowardice, see De Temmerman 2007b, 9192, with references to Aristotle’s Ethica Nicomachea, Ethica Eudemia, and Magna Moralia, and Theophrastus’ Characteres. It is Satyrus who decides that the time is ripe for Clitophon to have sex with Leucippe (‘Νῦν μὲν ἀνδρίζεσθαι καιρός’, 2,10,1). Clitophon, for his part, merely follows this advice (ἐπεχείρουν τι προὔργου ποιεῖν, 2,10,4). Satyrus also warns him when someone is about to interrupt his private moment with Leucippe (2,10,5). When he and Leucippe flee from Tyre, Satyrus consults her about whether she is willing to join Clitophon (2,30,1) and drugs Panthea and the doorkeeper to guarantee a safe departure (2,31,1).

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The explicit occurrence of Odysseus as a paradigm for Clitophon in this overtly sexual passage might also evoke the ambiguity that traditionally surrounds Odysseus’ sōphrosynē. Two more paradigms corroborate such a complication: Heracles and Achilles. When Clitophon unexpectedly runs into Leucippe, he greets her as his mistress (δέσποινα, 2,6,2) and subsequently explains this apostrophe by aligning himself with Heracles, who was ‘sold as a slave to Queen Omphale’ (2,6,3). Strenghtening the association, the reader at this point may think of Clitophon’s and Heracles’ common Tyrian origin.32 The erotic overtones in Clitophon’s reference to the myth of Heracles and Omphale are similar to Ovid’s Heroides (9,53-118), where it is said that Heracles, as Omphale’s slave, was forced to wear women’s clothes and to do women’s work. This episode of transvestism anticipates a similar episode in Clitophon’s story, where Clitophon puts on Melite’s dress after having sex with her. At that point, Melite compares him to Achilles (‘τοιοῦτον Ἀχιλλέα ποτὲ ἐθεασάμην ἐν γραφῇ’, 6,1,3). Since Melite uses Achilles as a paradigm of physical beauty (‘ὡς εὐμορφότερος’, 6,1,3), erotic overtones are, again, part of the context. On the level of key function, however, the reader is invited to look further. Firstly, Melite clearly refers to representations of Achilles when dressed in women’s clothes on Scyrus and thus calls attention to a highly embarrassing episode from the hero’s life. Moreover, Heracles and Achilles are two renowned mythological seducers of women. The fact that they both appear in contexts with similar erotic overtones (and in contexts connected by the element of transvestism at that) conspicuously draws the reader’s attention to their ‘erotic’ reputation. Furthermore, both paradigms occur at significant points in Clitophon’s love life: the Heracles paradigm occurs when Clitophon is alone with Leucippe for the first time and the Achilles paradigm occurs right after he has had sex with Melite. Whereas Heracles can therefore be said to question subtly Clitophon’s self-presentation as sōphrōn, Achilles blatantly undermines it. Not only Achilles Tatius, but also Chariton consciously adopts paradigms to comment upon sōphrosynē. In this respect, the implicit presence of Penelope is of primary importance.33 When Callirhoe has left Miletus for Babylon, Rumour informs all of her approach: ————— 32

33

The connection between Heracles and Tyre is touched upon in Achilles Tatius’ novel when the oracle in Byzantium orders a sacrifice for Heracles in Tyre (2,14,1-2, 8,18,1). See also Lucianus Syr.D. 3 (‘οὐ τούτου τοῦ Ἡρακλέος τὸν Ἕλληνες ἀείδουσιν, ἀλλὰ τὸν ἐγὼ λέγω πολλὸν ἀρχαιότερος καὶ Τύριος ἥρως ἐστίν’) and Garnaud 19952, 44 n.2. The association between Callirhoe and Penelope has been identified by Biraud 1985, 2327, Fusillo 1990, 41, Manuwald 2000, 113-114 and Hirschberger 2001, 167-168. However, we think that its implications have not yet been sufficiently explored.

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Rumour sped ahead of the lady, announcing to all the world (καταγγέλλουσα πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις) that Callirhoe was at hand: the celebrated Callirhoe (τὸ περιβόητον ὄνομα), nature’s masterpiece (τὸ μέγα τῆς φύσεως κατόρθωμα), like Artemis or golden Aphrodite (Ἀρτέμιδι ἰκέλη ἢ χρυσείῃ Ἀφροδίτῃ). (4,7,5)34 In this passage, the narrator adopts a Homeric quotation to compare Callirhoe with Artemis and Aphrodite. Of course, the assimilation of the heroine with Aphrodite is abundantly present in the novel and physical perfection (τὸ μέγα τῆς φύσεως κατόρθωμα) is the obvious tertium comparationis. But this passage hides additional meaning. The quotation originally appears at Od. 17,37 and Od. 19,54. In both instances, it is Penelope who is compared to the two goddesses when she comes forth from her room to greet her son Telemachus and her husband Odysseus (disguised as a beggar). Because of these intertexts, the Homeric quotation in Chariton functions on two levels. At the level of argument function, the paradigms of Artemis and Aphrodite emphasize Callirhoe’s extraordinary beauty. Because Rumour announces to all (πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, 4,7,5) that Callirhoe is as beautiful as Artemis and Aphrodite, innumerable people flock to behold her beauty. What they see even surpasses their expectations (ἐδόκει δὲ [τοῖς] πᾶσι τῆς φήμης ἡ γυνὴ κρείττων, 4,7,6). At the level of the key function, on the other hand, the quotation implicitly aligns Callirhoe with Penelope. To any reader of Homer, this paradigm will have echoed two characteristics:35 on the one hand, Penelope is intelligent and thoughtful – a characteristic explicitly mentioned in both Homeric passages evoked (περίφρων, Od. 17,36 and 19,53); on the other hand, she is, of course, a paradigm of marital fidelity. This latter characteristic especially contributes to Callirhoe’s characterization as sōphrōn: no matter how many people Rumour mobilizes to behold lustfully Callirhoe’s beauty, the primary narrator’s implicit insertion of the paradigm of Penelope highlights that Callirhoe will remain faithful to Chaereas. Throughout the narrative, various such implicit associations occur, all of them in contexts thematizing marital love and fidelity, and all bear upon Callirhoe’s characterization as a sōphrōn heroine. During the famous court scene in Babylon, for example, Callirhoe entered the courtroom looking like Helen as the divine Homer describes her (οἵαν ὁ θεῖος ποιητὴς τὴν Ἑλένην ἐπιστῆναί φησι) appearing among ————— 34 35

Translations of Chariton’s text are taken from Reardon 20082. See Biraud 1985, 24 and OCD3 s.v. Penelope.

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the elders around Priam and Panthous and Thymoetes (ἀμφὶ Πρίαμον Πάνθοον ἠδὲ Θυμοίτην). Her appearance produced stunned astonishment (θάμβος) and silence (σιωπήν); everyone prayed to lie in bed beside her (πάντες δ’ ἠρήσαντο παραὶ λεχέεσσι κλιθῆναι). (5,5,9) This passage is emblematic of an interesting dynamic in Chariton’s novel between Penelope on the one hand and a mythological figure who is explicitly compared with Callirhoe on the other, namely Helen.36 Like Helen, Callirhoe becomes the wife of a man while already married to someone else. Scholars have often drawn attention to the Homeric resonances underlying the erotic triangle established by this plot sequence (Chaereas, Callirhoe and Dionysius on the one hand reflect Menelaus, Helen and Paris on the other).37 In the passage above, the tertium comparationis of the comparison between Callirhoe and Helen is the amazement aroused in their beholders.38 The verse mentioning Priam, Panthous, and Thymoites is taken from the Homeric teichoskopia (Il. 3,146) and mentions some of the older Trojans sitting besides Priam.39 This verse is proleptic of the rhetorical duel for Callirhoe between Mithridates and Dionysius which is about to begin.40 Just like in the duel between Paris and Menelaus in the Iliad, the rhetorical duel in Babylon will remain undecided, this time not because one of the contestants unexpectedly disappears (as Paris does at Il. 3,380-2), but because a third person – Chaereas – will unexpectedly appear, when he is ‘raised’ as a daimōn by Mithridates in a theatrical scene (5,7,10). The second Homeric quotation (πάντες δ’ ἠρήσαντο παραὶ λεχέεσσι κλιθῆναι) aligns Callirhoe not with Helen but with Penelope. It is taken from the Odyssey and twice describes the suitors’ desire to share Penelope’s bed (Od. 1,366 and 18,213).41 This passage, then, assimilates Callirhoe with Helen and Penelope simultaneously, thus clearly raising the question of how to pinpoint Callirhoe’s sōphrosynē. Is Callirhoe a Helen or a Penelope? ————— 36 37

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40

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On Callirhoe’s association with Helen, see Biraud 1985, 24-27 and Fusillo 1990, 40-41. See, for example, Fusillo 1988, 20. Some scholars, such as Laplace 1980, even argue that the entire novel is modelled on an epic pattern. For Laplace 1980, 86, the primary similarity between Callirhoe and Helen in this episode is the fact that Callirhoe, like Helen, will be ‘le présent qui corrompt le juge’. See also Manuwald 2000, 112. On poetic quotation in the Greek novels, and in Chariton in particular, see Robiano 2000. See Laplace 1980, 96-98. Biraud 1985, 22-23 shows that a number of Homeric quotations in Chariton create and/or frustrate readers’ expectations and, occasionally, contribute to characterization. However, she does not discuss this passage. See also Manuwald 2000, 113-114 for identification and contextualization of both Homeric passages.

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It is not only the novelistic reader, but also Chaereas who asks this question. After hearing from Mithridates that Callirhoe has married Dionysius, he wants to go to Miletus to claim his wife, but Mithridates advises him to write her a letter first (4,4,2-5). His advice features a Homeric quotation taken from a speech by Athena, in which she encourages Telemachus to go home and prevent the suitors from using up Odysseus’ property. The quotation evokes the same thematic context as the above-mentioned quotations from Odyssey 17 and 19, since both quotations evoke Telemachus’ concerns with Penelope’s chastity. Athena argues that Penelope’s father and brother are urging her to marry Eurymachus (Od. 15,16-17) and warns Telemachus that women ‘want to make thrive the house of the man who weds her’ (‘κείνου βούλεται οἶκον ὀφέλλειν, ὅς κεν ὀπυίῃ’, 4,4,5; from Od. 15,21). Mithridates, for his part, adduces this verse to suggest that Callirhoe might have forgotten Chaereas now that she is married to Dionysius (argument function). In addition to this verbal echo, there are a number of contextual similarities between the Homeric passage and the episode in Chariton. Both Athena and Mithridates adopt a gnōmē about women as a warning for their internal narratee. In the Odyssey, furthermore, Athena warns Telemachus that women tend to forget their loved ones once they have died (‘οὐκέτι μέμνηται τεθνηότος’, Od. 15,23). These words aptly fit into Mithridates’ discourse, since he knows that Callirhoe considers her husband to have been killed in Miletus (3,9,11). Most conspicuously, there is a clear contrast between Athena’s and Mithridates’ rhetorical aims. Whereas Athena tries to persuade Telemachus to travel home and secure Penelope, Mithridates tries to prevent Chaereas from travelling to Miletus and securing Callirhoe. Both speeches are successful in that both Telemachus and Chaereas do as they have been advised. The whole point of Penelope’s characterization in the Odyssey, however, is that she does not forget Odysseus (key function). Even though Callirhoe, unlike Penelope, has married another man, nevertheless she will not forget her husband either. Chaereas’ readiness to believe the opposite marks his problematic attitude towards his wife’s sōphrosynē. In addition to constructing Callirhoe’s sōphrosynē, then, this association of Callirhoe with Penelope fleshes out Chaereas’ lack of faith in it and highlights his problematic relationship with his wife. In his view, Callirhoe may be a Helen rather than a Penelope. The paradigms of Penelope and Helen, then, play an important role in Callirhoe’s characterization, most notably in constructing and complicating her sōphrosynē. Biraud (1985, 24-27) suggests that Callirhoe’s assimilation with Helen on the one hand and Penelope on the other underlines the ambi-

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guity in the heroine’s character. This is correct as far as it goes, but what is important is the fact that the merely implicit nature of Penelope’s presence repeatedly invites the reader to adopt a ‘deeper’ reading than that which the text literally tells him/her. Callirhoe’s explicit association with Helen draws attention to the fact that her sōphrosynē, explicitly addressed in many instances throughout the novel,42 is indeed complicated by her marriage to Dionysius. On the other hand, the reader knows that this marriage is the result of necessity. The paradigm of Penelope suggests that, in her heart, Callirhoe always remains faithful to Chaereas. It is no coincidence that this paradigm appears when Callirhoe is the object of lustful male gazes. In these passages, the narrator implicitly draws attention to the fact that Callirhoe, like Penelope, remains faithful to her husband. However, other elements in Chariton’s novel point to the fact that we should not read a clear-cut distinction between Helen and Penelope into Callirhoe’s character. In fact, both Penelope and Helen are ambiguous paradigms of Callirhoe in their own right. Penelope not only has a reputation for marital fidelity, but also for intelligence, resourcefulness and cunning (mētis).43 In particular, her silence to Odysseus about her occasional complicity with the suitors (Od. 15,20-4, 18,158-165, 19,535-53) is echoed by Callirhoe’s behaviour towards Chaereas after their reunion. When recounting the story of her past adventures to Chaereas, she is silent and ashamed when arriving at her marriage with Dionysius (ἐσιώπησεν αἰδουμένη, 8,1,15) and manages to appease Chaereas’ innate jealousy with the story about their child. Furthermore, she hides from Chaereas her letter of farewell to Dionysius. In both episodes, Callirhoe’s motivation is Chaereas’ innate jealousy (τῆς ἐμφύτου ζηλοτυπίας, 8,1,15; τὴν ἔμφυτον ζηλοτυπίαν, 8,4,4), a verbal echo that cannot be overlooked. At this point, the reader has repeatedly been invited to assimilate Callirhoe with Penelope in episodes bearing upon her marital fidelity. It is more than tempting to assume that Callirhoe’s silence to Chaereas about her life with Dionysius again echoes this epic paradigm. Penelope, then, underlies not only Callirhoe’s sōphrosynē, but also the social and emotional control that she manages to establish over her husband when narrativizing her sōphrosynē to him. Callirhoe’s association with Helen is equally ambivalent in its own right. As we have indicated above, the courtroom scene in Babylon brings out differences, rather than similarities, between the two women. The importan————— 42

43

Callirhoe’s sōphrosynē is mentioned explicitly by the primary narrator (6,4,10), by Callirhoe herself (1,14,10, 2,10,7, 2,11,5) and also by other characters (2,9,1, 5,6,7). See Winkler 1990, 129-161.

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ce of such differences is more fully explored when Dionysius aligns Callirhoe with Helen. He explains to Leonas that, for a moment, he considered himself happier than Menelaus, not only because Callirhoe is more beautiful than Helen (οὐδὲ γὰρ τὴν Ἑλένην εὔμορφον οὕτως ὑπολαμβάνω γεγονέναι, 2,6,1), but also because she is so adept at rhetorical persuasion (ἡ τῶν λόγων πειθώ). At the level of argument function, the latter assertion probably refers to the fact that Callirhoe has recently persuaded him to promise that he would send her back to her native country, although he himself is utterly unhappy with this prospect (2,6,1). Her persuasive tactics include appeals to Dionysius’ Greekness, philanthropy, and paideia (Ἕλλην γὰρ εἶ καὶ πόλεως φιλανθρώπου καὶ παιδείας μετείληφας, 2,5,11), all of which she identifies as characteristics of which her release would be an index. She even presents her release as an aspect that would align Dionysius with Odysseus’ Phaeacian host Alcinous – a rhetorical strategy involving an appeal to both philanthropy and paideia.44 Moreover, this Homeric paradigm testifies to the fact that Callirhoe herself is characterized by an equally well-developed paideia. Callirhoe, in other words, implicitly aligns herself with her host and makes it virtually impossible for him to keep a pepaideumenē captive. Conversely, she presents a possible refusal to let her go as an act that would align Dionysius with the tomb robbers who sold her in Miletus (τοῖς τυμβωρύχοις ὅμοιος, 2,5,11). Finally, she assures her new master that he would earn a good deal of money by returning her to her father, whom she portrays as ‘not ungrateful’ (οὐκ ... ἀχάριστος, 2,5,11), thus transforming her request into an offer that cannot be refused. In short, it is not surprising that Dionysius is impressed by the woman’s rhetorical skills. At the level of key function, on the other hand, the emphasis on these skills enacts the traditional ambiguity surrounding Helen‘s characterization in antiquity. Different versions of the myth give different accounts of her responsibility in accompanying Paris to Troy. Whereas the tragedians mostly condemn her for adultery, other versions, and most notably Stesichorus’ palinode, adopt a more exonerative stance.45 Chariton, for his part, seems to invert the tradition that highlights the role of Paris’ peithō in seducing Helen to leave her husband:46 in this episode, Callirhoe is not the object but the subject of rhetorical persuasion. Moreover, she adopts rhetorical persuasion precisely to return to her hus————— 44 45

46

See also Hirschberger 2001, 174. See Laplace 1980, 85-88, OCD3 s.v. Helen. Stesichorus’ version is taken up by Euripides in Helena. On this Euripidean intertext, see Hirschberger 2001, 166, Marini 1993, Haynes 2003, 48, and Ruiz-Montero 20032, 50. On the ambiguity surrounding Helen’s characterization already in Homer, see Reichel 1999. See, for example, Gorg. Hel. 8ff. on the power of speech.

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band, which evokes Helen’s famous monologue in a rhetorical agōn in Euripides’ Trojan Women (914-965). This interplay generates a double dynamic. Firstly, Dionysius is exposed as misreading the various associations in this passage. Whereas he aligns himself with Menelaus, the reader observes that his evocation of this mythological episode casts Chaereas in the role of Menelaus, and Dionysius in that of Paris.47 Secondly, the paradigm’s key function is relevant to Callirhoe’s characterization. Whereas her association with the mythical woman who left her husband for Paris might at first sight seem to compromise her marital fidelity, the focus on her rhetorical abilities simultaneously challenges such a reading. The paradigm of Helen, therefore, highlights the complexity and ambiguity informing Callirhoe’s characterization, pointing to the impossibility of unequivocally coming to terms with the heroine’s character. Penelope and Helen are not the only paradigms moulding Callirhoe’s sōphrosynē. Chaereas’ association with Patroclus also evokes an intertextual interplay that is relevant in this respect. When Callirhoe, as a slave of Dionysius in Miletus, deliberates about the future of her unborn child, Chaereas appears to her in a dream, telling her that he entrusts his child to her care: A vision of Chaereas stood over her, like him in every way, like to him in stature and fair looks (μέγεθός τε καὶ ὄμματα κάλ’ ἐϊκυῖα) and voice, and wearing just such clothes (καὶ φωνήν, καὶ τοῖα περὶ χροῒ εἵματα ) (2,9,6) At Il. 23,66-7, this description refers to Patroclus, who appears to Achilles in a dream, reproaching him for not having buried his corpse. Like Callirhoe, Achilles complies with the request made in the dream. The obvious difference between the two passages is that Chaereas, unlike Patroclus, is still alive. Chaereas’ second assimilation with Patroclus, on the other hand, occurs when Callirhoe and Dionysius think that he has died in the attack on his ship in Miletus. At this point, Dionysius encourages Callirhoe to build a tomb for her deceased husband: ‘Imagine that he [Chaereas] is standing over you saying ‘Bury me so that I may pass through the gates of Hades as soon as possi————— 47

This miscasting is recurrent in Dionysius’ characterization. At a later stage in the novel, Dionysius again miscasts himself in the role of Menelaus. When travelling to Babylon with Callirhoe, he is concerned about the many admirers that his wife’s beauty will attract. As an example a fortiori, he mentions Menelaus’ inability to keep his wife with him even in the chaste city of Sparta (Μενέλαος ἐν τῇ σώφρονι Σπάρτῃ τὴν Ἑλένην οὐκ ἐτήρησεν, 5,2,8). In fact, Dionysius is taking a Greek woman away from her Greek environment towards the East, which aligns him, of course, with Paris.

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ble’ (“θάπτε με, ὅττι τάχιστα πύλας Ἀΐδαο περήσω”)’ (4,1,3). Chaereas’ (imagined) words in Dionysius’ speech are a verbal echo from the very same words of Patroclus urging Achilles to bury him (Il. 23,71). The implicit assimilation of Chaereas with Patroclus at this point in the story functions on different levels. Firstly, at the level of argument function, Dionysius’ reason for associating Chaereas with a dead person is psychologically connected with his reasons for encouraging Callirhoe to bury Chaereas with the usual rituals (despite the absence of the corpse). As the primary narrator points out, Dionysius wants to arouse Callirhoe’s sympathy by showing his concern (4,1,3-4), but he also wants his wife to reconcile herself for good with her first husband’s death (4,1,2). Not only his proposal of a funeral ceremony, but also his evocation of a dead paradigm are meant to encourage Callirhoe to abandon the hope of seeing Chaereas again.48 In this respect, then, Dionysius’ choice of the paradigm is informed by his attempt to establish psychological control over Callirhoe. At the level of key function, on the other hand, the reader knows all along that Chaereas has actually survived the attack on his ship (see, for example, 4,1,1). It is therefore significant that Chaereas’ assimilation with the dead Patroclus is reactivated by another Homeric paradigm precisely when Dionysius finds out that Chaereas is not dead after all. When Chaereas appears in the courtroom in Babylon, Dionysius cannot believe his own eyes and cries out: ‘What Protesilaus is this who has come back to life to plague me?’ (‘ποῖος οὗτος ἐπ’ ἐμοῦ Προτεσίλεως ἀνεβίω;’, 5,10,1). Protesilaus, the leader of the Thessalians, was the first Greek to land, and die, at Troy. After his death, however, he repeatedly returned to his wife Laodamia.49 Similarly, Chaereas appears in this scene to see his wife for the first time since his alleged death in Miletus. The use of this paradigm in Dionysius’ character text enacts a telling contrast with the earlier mention of Patroclus. Whereas Patroclus indexes Dionysius’ attempt to erase Chaereas’ presence from Callirhoe’s mind, the figure of Protesilaus marks the futility of this attempt. When he beholds Chaereas and compares him to Protesilaus, Dionysius sees with his own eyes that, although Callirhoe has agreed to erect a tomb for Chaereas, his attempt to banish him from her life for good has ultimately been unsuccessful. ————— 48

49

Hirschberger 2001, 175 acknowledges the psychological importance of this paradigm but sees it as an indication of Dionysius’ own desires (‘Dionysios wünscht nichts sehnlicher, als dass Chaireas möglichst schnell in den Hades komme’) rather than as a technique for psychologically controlling Callirhoe. Il. 2,698-702. See OCD³ s.v. Protesilaus, LIMC s.v. Protesilaus.

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The two passages evoking Patroclus as a paradigm for Chaereas, then, are meaningfully connected. In both cases, the dead Patroclus serves as a paradigm for the living Chaereas. More importantly, Callirhoe eventually complies with each of the requests made to her. She follows Chaereas’ advice to keep the unborn child (2,9,6), and she is persuaded by Dionysius to erect a tomb for Chaereas (4,1,4). She makes the former decision, however, with the full knowledge that it will directly lead to her ‘new’ marriage to Dionysius. Thus, by taking into account Chaereas’ (Patroclus’) advice in her dream, she buries Chaereas, not in the literal sense of the second passage, but in a metaphorical sense. In both cases, the evocation of Patroclus’ desire to be buried results in Callirhoe’s (metaphorical and literal) burial of Chaereas. Chaereas’ assimilation with Patroclus, then, draws the reader’s attention to Callirhoe’s transgressive status as the wife of two husbands. Like her own assimilation with Helen, Chaereas’ assimilation with Patroclus evokes the problematic nature of the heroine’s sōphrosynē. To conclude: when examining earlier literature in the Greek novels, one important aspect is surely the novelists’ engagement with paradigms. In this article, we have focussed on a number of paradigms that inform the construction of sōphrosynē in some of the protagonists’ characterization. This characteristic is commonly accepted as one of the hallmarks of the genre and has contributed to the overall classification of these novels as ‘ideal’. First, we have identified two novelistic passages that clearly thematize the hermeneutical dynamics underlying the use of paradigms in general and also point to the ambiguity involved in their interpretation. Subsequently, we have shown that a number of paradigms in Xenophon of Ephesus, Achilles Tatius and Chariton evoke interplays between Eigenbedeutung and Ernstbedeutung on the one hand and between argument function and key function on the other, and that these interplays undermine ideal readings of the passages concerned. These paradigms, then, can be read as disconcerting signposts that take the characteristic sōphrosynē beyond the topical, generic prescriptions of the genre.50

————— 50

We thank Konstantin Doulamis for inviting us to contribute to this volume. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Classics Department of the University of Wales Lampeter. We thank Owen Hodkinson for the invitation and the audience for their useful comments.

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Garnaud, J.P. (ed. & trans.) 19952. Achille Tatius d’Alexandrie. Le roman de Leucippé et Clitophon, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Haynes, K. 2003. Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel, London: Routledge. Hirschberger, M. 2001. ‘Epos und Tragödie in Charitons Kallirhoe. Ein Beitrag zur Intertextualität des griechischen Romans’, WJA 25, 157-186. Holzberg, N. 20063. Der antike Roman. Eine Einführung, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Jones, M. 2004. ‘The wisdom of Egypt: base and heavenly magic in Heliodoros’ Aithiopika’, AN 4, 79-98. Konstan, D. 1994. Sexual Symmetry. Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Laplace, M.M.J. 1980. ‘Les légendes troyennes dans le “roman” de Chariton Chairéas et Callirhoé’, REG 93, 83-125. Lausberg, H. 19732. Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik, Munich: Hüber. Lausberg, H. 1998. Handbook of Literary Rhetoric. A Foundation for Literary Study. Foreword by G.A. Kennedy. Translated by M.T. Bliss, A. Jansen & D.A. Orton. Edited by D.A. Orton & R.D. Anderson, Leiden – Boston – Köln: Brill. Létoublon, F. 1993. Les lieux communs du roman. Stéréotypes grecs d’aventure et d’amour, Leiden – New York – Köln: Brill. Manuwald, G. 2000. ‘Zitate als Mittel des Erzählens – zur Darstellungstechnik Charitons in seinem Roman Kallirhoe’, WJA 24, 97-122. Marini, N. 1993. ‘Il personaggio di Calliroe come ‘nuova Elena’ e la mediazione comica di un passo euripideo’, SIFC 11, 205-215. Morgan, J.R. 1997. ‘Erotika mathemata: Greek romance as sentimental education’, in: A.H. Sommerstein and C. Atherton (eds.), Education in Greek Fiction, Bari: Levante Editori, 163-189. O’Sullivan, J.N. (ed.) 2005. Xenophon Ephesius. De Anthia et Habrocome Ephesiacorum libri V, München – Leipzig: Saur. Perry, B.E. 1967. The Ancient Romances: a Literary-Historical Account on their Origins, Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Rattenbury, R.M., Lumb, T.W. (eds.) and Maillon, J. (trans.) 19943, 19602 and 19913. Héliodore. Les Éthiopiques (3 vols.), Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. (ed.) 2004. Chariton Aphrodisiensis. De Callirhoe narrationes amatoriae, München – Leipzig: Saur. Reardon, B.P. (trans.) 20082. ‘Chariton. Chaereas and Callirhoe’, in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press, 17-124. Reichel, M. 1999. ‘Die homerische Helenagestalt aus motivgeschichtlicher und motivvergleichender Sicht’, in: J.N. Kazazis and A. Rengakos (eds.), Euphrosyne. Studies in Ancient Epic and its Legacy in Honor of D. N. Maronitis, Stuttgart: Steiner, 291–307. Robiano, P. 2000. ‘La citation poétique dans le roman érotique grec’, REA 102, 509-529. Rohde, E. 19143. Der Griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel. Ruiz-Montero, C. 20032. ‘The rise of the Greek novel’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden – New York – Köln: Brill, 29-85. Sandy, G. 1982. ‘Characterisation and philosophical décor in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, TAPhA 112, 141-167. Schmeling, G. 1980. Xenophon of Ephesus, Boston: Twayne.

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Smith, S.D. 2007. Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton: The Romance of Empire. AN Suppl. 9, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing. Winkler, J.J. 1990. The Constraints of Desire: the Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece, London – New York: Routledge. Winkler, J.J. (trans.) 20082. ‘Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon’, in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press, 170-284. Yatromanolakis, Y. 1988. ‘Baskanos Eros: love and the evil-eye in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, in: R. Beaton (ed.), The Greek Novel AD 1-1985, London: Croom Helm, 194-204.

Forensic Oratory and Rhetorical Theory in Chariton Book 5 K ONSTANTIN D OULAMIS University College Cork

1. Introduction Scholarly opinion of Chariton’s Callirhoe has changed significantly in recent years, and what used to be regarded as a poor example of the Greek romance has now begun to emerge as a text of considerable sophistication. None the less, there are several aspects of this work that still require closer attention. The novel’s rhetorical character is one of them;1 perhaps surprisingly so, considering that Callirhoe features a relatively high number of rhetorical set pieces such as speeches, monologues, and letters, and given Chariton’s opening self-identification as secretary of a rhētōr named Athenagoras (1,1,1).2 This chapter is concerned with the use of rhetoric in Callirhoe. My aim is to show that attention to Classical forensic oratory as well as to Chariton’s (near-) contemporary rhetorical theory can give us a better understanding of this novel and of the novelist’s compositional technique. Owing to obvious space restrictions, my analysis will focus on the trial scene of Book 5, which I believe to be particularly privileged for the study of rhetoric in this work. ————— 1

2

Notable exceptions include Doulamis 2001; Doulamis 2002; and Smith 2007, 120-152, who revisits the influence of Lysias 1 on Chariton and also considers the presence in this novel of allusions to other Attic orators. See also Webb 2007, part of which is concerned with rhetoric in Chariton. On evidence of Chariton’s knowledge of progymnasmata, see Hock 1997 and Hock 2005, esp. 23-36. The sporadic attention that the relationship between Chariton and Attic oratory has received so far has mainly focused on the adultery case of Book 1. Kapparis 2000, 380-383 sees in Callirhoe 1,4,1-1,6,1 the influence of various elements from Lysias 1, but his views have been met with scepticism in Porter 2003. See Hock 1997 on the importance of paying closer attention to rhetoric in the Greek novels. Cf. Laird 2008 on why ‘apprehension of rhetorical style proves central to an understanding of the nature of ancient fiction’ (p. 216). Echoing Narratives, 21–48

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2. The Speeches of the Trial Episode in Book 5: Structure and Content Nowhere else in Chariton’s novel are oratory and rhetoric more conspicuously at play than in the trial episode of Book 5. This, of course, is not the only trial scene in Chariton.3 It is, however, by far the most important trial for the advancement of the plot.4 Its significance is reflected in the elaborate way it is introduced and presented, in its strategic positioning in the novel’s central book, and in the sheer length of this episode, which occupies pretty much one whole book. At the narrative level, the trial scene of Book 5 serves a number of important purposes. First and foremost, it facilitates Chaereas’ (momentary) return into Callirhoe’s life while also raising questions about the legality of Dionysius’ marriage to the heroine. The latter carries special significance, because it marks the beginning of the end for the relationship between Dionysius and Callirhoe. Out of all ‘rival’ characters featuring in the surviving ‘canonical’ Greek novels Dionysius is probably the most successful, for not only has he avoided outright rejection by the object of his desire, which is the usual fate of other suitors in Chariton, but he has also married the heroine and started a family with her. Consequently, he has come to pose a huge threat to the almost obligatory happy ending of the novel, which invariably wants the protagonists reunited in marital bliss. This is precisely why it is extremely important that he be eliminated in the build-up to the novel’s happy finale,5 and the trial scene of Book 5 makes a significant contribution to that by setting in motion the process that will gradually restore Chaereas in his rightful place as Callirhoe’s only legitimate husband. But there is a lot more going on in this legal agōn than may be obvious at a first glance. A closer look at the structure and content of the speeches delivered in the course of the trial reveals them both to be carefully shaped rhetorical pieces, comprising what in ancient Greek rhetorical theory had been identified as some of the main sections of a forensic oration already in Aristotle’s time. In what follows I shall demonstrate how the argument is ————— 3

4

5

In Book 1 Chaereas is acquitted of his wife’s murder, and in Book 2 Theron is tried for kidnapping Callirhoe. See Reardon 1999, 170-171. On trials in the Greek novels (and in the Acts) see Schwartz 2004, complete with a handy table of all trial scenes; cf. Schwartz 1998, which offers an extensive discussion of courtroom scenes in the Greek novels. On the importance of the happy ending in Chariton’s novel and how the whole narrative is geared towards enhancing the suspense in anticipation of the finale, see Doulamis 2011.

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constructed and presented in each speech, which will also serve as the basis for further analysis later in this chapter. A) Dionysius (the prosecutor): 1. Prooimion6 (5,6,1). 1.1. Expression of gratitude to the King for honouring the speaker and his wife, and for upholding the institution of marriage in general. 1.2. Praise of the King’s sense of justice for not allowing a private citizen to be wronged by a satrap. 1.3. Mithridates’ conviction and punishment will serve as an example to others. 2. Pisteis7 (5,6,2-5). 2.1. Arguments based on the nature of Mithridates’ crime (5,6,2-3). 2.1.1. Mithridates’ crime is more serious than the average charge brought before the King’s court, because a) it was committed by a friend and a guest, and b) the target was Dionysius’ dearest possession, his wife. 2.1.2. Mithridates should not have committed this crime a) out of friendship to Dionysius, and b) out of respect for the King. 2.2. Arguments based on the nature of the Persian legal system (5,6,3-5). 2.2.1. Dionysius has faith a) in the legal system of the Persian Empire, and b) in the King’s impartiality, and is not afraid of the defendant’s appeals, power, and preparation for this trial. ————— 6

7

This is the Aristotelian term referring to the proem of a rhetorical speech as one of its constituent parts (Rhet. 1,1,9); the term is to be distinguished from the prologos, the introduction of tragedy or comedy (Rhet. 3,14,1). Used by Aristotle in the sense of ‘(rhetorical) proofs’ (Rhet. 1,1,11) and regarded as an indispensable part of a rhetorical speech (Rhet. 3,13,4). In her division of Dionysius’ speech, Schwartz 1998, 87 includes in the proem what I believe constitutes the argument of the speech, so that the narration follows the prologue, as was customary in real-life oratory. Hock 1997, 463, too, sees the narrative as following the introduction and preceding the ‘proof’ section. The problem with this division, however, is that it makes Dionysius’ speech appear rather unusual, lacking almost entirely a main body which would normally contain the prosecutor’s arguments against the defendant. Although in many of the surviving forensic speeches the diēgēsis indeed follows the proem or the outline of the argument (prothesis), nevertheless we also know of cases where the narration either follows the argument instead of preceding it (Lys. 16) or is interwoven with it in the main section of the speech (Lys. 19) or even forms part of the prologue (Lys. 22). The placing of the narration after the pisteis section in Dionysius’ speech should not be regarded, therefore, as a peculiarity.

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2.2.2.

Failure to convict Mithridates will seriously undermine the King’s authority.

3. Diēgēsis8 (5,6,5-8). A brief account of the events that led to the interception by Dionysius of Mithridates’ ‘forged’ letter and brought about this trial. 4. Lysis9 (5,6,9). Either Chaereas is alive or Mithridates is an adulterer. Mithridates cannot claim that he was unaware of Chaereas’ death, because he had attended his funeral in Miletus. 5. Epilogos10 (5,6,10). 5.1. Public reading of the (first line of the) letter ‘forged’ by Mithridates, claiming that Chaereas, the sender, is alive. 5.2. The defendant is challenged to produce evidence that Chaereas is not dead. If he succeeds in doing so, then he should be acquitted. 5.3. Appeal to the King to take into account Mithridates’ shameless act of ‘forging’ the signature of a deceased man (Chaereas), in addition to committing adultery. B) Mithridates (the defendant): 1. Prooimion (5,7,1). Treble appeal to the King: 1.1. Appeal to his sense of justice and compassion. 1.2. Appeal to hear both sides before reaching a verdict. 1.3 Appeal to ignore Dionysius’ false accusations. 2. Pisteis (5,7,2-6). 2.1. This is the first charge that has ever been brought against the defendant. ————— 8

9

10

Identified by Aristotle as one of the main sections of a forensic speech (Rhet. 1,1,9 and 3,13,3). Aristotle uses the term to mean ‘refutation of arguments’ in general (Rhet. 2,22,14; 2,25; 3,14,7). According to Aristotle, the function of lysis in forensic oratory is to anticipate (and destroy in a pre-emptive refutation) the arguments that the opponent is likely to use (Rhet. 3,17,14-15). The term employed by Aristotle to indicate the peroration of a speech (Rhet. 3,13,3).

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2.2. Answer to the claim that his public office should have stopped him from committing adultery. 2.2.1. Even if he had been immoral before being appointed a satrap, the high office with which the King entrusted him would have made him a better man. 2.2.2. It would have been senseless of him to sacrifice his office and position of power for merely moments of pleasure. 2.3. Answer to the charge that he seduced Dionysius’ wife. 2.3.1. Dionysius is not bringing a charge against Mithridates on behalf of a legal wife but of a slave, and therefore the adultery law is not applicable in this case. 2.3.2. Callirhoe’s certificate of emancipation issued by Theron is proof that Callirhoe is Dionysius’ slave, not wife. If Dionysius claims that Callirhoe was free when he bought her, then that would make him a kidnapper. 2.3.3. Although Mithridates could raise an objection (paragraphē) to the legality of the trial, he will nevertheless make the concession to plead his case as if legally accused of seducing Dionysius’ rightful wife. 2.3.4. Mithridates stands accused not of a committed crime but of intended adultery, with which he cannot be charged. 2.4. Answer to the accusation of forgery arising from the reading of Chaereas’ letter as evidence. 2.4.1. The supportive evidence (Chaereas’ letter) provided by the prosecutor is irrelevant to the charge of adultery. 2.4.2. The handwriting of the letter does not match Mithridates’ handwriting. 3. Epilogos (5,7,7 and 5,7,10). 3.1. Appeal to Dionysius to recant and withdraw all charges, and warning that failure to do so might result in him facing the charge of adultery himself.11 3.2. Appeal to the deities of Heaven and of the Underworld to produce Chaereas alive in court.

————— 11

At this point Dionysius’ flat refusal to comply with the defendant’s appeal briefly interrupts Mithridates, who then immediately proceeds with the concluding section of his defence; I take the latter to be part of Mithridates’ epilogos.

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3. Echoes of Classical Oratory An examination of the arguments advanced by the two speakers against the backdrop of surviving forensic orations from the Classical period reveals that several of the points made by Dionysius and Mithridates can be traced back to well-known speeches. In this section I shall illustrate this with representative – although by no means exhaustive – examples. First, we notice that both speakers begin their address with a blatant attempt to curry favour with the judge: Dionysius apostrophises the King, while Mithridates resorts to a treble appeal. This was not uncommon in Classical oratory, as demonstrated by the direct plea for a just hearing, for example, at Andocides 1,1-2, Lysias 19,2, even Isocrates 15,9-13. Sometimes an appeal for sympathy is placed in or towards the closing section of a speech for added emphasis, as is the case at Lysias 24,21-23, where the defendant openly requests the benevolence of the jurors. Dionysius’ mention of his opponent’s dynamis and paraskeuē (5,6,4),12 which, combined with his technē epiboulēs (5,6,7), is meant to support the argument that Mithridates has an unfair advantage over the prosecutor, echoes Lysias 19,2 (‘You see, of course, the artifice (παρασκευήν) and the alacrity (προθυμίαν) of my enemies; of these there is no need to speak’)13 and Andocides 1,1 (‘the systematic and untiring efforts (τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν καὶ τὴν προθυμίαν) of my enemies, gentlemen, to do me every possible injury, by fair means or by foul … are known to almost all of you …’).14 At Aeschines 2,1, too, the speaker mentions the ‘arts (τέχνας) and devices (κατασκευάς)’15 of his opponent and at 2,3 employs the verb paraskeuazō to refer to the accuser’s preparation for the trial: ‘But Demosthenes, I think, is not fond of fair argument, nor is that the sort of preparation he has made (οὐδ᾿ οὕτω παρεσκεύασται)’. The same verb is used at Lysias 24,1 with connotations of an ill-motivated, malicious indictment by the prosecutor: ‘I can almost find it in me to be grateful to my accuser, gentlemen of the Council, for having involved me (ὅτι μοι παρεσκεύασε) in these proceedings’. Mithridates, on the other hand, urges the judge to hear both sides of the story before reaching a verdict, so that he might not be influenced by ‘false accusations (ψευδεῖς διαβολάς)’ which could make the prosecutor’s point ————— 12

13 14 15

Citations are from the Greek edition of Reardon 2004 and from the English translation in Goold 1995, occasionally with minor alterations. Text and translation of Lamb 1930. Text and translation of Maidment 1941. Text and translation of Adams 1919.

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seem ‘more plausible than it really is’. His plea echoes Andocides 1,1 and Isocrates 15,12, but it is at Lysias 19,2-3 that the speaker makes the most of this argument, when he begs the jurors to hear without prejudice both the prosecution and the defence before reaching their verdict. We may also recall here Aeschines 2,1-3, where the speaker’s bid for a just hearing is accompanied by a reminder that a fair verdict can be reached only after the defendant has had the chance to refute the prosecutor’s arguments against him. An additional point of interest is that at 5,7,2 Mithridates draws attention to his honourable past and, in particular, to his sōphrosynē (‘For I have lived all my life virtuously (σωφρόνως), and this is the first charge to be brought against me’), just as the speaker at Aeschines 2,4-5 emphasises the temperate life he had led: ‘This I consider to be the reward that you bestow upon me for a chaste and temperate life (τῶν σεσωφρονημένων ἐν τῷ βίῳ)’. In Lysias 16 the speaker makes a similar claim on two occasions. First at 16,3, where he urges the jury to consider whether he has lived ‘a regular life in all other respects (καὶ περὶ τὰ ἄλλα μετρίως βεβιωκώς) quite contrary to the opinion and statements of my enemies’; and later at 16,11-12, when he draws the jury’s attention to what he regards as ‘the strongest proof I can give of my decorous conduct (τῆς ἐμῆς ἐπιεικείας)’ and stresses that ‘nobody will be able to prove that I have ever been cited in a disgraceful private suit or in public proceedings or in a special impeachment (δίκην αἰσχρὰν οὔτε γραφὴν οὔτε εἰσαγγελίαν γεγενημένην)’. Of course, there is also the famous opening section of Lysias’ Against Eratosthenes, where the speaker praises his family’s honourable past in a very similar fashion, before going on to contrast it with the evil actions of the Thirty (12,4-5). One of the main strategies adopted by Dionysius during the trial in Babylon is to expose the shameless character of Mithridates’ actions (5,6,23). Again this recalls Lysias’ Against Eratosthenes, where a large portion of the argument against the defendant, who, like Mithridates, was in public office when the alleged crime was committed, is an open attack on the defendant’s conduct during his career as a public figure (12,38-77). We may also recall here the extended discussion of Timarchus’ public career at Aeschines 1,106-115, and the prolonged attack on the defendant’s life and character at Lysias 14,23-29. Equally central to Dionysius’ line of prosecution are the narration of the events that led to this trial (5,6,5-8), and a pre-emptive refutation of an argument anticipated from the opponent (5,6,9). Both of these feature in surviving speeches from the Classical period: in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus

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a long section is devoted to some of the opponent’s anticipated arguments (1,116-176); Lysias, too, in Against Eratosthenes, sets out to counteract the anticipated defence argument that Eratosthenes was a friend of Theramenes, before launching an attack on Theramenes’ career (12,50-52 and 12,62-80). One of the points that Dionysius makes is that the judge ought to condemn Mithridates now that he has called him to trial, because in this way he will make an example of him for everyone to see; if, on the other hand, he fails to punish someone who is clearly guilty, he will be held in contempt not only by the defendant but also by his subjects (5,6,5), which paraphrases a point that Dionysius makes in the opening of his speech too (‘so that by punishing his immoral and vicious behaviour towards me you may deter others from acting in the same way’ 5,6,1). Urging the judge to convict the accused party in order to create a precedent that will function as a deterrent in the future is a strong argument found in Lysias 22, where the speaker prompts the jury to punish the defendants, draws the court’s attention to the negative consequences that a possible acquittal of the accused would have, and points out that a conviction will serve as a strong deterrent to prospective lawbreakers (22,17-20). A similar claim is made, somewhat more concisely, at Lysias 1,47.16 In the lysis section of his speech, Dionysius presents the judge with two possible options: ‘one of two things must be true (δεῖ γὰρ δυοῖν θάτερον): either Chaereas is still alive or Mithridates is shown to be a seducer (ἢ Χαιρέαν ζῆν, ἢ Μιθριδάτην ἠλέγχθαι μοιχόν)’ (5,6,9). Dionysius’ reasoning recalls that of Lysias in Against Eratosthenes: ‘For, gentlemen, Eratosthenes must prove one of two things (δυοῖν θάτερον ἀποδεῖξαι), either that he did not arrest him or that he did so with justice (ἢ ὡς οὐκ ἀπήγαγεν αὐτόν, ἢ ὡς δικαίως τοῦτ᾿ ἔπραξεν)’ (12,34). An interesting move on Mithridates’ part is reminding the court that he ‘could have raised an objection to the indictment (παραγράψασθαι τὴν δίκην)’ on the grounds that there is no real case against him, but he ostentatiously declines to do so (5,7,3). Had Mithridates protested the legality of the case by bringing a paragraphē, a reversal of roles would have occurred, with the accuser being ‘prosecuted’ by the defendant for bringing an illegitimate ————— 16

Kapparis 2000, 380-383 discusses possible echoes of Lysias 1 in Chariton’s novel. See also, however, Porter 2003, 433-440, who is sceptical about a direct influence of Lysias 1 upon Chariton, even though he concedes that ‘Chariton has been offering a medley of stock devices from a variety of sources and familiar to his audience as belonging to a generic tradition. Lysias 1 contributes to that tradition […] but it appears to have played only a limited role in the framing of Chariton’s specific narrative’ (p. 440).

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charge against him.17 However, he insists on pleading his case in order to prove his innocence. Claiming the right to object to the legality of a case and yet declining to do so as a means of demonstrating great confidence in one’s innocence is a documented legal manoeuvre aimed primarily at making a favourable impression upon the jurors. At Isaeus 7,3 the defendant claims that he did not put forward an obstructive plea (διαμαρτυρίας) to the case for fear that he might deprive himself of the opportunity to prove his innocence in court. And at Demosthenes 36,2 the defendant denies that he brought a paragraphē with intent to evade the original trial and buy time. Perhaps the most dramatic element of Mithridates’ defence speech is his prayer to the gods to make (the presumed dead) Chaereas miraculously appear in court as a witness. We may assume that concluding a forensic oration with a prayer was not entirely uncommon in real-life legal disputes, if Demosthenes’ On the Crown is anything to go by. There, the speaker begins by beseeching the gods to make the judges hear him impartially (18,1), and concludes with an appeal to the gods either to change the hearts of the traitors or to destroy them (18,324).18 If we accept the translation of rhētoros hypographeus at Chariton 1,1,1 as ‘secretary to a lawyer’19 and take this claim at face value, then Chariton’s self-introduction should go a long way towards explaining his familiarity with legal practices as demonstrated in Book 5 of his novel. However, it is possible that this self-identification may be a fictional claim20 aimed at drawing attention to Chariton’s display of rhetorical virtuosity throughout his work, and, therefore, it would be naïve to attribute his treatment of legal procedures exclusively to what he claims is his ‘day job’. Besides, critics ————— 17

18

19

20

The reference in D. 45,6 may be seen as evidence for the inversion of roles caused by the paragraphē; cf. Isoc. 18,2-3. The legal procedure of paragraphē is discussed extensively in Harrison 1971, 106-124; on the terms paragraphē and diamartyria, see also MacDowell 1978, 214-219 and Todd 1993, 135-138. More recently, Carawan 2001 has looked at paragraphē in Classical Athenian court procedure. See also Heath 2003, 19-23 on the practice of paragraphē in the Graeco-Roman world. Cf. Aeschin. 3,260. See further Bers 2009, 108-114 on oaths and exclamations in Classical Athenian oratory. On the meaning of the term rhētor in the Empire, see Pernot 2005, 187-188; on the term used in Chariton’s self-identification, see Pernot 2005, 201. Doulamis 2011 argues that the narrating voice at the start of the novel is not necessarily the voice of the author but that of a narratorial persona. On this premise, Chariton’s selfintroduction as a ‘legal clerk’ would serve to draw attention to his association with oratory and, therefore, with rhetorical theory and practice. This would be consistent with the idea that the text contains further allusions to the stylisation of the speeches under discussion, on which see further below, section 5.

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have already raised questions about the realism of this entire trial episode and the legal system that Chariton might have had in mind.21 Indeed, there are a few peculiarities to be noted briefly here. That the rhetorical addresses under discussion are considerably shorter than any of the surviving orations of the Classical period may be accounted for by the fact that these are speeches embedded in a narrative. This may also explain the fact that the courtroom speeches in Chariton comprise only the basic parts of a rhetorical oration, therefore lacking important sections such as a statement of what the speaker proposes to prove, known as the prothesis,22 or a digression providing an opportunity to supply supporting evidence. Further peculiarities in the trial as a whole include the lack of witnesses from both sides (with the exception of Chaereas, who acts as a ‘surprise’ witness on behalf of Mithridates but does not testify), the limited amount of information on the character of the litigants, and the lack of personal details which are usually intended to show, on the one hand, the accuser’s status as a virtuous and law-abiding citizen, and, on the other hand, the defendant’s evil and criminal nature. More importantly, the very legal basis of the trial is anomalous. Dionysius’ accusation against Mithridates is of adultery (μοιχεία), even though Mithridates has only seen Callirhoe once and there has been no contact between the two, which surprisingly, is also acknowledged by the accuser himself (5,4,1). We are therefore presented with a paradoxical case of ‘adultery’, where the charge brought against Mithridates is not of a committed crime but, rather, of ‘intended adultery’, as he himself points out in his defence speech (5,7,5-6). The finale of the trial is no less paradoxical, with Chaereas’ grand entrance followed by a petty, stichomythic argument between (bigamous) Callirhoe’s husbands (5,8,4-6).23 This means that the legal case brought before the great King of Persia, anxiously anticipated and attended by thousands of ————— 21

22

23

Karabélias 1988, 391-396 argues that this whole trial is a subversion of the adultery/murder trial motif, draws attention to the case’s legal peculiarities and labels the trial a ‘procès imaginaire’. Fusillo 1989, 79-80 also notes that the seemingly realistic nature of the forensic speeches is undermined by elements such as the theatrical character of this entire trial scene. And Schwartz 2003 detects Roman elements in some of the formal proceedings followed during the trial in question. Aristotle identifies the prothesis as an important section of a rhetorical speech (Rhet. 3,13,2). The fact that this amusing verbal exchange recalls an Old Comic agōn has long been noted by Anderson 1982, 19-20.

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people,24 set in the capital of the vast and powerful Persian Empire, and held with all the proper solemnities of a Greek courthouse, degenerates into a semi-comical fight between Callirhoe’s two husbands over whose wife she really is. Legal inaccuracies and other perceived inconsistencies matter little, however, because, clearly, the novelist’s primary concern is not to reconstruct a real-life trial with genuine, full-length speeches or to give a full account of the events concerning this case, but merely to add a legal flavour to his novel thereby satisfying his audience’s appetite for courtroom drama.25 In order to do so, Chariton does not look to the legal practices of his time, but, rather, draws on his knowledge of canonically prescribed Classical orators; a knowledge that he would have acquired through the medium of his contemporary rhetorical theory, which, I will argue next, he also utilises for the stylisation of Dionysius’ and Mithridates’ address. For, in addition to spicing up the action with legal drama, it seems to me that this courtroom episode serves two very important purposes: it gives Chariton the opportunity to showcase his rhetorical skill in a way that is typical of Second Sophistic authors, while also supplying much-appreciated rhetorical entertainment to his sophisticated reader. In the section that follows, I shall demonstrate how this is achieved.

4. Book 5 and the Rhetorical Theory of the Empire So far we have seen that the two speeches under discussion in Chariton Book 5 appear to make use of arguments and legal strategies known to us from Classical forensic oratory. But many of these devices also form part of wellknown rhetorical prescriptions used by teachers of rhetoric, and as such are included in the rhetorical handbooks of the Empire. Recent scholarship has drawn attention to a relatively high degree of correspondence between rhetorical speeches in Chariton and Aristotle’s prescription for the mode of argument in accusatory and defence speeches as laid out in his Rhetoric,26 which strongly suggests that Chariton’s deployment of rhetorical techniques ————— 24 25

26

4,7,5-6; 5,4,1-4; 5,5,8. As Schwartz 2004, 132 puts it, ‘in sensational narratives, such as one finds in the Greek novels […], courtroom scenes reflect a world in which juridical processes had become entertainment for the masses’. I disagree, however, with Helms 1966, 133-134 that ‘Chariton sketches one of the most realistic […] scenes of his romance’ for the reasons I have explained above in this section. Schwartz 1998, 87ff.

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is informed not only by oratory but also by rhetorical theory. In this section I want to argue that close attention to the rhetorical treatises of the Empire can be the key to understanding the reception of forensic oratory in Chariton Book 5 and the way the novelist employs rhetoric in general. First, Dionysius’ introductory praise to the King for his sense of justice and for bringing Mithridates to trial accords with Apsines’ advice to begin a speech by praising the audience for a commendable act they have performed. This, according to Apsines, will create in the audience a favourable predisposition towards the present case and render the speech more persuasive.27 Addressing the judge at the outset of a speech is also one of the types of prologues recommended by Rufus.28 Dionysius’ concluding challenge to Mithridates to prove that Chaereas is alive is not coincidental either. What Dionysius employs at the close of his speech is a rhetorical device known as elenchōn apaitēsis (‘demand for evidence’) the aim of which was to cause embarrassment to the opponent by making a demand for witnesses or proof that could not be produced. This stratagem is well-documented in the rhetorical handbooks. A definition of the term is provided by Sopater29 and also by Hermogenes in his discussion of ‘conjecture’,30 while Libanius supplies a carefully elaborated example of its effective use.31 Mithridates’ objection to the validity of the entire adultery case, on the basis of Callirhoe’s status not as Dionysius’ wife but as his slave, is also a move familiar to us from the rhetorical tradition; termed antithesis, it is defined as a counter-charge used in the rebuttal of an accusation. Both Sopater32 and Hermogenes33 provide examples relating to this. As mentioned in section 3 above, Mithridates points out that he could object to the charge brought against him. Claiming that a case should not be tried (but getting on with the trial nevertheless) is a tactical move known from rhetorical treatises as to paragraphesthai.34 Interestingly, it is thought ————— 27 28 29 30

31

32 33 34

Rh. 1,6,331-333. Rh. 1,9,464. Rh. 8,7,18. Hermog. Stat. 45-46,7 (The numbers refer to pages of Rabe 1913). For a translation and commentary on this, see Heath 1995, 36-37 and 252. Liban. Decl. 44. For a commentary on this declamation along with a translation, see Heath 1995, 156-175. Rh. 8,378. Hermog. Stat. 90-92. See the section on metalēpsis in Russell 1983, 60-63. Heath 2003 conducts a thorough investigation of metalēpsis and paragraphē in the rhetorical theory of the Roman period, complete with relevant sources in a series of appendices.

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that this kind of opening plea would be advanced in cases where ‘there can hardly be more than a distant hope of its succeeding, and the speaker has other arguments ready and proceeds to them without much delay’.35 This may explain why the rhetoricians of the Roman period warn that resorting to a paragraphē may be perceived by the audience and jury as a sign of lack of confidence in one’s own argument.36 Even though Mithridates’ claim that he could have entered a paragraphē is hardly a bluff in this case, since it is clear that he would have had no difficulty challenging the legality of the prosecutor’s case, nevertheless declining ostentatiously to bring a paragraphē serves to underline further his innocence by invoking the treatment of this manoeuvre as suspicious in the rhetorical theory of the Roman period. With regard to the closing statement of each address, Hermogenes’ prescription for the successful closure of a speech in his discussion of ‘conjecture’ is enlightening here. According to Hermogenes, the prosecutor ought to attack the offence one last time, preferably with supporting evidence, and expose the crime allegedly committed by the defendant,37 while the latter is advised to make one last attempt to gain sympathy by producing a child, a wife, a friend or somebody else whose presence in court will have an emotive effect on the jury.38 The epilogue of both Dionysius’ and Mithridates’ speech in Chariton accords with Hermogenes’ rhetorical advice. On the one hand, Dionysius concludes by presenting Chaereas’ letter as evidence and by drawing attention to the shamelessness of the defendant’s crime, while Mithridates brings his address to a close with an invocation to the gods to produce Callirhoe’s first husband Chaereas, who was presumed dead. Both concluding statements are obviously intended to have an emotive effect. Rhetorical theory can be revealing with respect not only to the content but also to the stylisation of rhetorical speeches in Chariton.39 That Dionysius’ address is relatively plain and unembellished compared to the extravagant oration delivered by Mithridates becomes obvious even on a first reading, and critics have noted in passing the striking difference of style between the two speeches in question.40 It has also been observed that Dionysius’ speech has a lot that links it with the plain style associated with Lysias, whereas Mithridates’ speech is strongly characterised by an overly elaborate ————— 35 36 37 38 39 40

Russell 1983, 60. See Heath 2003, 8. Hermog. Stat. 52,6-14. Hermog. Stat. 52,14-53,13. Cf. Quint. 6,1,30-33 on external devices for moving pity. See for example Doulamis 2001. Goold 1995, 265 note b; Alvares 2000, 384.

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style pointing to Asianic oratory.41 What no-one has done thus far, however, is conduct a close stylistic analysis of these speeches and consider the implications that such an analysis may have for our understanding of this entire episode and for the portrayal of its protagonists.42 In the remainder of this section, then, I want to examine the style of the two speeches under discussion against the backdrop of Imperial rhetorical treatises. I shall begin with Dionysius’ accusatory speech, which appears to embody the main characteristics of the ‘plain style of composition’. We are very fortunate to have fairly detailed descriptions of simplicity and its stylemarkers, clarity, vividness and persuasiveness, an exemplary combination of which ancient rhetoricians found in the speeches of Lysias. According to rhetorical prescriptions, a simple narration of events always contributes to clarity, especially when the narration merely states the facts without adducing evidence for them.43 This seems to be the strategy adopted by Dionysius, who opens the ‘statement of facts’ section of his speech by announcing that his story is ‘clear and concise’, and then proceeds to narrate the events that led him to bring a charge against Mithridates. He tells how he married Callirhoe knowing that her first husband, Chaereas, had died; how Mithridates met Callirhoe in Miletus and devised a plan to seduce her; how Mithridates allegedly forged a letter from Chaereas and sent it to her; and how that letter fell into Dionysius’ hands (5,6,5-8). Another important factor contributing to clarity is a straightforward syntax, which, according to rhetorical treatises, is achieved through the construction of manageable sentences made up of short clauses and structured around connectives. Demetrius, for example, views this as a syntactical feature of the plain style.44 Hermogenes, too, observes that periods should be ‘concise and consisting of short clauses’ because longer clauses and periods are not suited to syntactical clarity.45 Dionysius makes frequent use of connectives and seems to favour the men – de construction in particular. This ————— 41

42 43 44 45

This is analysed in depth in Doulamis 2002, 171-204. Smith 2007, 134-137 discusses it briefly. Billault 1995 is right to conclude that Asianism must have exercised a certain amount of influence on the Greek novels, where rhetoric is omnipresent. It seems, however, that Billault sees a link between Asianism and most rhetorical set pieces in four of the five complete surviving Greek novels. As far as Chariton is concerned, I hope that my analysis will demonstrate that the novelist’s use of rhetoric goes far beyond a uniform application of the same style to the rhetorical utterances of all characters. With the exception of Doulamis 2002, ch.B,4, of which this article is a revised version. Hermog. Id. 226-228. Demetr. 192-195. Hermog. Id. 232.

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helps to create a series of well-structured clauses, which greatly contributes to clarity. The following sentences from Dionysius’ speech will illustrate this point: 1. ἐπ' ἐμοῦ μὲν ἐκδικήσῃς τὴν ἀσέλγειαν καὶ ὕβριν, ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων δὲ κωλύσῃς (5,6,1). 2. τότε μὲν γὰρ ἐφοβοῦντο πάντες... καταφρονήσει δὲ λοιπόν... (5,6,5). 3. ...ἐχώσαμεν τὸν τάφον, καὶ συνεπένθησεν ἡμῖν (5,6,9-10). 4. λόγοις μὲν ἢ χρήμασι πεῖσαι αὐτὴν ἀδύνατον ἔδοξε, τέχνην δὲ ἐξεῦρεν ἐπιβουλῆς... (5,6,7). 5. ἡ δὲ σὴ τύχη, βασιλεῦ, ἄξιον ὄντα κατέστησε καὶ ἡ πρόνοια τῶν ἄλλων θεῶν φανερὰς ἐποίησε τὰς ἐπιστολάς (5,6,8). A technique recommended in rhetorical treatises as a way to avoid ambiguity is dilogia, by which ancient rhetoricians mean ‘repetition’.46 In Dionysius’ speech we find consistent repetition of important key-words, the strategic placing of which at the beginning and end of a sentence, paragraph or argument must be aiming to impress these words upon the mind of the judge. It is hardly a coincidence, then, that one of the terms with the highest frequency of recurrence here is the word basileus (‘king’). For, besides being an appropriate way of addressing the Great King of Persia, the frequent mention of Artaxerxes’ title underscores Dionysius’ compliance with and faith in the legal system of the Persian Empire. We can easily imagine why it would have been vital for a Milesian Greek living under Persian rule to emphasise this point. Mithridates, on the other hand, tries to turn this around by reminding the King that a Greek is not to be trusted. Further examples of important words tactically repeated in Dionysius’ speech are ‘punish’, ‘judgement’, ‘improper conduct’, ‘letter’, ‘prove’, ‘adulterer’ and their derivatives, all of which are important components of the prosecutor’s argument: 1. Until now everyone has lived in fear of improper conduct being punished (ὡς κολασθησομένης) if one is brought to trial. But if when tried before you one is not punished (μὴ κολασθῇ), he will thereafter hold you in contempt. (5,6,5) 2. … in fear of improper conduct (τῆς ἀσελγείας) (5,6,5) – … but he conducted himself improperly (ἀλλ᾿ ἀσελγὴς ὤφθη) (5,6,6). 3. … and forged letters (ἐπιστολάς) (5,6,7) – … brought those letters (τὰς ἐπιστολάς) to light (5,6,8) – … dispatched these slaves together with the ————— 46

See Demetr. 197 and 211-214.

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letters (μετὰ τῶν ἐπιστολῶν) to me (5,6,8) – I conclude by reading the letter (τὴν ἐπιστολήν) (5,6,10). 4. The proof (αἱ δὲ ἀποδείξεις) is undeniable (5,6,9) – Let Mithridates prove (ἀποδειξάτω) that… (5,6,10). 5. Mithridates is shown to be an adulterer (μοιχόν) … (5,6,9) – However, when Mithridates wishes to commit adultery (μοιχεῦσαι) … (5,6,10) – Just think, oh King, how shameless an adulterer (μοιχός) he is … (5,6,10).  According to ancient rhetorical theorists, use of plain language is instrumental in maintaining ‘lucidity’ (σαφήνεια) and ‘clarity’ (καθαρότης). By ‘plain language’ they mean vocabulary that is not unusual, whereas newly coined or obscure words and expressions have the opposite effect and lend grandeur and impressiveness.47 An examination of Chariton’s vocabulary has identified, among others, groups of ‘literary terms’, ‘poeticisms’, and ‘ionisms’,48 which do not occur in near-contemporary texts such as the New Testament and Graeco-Roman papyri and, therefore, may be classed as ‘unusual words’ in Chariton. It is significant that none of these appear in Dionysius’ speech,49 even though they do occur elsewhere in this novel. Another important style-marker of clarity is an iambic or trochaic rhythmical pattern which, especially when combined with other metres, is thought to be close to the natural way of speaking and not too metrical for prose. Hermogenes, therefore, recommends that part of the text and sentence-ends should be either trochaic or iambic.50 In Dionysius’ speech we find a relatively large concentration of trochaic clausulae: – ˘ – × 1. τὴν γυναῖκα· ... –˘ – × 2. σὺ πᾶσι τηρεῖς. – ˘ – × 3. παρὰ σοὶ μὴ κολασθῇ. – ˘ –× 4. τῆς ξενίας δίκαιον, ... ————— 47 48 49

50

Demetr. 191-192; Hermog. Id. 229,8-18. Ruiz Montero 1991, 486-487. Possibly with the exception of χόω (which occurs in the form ἐχώσαμεν at 5,6,9), included in the group of literary terms that ‘belong to the Attic literary tradition and do not appear in the New Testament or papyri’ according to Ruiz Montero 1991, 486. Hermog. Id. 232-234.

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– ˘ – × 5. περὶ οὗ δικάζεις· ... – ˘ – × 6. αἱ δὲ ἀποδείξεις ἄφυκτοι· ... – ˘ –× 7. καὶ συνεπένθησεν ἡμῖν. Mithridates’ apologia, on the other hand, is far from ‘plain’ and as such it contrasts sharply with the rhetorical plainness displayed by Dionysius. With its short and rhythmical clauses, its abundance in adjectives, its frequent use of formal terms, its repetitiveness, and its theatrical extravagance, Mithridates’ rhetorical display has some of the most striking characteristics traditionally attributed to Asianist orators. Unlike the plain style, Asianism had no ‘theory’ or fixed ‘canon of style’, which makes it harder to pin down its style-markers.51 Nevertheless, there are several discussions of Asianist authors in Imperial literature, which give us a fairly good idea of what were considered to be the main features of Asianism.52 In both Greek and Roman sources theoreticians seem to adopt the same perspective with regard to Asianic rhetoric and resort to a similar type of text to illustrate the unattractiveness of Asianism.53 In brief, this is a style associated with excess, artificiality and extravagance, qualities traditionally linked with the orient in Greek thought, hence the name used to describe this type of style.54

————— 51 52

53

54

On this point see Kennedy 1972, 97-99. Quintilian (12,10,12-26) mentions the main characteristics of Asianic oratory; cf. Cic. Or. 27 and D.H. Anc. Orat. 2-3. Hortensius’ Asianic style is analysed by Cicero (Brut. 325), while Hegesias is discussed by Cicero, Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Longinus (see following footnote). Wooten 1975 provides a useful overview of the development of Asianism. Cf. Billault 1995, esp. 107-111, with further references. On the polemical relationship between Atticism and Asianism see now Kim 2010, 472-473. Hegesias is the author whose work on Alexander the Great, of which only fragments survive (Fr.Gr.H. IIB 142 F3 Jacoby, pp. 529-531 and p. 808), was regarded as the epitome of the Asianic style; see Cic. Brut. 286; Or. 212 and 230; D.H. Comp. 4 and esp. 18; Longin. 3,2 and esp. 41. Cf. also the examples provided in Rut. Lup. 1,7, 1,11, 2,2, 2,10, although these are not explicitly associated with Asianic oratory. Cf. Wooten 1975, 9597 and 102-103 for a plausible explanation of the development of Hegesias’ Asianic style. See Bonner 1939, 13-14; Boulanger 1968, 58-69; Reardon 1971, 80-96; Reardon 20032, 317-319; Wooten 1975; Pernot 1993, 371-380; Anderson 1993, 86-100; Hernández Lara 1994, 13-22; O’Sullivan 1997, 45-46; and Horrocks 1997, 51, 79-83.

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The florid character of Mithridates’ speech is manifest in the speaker’s obsession with rhyme and assonance in symmetrical and antithetical constructions, of which there are several instances in this passage: 1. δίκαιος γὰρ εἶ καὶ φιλάνθρωπος 2. πανούργως συνθεὶς κατ᾿ ἐμοῦ ψευδεῖς διαβολάς, πιθανώτερος γένηται παρὰ σοὶ τῆς ἀληθείας (in this instance the words linked by rhyme have different syntactical functions). 3. καὶ τὸν ἄλλον βίον ἔζηκα σωφρόνως καὶ πρώτην ταύτην ἔσχηκα διαβολήν 4. γάμον ὀνόμαζε τὴν πρᾶσιν καὶ προῖκα τὴν τιμήν 5. μετανοήσεις·... τὴν ψῆφον οἴσεις. προλέγω σοι, Καλλιρόην ἀπολέσεις... μοιχὸν εὑρήσει 6. θεοὶ βασίλειοι ἐπουράνιοί τε καὶ ὑποχθόνιοι 7. εὐξαμένῳ δικαίως καὶ θύσαντι μεγαλοπρεπῶς 8. ἀπόδοτέ μοι τὴν ἀμοιβήν... χρήσατέ μοι κἂν εἰς τὴν δίκην 9. καλεῖ σε ἡ σὴ Καλλιρόη One of the main characteristics of Asianism is repetitiveness.55 Mithridates’ speech appears to have been constructed around certain recurring themes which, along with the repetition of specific words, create an overall impression of repetitiveness.56 Below are some of the most striking examples: 1. The idea expressed in the following statements is that Callirhoe is not Dionysius’ wife because she had been sold to him as a slave: 1.1 …Dionysius is not bringing suit on behalf of a wife legally married to him but, rather, he bought her when she was offered for sale... (5,7,3) 1.2 Let him first read to you the certificate of her emancipation and then let him talk of marriage (5,7,4) 1.3 Do you dare to call her your wife, whom the pirate Theron sold you for a talent…? (5,7,4) 1.4 Call the purchase a marriage, and the price paid her dowry (5,7,5) ————— 55 56

See Quint. 12,10,12. This must be seen as different from the dilogia that we encounter in Dionysius’ speech, which is meant to be less overpowering. Admittedly, making a distinction between subtle repetition and excessive repetitiveness is not always easy. Cf. the fine line that separates ‘brevity’ from ‘truncation’, on which see below, this section and section 5. In any case, it must be borne in mind that style is the result of a combination of several style-markers and does not depend on one feature alone.

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2. The idea repeatedly stressed here by Mithridates is that Dionysius is not Callirhoe’s husband but her master, which paraphrases and reinforces the idea expressed in group (1) above: 2.1 Then you are a kidnapper, not a husband (5,7,4) 2.2 Still, I shall now plead my case as though you were her husband (5,7,5) 2.3 Now, Sire, I shall show that I have done no wrong to Dionysius either as her husband or her master (5,7,5) 3. In the following sentences Mithridates repeatedly invites Dionysius to drop the charge and warns him that it is in his best interest to do so: 3.1 Dionysius, your challenge to me is not in your interest (5,7,7) 3.2 Withdraw your charge, this is in your interest (5,7,7) 3.3 Ask the King to dismiss the suit (5,7,7) 3.4 If you persist, you will regret it. You will stand self-condemned (5,7,7) Moreover, conspicuous throughout Mithridates’ speech is the sort of syntactical construction that is based upon short, compressed clauses linked by asyndeton, which creates an effect of swiftness and fragmented expression.57 The following is a particularly felicitous example:58 προφέρεις ἐπιστολήν. // ἐδυνάμην εἰπεῖν “οὐ γέγραφα· / χεῖρα ἐμὴν οὐκ ἔχεις· / Καλλιρόην Χαιρέας ζητεῖ· / κρῖνε τοίνυν μοιχείας ἐκεῖνον. // “ναὶ” φησίν. // “ἀλλὰ Χαιρέας μὲν τέθνηκε, / σὺ δὲ ὀνόματι τοῦ νεκροῦ τὴν γυναῖκά μου διέφθειρες.” // προκαλῇ με, Διονύσιε, πρόκλησιν οὐδαμῶς συμφέρουσαν. // μαρτύρομαι· / φίλος εἰμί σοι καὶ ξένος. / ἀπόστηθι τῆς κατηγορίας· / συμφέρει σοι. // βασιλέως δεήθητι παραπέμψαι τὴν δίκην. (5,7,6-7). ————— 57

58

Cf. the distinction that Quintilian draws between the ‘concise and pure’ (pressi et integri) Attic speeches and the ‘inflated and empty’ (inflati illi et inanes) Asianic orations at 12,10,16. Cf. Quint. 12,10,12 and Cic. Brut. 286-287. What Quintilian and Cicero call ‘(in compositione) fractum’ in Longinus is called sygkopē, which the latter seems to identify as the overall conciseness of a passage, a feature associated with the excessive use of short and fragmented sentences in a text or what we might call ‘truncation’. On the opposite side of that Longinus sees syntomia, ‘brevity’, which, he implies, results from the presence of short sentences in a text (41,3 and 42,1-2); on syntomia in Greek rhetorical theory see below, section 5. For examples of this feature see Wooten 1975, esp. 100 n.30, which displays a remarkable similarity of style to the excerpt from Mithridates’ speech cited here. I have used // and / to indicate long and short pauses in the flow of speaking.

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Some of the rhythmical patterns traditionally associated with Asianist authors also contribute to creating an impression of fragmented speech.59 We find several examples of dichorees ( – ˘ – ×) and trochees ( – ˘) (A below), pyrrichs (˘ ˘) (B below), and double cretics ( – ˘ – – ˘ – ) (C below).60 As we saw earlier, in Dionysius’ speech an iambic or trochaic clausula or part of a sentence, combined with other rhythms, gives the text a touch of natural speech and contributes to plainness; in Mithridates’ case, on the other hand, the predominance of the above rhythmical patterns creates quite a different effect: (A) – ˘ – × 1. τὸ κάλλος τῆς γυναικός –˘ – ˘ – × 2. φαίνεται θελῆσαι – ˘ – × 3. τὰ τηλικαῦτα ἀγαθά – ˘ – × 4. ἐμαυτῷ πονηρόν – ˘ – × 5. ἀλλὰ φησὶν ἐλευθέραν ... –˘– × – ˘– × 6. ἄνδρα οὔτε ὡς κύριον ἠδίκηκα. – ˘ – × 7. λαμβάνουσι. – ˘ – × 8. μοιχείας ἐκεῖνον.

————— 59 60

See Cic. Or. 212-213. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who stresses the importance of rhythmical patterns for the overall style of a passage, clearly objects to the (excessive) use of iambus, amphibrach, choree and trochee, which he views as ‘ignoble’ (Comp. 18). Cf. Longin. 41,1-2. Pyrrhics, trochees, and dichorees are among the rhythms which Longinus views as ‘weak and agitated (ῥυθμὸς κεκλασμένος καὶ σεσοβημένος)’. It seems that these were met with widespread disapproval, although they were not specifically linked with Asianism. See Sen. Suas. 2,10, Contr. 2,1,26; Sen. Ep. 114,15; Quint. 11,3,57; Pliny Ep. 2,14,12. For the double and treble cretic, in particular, as typically Asianic rhythmical patterns employed by sophists, see Philostr. VS 572 and 574; cf. Anderson 1993, 95.

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(B)

˘˘ ˘ ˘˘ ˘

1. ἕνεκεν ἀπολέσαι

˘ ˘˘˘

2. εἰ δὲ ἄρα τι

˘˘ ˘ ˘

3. τότε γάμον

˘ ˘ ˘˘

4. γάμον ὀνόμαζε

˘˘ ˘ ˘

5. γραμμάτια κενά.

˘ ˘˘˘ ˘˘

6. σὺ δὲ ὀνόματι

˘˘ ˘ ˘

7. ἐμὲ βασιλεύς

˘ ˘˘˘

8. ἀπόδοτέ μοι

˘ ˘˘˘

9. δαῖμον ἀγαθέ· (C) –˘ – – ˘ – 1. μηδὲ ἄνθρωπος Ἕλλην – ˘– – ˘ – 2. καὶ ἀσελγὴς ἐτύγχανον – ˘ – – ˘ – 3. καὶ συνῄδειν ἐμαυτῷ πονηρόν – ˘ – – ˘ – 4. ἀλλὰ πωλουμένην – ˘ – – ˘ – 5. εἶ σὺ καὶ οὔκ ἀνήρ. – ˘ – – ˘ – 6. πρᾶσιν καὶ προῖκα τὴν –˘ – – ˘ – 7. συκοφαντουμένῳ – ˘ – – ˘– 8. τὴν δίκην Χαιρέαν.

41

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5. Narrative Context I now turn to the narrative context of this episode, which, I want to argue, alludes self-reflexively to the stylisation of Dionysius’ and Mithridates’ speech in a way that invites the alert reader to associate the distinct rhetorical character of each oration with the profile of each speaker. Dionysius’ sophistication and refinement, which are closely linked to his Greek culture, are marked throughout the novel.61 Book 5 is no exception to this. At 5,4,7 the narrator remarks that Dionysius arrived in court ‘dressed in Greek fashion (ἑλληνικῷ σχήματι), wearing a Milesian mantle’. And before the trial, the reader is reminded that Dionysius was ‘a sensible and cultivated man (ἀνὴρ φρόνιμος καὶ πεπαιδευμένος)’ (5,5,1). As we have already seen, in his address Dionysius informs his audience that his logos is saphēs (‘clear’) and syntomos (‘concise’) (5,6,5). What is interesting about this programmatic statement is that the terms saphēneia (‘clarity’) and syntomia (‘conciseness’) constitute key-terms in ancient stylistic theory.62 Both features are recommended by rhetoricians as especially suited to the narrative section or diēgēsis of a forensic speech, and Lysias is the one Attic orator who is praised in ancient rhetorical theory for his clear and concise diēgēseis.63 Clarity, in particular, is one of Hermogenes’ six main stylistic types and is subdivided into purity and distinctiveness, to which he devotes a whole section of his treatise On Types of Style (202217).64 Demetrius, too, discusses clarity (191-203), which he sees as an integral part of the plain style. Dionysius of Halicarnassus praises both saphēneia and syntomia, and associates them with brevity of expression,65 purity, precision and the use of ordinary language (D.H. Lys. 4), a combination of qualities that he ascribes to Lysias and Demosthenes.66 As we have already seen, Dionysius’ courtroom speech in Chariton’s novel follows relatively closely the ancient prescriptions for the stylistic qualities of clarity and conciseness. Therefore, by having Dionysius use the very terms ‘clear’ and ————— 61 62

63 64 65 66

As already noted by Hunter 1994, 1062. Syntomia, according to Longinus, is a ‘good’ type of brevity that ‘goes straight to the point and, as such, is distinguished from sygkopē which is treated as a negative feature that ‘cripples the sense’ (42,2). Demetrius, too, sees syntomia as a positive characteristic, which he associates with the ‘grand style’ (103) and with ‘charm’ (137), although he, too, recognises that brevity may also result in triviality (103). See, for example, D.H. Lys. 18. See Rutherford 1998, 6-18. Cf. Ar. Rhet. 3.2.1. D.H. Lys. 4; D.H. Dem. 13, following a citation of Demosthenes’ Against Conon 3-9.

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‘concise’ to describe his story (logos, which may also mean speech67), Chariton alludes self-reflexively to the careful stylisation of this rhetorical address. At the same time, by inviting the reader to associate Dionysius with Attic oratory and in particular with Lysias, he underscores Dionysius’ cultural identity through the medium of speech. In other words, the reader is expected to recognise here that the Lysias-like style of Dionysius’ oration articulates this character’s Greekness. The extravagance of Mithridates’ defence is also alluded to in the narrative context. Throughout Book 5, Mithridates is consistently linked with lamprotēs. Before the trial, we are told that he had consulted lawyers ‘so as to render his defence more striking (λαμπροτέρα) by its element of surprise’ (5,4,3). Moreover, despite knowing that producing Chaereas as his witness was bound to acquit him, nevertheless he pretended to be afraid (5,4,3) and upon arriving in court on the first day of the trial he disguised his true feelings and tried not to look ‘bright’ (λαμπρός) or ‘cheerful’, which, clearly, is how he really felt, but ‘as befits an accused man, pitiable’ (5,4,7). After Chaereas’ surprise appearance in court, the narrator again remarks that Mithridates ‘had defended himself brilliantly (λαμπρῶς)’ (5,8,6), and, later on, that he left Babylon ‘a more imposing figure (λαμπρότερος) than before’ (5,8,10). At the literal level of interpretation, lampros in all these instances carries the meaning of ‘impressive’ or ‘brilliant’. But, at the same time, the term can be read as an index of style, for in ancient rhetorical theory lamprotēs is closely linked with elaborate rhetorical expression. Longinus, in his treatise On the Sublime, defines lamprotēs as the brilliance of effect which helps to conceal rhetorical artificiality and recommends it as an antidote against suspicion in the speaker aroused by the undisguised use of rhetorical devices (17,2-3). According to Longinus, concealing effectively rhetorical artifice is useful when it is important to avoid giving the impression of treachery and scheming, especially in cases where a speech is addressed ‘to a judge with absolute authority or to a despot, a king, or a ruler in a position of power’ (17,1). This encapsulates with an astonishing degree of accuracy Mithridates’ line of defence, which is largely based on rhetoric and scheming combined in a rhetorical speech that is indeed addressed to a ruler-judge with absolute power. Marking, therefore, the lamprotēs of Mithridates’ defence in the narrative context may be Chariton’s way of drawing attention to the way in which Mithridates employs rhetoric, and may be interpreted as a reference to the impressive, Asianic style of Mithridates’ speech, a style that is especially suited to an oriental Greek-speaking satrap. And there seems to ————— 67

LSJ s.v. λόγος V,4.

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be further linkage between Mithridates and the rhetorical extravagances of Asianism. Mithridates’ apologia has an undeniable theatrical quality. This is suggested by the narrator even before the legal battle begins, when he remarks that Mithridates had assumed the pitiable look appropriate for the defendant (5,4,7), even though he knew that the presence of Chaereas alone would be enough to get him acquitted. But the theatricality of his defence strategy becomes more conspicuous on at least two occasions during the trial. First, in the imagined conversation between himself and Dionysius, where Mithridates first repeats Dionysius’ accusations and then proceeds to refute them (5,7,4-7). What Mithridates appears to be employing here is a technique known from Imperial rhetorical treatises as prosōpopoiia, which is defined as pretending to speak in the person of somebody else in order to add a dimension of dramatic presentation to a speech and render it more vivid and forceful (Demetr. 265-266). We can easily imagine Mithridates changing his tone and voice accordingly while impersonating Dionysius. The theatricality of Mithridates’ speech reaches its climax in his concluding statement, where he addresses a prayer to the ‘ruling gods of heaven and the underworld’ and summons the ‘noble spirit’ on behalf of Callirhoe.68 This dramatic apostrophe, which is meant to facilitate (and, at the same time, call attention to) Chaereas’ imminent ‘miraculous’ appearance (5,8,1), is an excellent example of what rhetorical theory defines as to exairesthai (‘a rise in emotional tension in the speaker’), which leads to epanastasis (‘a sudden rise in emotional tone’). According to Demetrius, the two techniques are closely related, since the epanastasis occurs when in the middle of what we are saying ‘we get emotionally aroused (ἐξαρθέντες)’ (277-278). This sudden rise in tone, tension and force are marked by the narrator with the sentence ‘taking up from this point, Mithridates raised his voice and uttered as though under divine inspiration …’ (5,7,10), while the artificiality of Mithridates’ speech is underlined by ‘while he was still speaking, for so it had been arranged, Chaereas himself stepped forward’ (5,8,1), clearly stating that Chaereas’ supposedly unexpected entrance had been planned in advance and possibly also suggesting that it had been rehearsed, too. There is good reason why attention is drawn to the theatricality of Mithridates’ speech. The use of ‘histrionic devices’, ta theatrika, such as the ones that Mithridates employs, is implicitly linked to Asianic rhetoric in ancient rhetorical theory. Dionysius of Halicarnassus dismisses it as unsuited to ————— 68

Alvares 2000, 384 too notes briefly that Mithridates’ victory ‘is won through a coup de theatre’.

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forensic oratory and regards it as one of Isocrates’ greatest weaknesses. In his critique of Isocrates’ style, Dionysius of Halicarnassus employs a terminology strikingly similar to that used to describe the Asianic style,69 stating that political and forensic oratory should resemble natural speech as much as possible70 and that employing theatrical devices is especially inappropriate for the speech of ‘a defendant whose very life is at stake in court’ (D.H. Isocr. 12). Apart from contributing significantly to the general over-the-top character of his defence, then, it is tempting to read the theatricality of Mithridates’ apologia as an element that underscores its inflated, excessive rhetoric, thus reinforcing its connection with Asianism.

6. Conclusion We have seen that the structure, content, argument, style, and other details of the speeches in this important episode of the novel’s central book contain well-known topoi of forensic oratory. Dionysius’ and Mithridates’ speeches, however, are not meant to serve as perfect examples of real-life orations, but, rather, they reflect the novelist’s knowledge of legal practice through the medium of Classical literary models, which, as a pepaideumenos of the Graeco-Roman world, Chariton would have studied extensively. And it is to his contemporary rhetorical theory that the novelist has looked for a style most suited to the individuality and distinct identity of his speakers, which he uses as a means of underlining and reinforcing character portrayal in his novel. In addition to its important role for the development of the story, the main purpose of this whole trial scene is to entertain Chariton’s educated readers – who would have shared the novelist’s rhetorical training and knowledge of forensic oratory – with an extended, exciting rhetorical exercise. At the same time, we may also read a fine kind of literary irony in Dionysius’ failure to win this legal battle. Contrary to the expectations and cultural standards of Chariton’s Greek-speaking reader, it is not the Greek ‘good guy’ that triumphs over the Persian villain but the other way round, in what could be seen as Chariton’s playful way of subverting Greek cultural standards by implicitly challenging stereotypical paradigms. This can only add to the entertainment value of an already highly entertaining episode. ————— 69 70

On which see further Pernot 1993, 373-374. Cf. D.H. Isocr. 3.

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If Dionysius with his Lysias-like speech ultimately does not prevail, it is not because Lysianic oratory is ‘ineffective’ in the Roman world71 but, rather, because this is dictated by the rules of the genre which want the primary couple reunited. So I remain sceptical that by employing Attic and Asianic oratory in the legal clash between Dionysius and Mithridates Chariton makes a statement about the decline of Athenian identity in his contemporary world, but I do think that he makes a strong statement about himself as an author. For by alluding self-reflexively to the deployment of specific stylistic categories in these speeches, while also putting rhetoric to a wider, subversive use, he showcases his ingenuity and rhetorical skill, which he expects his sophisticated, rhetorically trained reader to recognise and applaud.72

Bibliography Adams, C.D. (ed. & trans.) 1919. The Speeches of Aeschines, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Alvares, J. 2000. ‘A hidden magus in Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe’, Hermes 128, 383384. Anderson, G. 1982. Eros Sophistes: Ancient Novelists at Play, Chico, Ca.: Scholars Press. Anderson, G. 1993. The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London – New York: Routledge. Bers, V. 2009. Genos dikanikon: Amateur and Professional Speech in the Courtrooms of Classical Athens, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Billault, A. 1995. ‘Peut-on appliquer la notion d’Asianisme à l’analyse de l’esthétique des romans grecs ?’, Acta Ant. Hung. 36, 107-118. Bonner, S.F. 1939. The Literary Treatises of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boulanger, A. 1968. Aelius Aristide et la sophistique dans la province d’Asie au 2e siècle de notre ère, Paris: de Boccard.

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Which is what Smith 2007, 137-138 argues, namely that the eventual defeat of Atticism to Asianism (which manifests itself in the defeat of Dionysius to Mithridates before the court of the King of Persia) serves to ‘expose the often vain posturing of Attic cultural imperialism’ and demonstrates the ineffectiveness of Lysianic oratory in the Roman world. A very early version of this paper was presented at the annual meeting of the Classical Association of England and Wales held at the University of Newcastle in 2006. A fuller and longer version was delivered at the conference ‘The Ancient Novel and its Reception of Earlier Literature’ held at UCC in 2007. I am thankful to the audience on both occasions for their useful comments. I am also indebted to Keith Sidwell and Tim Whitmarsh for reading and commenting on this article.

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Carawan, E. 2001. ‘What the laws have prejudged: παραγραφή in early issue-theory’, in: C.W. Wooten (ed.), The Orator in Action and Theory in Greece and Rome. Essays in Honor of George A. Kennedy, Leiden: Brill, 17-51. Doulamis, K. 2001. ‘Rhetoric and irony in Chariton: a case-study from Callirhoe’, AN 1, 5572. Doulamis, K. 2002. The Rhetoric of Eros in Xenophon of Ephesus and Chariton: A Stylistic and Interpretative Study, Ph.D. diss., Exeter. Doulamis, K. 2011. ‘All’s well that ends well: predictive devices, storytelling, and the voice of the author in Chariton’s Callirhoe’, Mnemosyne 64, 1-22. Fusillo, M. 1989. Il romanzo greco: polifonia ed eros, Venice: Marsilio. Goold, G.P. (ed. & trans.) 1995. Chariton. Callirhoe, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Harrison, A.R.W. 1971. The Law of Athens, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heath, M. 1995. Hermogenes On Issues: Strategies of Argument in Later Greek Rhetoric, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heath, M. 2003. ‘Metalepsis, paragraphe and the scholia to Hermogenes’, Leeds International Classical Studies 2.2, 1-91. Helms, J. 1966. Character Portrayal in the Romance of Chariton, The Hague: Mouton. Hernández Lara, C. (1994), Estudios sobre el aticismo de Caritón de Afrodisias, Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert. Hock, R.F. 1997. ‘The rhetoric of romance’, in: S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period 330 B.C.-A.D. 400, Leiden – New York – Köln: Brill, 445-465. Hock, R.F. 2005. ‘The educational curriculum in Chariton’s Callirhoe’, in: J-A.A. Brant et al. (eds.), Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and Jewish Narrative, Leiden – Boston: Brill, 15-36. Horrocks, G. 1997. Greek: A History of the Language and its Speakers, London – New York: Longman. Hunter, R. 1994. ‘History and historicity in the romance of Chariton’, ANRW II.34.2, 10551086. Kapparis, K. 2000. ‘Has Chariton read Lysias 1 ‘On the Murder of Eratosthenes’?’, Hermes 128, 380-383. Karabélias, E. 1988. ‘Le roman de Chariton d’Aphrodisias et le droit: renversements de situation et exploitation des ambiguités juridiques’, Symposion, 369-396. Kennedy, G.A. 1972. The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kim, L. 2010. ‘The literary heritage as language: Atticism and the Second Sophistic’, in: E.J. Bakker (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, Chichester: WileyBlackwell. Laird, A. 2008. ‘Approaching style and rhetoric’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 201-217. Lamb, W.R.M. (ed. & trans.) 1930. Lysias, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. MacDowell, D.M. 1978. The Law in Classical Athens, London: Thames and Hudson. Maidment, K.J. (ed. & trans.) 1941. Minor Attic orators, vol. 1: Antiphon – Andocides, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

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O’Sullivan, N. (1997), ‘Caecilius, the ‘canons’ of writers, and the origins of Atticism’, in: W.J. Dominik (ed.), Roman Eloquence: Rhetoric in Society and Literature, London – New York, 32-49. Pernot, L. 1993. La rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco-romain, tome I: histoire et technique, Paris: Institut d’Etudes Augustiniennes. Pernot, L. 2005. Rhetoric in Antiquity, trans. W.E. Higgins, Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press. Porter, J.R. 2003. ‘Chariton and Lysias 1: further considerations’, Hermes 131, 433-440. Rabe, H. (ed.) 1913. Hermogenis opera, Leipzig: Teubner. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. 1999. ‘Theme, structure and narrative in Chariton’, in: S. Swain (ed.) Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 163-188. Reardon, B.P. 20032. ‘Chariton’, in: G.L. Schmeling (ed.) The Novel in the Ancient World, Boston – Leiden: Brill, 309-335. Reardon, B.P. (ed.) 2004. Chariton. De Callirhoe narrationes amatoriae, Munich – Leipzig: K.G. Saur. Ruiz Montero, C. 1991. ‘Aspects of the vocabulary of Chariton of Aphrodisias’, CQ 61, 484489. Russell, D.A. 1983. Greek Declamation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rutherford, I. 1998. Canons of Style in the Antonine Age: ‘Idea’-Theory in its Literary Context, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Schwartz, S. 1998. Courtroom Scenes in the Ancient Greek Novels, Ph.D. diss., Columbia. Schwartz, S. 2003. ‘Rome in the Greek novel? Images and ideas of Empire in Chariton’s Persia’, Arethusa 36, 375-394. Schwartz, S. 2004. ‘The trial scene in the Greek novels and in Acts’, in: T. Penner and C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Contextualising Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse, Leiden – Boston: Brill, 105-137. Smith, S.D. 2007. Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton: The Romance of Empire, AN Suppl. 9, Groningen: Barkhuis. Todd, S.C. 1993. The Shape of Athenian Law, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Webb, R. 2007. ‘Rhetoric and the novel. Sex, lies and sophistic’, in: I. Worthington (ed.), A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, Oxford: Blackwell, 526-541. Wooten, C. 1975. ‘Le développement du style asiatique pendant l’époque hellénistique’, REG 88, 94-104.

The literary context of Anthia’s dream in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca M ARIA -E LPINIKI O IKONOMOU Howell’s School, Cardiff

1. Introduction From Book 2 of Homer’s Iliad onwards, dreams form an integral part of Greek literature in virtually all of its genres, and the novel is no exception. All five extant novels1 feature dreams of various types and functions. The topic of this chapter is Anthia’s dream in Book 5 of Xenophon’s Ephesiaca.2 An analysis of this dream will reveal ways in which it is aligned with the two earlier dreams in the same novel, demonstrating how Xenophon constructs episodes in the Ephesiaca with particular attention to the structure of the whole. At the same time, an exploration of the ways in which Anthia’s dream relies heavily on what we find on dreams in earlier literature will also bring to light, if not overt intertextualities, at least the firm embeddedness of the Ephesiaca in the various traditions pervading ancient Greek literature. In order to determine patterns in Xenophon’s use and presentation of dreams, but also to be able to assess the peculiarities and significance of the third dream in the Ephesiaca, a brief discussion of the two earlier dreams in Xenophon will precede the analysis of Anthia’s dream in Book 5.3 ————— 1

2

3

And many fragments: Dream of Nectanebo, Metiochus and Parthenope, The Apparition, Theano. I shall not discuss the chronology of the five extant novels; in line with the majority, I regard Chariton as earlier than Xenophon, and Longus, Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus as later; see e.g. Bowie 1985, 684. On the chronology of the earlier Greek novels in particular, see more recently Bowie 2002. For a thorough analysis of Habrocomes’ two ‘prophetic’ dreams, see Liatsi 2004, who, in reading the Ephesiaca, pays particular attention to theoretical assumptions and specific examples provided in Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica, making it plausible that Xenophon was aware of this approach to the significance and interpretation of dreams; for an ancient ‘scientific’ analysis of dreams in general, see Holowchak 2002. Echoing Narratives, 49–72

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2. Habrocomes’ first dream The first dream in the Ephesiaca occurs at 1,12. The couple, Habrocomes and Anthia, have left Ephesus for their honeymoon-cum-‘paramythia-of-theoracle’ and have stopped at Samos and Rhodes. Soon after leaving Rhodes, on a windless day with little advance in their voyage, while the sailors are drinking, Habrocomes is asleep. Before his dream is recounted, the text informs the reader that this is ‘the beginning of what was prophesied’ (ἀρχὴ τῶν μεμαντευμένων, 1,12,3).4 Then follows a description of the dream (1,12,4): τῷ δὲ Ἁβροκόμῃ ἐφίσταται γυνὴ ὀφθῆναι φοβερά, τὸ μέγεθος ὑπὲρ ἄνθρωπον, ἐσθῆτα ἔχουσα φοινικῆν· ἐπιστᾶσα δὲ τὴν ναῦν ἐδόκει καίειν καὶ τοὺς μὲν ἄλλους ἀπόλλυσθαι, αὐτὸν δὲ μετὰ τῆς Ἀνθίας διανήχεσθαι. Above Habrocomes, who was sleeping, stood a woman, terrible to look at, in size super-human, wearing purple clothes. But it seemed to him that, standing there, she set the ship alight; and the others perished, but he, with Anthia, swam across. Following this is a description of Habrocomes’ reaction (1,12,4): ‘As soon as he saw that, Habrocomes was perturbed and expected something terrible to come of the dream (προσεδόκα τι δεινὸν ἐκ τοῦ ὀνείρατος). And something terrible did happen (καὶ τὸ δεινὸν ἐγίνετο5).’ This foreshadows the beginning of the disasters which start immediately, and the foreshadowing here is straightforward and fairly accurate. What the reader learns next is that pirates attack the ship with their big trireme, the foreshadowing of which is in the size of the woman; they are Phoenician pirates, foreshadowed in the woman’s red robe (ἐσθῆτα ἔχουσα φοινικῆν); the ship is set alight and many people, as for example Habrocomes’ tutor, are slaughtered, burn alive or jump into the sea and drown.6 Although it is not only Anthia and Habrocomes who survive and are taken captive, but also, for example, their slaves ————— 4

5

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Unless indicated otherwise, the Greek text cited is O’Sullivan 2005; translations are my own. The καί with the definite article in the Greek καὶ τὸ δεινὸν ἐγίνετο makes the disaster that occurs appear as just that which Habrocomes foresaw. This lends vividness to the description: ‘and the terrible thing happened’, ‘and the disaster occurred’. Cf. Hägg 1971a, 231; cf. also Liatsi, 2004, 156-161.

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Leucon and Rhode, and although Habrocomes and Anthia do not swim to safety, it is fair to say that the dream is accurate in foretelling what was about to happen.7

3. Habrocomes’ second dream Anthia and Habrocomes are courted by two pirates, Corymbus and Euxinus, but become eventually the property of the chief pirate, Apsyrtus. Apsyrtus’ love-struck, devious daughter, Manto, accuses Habrocomes of attempted rape, and as a result Habrocomes is sent to prison while Anthia becomes Apsyrtus’ wedding gift to Manto, who is now marrying someone else and is about to move to Syria with him. The couple’s disasters enter the second phase, a longer and more eventful one, during which they not only suffer but also are, in accordance with novelistic convention, separated.8 Anthia visits Habrocomes in prison for their emotional farewell. She explains to him what is about to happen, which is important in regard of the level of knowledge the characters have at each stage about where the other is, and comments first on her own fate, then on Habrocomes’ (2,7): ‘Soon I will be in the hands of the girl who envies me, but you are still in prison and dying mis————— 7

8

Two points may be noted here: Anthia is present but silent in that scene; she is aboard the ship and the dream features her, but there is no indication that Habrocomes communicated his dream to her or how she was before or after Habrocomes had the dream (in accordance with this focus on Habrocomes, Bierl 2006 sees that part of the novel for which hero and heroine are separated as specifically Habrocomes’ dreamt journey). Secondly, when Habrocomes sees himself and Anthia ‘swim across’, the prefix dia- could also denote the ultimate success of arriving safely at the end; the ‘swimming’ of the dream would thus stand, metaphorically, for the entirety of their travels, and the first dream would already anticipate the outcome of the story, in a way parallel to the oracle. Pace MacAlister 1996, 38, who, like Liatsi 2004, provides an analysis of this dream based on the oneirocritic theories found in Artemidorus (1,70) in which he takes dreams about swimming as negative. The many unsuccessful suicide attempts reported without comment by the narrator at 2,7,1 have a history that goes back, in extant literature, to what Clytaemnestra reports of herself when she greets Agamemnon on his return to Argos (A. A. 874-876). Clytaemnestra claims, in pathetic exaggeration and to disguise her murderous intentions, to have attempted suicide whenever a report of Agamemnon’s death in battle had reached her. Habrocomes acts in this desperate way as soon as he is separated from Anthia, but the narrator does not show any sign of being aware of the disproportionate overreaction on the part of his protagonist. If Xenophon as the author intended Habrocomes’ pathetic behaviour to be perceived as an instance of comic irony, the reader is, as always with Xenophon, left to their own devices in working this out.

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erably, with no one to lay out your corpse.’ Then she promises: ‘I will still be yours as long as I live, even if I have to die.’ She kisses and embraces him, clings to his chains and rolls at his feet. Habrocomes, after she leaves (2,8), cries, invokes his parents (‘my dearest father, my mother Themisto’), talks about his and Anthia’s former glory in a language that draws attention to what is outwardly visible and conspicuous (‘where are the brilliant (λαμπροί) and admired (περίβλεπτοι) and beautiful (καλοί) Anthia and Habrocomes?’), and reflects on their current situation in a self-centred way (‘she is going away as a prisoner, I am robbed of my one and only consolation (παραμύθιον) and I shall die in prison alone’). He then has another dream (2,8,2): Ταῦτα λέγοντα αὐτὸν ὕπνος καταλαμβάνει, καὶ αὐτῷ ὄναρ ἐφίσταται· ἔδοξεν ἰδεῖν αὐτοῦ τὸν πατέρα Λυκομήδη ἐν ἐσθῆτι μελαίνῃ πλανώμενον κατὰ πᾶσαν γῆν καὶ θάλατταν, ἐπιστάντα δὲ τῷ δεσμωτηρίῳ λῦσαί τε αὐτὸν καὶ ἀφιέναι ἐκ τοῦ οἰκήματος· αὐτὸν δὲ ἵππον γενόμενον ἐπὶ πολλὴν φέρεσθαι γῆν διώκοντα ἵππον ἄλλην θήλειαν καὶ τέλος εὑρεῖν τὴν ἵππον καὶ ἄνθρωπον γενέσθαι. While he was saying these things, sleep overcame him, and a dream stood over him: he seemed to see his father Lycomedes in a black garment, wandering the whole earth and the sea, and (then), standing by the prison, setting him free and letting him go out of the building; and himself, having become a horse, rushing over great expanses of land, pursuing another, female, horse; and in the end finding the mare and becoming a man. This is followed, once again, by a description of Habrocomes’ reaction: ‘As he seemed to see those things, he started up (ἀνέθορέ τε) and was a little hopeful (μικρὰ εὔελπις ἦν).’ This dream is not as straightforward as the previous one. The previous dream foreshadowed both the immediate and the distant future, the immediate appearance of the Phoenician ship and the destruction it would bring, and the eventual salvation of Anthia and Habrocomes. This second dream takes as its starting point something Habrocomes has just been thinking about before falling asleep, namely his father. His father appears in black, a sign of mourning, is looking for him, finds him and releases him. This part of the dream is looking backwards and forward at the same time. Habrocomes’ father was concerned while Habrocomes had not yet disclosed his love for

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Anthia, had sent for the oracle and had thus set him free;9 at the same time, Habrocomes’ father will grieve for Habrocomes when the latter does not come back; and, independently, Habrocomes will be set free, both immediately, when he will be released from prison, and in the end, figuratively, when he is reunited with Anthia. This reunion is the point of the last part of the dream: Habrocomes, as a horse, pursues a mare. As MacAlister (1996, 198 n.32) points out: ‘The second [dream] occurs at the point of [the couple’s] separation, and foreshadows their eventual reunion.’ The symbolism of the male horse looking for the female is a clear foreshadowing of what is about to happen, not in need of further explanation; but it is instructive to compare Artemidorus (4,240), according to whom a man who is able to interpret dreams, either because he has read books or because he can interpret things, ‘if he is in love with a woman, will not see his beloved in a dream but rather a horse, a mirror, a ship …’.10 Bierl (2006) draws far-fetched conclusions from the shape Habrocomes assumes in this dream.11 It may here suffice to point out that ‘the horse set free’ is one of the meanings of the name Hippolytus. At the beginning of Book 1, the character of Habrocomes, with his narrow interpretation of sōphrosynē, was, with clear intertextualities, consciously modelled on the eponymous hero of Euripides’ Hippolytus. By the end of the novel, and after his conversion in the hut of the fisherman Aegialeus, Habrocomes will have a different, no longer self-centred view of what true modesty and moderation are. This will enable him to be worthy of Anthia when the two are eventually reunited. Habrocomes as a horse set free pursuing a mare symbolises an intermediate stage; this is followed by his eventual re-humanisation, which foreshadows, as did his first dream, the happy ending.

4. Anthia’s dream The long journeys of the two characters begin at this point in Book 2 and extend through the rest of Book 2, Books 3 and 4, and much of Book 5. Dur————— 9

10 11

MacAlister 1996, 191 n.14 connects the oracle and the dreams as follows: ‘In Xenophon the predictions made in the oracle (1,6,2) are later confirmed by dreams (1,12,3-4, 2,8,2); in Heliodoros the message contained in the oracle at 2,35,5 is clarified and confirmed by dreams (3,11,5, 3,18,1, 4,14,1).’ On the relation between the oracle and the first dream, see also Liatsi 2004, 162. On this cf. Plastira-Valkanou 2001; Liatsi 2004, 169-171. Much of Bierl’s study on Habrocomes’ dreams, which offers an allegorical interpretation of the novel as a whole, must remain speculative.

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ing these travels and adventures, no further dreaming occurs. It is in Book 5, during her last perilous imprisonment, that Anthia has her dream. She has endured a number of adventures: Moeris, Perilaus and her ‘suicide’ and Scheintod, hostile merchants, Psammis, Anchialus, a trench with dogs, travelling with the amorous but harmless Amphinomus and, most recently, Polyidus, whose wife Rhenaea arranged Anthia’s being sold to a brothel in Tarentum, where she is now. Anthia has avoided the fate of working as a prostitute by pretending to be epileptic. Anthia is still ‘recuperating’ at the brothel when, at the point of being sold upon having recovered,12 she has the following dream (5,8,5-6): (Καὶ ὁ μὲν ταῦτα ὠδύρετο καὶ τοὺς πόνους ἔφερεν ἀλγεινῶς) τῇ δὲ ‘Ανθίᾳ ὄναρ ἐπέστη ἐν Τάραντι κοιμωμένῃ· ἐδόκει μὲν αὐτὴν εἶναι μετὰ Ἁβροκόμου, καλὴν οὖσαν μετ’ ἐκείνου καλοῦ, καὶ τὸν πρῶτον εἶναι τοῦ ἔρωτος αὐτοῖς χρόνον, φανῆναι δέ τινα ἄλλην γυναῖκα καλὴν καὶ ἀφέλκειν αὐτῆς τὸν Ἁβροκόμην· καὶ τέλος ἀναβοῶντος καὶ καλοῦντος ὀνομαστὶ ἐξαναστῆναί τε καὶ παύσασθαι τὸ ὄναρ. (And while he [Habrocomes] was lamenting in this way, and was bearing his toils with pain) a dream came to Anthia in Tarentum while she was sleeping. It seemed to her that she was with Habrocomes, being beautiful, with him being beautiful, too, and it was the time at the beginning of their love; but another beautiful woman appeared and dragged Habrocomes away from her. And, in the end, while he was crying aloud and calling her by name, the dream departed and stopped. This is followed by a long description of Anthia’s reaction (5,8,7-9): ταῦτα ὡς ἔδοξεν ἰδεῖν, εὐθὺς μὲν ἀνέθορέ τε καὶ ἀνεθρήνησε καὶ ἀληθῆ τὰ ὀφθέντα ἐνόμιζεν, “οἴμοι τῶν κακῶν” λέγουσα, “ἐγὼ μὲν καὶ πόνους ὑπομένω πάντας καὶ ποικίλων πειρῶμαι δυστυχὴς συμφορῶν καὶ τέχνας σωφροσύνης ὑπὲρ γυναῖκας εὑρίσκω, Ἁβροκόμη· σοὶ δὲ ἴσως ἄλλη που δέδοκται καλή· ταῦτα γάρ μοι σημαίνει τὰ ὀνείρατα. τί οὖν ἔτι ζῶ; τί δ’ ἐμαυτὴν λυπῶ; κάλλιον οὖν ἀπολέσθαι καὶ ἀπαλλαγῆναι τοῦ πονηροῦ τούτου βίου, ἀπαλλαγῆναι δὲ τῆς ἀπρεποῦς ταύτης καὶ ἐπισφαλοῦς δουλείας· Ἁβροκόμης μὲν γὰρ εἰ καὶ τοὺς ὅρκους παραβέβηκε, μηδὲν οἱ θεοὶ τιμωρήσαιντο τοῦτον· ἴσως ἀνάγκῃ τι εἴργασται· ἐμοὶ δὲ ἀποθανεῖν ————— 12

That the brothel keeper decided to sell her as she seemed to have recovered is mentioned after the dream, at 5,9.

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καλῶς ἔχει σωφρονούσῃ.” ταῦτα ἔλεγε θρηνοῦσα καὶ μηχανὴν ἐζήτει τελευτῆς. As she seemed to have seen that, immediately she started up and cried and thought that the things she had seen were true; and she said: “Alas for my afflictions, I endure all sorts of toils and I undergo all kinds of misfortunes, wretched as I am, and find devices to preserve my chastity beyond a woman’s capabilities, Habrocomes. But to you, perhaps, another woman has appeared beautiful. For that is what my dream indicates to me. So, why do I go on living? Why do I distress myself? It is better then to perish and to be rid of this painful life, to be rid of this disreputable and dangerous slavery. For even if Habrocomes has violated his oaths, may the gods not punish him at all. Perhaps he has done something out of necessity. But for me it is good to die chaste.” This is what she said in lamentation, and she started looking for a way to die. There is a wide range of opinions concerning Anthia’s dream. Dalmeyda (1926, 67 n.1) states that this dream is unexpected in this episode; perhaps it would have been justified elsewhere in the novel, for example before the Manto or the Kyno episodes, but here ‘le songe d’Anthia n’est donc qu’un ornement dénue de signification précise.’ Weinstock (1934, 39) comments on dreams as ‘revelatory devices’, ‘motivators of action and problemsolvers’ or ‘explainers of previous events’. Following Kerényi, Merkelbach (1962) thinks that the dream was originally significant, but is no longer so, as the novel must have been reshuffled at some stage. Gärtner (1967, 2065; 2068; 2078) sees an intentional contrast between this scene of grief and the approaching happy ending. Hägg (1971a, 232), in the context of dreams as anticipations, finds this dream puzzling; he considers the possibility that the dream ‘refers back to the Phoenician woman (= pirate ship) at 1,12,4 who was ultimately responsible for the separation’, with Xenophon then interfering by having Anthia misinterpret the dream, ‘and thus the only effect of the dream is that which it has on Anthia herself in that moment, making her think of committing suicide’. He believes that although this dream could have been significant, it is not, because of its place and function, and concludes that it is either a ‘half-hearted working in a literary tradition or even a mechanical taking over on the part of the author of dream motifs used in other narratives.’ MacAlister (1996, 197 n.32) notes that, as in Chariton the three ‘dream-clusters’ occur at important moments, so in Xenophon the first dream occurs just before, and foreshadows, the couple’s ordeals, the second

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at the point of their separation and foreshadows their reunion, and the third ‘at the commencement of the final chronotope.’ That is true, but, as we shall see, the third dream is more significant than that. Plastira-Valkanou (2001, 145), who examines closely the structure of dreams in the Ephesiaca (the information we are given before the dream; the dreamer’s name; the dreamer’s mental state or activity and the place at which the dream occurs; the typology of the dream; and finally the reaction to the dream), acknowledges that according to ancient oneirocritic theories dreams were ‘prognostic’, but sees this particular dream as belonging to another category, ‘well-known to the ancient oneirocritic writers: the type of a false, deceitful dream,’ that could occur to someone ‘who was in a state of mental agitation […],’ and adduces as a parallel Apollonius of Rhodes 3,617-618, referring to Medea.13 Plastira-Valkanou dismisses any prophetic value in the part of the dream that presents Habrocomes’ seduction and states that ‘it is a mere recollection of a traumatic previous event’ – in this case the Manto-episode – with support from Cicero’s De Divinatione 1,130,63, where the soul in sleep ‘remembers what has gone before, judges what is present, and foresees what is to come’ (meminit praeteritorum, praesentia cernit, futura praevidet). Yet, according to Plastira-Valkanou, there is a prognostic element in the calling by name as, according to Byzantine oneirocritic writers, that is a good sign. The dream is thus found to be a mixture of negative and positive signs and Anthia, because of her state, fails to see the positive signs or the order and sequence of events. Giangrande (2002, 29f.) rejects the suggestion that the dream refers to the past (the Mantoepisode) as ‘it is well known that dreams, in the unanimous opinion of the ancients, were exclusively intended to foretell the future, not to portray past events,’ although he confusingly concedes that ‘dreams may include a recollection of the past,’ but that this is true here only of the very first part of the dream, namely Anthia’s dreaming of hers and Habrocomes’ happy time in Ephesus; his own interpretation, ultimately not too dissimilar from the one he attacks, is that dreams ‘in later times’ were no longer seen as sent by God and when they were dreams ‘of a person who, like Anthia, was worried or in a state of agitation, came to be considered as downright ψευδεῖς […], fallaces, i.e. as purporting to foretell events which in reality would not take place in the future.’ Giangrande deals with the passage from Cicero (De Divinatione 1,130,63, quoted above) thus: ‘dreams may well include a recollection of the past, but should, since they are believed to be prognostic, fore————— 13

See against this Giangrande 2002, 30, who is correct in saying that Medea’s dream in Apollonius of Rhodes foretells the future ‘in a confused but ultimately veridical manner’.

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cast the future. Accordingly, Anthia’s dream recollects the past […] and seems to forecast a future event […].’ Fernández Garrido (2003, 364), using Artemidorus 1,114 as her guide, identifies the dream as an enhypnion, a subjective dream, with the first part (the happy times of the past) evoked as consolation to the present situation and the second part projecting Anthia’s fears. For her, the two functions of the dream are to trigger eventful journeys and to anticipate future events.15 Anthia’s dream is obviously the result of her mental state,16 but Xenophon’s compositional technique goes further than simply having towards the end of the novel a dream more elaborate than the previous two dreams. To interpret and analyse the dream it is important to look at its context, taking into account Xenophon’s style of composition.

5. The context of Anthia’s dream Xenophon relies heavily on the ‘interlace technique’, ‘the technique of interweaving different storylines or scenes through regular switches between them,’ to use De Jong’s term.17 In contrast with, say, Achilles Tatius’ technique of abandoning the story of Leucippe while following Clitophon for some time, before returning to Leucippe to fill in the gaps in the story, Xenophon involves the reader at all stages and lets him follow the events ‘as they happen.’ One important advantage of this method is that we can see what Anthia is doing the moment Habrocomes is doing something else and vice versa. So where is Habrocomes and what is he doing when Anthia’s dream is introduced? Habrocomes had travelled far and wide in trying to find Anthia. He had met Hippothous and become his friend, had left Hippothous and continued his search alone, had been shipwrecked and subsequently sold to Araxus, had endured Kyno’s advances and had acted as an accomplice to Araxus’ murder, had been charged with the murder of Araxus, had miracu————— 14

15

16

17

This passage from the work Oneirocritica by the mid-second-century A.D. Ephesian author Artemidorus is cited below, section 6. Anthia’s dream is outside the remit of Liatsi 2004 who merely comments that, unlike Habrocomes’ dreams, Anthia’s dream does not refer to the future and does not constitute an allegory or a symbol (p. 152; p. 171). MacAlister 1996, 38-39 points out that Habrocomes’ dreams may be interpreted as a result of his mental state; cf. Liatsi 2004, 165, who adduces Artemidorus 1,9. Glossary in De Jong et al. 2004, xvi; cf. the tables in Hägg 1971a, 156-160; Hägg’s term for this feature is ‘parallel action and alternation technique’.

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lously survived crucifixion and the pyre, had been exonerated from the murder of Araxus and had continued his search for Anthia in Sicily where he met and was influenced by Aegialeus. Now he is in Italy, which had been his intended destination on leaving Alexandria, when the winds had brought him to Sicily instead. Within Book 5, section 5,1 deals with Habrocomes; 5,2 with Hippothous; 5,3 with Hippothous, Polyidus, Anthia; 5,4 with Anthia; 5,5 with Anthia (Rhenaea); 5,6 with Habrocomes, the parents in Ephesos, Leucon and Rhode; 5,7 with Anthia at the brothel; and 5,8 with Habrocomes in Italy and with Anthia’s dream.18 In Italy, Habrocomes has no money and does not know what to do. He first looks for Anthia, but when he fails to find her gets a job working in a quarry (5,8,3-4): καὶ ἦν αὐτῷ τὸ ἔργον ἐπίπονον· οὐ γὰρ συνείθιστο τὸ σῶμα οὐδ’ ὀλίγον ὑποβάλλειν ἔργοις ἐντόνοις ἢ σκληροῖς· διέκειτο δὲ πονήρως καὶ πολλάκις κατοδυρόμενος τὴν αὑτοῦ τύχην “ἰδού” φησιν, “Ἀνθία, ὁ σὸς Ἁβροκόμης ἐργάτης τέχνης πονηρᾶς καὶ τὸ σῶμα ὑποτέθεικα δουλείᾳ. καὶ εἰ μὲν εἶχόν τινα ἐλπίδα εὑρήσειν σε καὶ τοῦ λοιποῦ συγκαταβιώσεσθαι, τοῦτο πάντων ἄμεινόν με παρεμυθεῖτο, νυνὶ δὲ ἴσως κἀγὼ δυστυχὴς εἰς κενὰ καὶ ἀνόνητα πονῶ, καὶ σύ που τέθνηκας πόθῳ τῷ πρὸς Ἁβροκόμην· πέπεισμαι γάρ, φιλτάτη, ὡς οὐκ ἄν ποτε οὔτε ἀποθανοῦσα ἐκλάθοιό μου.” And the work was toilsome for him, for he was not accustomed to subject his body to vigorous and hard work, not even a little. He was in a bad state and, lamenting his fortune, would often say: ‘Look, Anthia, I, your Habrocomes, am a labourer of a painful work, and I have subjected my body to slavery. And if I had any hope of finding you and spending the rest of my life with you, that more than anything would console me. But right now it may be the case that both I am suffering for nothing and in vain, and you have died somewhere from your desire for Habrocomes. For I am convinced, my dearest, that you would never, either living or dying, have utterly forgotten me.’ Thus Habrocomes loses hope that Anthia is still alive, but, unlike Chariton’s Chaereas, he is confident (πέπεισμαι) that – this must be the implication – she has been faithful up to her last moment. Anthia on the other hand takes ————— 18

For a full and methodical discussion of the ‘narrative strands and character movements’, see the chapter on Xenophon in Lowe 2000, 232-233.

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her dream as a sign that Habrocomes has been unfaithful. It seems to me that the key to the interpretation of Anthia’s dream lies precisely in Anthia’s reaction to her dream. This reaction is significantly different (both in length and in content) from the previous two reactions to dreams on the part of the dreamer in the Ephesiaca, and should rather be read in conjunction, and seen in parallel, with the episode of Habrocomes in the quarry. Given the two characters’ present circumstances, it would have been much more likely for Anthia, in an environment full of both danger and temptation, to have been unfaithful, or else to have been unable to keep her vows of chastity against her will, and for Habrocomes not to have been unfaithful, after his chastising and educational stay with the fisherman Aegialeus and his voluntary labour in the quarry, and during his renewed active search for Anthia. Thus the thoughts of Habrocomes and Anthia presented at 5,8,3-4 and 5,8,7-9 offer an interesting parallel: Habrocomes in a place without danger to his chastity thinks his partner faithful, while Anthia in a place which poses danger to her chastity thinks her partner unfaithful; a chaste environment engenders chaste thoughts, an unchaste environment unchaste thoughts. Habrocomes’ conviction is in stark contrast to Anthia’s assumption. What Anthia and Habrocomes do is transpose their own ‘situation’ on one another. Anthia is in an environment that highlights and epitomises their plight so far: they were together, they were beautiful and happy, but now they are constantly attacked by potential suitors and suitresses. This is what Anthia has constantly had to deal with up to this point in the narrative; and in the brothel, the place that symbolises the opposite of chastity and marital love, she dreams that Habrocomes’ chastity is in danger.

6. The literary and theoretical background to Anthia’s dream The idea that one’s thoughts and environment affect one’s dreams is an old one. At Herodotus 7,16, an initially hesitant Xerxes is now ready to march against Greece, influenced by a dream he has seen.19 He consults his uncle, Artabanus, who had openly spoken out against the war, and suggests that they test the dream: if the dream comes from god and if it is god’s pleasure that Greece be invaded, then it will also visit Artabanus, especially if the

————— 19

It was in fact the second dream that convinced him; the first dream urging him to prepare for war he had dismissed.

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latter dresses up as Xerxes and sleeps in Xerxes’ bed. Artabanus, reluctant at first, says (7,16B,2):20 ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ ταῦτά ἐστι, ὦ παῖ, θεῖα· ἐνύπνια γὰρ τὰ ἐς ἀνθρώπους πεπλανημένα τοιαῦτά ἐστι οἷά σε ἐγὼ διδάξω, ἔτεσι σεῦ πολλοῖσι πρεσβύτερος ἐών· πεπλανῆσθαι αὗται μάλιστα ἐώθασι [αἱ] ὄψιες [τῶν] ὀνειράτων, τά τις ἡμέρης φροντίζει· ἡμεῖς δὲ τὰς πρὸ τοῦ ἡμέρας ταύτην τὴν στρατηλασίην καὶ τὸ κάρτα εἴχομεν μετὰ χεῖρας. But dreams do not come from God. I, who am older than you by many years, will tell you what these visions are that float before our eyes in sleep: nearly always these drifting phantoms are the shadows of what we have been thinking about during the day; and during the days before your dream we were, you know, very much occupied with this campaign. Artabanus goes on to admit that his explanation is not the only possible one and that there might be something divine in the dream. Indeed, when he is visited by the same figure that had visited Xerxes, he does change his mind and speaks in favour of war. But the fact remains that already in Herodotus’ time the idea that dreams were not necessarily signs from god but influenced by the circumstances prior to sleeping and dreaming was expressed. And while it is not necessary to see in Xenophon’s novel any direct allusions to this dream in Herodotus, it should be noted that these thoughts about dreams are found in an author that can be said with some certainty to have influenced Xenophon otherwise.21 Among Classical authors that refer to the connection between dreams and the sleeper’s thoughts and environment is also Hippocrates, who looks at dreams from a medical point of view (Vict. 4 vel Insomn. 88,1-5):22 ὁκόσα τῶν ἐνυπνίων τὰς ἡμερινὰς πρήξιας τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἢ διανοίας ἐς τὴν εὐφρόνην ἀποδίδωσι κατὰ τρόπον γινομένας ὥσπερ τῆς ἡμέρας ἐπρήχθη ἢ ἐβουλεύθη ἐπὶ δικαίῳ πρήγματι, ταῦτα τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ἀγαθά.

————— 20 21

22

Text Hude 1927, translation de Sélincourt – Marincola 2003. Cf. e.g. concerning geography Lavagnini 1950 and 1985; concerning names, cf. Hägg 1971b. Text and translation Jones 1931.

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Such dreams as repeat in the night a man’s actions or thoughts in the daytime, representing them as occurring naturally, just as they were done or planned during the day in a normal act – these are good for a man. The text goes on to explain that they signify health, while by the opposite, when dreams are contrary to the acts of the day, a disturbance in the body is indicated. It would be interesting to know how Hippocrates would have assessed the dream of Anthia, who does not participate in the action in the brothel, but whose thoughts are clearly affected by her environment.23 Similar ideas are found in Lucretius (4,962-1036) and, following him very closely, in Petronius. Petronius (frg. 30 Buecheler) offers the ideas found in Lucretius in condensed form:24 somnia, quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt sed sibi quisque facit. Nam cum prostrata sopore urget membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, quicquid luce fuit, tenebris agit. oppida bello qui quatit et flammis miserandas eruit urbes tela videt versasque acies et funera regum atque exundantes profuso sanguine campos. qui causas orare solent, legesque forumque et pavido cernunt inclusum corde tribunal. condit avarus opes defossumque invenit aurum. venator saltus canibus quatit. eripit undis aut premit eversam periturus navita puppem. scribit amatori meretrix, dat adultera munus. ut canis in somnis leporis vestigia latra, in noctis spatium miserorum vulnera durant.

5

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Our dreams with fleeting shadows mock our minds. They do not emanate from shrines of gods, Nor do divinities launch them from the sky; We each compose our own, for when our limbs Are overcome in sleep, and quiet reigns, Our disembodied minds enjoy their sport, Rehearsing in the night their daytime thoughts. ————— 23 24

For this theory of dreams in Classical authors, cf. also Plato’s Timaeus 70D-72D. Translation Walsh 1999, with slight modification.

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The man who causes towns to shake in war, And levels wretched cities with fierce flames, Beholds in sleep war-weapons, routed lines, The deaths of kings, and plains awash with blood. The lawyers, who routinely plead their case, Envisage laws and court-scenes – and dismayed They see the daïs ringed with armed men. The miser hords his wealth, or lights on gold Extracted from the earth. The huntsman dreams Of flushing out the woodland with his hounds. The sailor saves his vessel from the waves, Or grabs its upturned keel, confronting death. The mistress pens a letter to her gallant, The adulteress bestows on hers a gift. As sleeping dogs scent traces of the hare And bark, so also suffers man asleep: His injuries continue through the night. Lucretius and Petronius connect dreams with the mind of the dreamer and present them as closely linked to the dreamer’s thoughts during the day. It is in this context, and based on such oneirocritic theories, that Anthia’s dream should be understood. Of course, the examples do not match word for word. Lucretius and Petronius focus more on the warrior dreaming of war, the lawyer pleading a case, the huntsman hunting, etc. Obviously, Anthia is, on the one hand, not dreaming about herself and, on the other, not dreaming about something she does or does not want to do. She has not dreamt of her escaping someone’s advances or fighting for her chastity, or even that she had succumbed to someone’s advances as a result of her circumstances and environment. However, Anthia’s and Habrocomes’ thoughts fit so perfectly together in this section, in the way they are in contrast with each other, and also match their environment so well, that Xenophon can be seen to have constructed his narrative in conscious awareness of the above-cited Epicurean views on the origins of dreams.25 The dates of the Latin texts cited are ————— 25

See Musurillo 1958 (on Petronius) for the Epicurean notion of dreams as residues of the day, as opposed to the Stoic view that they come from the gods. For a detailed analysis of Epicurean ‘mocking’ of Stoic interpretations of dreams as prognostic, and for Petronius’ independent ‘popular’ response to such serious Epicurean criticism, see Kragelund 1989; Xenophon’s reliance on the readers’ acquaintance with oneirocritic theory on a popular level does not display the same extent of almost burlesque sophistication, just as the overall purpose of his narrative differs from that of Petronius.

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of some relevance in this context, but while they all quite possibly antedate Xenophon, it is as important to understand the intellectual ambience as it is to establish precise intertextualities, and the theoretical views discussed were, at any rate, present in mainstream literature from Herodotus onwards. Within the genre of the novel, after Xenophon, Longus explicitly makes the connection between waking preoccupations and dreams. In Book 2, Daphnis and Chloe, who have now heard from Philetas Love’s name and also the effect it has on people, reflect on what they have learnt and realise they must be in love (2,10):26 ἐπὶ τούτοις τοῖς λογισμοῖς οἷον εἰκὸς καὶ ὀνείρατα ἑώρων ἐρωτικά· τὰ φιλήματα, τὰς περιβολάς· καὶ ὅσα δὲ μεθ’ ἡμέραν οὐκ ἔπραξαν, ταῦτα ὄναρ ἔπραξαν· γυμνοὶ μετ’ ἀλλήλων ἔκειντο. Following these reflections, as you might expect, they dreamed dreams of love too: of their kisses, their embraces. All the things they had not done during the day, they did in their dreams: they lay naked with one another. Note that in dreaming about what ‘they had not done’ but had thought about, the dreams of Daphnis and Chloe reflect their desires; in this respect, Longus’ description of their dream is close to Xenophon’s description of Anthia’s dream, which reflects her fears; fears can, like desires, belong to the irrational part of the soul. Finally, let us turn to Artemidorus, the second-century Ephesian writer on dreams, who, at 1,1, draws a distinction between oneiros and enhypnion, stating that the former relates to the future state of affairs, the latter to the present. And he continues:27 τὰ ποιὰ τῶν παθῶν προσανατρέχειν πέφυκε καὶ προσανατάσσειν ἑαυτὰ τῇ ψυχῇ καὶ τοὺς ὀνειρωγμοὺς ἀποτελεῖν. οἷον ἀνάγκη τὸν ἐρῶντα ὄναρ ἅμα τοῖς παιδικοῖς εἶναι δοκεῖν καὶ τὸν δεδιότα ὁρᾶν ἃ δέδιε … It is the nature of certain experiences to run their course in proximity to the mind and to subordinate themselves to its dictates, and so to cause manifestations that occur in sleep. For example, it is natural for a lover to ————— 26 27

Text and translation Morgan 2004; cf. also commentary ad. loc. Text Pack 1963, translation White 1975. Cf., with regard to what Artemidorus says at 1,1 about the nature of enhypnia, Aristotle Insomn. 460B5-8.

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seem to be with his beloved in a dream and for a frightened man to see what he fears … A little further on, Artemidorus concludes that ‘it is possible, therefore, to view these cases in which those types of experiences occur as containing not a prediction of a future state but rather a reminder of a present state.’ These considerations apply very closely to the dreams of Daphnis and Chloe, who see themselves with each other, but even more so to the dream of Anthia, who sees herself with Habrocomes but also sees what she fears, another woman taking Habrocomes away. Artemidorus thus provides a nearcontemporary theoretical underpinning of what we find in Xenophon.28 The dream is the result of Anthia’s psychological state, which causes her to project things she perceives because of her environment onto Habrocomes. While Habrocomes protests his conviction that Anthia has been faithful to him until death, Anthia, as one can see from her reaction to the dream, believes that Habrocomes could have been unfaithful. She regards it as something that has happened and resolves to die as a result. The tragic irony here is palpable: Habrocomes is ‘accused’ of something at the very point in the story where he has surpassed himself, specifically his previous self, and has got a job of his own accord.29 But the parallel in the way Habrocomes and Anthia are presented as thinking about each other is not the only occasion of close parallelism in this section of the Ephesiaca. In addition, as is natural towards the end of the novel, the story plays with audience expectation and reactions.30 Habrocomes had decided at 5,6 to leave Syracuse and go to Italy in a last attempt to find Anthia. This decision might have caused some expectation and suspense in the minds of the readers that Habrocomes and Anthia might actually meet now, as the readers know that Anthia is in Italy, following the common folkloric motif whereby the very last, in a series of attempts, is the successful one. However, their meeting does not happen yet. There is a certain degree of irony in the fact that ‘Soft-Hair’ (Habrocomes) is working in a quarry, which, for somebody of his background and upbringing, is an extreme form of slavery, almost like Anthia’s working in a brothel. For Anthia, the brothel provided the most extreme challenge in her ————— 28

29

30

As we shall see in section 7 below, though, it would be reductive to suggest that Xenophon’s background is provided by oneirocritic theory alone. It is true that Habrocomes chooses to work in the quarry out of need, but this nevertheless constitutes choice: he is not forced into physical labour as, for example, is the case with Chaereas in Chariton. On readers’ expectations concerning the outcome of a plot and the ending of a novel, see Morgan 1989 on Heliodorus; on false leads and loose ends, for example, see p. 316.

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fight to preserve her chastity. For Habrocomes, the quarry is an extreme challenge he ‘must’ undergo for the reader to see and believe that this is a different Habrocomes from the one at the beginning of the novel. There are, of course, differences in detail between Anthia’s and Habrocomes’ respective situations: Anthia was sent to the brothel, whereas Habrocomes works in the quarry of his own accord. Anthia is at greater risk because if things go wrong she would be forced to give up her life of chastity, Habrocomes could have been presented as risking injury and even staking his life, but Xenophon presents the physical labour as hard rather than dangerous. However, it remains true overall that at parallel times they undergo parallel labours, the hardest they have undergone so far, as the last thing before they are reunited.31 Habrocomes says about himself (5,8,3): ‘[I am] a labourer of a mean profession, and have subjected my body to slavery (ἐργάτης τέχνης πονηρᾶς καὶ τὸ σῶμα ὑποτέθεικα δουλείᾳ).’ This describes what Anthia had almost been forced to do: to be a labourer of a wretched profession and to subject her body to slavery. So, what Habrocomes says about himself might bring to the reader’s mind the fact that, in describing his own situation, he is, unbeknown to him, describing the situation in which Anthia very nearly found herself. And Anthia herself, using some of the same terms, says later, at 5,8,8: τί οὖν ἔτι ζῶ; τί δ’ ἐμαυτὴν λυπῶ; κάλλιον οὖν ἀπολέσθαι καὶ ἀπαλλαγῆναι τοῦ πονηροῦ τούτου βίου, ἀπαλλαγῆναι δὲ τῆς ἀπρεποῦς ταύτης καὶ ἐπισφαλοῦς δουλείας· So, why do I go on living? Why do I grieve myself? It is better then to die and to be rid of this wretched life, to be rid of this disreputable and dangerous slavery. One reading of Anthia’s dream, then, is that it is the result of her mental state, and also of her environment in a wider sense. Its function is partly to convey this to the readers of the novel, and partly to let the readers delight in their superior knowledge of the situation, which they share with the omniscient narrator. ————— 31

Habrocomes did, of course, almost suffer worse when he was about to be crucified and burnt alive, but on the one hand that was averted by divine intervention, and on the other hand it was the direct punishment for his weakness and his bad judgement in accepting, even temporarily, Kyno’s suggestion. Otherwise, the suffering during his adventures has been rather mild.

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7. Anthia’s dream: a second reading The function of the dream could also be to play with the readers’ expectations in a different way. Could this dream, against genre conventions of a happy ending, be prophetic after all, as had been the two previous dreams in the novel? Anthia’s reaction to the dream, apart from the irony it carries, is significant in another way, in that it reveals something about Anthia’s character and psychology. With the first dream in the Ephesiaca, Habrocomes had changed from being happy to being unhappy and expecting something bad to happen; after experiencing his second dream, a devastated Habrocomes had become more hopeful as a consequence of that dream. In neither case is there any explicit mention of Habrocomes’ evaluation of the dreams, only of the effect they had on the dreamer. Anthia, on the other hand, is presented by the narrator, at 5,8,7, as believing that the dream is true (ἀληθῆ τὰ ὀφθέντα ἐνόμιζεν). This brings to the surface issues of truth and deception and thus implicitly points to the fictionality of the story. Especially in Book 5, Xenophon in a number of places seems to explore the idea of what is true and what is false, what is believable and what is unbelievable, and what is perceived as what. This matter cannot be explored fully here.32 For now it must suffice to observe that Anthia’s belief concerning the veracity of the story could raise the expectation that what we will learn next about Habrocomes is in tune with the dream image which, in that case, would be ‘prognostic’, as were the first and second dreams by Habrocomes. However, given Habrocomes’ reasoned resolve in the immediately preceding section in Book 5, this would seem highly unlikely, and a reader is more likely to doubt Anthia’s judgement than to expect the narrator to have misled him with the extensive and well-constructed portrayal of Habrocomes. What, therefore, is the purpose of Xenophon’s raising the issue? There is, in Chariton, a dream that bears close resemblance to Anthia’s dream. Chariton frequently employs dreams to motivate action, but I want to concentrate on two that do not. At 3,7,4 Callirhoe dreams of Chaereas in bonds. She calls out his name, which Dionysius hears and enquires after. ————— 32

A key term he employs as a motif in this connection is diēgēma (3,1,4; 3,2,15; 3,3,3; 3,9,4; 3,9,7; 4,4,1; 5,1,3; 5,9,7; 5,10,4; 5,13,5); a key indicator of his self-awareness are the frequent internal analepses (in Book 5 alone 5,5,5; 5,9,13; 5,10,11; 5,14,1); in addition, Xenophon employs, in a veiled way, technical vocabulary of literary criticism at strategic points; a point of particular interest, because of its deliberate multivalency, is the dedication of a graphē by Anthia and Habrocomes at 5,15,2.

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Callirhoe explains that Chaereas used to be her husband and continues (3,7,5-6):33 οὐδὲ ἐν τοῖς ὀνείροις εὐτυχής· εἶδον γὰρ αὐτὸν δεδεμένον. ἀλλὰ σὺ μέν, ἄθλιε, τέθνηκας ζητῶν ἐμὲ (δηλοῖ γὰρ θάνατόν σου τὰ δεσμά), ἐγὼ δὲ ζῶ καὶ τρυφῶ, κατάκειμαι δὲ ἐπὶ χρυσηλάτου κλίνης μετὰ ἀνδρὸς ἑτέρου. πλὴν οὐκ εἰς μακρὰν ἀφίξομαι πρὸς σέ. εἰ καὶ ζῶντες ἀλλήλων οὐκ ἀπηλαύσαμεν, ἀποθανόντες ἀλλήλους ἕξομεν. Even in my dream he was not happy; I saw him in chains. Poor husband, so you died looking for me, for the chains signify your death. Meanwhile I am living in luxury and lie upon the bed with another husband! But it will not be long before I come to you. Though in life we could not enjoy each other’s company, yet we shall have each other in death. The point to note here is not only that Chaereas is actually in chains in Caria, but that there is, on the part of Callirhoe, a similar reaction to that of Anthia’s, only in reverse: they both comment on their own situation and assume, because of their dreams, the other person, Chaereas and Habrocomes respectively, to be going through the opposite: Callirhoe is living in luxury but feels bad because she believes the dream to mean that Chaereas is suffering; Anthia, on the other hand, is a slave and feels betrayed because she believes the dream to mean that Habrocomes is alive and well and has forgotten her. The reactions of the two women go into completely different directions after that: Callirhoe seems more aware of the function of dreams. She grieves, and is comforted by Dionysius, but ‘Callirhoe’s grief was mitigated by the hope that perhaps Chaereas was alive and the dream had been false (ψευδόνειρον αὐτὴν γεγονέναι)’ (3,7,7). Anthia, on the other hand, immediately (5,8,9) shows her devotion and love by so readily ‘forgiving’ Habrocomes, and asking the gods to forgive him, too, because he might have been forced (ἀνάγκῃ) to act as he is perceived to have done. This is still a rapid change from 5,8,7, where Anthia contrasted the lengths she had to go to in order to overcome difficulties, which was beyond what could have been expected of a woman. Is there a hidden reproach here? She acted with more inventiveness than the average woman; so did she act with the resourcefulness of a man? While Habrocomes, the man, was beaten by necessity? Anthia then proceeds to say that she will die chaste: perhaps another masked reproach against Habrocomes, who, she may well imply or ————— 33

Text and translations of Chariton are from Goold 1995.

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believe, did not choose that course of action but succumbed to external forces. That rapid change of behaviour at 5,8,9, though, is not out of place, given the circumstances: it is natural that Anthia would react strongly to such a dream but soon realise, especially given her own experience, that Habrocomes might have been forced to lose his chastity. Xenophon has put effort into the psychologically plausible portrayal of his characters and their emotional situation. The other dream in Chariton that is of interest here comes at 5,5, at the point where Callirhoe and Chaereas are about to be reunited in Babylon. Callirhoe is miserable and does not want to appear in court, fearing, among other things, that she is going to attract the attention of the judge, too (5,5,56): νυκτὸς δὲ ἐπελθούσης ὄναρ ἔβλεπεν αὑτὴν ἐν Συρακούσαις παρθένον εἰς τὸ τῆς Ἀφροδίτης τέμενος εἰσιοῦσαν κἀκεῖθεν ἐπανιοῦσαν, ὁρῶσαν Χαιρέαν καὶ τὴν τῶν γάμων ἡμέραν· ἐστεφανωμένην τὴν πόλιν ὅλην καὶ προπεμπομένην αὑτὴν ὑπὸ πατρὸς καὶ μητρὸς εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν τοῦ νυμφίου. μέλλουσα δὲ καταφιλεῖν Χαιρέαν ἐκ τῶν ὕπνων ἀνέθορε … When night came, she dreamed of herself, once more a girl in Syracuse, entering the secret precinct of Aphrodite and returning from it; her first meeting with Chaereas and her wedding day; the whole city was decked with garlands and she herself was being conducted by her father and mother to her bridegroom’s home. Just as she was about to kiss Chaereas she started up from sleep … The similarities, including similarities of expression, between this dream of Callirhoe and Anthia’s dream are obvious. Both heroines are about to meet their husbands (although Anthia’s meeting is not as imminent as Callirhoe’s) and they both dream of their past happiness and their husbands. Despite the similarities, however, the reaction to (and, therefore, the effect of) Callirhoe’s dream is quite different from Anthia’s. After waking up, ‘Callirhoe instinctively felt cheerful, as though foreseeing what was to come (ὥσπερ προμαντευομένη τὰ μέλλοντα).’ She calls Plangon, since Dionysius, we are told, had already left the bed, and Plangon reassures her that all is well, that the dream is a good sign, and that she should go to court confident of a happy outcome. And this is indeed how things turn out. Callirhoe’s dream and its interpretation are thus more straightforward and clearer than Anthia’s – Chariton does not rely on or appeal to a superior knowledge of the in-

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formed reader that goes beyond the knowledge of the characters in the story. Xenophon, by contrast, expects his readers to assess Anthia’s dream, which is in significant respects inspired by and modelled on Callirhoe’s dreams, based on their knowledge of elements in the story not known to Anthia, and also in light of their knowledge of the two protagonists, Anthia and Habrocomes. We can now turn to the second interpretation of Anthia’s dream. With it, we return to the traditional view of dreams as prognostic, as foreshadowing of things to come. The foreshadowing, however, does not refer to Habrocomes, whom Anthia sees in the dream, but to herself: the dream must be interpreted ‘in reverse’. There are no more adventures for Habrocomes from now on. He will leave the quarry and make his way to Rhodes, where the grand reunion takes place. Anthia, however, who has ‘recovered’ at the brothel, will be put up for sale. And who will buy her but Hippothous, the bandit, the friend of Habrocomes and former captor of Anthia, who is now a rich widower shopping for slaves and other luxury items in Italy! As Hippothous and Anthia had met twice before, so this, their third encounter, turns into an elaborate, tragically inspired recognition scene. And at 5,9,11, Hippothous falls in love with Anthia or, rather, he wants to sleep with her; it is important, not so much for the dream, but for the overall interpretation of the novel, that love as such is not mentioned here. But be that as it may, Anthia has one more man to fend off, there is still one more attempt on her chastity. The similarities, and to an extent the parallelism, between Anthia’s dream and this subsequent episode of her encounter with Hippothous can be clearly seen below: Anthia’s dream (5,8,4-9):

The Hippothous episode (5,9,11-12):

1) the other woman tries to drag Habrocomes away (with the purpose of sleeping with him?)34

1) Hippothous ‘wanted to get together [with Anthia] and promised her much (συνελθεῖν ἐβούλετο καὶ πολλὰ ὑπισχνεῖται αὐτῇ)’

2) Habrocomes does not follow willingly (ἀναβοῶντος)

2) Anthia refuses (ἀντέλεγεν αὐτῷ)

————— 34

See Giangrande 2002, 29.

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3) Habrocomes calls Anthia by name (καλοῦντος ὀνομαστί)

3) Anthia mentions Habrocomes by name while telling her story (λέγει τὸν Ἁβροκόμην ... καὶ συνεχὲς Ἁβροκόμην ἀνωδύρετο 5,9,13)

This second reading thus aligns Anthia’s dream in its prognostic aspect with Habrocomes’ dreams. At the same time, Xenophon’s clear allusion to and manipulation of two dreams in Chariton invites the reader to explore issues of intertextuality at the very point where Anthia’s statement about the truth of the dream, which the reader knows to be false, creates awareness of the text as text.

8. Conclusion So Anthia’s dream, rather than being puzzling, in the sense of inexplicable, or unexpected, as it has often been regarded, emerges as one of the more cleverly constructed and skilfully placed episodes in Xenophon’s novel. The two interpretations proposed in this paper complement each other in respect of traditions, intertextualities, and the internal structure and purpose of the novel. One need not go so far as to assume that Xenophon was addressing two different audiences here.35 Rather, Xenophon intentionally constructs towards the end of his novel an episode that is multifaceted. Anthia’s dream is both backward-looking and forward-looking, and requires the reader to think in order to appreciate a text crafted with skill, attention and method. It also constitutes the re-working of an immediate literary model and represents fully the enlightened view of dreams as caused by a person’s character and environment. In addition, by exploiting the prognostic and prophetic nature of dreams on a higher level, it serves, in a surprising twist, as a final element of retardation before the happy reunion anticipated by the reader.36 ————— 35

36

For this, see Plastira-Valkanou 2001, 148. Were one to apply Plastira-Valkanou’s suggestion of two types of audience, one could argue the following: for the less sophisticated audience, who expect dreams to be prophetic, the dream would turn out to be so, only referring to Anthia herself, not Habrocomes; for the more sophisticated and sceptical audience, aware of theories regarding dreams as not divine and therefore not prognostic, but rather associated with someone’s mental state, this last dream of Anthia would clearly be such a dream. For serendipitous inspiration, I should like to thank Peter Reason; for numerous suggestions, comments and support, I am much indebted to Konstantin Doulamis.

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Bibliography Athanassiadi, P. 1993. ‘Dreams, Theurgy and Freelance Divination: the Testimony of Iamblichus’, JRS 83, 115-130. Bierl, A. 2006. ‘Räume im Anderen und der griechische Liebesroman des Xenophon von Ephesos. Träume?’, in: Loprieno (ed.), 71-103. Bowie, E.L. 1985. ‘The Greek Novel’, in P.E. Easterling and B.M.W. Knox (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, vol.1: Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 683-699 (repr. in: S. Swain (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 39-59). Bowie, E.L. 2002. ‘The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels since B.E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions’, AN 2, 47-63. Dalmeyda, G. (ed. & trans.) 1926. Xénophon d’ Ephèse. Les Ephésiaques ou le roman d’ Habrocomès et d’ Anthia, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. De Jong, I.J.F., Nünlist, R., and Bowie, A. (eds.) 2004. Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature, Leiden – Boston: Brill. De Sélincourt, A. – Marincola, J. (trans.) 2003. Herodotus. Histories, further revised edition, London: Penguin. Fernández Garrido, R. 2003. ‘Los sueños en la novela griega: Caritón de Afrodisias y Jenofonte de Éfeso’, Habis 34, 345-364. Gallop, D. 1996. Aristotle On Sleep and Dreams, Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Gärtner, H. 1967. ‘Xenophon von Ephesos’, RE 2. ser. 9, 2055-2089. Giangrande, G. 2002. ‘A Dream in Xenophon Ephesius’, Orpheus 23, 29-31. Goold, G.P. (ed. & trans.) 1995. Chariton. Callirhoe, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Hägg, T. 1971a. Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances. Studies of Chariton, Xenophon Ephesius, and Achilles Tatius, Stockholm: Swedish Institute at Athens. Hägg, T. 1971b. ‘The Naming of the Characters in the Romance of Xenophon Ephesius’, Eranos 69, 25-59. Hanson, J. 1980. ‘Dreams and Visions in the Graeco-Roman World and Early Christianity’, ANRW II.32.2, 1395-1427. Holowchak, M.A. 2002. Ancient Science and Dreams. Oneirology in Greco-Roman Antiquity, New York – Oxford: University Press of America. Hude, K. (ed.) 19273. Herodoti Historiae, vols. 1 & 2, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jones, W.H.S. (ed. & trans.) 1931. Hippocrates, vol. IV, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Kerényi, K. 1927. Die Griechisch-Orientalische Romanliteratur in religions-geschichtlicher Beleuchtung, Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck). Kragelund, P. 1989. ‘Epicurus, Priapus and the Dreams in Petronius’, CQ 39, 436-450. Lavagnini, B. 1950. ‘Le origine del romanzo greco’, in Studi sul Romanzo Greco, MessinaFlorence, 1-105. Lavagnini, B. 1985. ‘Ancora sul romanzo greco’, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa 15, 69-80. Liatsi, M. 2004. ‘Die Träume des Abrokomes bei Xenophon of Ephesus’, RhM 147, 151-171. Loprieno, A. (ed.) 2006. Mensch und Raum von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Colloquium Rauricum Band 9, Munich – Leipzig: De Gruyter. Lowe, N.J. 2000. The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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MacAlister, S. 1996. Dreams and Suicides. The Greek Novel from Antiquity to the Byzantine Empire, London – New York: Routledge. Merkelbach, R. 1962. Roman und Mysterium in der Antike, Munich – Berlin: Beck. Miller, P.C. 1994. Dreams in Late Antiquity. Studies in the Imagination of a Culture, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Morgan, J.R. 1989. ‘A Sense of the Ending: the Conclusion of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika’, TAPA 119, 299-320. Morgan, J.R. (ed.) 2004. Longus. Daphnis & Chloe, Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Musurillo, H. 1958. ‘Dream Symbolism in Petronius Frag. 30’, CP 53, 108-110. O’Sullivan, J.N. (ed.) 2005. Xenophon Ephesius. De Anthia et Habrocome Ephesiacorum libri V, Munich – Leipzig: K.G. Saur. Pack, R. (ed.) 1963. Artemidori Daldiani Oneirocriticon libri V, Leipzig: Teubner. Panayotakis, S., Zimmerman, M., Keulen, W. (eds.) 2003. The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden – Boston: Brill. Φιλιππίδης, Σ.Ν. 1993. ‘Η αφηγηματική αιτιολόγηση των ονείρων στα αρχαία ελληνικά μυθιστορήματα’, in: Δ.Ι. Κυρτάτας (ed.), Ὄψις ἐνυπνίου. Η χρήση των ονείρων στην ελληνική και ρωμαϊκή αρχαιότητα, Ηράκλειο: Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδόσεις Κρήτης, 155176. Plastira-Valkanou, M. 2001. ‘Dreams in Xenophon of Ephesus’, SO 76, 137-149. Walsh, P.G. (trans.) 1999. Petronius. The Satyricon, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Weinstock, F. 1934. ‘De somniorum visionumque in amatoriis Graecorum fabulis vi atque usu’, Eos 35, 29-72. White, R.J. (trans.) 1975. The Interpretation of Dreams. Oneirocritica by Artemidorus, Park Ridge, NJ: Noyes Press.

Petronius and Virgil: Contextual and Intertextual Readings M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS University of Crete, Rethymnon

1. Introduction Virgilian elements in Petronius’ Satyrica were first presented in detail in Albert Collignon’s book Étude sur Pétrone, published in 1892.1 Since then they have been signaled and discussed in several monographs and articles but Collignon and Zeitlin2 still remain the most comprehensive collections of Virgilian allusions. Virgilian presence in the Satyrica concerns primarily the Aeneid. It appears in both the verse sections (including an entire verse composition) and the prose sections of the novel and assumes a variety of forms: verbal echoes, thematic borrowings, quotations, etc. The most prominent and frequently recurring Virgilian episodes are sections of Aeneid 2 (especially the Wooden Horse episode), the story of Dido and Aeneas (the storm, arrival in Carthage, meeting with Dido, and aftermath), and Aeneas’ katabasis. Trojan themes had had a long-standing appeal in Roman literature and were especially attractive in the Neronian Age.3 Judging by their fortunes in postVirgilian literature like Ovid and Seneca, all the other Virgilian episodes mentioned above had also gained popularity by the time the Satyrica was composed. In evaluating the parody of grand literature in the Satyrica Gian Biagio Conte classically argued that in Petronius ‘[there is no] debasing of the great models of sublime literature. Instead there is parody of the debasement which they have already endured’. He clarified his thesis as follows: ‘What is represented and parodied is anyone whose way of life debases these great ————— 1 2 3

Collignon 1892, 109-145. Zeitlin 1971. Néraudau 1985; Griffin 1984; Sullivan 1985. Echoing Narratives, 73–98

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models by reducing them to his own trivial pettiness. In short, the attack is not against the grand forms of epic and tragedy or high forensic oratory, but against their degraded forms, that is, romanticizing models and Trivialliteratur, the melodrama of pantomime, the excesses of scholastic declamation’.4 Furthermore, Conte argued that the author of the Satyrica, instead of directly parodying the Aeneid, chose to remain ‘hidden’ and become a detached external observer of the mythomaniac narrator’s melodramatic performances. While accepting the significance of Conte’s thesis about the ‘mythomaniac’ narrator of the Satyrica, the present study distances itself from other aspects of his argument. The ‘debasement’ and ‘trivialization’ of Virgil’s epic began and first achieved prominence not with Trivialliteratur but with great literature. I have in mind especially Ovid’s re-writing of the Aeneid in his elegiac works and in the Metamorphoses. Reducing Virgil’s epic to the ordinary and the trivial is one of Ovid’s techniques of imitation. The Ovidian treatment of Virgil is ironic, witty or humorous, and occasionally verges on the comic. So why would Petronius’ pungent satire have spared the Aeneid and aimed exclusively at the excesses of scholastic declamation? Why would our intertextual reading of the Satyrica take for granted that the target are the ‘degraded forms’ and not the ‘great models’ themselves, considering also that the novel has absorbed Ovidian rhetorization and parody of the Aeneid? What does the staging of the debate of Encolpius with his penis as a debate between Aeneas and Dido tell us about the author’s treatment of the Aeneid itself? In sum, to use Conte’s own words, ‘who decides where to find the speaking author, and where the author is letting the narrator speak instead?’5 The melodramatic performances of Encolpius and Giton cannot and should not be treated independently of authorial viewpoint regarding the Aeneid itself. A real difficulty in discussing Virgilian elements in the Satyrica is that these elements are not always clearly identifiable. One reason is that in the Satyrica Virgil is occasionally filtered through other sources. A related reason is that frequently a given passage simultaneously points to intertexts from more than one work or author. In extreme cases one has to use plenty of imagination and go a roundabout way in order to establish a connection with Virgil’s epic. One such instance is Trimalchio’s story of the origin of Corinthian bronze from Hannibal’s melting down of Trojan valuables (50,5):6 ————— 4 5 6

Conte 1996, 150. Conte 1996, 25. The text is that of Mueller 1995; all translations are from Walsh 1996.

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Cum Ilium captum est, Hannibal, homo vafer et magnus stelio, omnes statuas aeneas et aureas et argenteas in unum rogum congessit et eas incendit; factae sunt in unum aera miscellanea. At the capture of Troy, that rascally slimy lizard Hannibal piled up all the statues of bronze, gold and silver on a pyre, and set fire to them; all the various elements merged into alloy of bronze. Baldwin wondered if ‘the often-punning Trimalchio intend[s] a play on aeneas/Aeneas in this Trojan context’.7 Elaborating on this tentative suggestion Connors argued that ‘both the displacement of the origin of Corinthian bronze from Corinth to the fall of Troy, and the adjective aeneas, which (despite the differences in pronunciation) seems to have some resonance of Troy’s epic hero Aeneas, are recognizable fragments of the epic past jumbled together and given new form in Trimalchio’s story’.8 Troy and Carthage are narrative signposts in the Aeneid and the future hostility of Carthage with Rome is a key theme. Aeneas’ last glimpse of Troy in Aeneid 2 is the sight of Trojan treasures ‘seized from the blazing shrines’ (incensis erepta adytis), among them craters of solid gold (crateresque auro solidi, 2,763-765). Given that the Satyrica includes a poem on the fall of Troy that to some extent refashions Aeneid 2, that reminiscences of Virgil’s Troy abound in the novel, and that in the Cena itself Trimalchio quotes Laocoon’s famous line to his fellow-citizens ‘sic notus Ulixes’ (39,3) and possesses a jug that shows Daedalus shutting Niobe in the Wooden Horse (52,2), it is not unreasonable to assume that Virgilian Troy may have been at the back of Trimalchio’s mind when he told the surrealistic story of the Corinthian bronze. In this study I deal with ‘more meaningful’ cases of Virgilian reception. Petronian research has already linked signposts of the novel to Virgil’s Aeneid. Quartilla, the priestess of Priapus in the vicinity of Cumae, was recognized as a comic evocation of the Virgilian Sibyl and Encolpius’ encounter with her was associated with Aeneas’ visit to the Sibyl (chapters 16-26). Trimalchio’s house and environment evoke a Virgilian katabasis (chapters 26-78). Encolpius’ visit to the picture gallery in the temple of an unknown deity alludes to Aeneas gazing at the pictures in Dido’s temple; in the same section the recital by Eumolpus of the Troiae Halosis reworks the first section of Virgil’s narrative of the fall of Troy (chapters 83-89). The voyage of Eumolpus, Encolpius and Giton aboard the ship of Lichas and the shipwreck ————— 7 8

Baldwin 1987, 6. Connors 1998, 21; cf. Rimell 2004, 106 n.20.

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that follows (chapters 100-115) contain several Virgilian reminiscences. Finally, the arrival at Croton (chapters 116-141) reworks Aeneas’ arrival in Carthage and presents affinities with Virgil’s underworld.9 The present analysis will focus on the Virgilian intertexts of chapters 7999, the narrative extending from the departure from Trimalchio’s house to the point when the company get aboard Lichas’ ship. For reasons of thematic continuity there will also be a brief discussion of their entrapment aboard this ship (100-103). Sections that have received much attention, like Eumolpus’ poem on the capture of Troy, are given a very brief treatment. Also allusions to other authors or myths in passages examined are inevitably ignored. Discussions of the novel’s relationship to the Aeneid have on the whole been selective and fragmentary. The following analysis attempts to provide a sustained and consecutive reading of the above-mentioned sections of the Satyrica against the backdrop of the Aeneid. In my readings I look into the contextual significance and occasionally at the intertextual implications of Virgilian allusion, a very understudied subject. By intertextual implications I mean the range of Virgilian intertext co-involved in each Petronian allusion. For a text as important as the Aeneid the intertextual horizon is expected to range widely. Another issue examined below is the relation of Virgil to Homer within the body of the Satyrica. In the most recent treatment of Petronius’ Homeric and Virgilian intertextuality John Morgan and Costas Panayotakis have made diametrically opposed claims: the former argues that ‘the novel was conceived as a comic rewriting of the Odyssey on an epic scale’; and the latter that ‘I would be inclined to conclude that the Satyrica is Petronius’ impertinent version of the Aeneid’.10 In the episodes I examine I am concerned with the interaction between Homeric and Virgilian intertexts, which is frequently the case in the Satyrica, and specifically with the ‘Virgilianization’ of Homer. Since Homeric influence is constantly filtered through Virgil and other Greek or Latin poets and is ultimately absorbed into the text of the Satyrica, it would be advisable to study it not independently but in combination. An important difference between Homeric and Virgilian influence on the Satyrica is that the former is most commonly thematic (with the exception of ————— 9

10

Basic reading about Virgilian influence on the Satyrica are Collignon 1892; Walsh 1970; Zeitlin 1971; Bodel 1994; Conte 1996; Connors 1998; Cugusi 2001; Rimell 2004. Morgan 2009, 34; Panayotakis 2009, 53.

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names11) while the latter is thematic and frequently verbal. To be specific, with Homeric allusion it is in most cases impossible to establish that they go beyond thematic elements to the text itself. In the surviving part of the Satyrica Petronius quotes Virgil but does not quote Homer, as does the contemporary Apocolocyntosis, and does not render Homeric verses into Latin. The following example from the Satyrica will clarify this point. Encolpius narrates that the legacy-hunters at Croton asked their party ‘quod genus hominum aut unde veniremus’ (124,2). The formula is Homeric in its origin but the form and diction is Virgilian: Collignon compared Aeneid 1,539 quod genus hominum? and 8,114 qui genus? unde domo?12 By contrast in the Apocolocyntosis (5,4) Hercules asks Claudius the same question by quoting the Homeric formula: τίς πόθεν εἰς ἀνδρῶν, πόθι τοι πόλις ἠδὲ τοκῆες; (‘Who are you and from where? What kind are your city and parents?’).13 Had Petronius wished his address to sound ‘Homeric’, he would have rendered the whole formula into Latin and not only half of it. The example suggests that Petronius, despite his interest in Homer and things Greek, is unwilling to produce Homericizing phrases.14 My thesis that in chapters 79-99 of the novel the Aeneid functions as an ever-present subtext, a textual horizon against which the discourse of the Satyrica unfolds, is understood also in the sense that Virgil’s epic functions as an intertextual filter as well. This argument postulates that to Petronius’ select audience the Aeneid was the most familiar Roman literary work and one that carried the greatest weight and authority.

2. The night Troy fell (79,1-10) Having escaped from Trimalchio’s banquet Encolpius, Ascyltos, and Giton, drunk and ignorant of the place, wander around in the dark night unable to find their lodgings and suffer painful consequences as they lacerate their feet on sharp stones and fragments of broken jars. Of particular significance are lines 79,1-3:

————— 11 12 13 14

Cf. Fedeli 1988, on Polyaenus. Collignon 1892, 128. On this passage and the use of Homer in the Apocolocyntosis see Paschalis 2009. At 127,9 it is fairly certain that the author is working with the Homeric text (Il. 14,345351, the seduction of Zeus by Hera), but even so it is surprising how little of the original is retained in Latin; cf. however Roncali 1986.

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neque fax ulla in praesidio erat, quae iter aperiret errantibus, nec silentium noctis iam mediae promittebat occurrentium lumen. accedebat huc ebrietas et imprudentia locorum etiam interdiu obfutura. We had no torch to aid us, to show us the way in our wandering, and as it was now midnight, all was silent, and there was no likelihood of our encountering such a beacon. To make matters worse, our drunkenness and ignorance of the locality would have caused problems even in daylight. Drunkenness and darkness prove fatal to the Trojans both in Aeneid 2 and in Eumolpus’ Troiae halosis. For the interaction of this scene with Eumolpus’ poem it is worth noting that the narrative joins these two factors closely together by transforming Virgil’s urbem somno uinoque solutam (A. 2,265) into sepultos Priamidas nocte et mero (89,56). Furthermore, ‘ignorance of the place’ reminds the reader that ignorance of the Trojan city proves fatal to Androgeos and his party who are killed by the Trojans (A. 2,384 ignarosque loci). There is a striking reversal of situations: Androgeos is a Greek at Troy; the trio are strangers in a Graeca urbs. Finally, the silentium noctis mediae could be construed as looking back to the silent night at Troy that precedes the Greek invasion (A. 2,255).15 All these intertextual epic markers forebode disaster also in the narrative of the Satyrica. Thanks to Giton’s chalk-marks the party find their way back to their lodgings. The old concierge is dead drunk; they would have had to spend the night on the doorstep but Trimalchio’s tabellarius who happened (?) to be there breaks the door down and lets them in. Encolpius has an ecstatic ‘elegiac’ time in bed with Giton,16 but later disaster breaks out reminiscent of circumstances that led to the fall of Troy (79,9): nam cum solutus mero remisissem ebrias manus, Ascyltos, omnis iniuriae inventor, subduxit mihi nocte puerum et in lectum transtulit suum The wine had caused me to relax and I had loosed my drunken embrace. During the night Ascyltos, that contriver of all manner of iniquity, removed the boy from my side, and transferred him to his own bed. Encolpius falls into drunken sleep, his unsteady hands let go of the boy, and overnight Ascyltos steals him from Encolpius’ bed and takes him into his ————— 15 16

Currie 1993 compares A. 4,522-527. It famously evokes Propertius 2,15.

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own. Drunken sleep that follows a nighttime of enjoyment and causes people to become victims to deceitful practices is the scenario of the fall of Troy. Ascyltos is branded by the narrator as omnis iniuriae inventor, an appellation which definitely makes him another Virgilian Ulysses. He is so called specifically in the narrative of the fall of Troy: A. 2,164 scelerumque inuentor Ulixes.17 The insertion of the characterization in a situation where Encolpius is represented as solutus mero reinforces the allusion to Virgil’s epic.18 When Encolpius wakes up and does not find Giton by his side, he laments the breach of amatory fides and for a moment considers transfixing the lovers with his sword prolonging their sleep into death (somnumque morti iungerem). The situation finds a striking verbal echo in the slaughter of the Trojans described in Eumolpus’ poem (89,63 continuat in mortem ultimam somnos).19 There is an analogous situation in Virgil’s Troy: in Aeneid 6 during Troy’s fatal night Deiphobus, betrayed by Helen, passes from sleep to death at the hands of Menelaus and Ulysses, the hortator scelerum.20 On the whole, the combined themes of drunkenness, darkness, Odyssean deceit, and sleep turned into death mark this episode as a parody of events and actions associated with the fall of Troy.

3. Why the Homeric Achilles was transformed into the Virgilian Aeneas (79-82) Encolpius changes his mind about killing Ascyltos and Giton in their sleep, wakes Giton up violently and angrily tells Ascyltos to collect his things and go. Before going, however, Ascyltos demands that the boy Giton be divided between them as they have divided their other spoils (manubia). He subsequently draws his sword to ‘hack off’ his share of the praeda and Encolpius takes his stand ready to fight for his own share. The capture of cities involves the seizing of spoils. This is anticipated when Encolpius wakes up and finds his bed ‘stripped of its joy’ (79,10 gaudio despoliatum): given the situation, the verb retains something of the original meaning of spolia as ‘spoils of war’. ————— 17 18 19

20

Habermehl 2006, 11 mentions the Virgilian passage but does not discuss the context. Cf. Austin 1964, 127. Courtney 2001, 128 and Habermehl 2006, 13 mention the parallel without discussing the context. Habermehl 2006, 206. Relevant is esp. A. 6,520-522: tum me confectum curis somnoque grauatum / infelix habuit thalamus, pressitque iacentem / dulcis et alta quies placidaeque simillima morti.

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Aeneas’ last gaze at Troy falls on the rich booty and the captive women and children seized by the victors and guarded by Phoenix and Ulysses (2,761-767). The present situation in Petronius, however, is one that invites a parody not of the Aeneid but of the Iliad, the archetypal quarrel over the division of spoils of war. The majority of scholars adopt Walsh’s view21 that the quarrel over Giton is a parody of the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon over Briseis. Achilles had captured her when he sacked Lyrnessos, but Agamemnon demanded and took her from Achilles when he was forced to return Chryseis to her father. In Petronius, Ascyltos and Encolpius reenact the Homeric quarrel but, since neither party yields, Petronius introduces the comic solution of dividing the praeda in half. As will be seen below, Encolpius’ subsequent withdrawal to a lodging by the shore, where, like Achilles, he laments his situation (81), confirms the Iliadic imitation. The comic idea of ‘dividing’ the boy Giton in half leads in turn to the parody of another famous tragic paradigm, the fight between the brothers Eteocles and Polynices over the rule of Thebes. Ascyltos and Encolpius are technically fratres, ‘sexual partners’ in a triangle (11,2-4), and hence the heroic model fits them like a glove. The tragic allusion emerges when Giton embraces their knees in supplication, beseeching them not to make the humble lodging-house witness a Theban duel. He next declares that he is the guilty party and that they should turn their swords against his throat (80,4). Collignon was the first scholar to note that Giton’s appeal echoes Nisus’ cry of agony to the Rutulians that have surrounded Euryalus: like Giton, Nisus takes all the blame upon himself and asks that their weapons be turned against him (A. 9,424-430).22 La Penna traced the literary history of the motif and argued in favor of the imitation of the words of tragic heroines like Jocasta, who intervened between her two sons to prevent the fratricide.23 It is probable that Virgilian influence went through one or more intertextual filters. But the original text eventually comes on top: because of explicit verbal echoes like convertite; because of the mention of fraus in Nisus’ words, which is refashioned by Petronius into amicitiae sacramentum delevi; and, above all, because of the nature of the relationship between Nisus and Euryalus. In a novel where homosexual love is very prominent, the subtly represented homoerotic relationship and the pathetic deaths of young Nisus and Euryalus were an attractive subject and were exploited more than once. ————— 21 22 23

Walsh 1970, 36-37. Collignon 1892, 120. La Penna 1994.

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As will be seen below, Petronius later pursues the Virgilian scene by providing a caricature of the subsequent death of the two youths. Giton’s pleas eventually cause Encolpius and Ascyltos to restrain their weapons. Ascyltos asks Giton to choose between the two and the boy chooses him without hesitation. Encolpius’ rival departs in triumph with his prize, leaving his ‘comrade in arms’ (commilitonem) in despair in a foreign place. After the Theban interlude the thread of the Iliadic war script is recaptured: Ascyltos-Agamemnon takes the boy, while Encolpius withdraws to an isolated lodging by the shore,24 just as the sorrowing Achilles went and sat by the shore apart from his comrades, prayed to his mother and at her appearance asked her to intervene with Zeus in his favor (Il. 1,348-427). In the Satyrica Encolpius shuts himself up in the lodgings for three days and, like Achilles who wept, grieved, and moaned, he laments his loneliness, beats his breasts, and groans. In a highly rhetorical outburst the hero reviews his present unhappy situation and casts the blame on the dissolute boy Giton and his lover Ascyltos. Having vowed to exact a bloody revenge (and having eaten a lavish meal to gain strength for the upcoming fight!), he girds on his sword and rushes out like a madman thinking only of slaughter and bloodshed; but then a soldier spots his ridiculous shoes, stops him, disarms him, and sends him back to his lodging.25 Through his intervention the soldier did a favor not only to Ascyltos and Giton but also to Eumolpus, because later jealous Encolpius will not have a sword to use against him (94,3). Encolpius’ angry rhetoric,26 the taking up of arms and furious outrush are vividly reminiscent of the conduct of Aeneas during the fatal night at Troy. Collignon compared three passages of Aeneid 2 where Aeneas arms himself and rushes out or forth: 2,314-316, 671-672, 749.27 Zeitlin was the first scholar to point out that the key passage is Aeneas’ outburst against Helen as cause of the city’s destruction, his decision to kill her, and Venus’ intervention which cools his violent rage. She completes her argument as follows: ‘Encolpius rages against the effeminate Giton as the cause of his woes and resolves on revenge; the timely advent of the soldier deflects his purpose and, like Aeneas (A. 2,567-595), he heads for his quarters. There are no specific verbal parallels but the structure is similar. Each asks himself four an————— 24

25

26 27

The reason he gives is to avoid an undesirable meeting with Menelaus, assistant to (Agamemnon’s) school of rhetoric. In the present context the Homeric names of characters produce a comic effect. On the technical aspects of Encolpius’ encounter with the soldier see Damiani 1999, 5359. Cf. also Marino 1996 and Mazzilli 2006 on the speeches of abandoned heroines. Collignon 1892, 121-122; he also cites 2,588.

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gry rhetorical questions; Venus and the soldier each begin with questions’.28 Though the thematic core is the Helen episode, Petronius seems to have drawn also from the other Virgilian passages supplied by Collignon. Actually these passages, and specifically the terms for arming oneself, supply the linguistic evidence for Virgilian imitation: cingor (2,749) and accingor (2,671) of Aeneas are hapaxes in the Aeneid, and so is cingor (82,1) of Encolpius in Petronius. In the course of his angry exchange with Agamemnon, Achilles reached a point when he was about to draw his sword and kill him, but at that critical moment Athena intervened and restrained him (Il. 1,188-218). Aeneas’ decision to avenge Troy by killing Helen and Venus’ intervention that stops him just before he draws his sword adapted the Iliadic scene. As a matter of fact, intertextuality is a key argument in favor of the authenticity of the Helen episode.29 The same element provides strong evidence for the epic scenario in Petronius: enraged Encolpius running like a madman around the colonnades of the city keeps bringing his hand to the sword-hilt.30 Here as before and on other occasions it is not only a question of epic conflict representing conflict between sexual partners but also a question of competition between epic intertexts. The conclusion of the present section of the Satyrica rewrites a Virgilian scenario which had in turn adapted an Iliadic one: Aeneas takes the place of Achilles and most importantly Helen replaces Agamemnon. Does this have any implications for our reading of the Satyrica narrative? I think it does. Because Encolpius, recently abandoned by Giton for the sake of another sexual partner, places himself in the shoes of enraged Aeneas about to kill Helen, the woman who abandoned her husband Menelaus for the sake of a lover, provoked a long, bloody war between Greeks and Trojans, and, in the end, betrayed her third husband Deiphobus to her first husband (A. 6,525) in order to win back the favor of the latter. In Virgil Aeneas’ first thought is indignation for the fact that Helen will return in triumph to her former home and husband (A. 2,577-580); and in Petronius Encolpius’ last thought is that Ascyltos and Giton are now lying in bed together laughing at him (81,6).

————— 28 29 30

Zeitlin 1971, 59; see further Conte 1996, 4-12. Conte 1986. 82,2 frequentiusque manum ad capulum, quod devoveram, refero.

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4. Reviewing the fall of Troy (83-89) After the soldier has forced Encolpius-Aeneas to cool his killing impulse, the hero pays a visit to a picture gallery. He admires pictures portraying the homosexual loves of gods and humans and expresses his envy because, unlike him, the gods had had no rivals in their erotic pursuits. In the same place he meets the poet Eumolpus and hears from him the story of the seduction of the Pergamene boy and a poem on the capture of Troy. It is generally recognized that Encolpius watching the pictures of divine loves in the temple of an unspecified deity identifies with Aeneas watching scenes of the Trojan war in Juno’s temple at Carthage and that, in turn, the entrance of Eumolpus into the temple reworks the entrance of Dido.31 The chronological (or plot) order of events in a hypotext is not necessarily followed in the narrative of the hypertext and frequently it does not matter at all. Yet one cannot fail to notice that here the chronological order is kept and that Encolpius-Aeneas has these new experiences after his earlier performance as a raging Aeneas in burning Troy. And since the progression from Troy to Dido’s Carthage does occur, the reader is obliged to take it into consideration. Gazing at the pictures in Juno’s temple causes Aeneas to review, and reflect on, the painful past of the Trojan war; as do the conversations in the temple between his comrades and himself and the queen of Carthage (1,520656), and the narrative of the events at Troy and of his wanderings, which Aeneas later gives at Dido’s request (Aeneid 2 and 3). The ekphrasis of the temple pictures, the conversations with Dido, and Aeneas’ embedded narrative have parallels in Satyrica 83-89. These are: an art ekphrasis, a short prose narrative, another painting representing a Troiae halosis and a ‘description’ of that painting by Eumolpus, who plays the double role of exegetes and poet and introduces his poem with a speech on decadence and decline. The focus now shifts from playing out Virgilian scenes and episodes associated with the fall of Troy to ‘reflections’ on events at Troy.32 In the picture gallery there is a painting representing the capture of Troy and exactly as at Carthage the gaze of Encolpius-Aeneas is riveted on it: sed video te totum in illa haerere tabula, quae Troiae halosin ostendit (89,1). The echo of Aeneas watching the fighting at Troy is unmistakable: dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno (1,495).33 Eumolpus, who takes the place ————— 31 32 33

Zeitlin 1971, 60; Conte 1996, 14-21. Compare and contrast Connors 1998, chapter 3. Zeitlin 1971, 60.

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of the Virgilian Dido and knows about Troy as much as the queen, undertakes to render the subject of the painting in verse (opus versibus pandere34). In fact he gives a verse narrative which refashions Virgil’s Wooden Horse story. The poem, as first pointed out by Zeitlin, interacts with the surrounding sections of the Satyrica in terms of themes and ideology (deceit, drunkenness, human relationships, etc.).35 But Eumolpus does not do just this. As also pointed out by Zeitlin, the story of how he deceived the Pergamene boy with the promise of a thoroughbred horse in exchange for full intercourse reworks the stratagem of the Horse.36 The Virgilian relevance of the opening ekphrasis of paintings representing the homosexual loves of gods calls for clarifications. Encolpius has just lost Giton to Ascyltos. His attention is quite naturally attracted to the loves of gods because their privilege of enjoying love without rivals contrasts with his own situation of a cruelly betrayed hospitality (83,6). On an intertextual level he continues to play Aeneas, starting with his identification with the Trojan hero gazing at the pictures in Juno’s temple. He makes sure that the reader notices the association with, as well as the difference from, Aeneas through linguistic evidence: by changing sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt (A. 1,462) to ergo amor etiam deos tangit (83,4) he points to the modification of both subject-matter and feelings.37 Encolpius may also feel sympathy for Aeneas because, like himself, he had a disastrous love affair, the starting point of which was in turn the queen’s sympathy for Trojan suffering, which Aeneas detects in the scenes painted in the temple (A. 1,446-455). But there is also specific linguistic and thematic evidence which ties one of the paintings to the Virgilian narrative and Aeneas. The very first painting Encolpius-Aeneas sees portrays the abduction of Ganymede by Jupiter in the shape of an eagle. It is well-known that the language portraying the rape of Ganymede (83,3 aquila ferebat caelo sublimis Idaeum) picks up part of the Virgilian scene depicted on the chlamys awarded to Cloanthus38 as a prize for winning the boat-race in the funeral games for Anchises (A. 5,251-254): intextusque puer frondosa regius Ida uelocis iaculo ceruos cursuque fatigat ————— 34 35 36 37 38

On pandere as a Virgilian echo see Rimell 2004, 66. Zeitlin 1971, 62-67. On the poem see further Connors 1998; Rimell 2004, 65-75. Zeitlin 1971, 61. Habermehl 2006, 75. Habermehl 2006, 72.

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acer, anhelanti similis, quem praepes ab Ida sublimem pedibus rapuit Iouis armiger uncis. A young prince on leafy Ida is woven on the cloak. He is eagerly chasing swift stags with his javelin and looking breathless. Jupiter’s eagle, bearer of the thunderbolt, has swooped down and snatched him up into the air with his talons. Behind the eagle seizing Ganymede, the reader senses the portrayal of the object of homoerotic passion as praeda, as in the proposed division of spoils between Ascyltos and Giton. Most importantly, Ganymede is praeda seized and carried off from Troy and specifically from Ida. In the Aeneid the Judgment of Paris on Ida in combination with the abduction of Ganymede by Zeus trigger the wrath of Juno and the persecution of the Trojans (1,25-28). Respectively, in the Satyrica the ‘abduction’ of Giton by Ascyltos provokes the wrath and fury of Encolpius. To the subject of the rape of Ganymede in the Satyrica I will return later. Here I would like to add a possible reason for Encolpius’ identification with Aeneas while gazing at the abduction of Ganymede: from his viewpoint the award of the chlamys to young Cloanthus may have been intended as a homoerotic gesture or incitement, or at least as recognition of the ideal character of divine homosexual loves as Encolpius himself saw them. One final point concerns Encolpius’ relation to Achilles, with whom he had earlier identified. In Dido’s pictures Achilles is the most prominent warrior among the Greeks and figures in three scenes: the killing of Troilus, the dragging of Hector’s body around the walls of Troy and the selling of his body to Priam (A. 1,474-478, 483-487). Virgil highlights Aeneas’ painful memories of these tragic events and the hero’s grief for the cruel treatment of the victims and the suffering it caused. Since Encolpius poses as another Aeneas he must have rejected the actions of Achilles. But things are more complex. Encolpius is not ‘touched’ by human affairs in general as Aeneas is (mortalia, A. 2,462) but only by amor (83,4), and hence Hector’s fate would not have meant much to him. Would the scene with young Troilus have appealed to him? In order of appearance this infelix puer is the first of Virgilian youths that meet a mors immatura on the battlefield by fighting a superior opponent. The Satyrica shows a vivid interest in these youths but only where there are themes to be parodied. There is a rare version of the Troilus story that involved Achilles’ love for the boy and is told in Lycophron’s Alexandra: Achilles became enc-

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hanted with the beautiful youth but he rejected him; Achilles chased him, Troilus took refuge in the temple of his father Apollo and Achilles cut his head off at the altar.39 Encolpius had recently had a jealous outburst and given a theatrical performance of his desire to kill Giton for abandoning him. His attraction to Troilus, a paragon of beauty, would have been natural; but with this version of the myth in mind would he have identified with Achilles killing the boy in Virgil? One of the paintings Encolpius is gazing at represents Apollo blaming himself for the accidental killing of Hyacinthus and honoring the dead boy (83,3); Encolpius blesses him for ‘summoning back the departed shade of his boy to turn him into a flower’; and considers all the gods happy for having enjoyed love without a rival (sine aemulo). The tradition of Achilles who loved Troilus without response and brutally murdered him for rejecting his advances contains no features that would have appealed to the hero of the Satyrica.

5. The punishment of Giton and the death of Lausus (91,1-3) After the visit to the picture gallery Encolpius finds Giton at the baths. The latter is unhappy with his new partner and implores Encolpius to save him from his hands. They steal away from the baths and return to the inn where they are reconciled. In the opening lines of chapter 91 Giton appears downcast and disturbed and is delighted to see Encolpius. He begs Encolpius to have pity on him and reveals that he can now speak freely since he is not threatened with arms as before (91,2 ubi arma non sunt, libere loquor). At the inn he will cynically confess to Encolpius that when he saw him and Ascyltos armed he took refuge with the stronger (91,8 cum duos armatos viderem, ad fortiorem confugi). He implores Encolpius to deliver him from the blood-stained brigand (latoni cruento), invites his friend to punish him as savagely as he deserves for having chosen Ascyltos instead of him, and concludes with a heroic consolation motif: ‘It will be sufficient consolation to me to have died by your will’ (91,2 satis magnum erit misero solacium, tua voluntate cecidisse). Giton’s appeals revive the armed confrontation of chapter 80 between Ascyltos and Encolpius. Then Giton compared the confrontation between his two ‘brothers’ to the Theban myth of Eteocles and Polynices and took the blame upon himself by adopting the pleas of the Virgilian Nisus to the Rutulians. The motif of solacium mortis belongs also to a heroic context. It is the ————— 39

307-313, with the scholia ad loc.; cf. Servius on A. 1,474.

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consolation to have been killed by a worthy opponent and has an unmistakable Virgilian flavor to it. Giton’s words recall those pronounced by Aeneas on the battlefield over the body of Lausus he has just killed (10,829-830) and by Camilla over the body of Etruscan Ornytus (11,688-689). Petronius may have drawn from both (and even from later examples?)40 but a number of reasons favor the first model. It reads as follows: ‘This should solace you, unhappy youth, for your sad death: you died by the right hand of great Aeneas’ (10,829-830: hoc tamen infelix miseram solabere mortem: / Aeneae magni dextra cadis). The recurrence of the epithets miser and magnus in the Petronian passage provides a strong linguistic indication for the suggested association.41 Also the allusion to young Lausus ties up with the earlier one to Nisus and opens a series of allusions to Virgilian youths in chapters 9198. Finally, the two passages share the element of personal relationships: the Virgilian context exploits the father-son relationship (Mezentius – Lausus and Aeneas – Anchises) so prominent in the model, and the Petronian one parodies it by playing on the relationship of sexual ‘brothers’. Giton addresses Encolpius as frater and later (at 91,8, discussed below) the same character addresses the pederast Eumolpus as pater carissime.

6. The pederast Eumolpus and the rape of Ganymede (92) When darkness falls Eumolpus comes to the inn where Encolpius and Giton are lodging. He becomes fascinated with the boy and provokes Encolpius’ furious jealousy. The poet’s sexual interest in Giton is a key theme in this and the next chapters. The poet who entered Encolpius’ life at the picture gallery now replaces Ascyltos as a sexual partner and Encolpius quarrels with him over the boy as he earlier did with Ascyltos. When Eumolpus sees Giton for the first time, he is serving the wine to Encolpius: the boy reminds him of Ganymede serving wine to Jupiter and exclaims: ‘Three cheers for Ganymede! This is going to be a good day’ (92,3 laudo … Ganymedem. oportet hodie bene sit). The reader is expected to remember the gallery painting representing the rape of Ganymede by Zeus in the shape of an eagle42 and its Virgilian background, the chlamys awarded to Cloanthus and representing the same subject. As noted above, the function of the eagle seizing the boy is to suggest that the object of homoerotic passion is unders————— 40 41 42

Listed in Habermehl 2006, 219. The former recur only here and the latter only in Ov. Met. 5,191-192. Habermehl 2006, 228.

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tood as praeda (‘prey’). Another meaning of praeda (‘spoils of war’) was employed earlier in the proposed ‘division’ of the boy Giton. The meaning of the first metaphor was clarified in the context of the story of the Pergamene boy, where the pederast is called a praedator corporis (85,3).43 An ironic twist of the same notion is the pederast portrayed as Cyclops, an episode discussed in the last section of this article.

7. Giton’s triple Virgilian identity and its meaning (94,1-2) When later the hypocrite Giton reproves Encolpius for showing disrespect towards an older man (seniori) like Eumolpus, the poet expresses his appreciation of the youth’s intervention with a striking triple allusion to the Aeneid. His eulogy assigns Giton the combined role of the Virgilian Dido, Iulus-Ascanius, and Euryalus: Dido praised by a grateful Aeneas for aiding the distressed Trojans (A. 1,605-606); Iulus-Ascanius praised by Apollo for his achievement in striking Numanus Remulus dead with his first arrowshot (A. 9,641); and young Euryalus, the winner in the foot-race of Aeneid 5, praised by the poet for his virtue and beauty (gratior et pulchro ueniens in corpore virtus, A. 5,344).44 The identification of effeminate Giton with Dido reminds the reader that also the depraved Eumolpus was identified with Dido in the picture gallery. Both are inserted in the pervasive Trojan theme and specifically in the context of the reception of Aeneas and his people by the queen of Carthage. The praise of the rare combination in Giton of beauty with wisdom (94,1 raram fecit mixturam cum sapientia forma) is a hypocritical comment by someone who desires Giton’s body and praises his wisdom out of self-interest. Actually, Encolpius has just observed that ‘Giton’s tolerant and modest advice enhanced his good looks’ (93,4 multaque alia moderationis verecundiaeque verba, quae formam eius egregie decebant). Encolpius’ words are a second variation of Aeneid 5,344 quoted above. Petronius’ insistence on parodying Virgil’s praise of Euryalus may have something to do with the fact that Euryalus, who was coming third, won the foot-race with a trick and retained it thanks to his good looks (A. 5,315-344). Nisus was coming first, then Salius, then Euryalus; Nisus slipped and fell and then caused Salius to stumble and fall too, so that Euryalus could win. There were protests by Salius who was ————— 43

44

On the narrative implications of the Ganymede theme in the Satyrica see Rimell 2004, 63-64 and passim. The passages are listed in Habermehl 2006, 252-253.

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cheated of the victory, but the people favored Euryalus and his tears, so in the end he kept the prize. ‘Virtue,’ concluded the poet, ‘is more pleasing in a beautiful body’. The most significant and most ironic of the three Virgilian allusions is the parody of Apollo’s praise of Iulus-Ascanius for killing Numanus Remulus and of the god’s subsequent intervention. I will make a few points by comparing Eumolpus’ words (94,1-2) with Aeneid 9,638-649. The first and most obvious parallelism is between Ascanius’ successful arrowshot against arrogant Numanus Remulus and Giton’s reproving words that hit arrogant Encolpius with deadly precision. In terms of verbal correspondence and linguistic significance we have a Virgilian hapax (9,641 macte nova uirtute) which is picked up by a Petronian hapax (94,1 macte virtute esto). Both eulogies are addressed to pueri. Notable is the Trojan context of the Virgilian passage, which pursues a main theme of the Satyrica, and also the fact that Giton is assigned the role of Aeneas’ son while Encolpius himself often plays the role of Aeneas. Eumolpus’ eulogy has the added significance of praising the literary son for reproving his literary father, whereas in the Aeneid it is ‘father Aeneas’ who educates the son with memorable deeds and words. In the Aeneid the words of praise are spoken by Apollo in his capacity as patron deity of the gens Iulia and most prominently of Augustus (9,642 dis genite et geniture deos). In the Satyrica Eumolpus plays Apollo, the patron deity of poets, displays his knowledge of Virgil, and promises to sing the boy’s praises in verse, apparently in parodic competition with the poet of the Aeneid. But there is another more ironic point to the intertextual association of Eumolpus with Apollo. The thrust of Numanus’ speech (A. 9,598-620) consists in the contrast between Italian hardiness and Trojan effeminacy. Ascanius’ arrowshot provides the Trojan reply by reversing Numanus’ taunt with a deed. The Petronian text subverts in turn the terms of the Virgilian confrontation: a notorious pederast like Eumolpus praises the moral wisdom of effeminate Giton for the purpose of serving his own interests. Finally, in terms of Apollo’s association with Eumolpus the reader will remember that in one of the pictures displayed in the gallery Apollo figures as a paradigm of homosexual love through the story of his relationship with the boy Hyacinthus (83,3). Having addressed from the sky words of praise to Iulus-Ascanius, Apollo descends to earth and approaches Aeneas’ son disguised as old Butes. He next restrains Ascanius, who is eager to pursue the fighting and thus endanger his life, by instructing him to refrain from the battle. Old Butes had been

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a fidus custos to Anchises and, after the latter’s death, Aeneas made him a companion (comes) of Ascanius (A. 9,647-649). In Petronius senior Eumolpus adapts the duties of old Butes to his own sexual desires: he openly declares to Giton his sexual passion (amatorem invenisti) and offers to become his paedagogus and custos, adding the sexual innuendo that ‘he will follow him even where he is not bidden’. The role Eumolpus undertakes here vis-àvis Giton vividly recalls the one he played vis-à-vis the boy of Pergamum in the story he earlier narrated to Encolpius.

8. A fake suicide and the deaths of Nisus and Euryalus (94,8-15 and 95,1) Eumolpus’ praise of Giton provokes Encolpius’ furious jealousy. Giton senses the danger and walks out of the room. Eumolpus, stunned by Encolpius’ reaction, goes out to look for him locking Encolpius inside the room. Jealous and abandoned, Encolpius attempts to hang himself but he is rescued by Eumolpus and Giton who return unexpectedly. Then Giton displays his determination to die first by striking a blow at his throat with a razor. As the boy collapses at Encolpius’ feet the latter lets out a cry and strikes himself with the same weapon in an attempt to follow the boy to death. But the razor is blunt and the outcome is that neither of them is hurt. As already noted, this double comic attempt of suicide for love (the narrator refers to it as ‘playacting between lovers’) parodies the deaths of the loving pair Nisus and Euryalus in Aeneid 9: Nisus’ cry of terror before the death of his friend (9,424425); and next his falling dead over the youth’s lifeless body (444-445).45 Actually, the present episode picks up the thread from the earlier performance of Giton as Nisus in chapter 80. It is as if the camera had paused for a few chapters and has now resumed shooting. But there is more Virgilian flavor to the ‘staged’ (mimicam) suicide than has been hitherto recognized. When the inn-keeper comes into the room bringing a course of the guests’ dinner, he sees ‘a filthy scene of bodies rolling on the floor’ (95,1 foedissimam volutationem iacentium). The condition of the bodies contrasts sharply with the situation in Virgil. There mortally wounded Nisus throws himself over the lifeless body of Euryalus and the poet comments that ‘there at last he found peace in the calm of death’ (9,445 placidaque ibi demum morte quievit). The spectacle of bodies rolling on the floor parodies the calmness of death and the immobility of bodies in two ————— 45

Collignon 1892, 120; Conte 1996, 77-78; cf. Cugusi 2001, 130.

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ways: the bodies are still moving because this was a fake suicide; and are ‘rolling’ because the suicidal attempt next took an obscene course. In addition, the noun volutationem may have been intended as a parody of the description of the death of Euryalus: uoluitur Euryalus leto, ‘Euryalus rolls over in death’ (A. 9,433). Does the passage parody also the well-known simile in which the youth is compared to a flower shorn by the ploughshare or a poppy weighed down by a shower? uoluitur Euryalus leto, pulchrosque per artus it cruor inque umeros ceruix conlapsa recumbit: purpureus ueluti cum flos succisus aratro languescit moriens, lassoue papauera collo demisere caput pluuia cum forte grauantur. Euryalus rolls over in death, and the blood flows down his lovely limbs, and his drooping neck sinks on his shoulder, just like a purple flower shorn down by the ploughshare withers and dies, or poppies happen to weigh down by shower bend down their weary heads. There is some evidence that it does. At least two words in Giton’s suicide attempt (cervice percussa ante pedes collabitur nostros) occur also in the Virgilian flower simile (cervix conlapsa). Petronius was familiar with the simile: in the verses embedded in 132,11 Encolpius uses the Virgilian quotation lassoue papauera collo (‘like a poppy with its drooping neck’) to describe the enervated condition of his penis.46 The obscene context supports the suggested association between volutationem and uoluitur. Furthermore, the comic suicide attempt committed with a blunt razor may parody the cutting of the flower by the sharp ploughshare. Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt, nulla dies umquam memori uos eximet aeuo, dum domus Aeneae Capitoli immobile saxum accolet imperiumque pater Romanus habebit. Blessed pair! If my poetry has some power, no day will ever delete you from time’s memory. ————— 46

Further discussion in Connors 1998, 32.

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as long as the House of Aeneas shall live beside the Capitol’s immobile rock, and the Roman father shall rule the empire. Ultimately the farcical reworking of the deaths of Nisus and Euryalus functions as a travesty of Virgil’s makarismos of the two youths, expressed as promise of immortal memory, equal to the eternity of the Roman Empire (A. 9,446-449). A few lines above Eumolpus’ praise of Giton (94,1) was used to caricature Apollo’s eulogy of Iulus-Ascanius: the poet’s promise to sing Giton’s praises (94,2 ego tuas laudes carminibus implebo) could easily have been made in parody of the Virgilian si quid mea carmina possunt. The grotesqueness of the parody emerges most clearly in comparing the debasement of the opening ambo: two dead bodies lying on the battlefield are replaced by the ‘most filthy’ sight of two embraced bodies rolling on the floor of the room.

9. Why the Cyclops’ cave was transformed into the Wooden Horse (97-98) When Eumolpus chases the inn-keeper out of the room, Encolpius seizes the opportunity for revenge and shuts him out, thus remaining alone with the boy. A town-crier and a municipal slave arrive at the inn. The crier is accompanied by Ascyltos and offers a reward for the recovery of a runaway slave who is none other than Giton. Encolpius orders Giton to get under the bed and hide, clinging to the frame ‘as once Ulysses had clung tightly to the belly of the ram’. Giton executes the stratagem so well that, according to the narrator, ‘he surpassed even Ulysses at his own trick’. Next the slave breaks the door open with an axe. The three of them burst into the room. There is an unsuccessful search for Giton and later Eumolpus rushes in through the broken door and threatens to reveal to the departing crier the presence of the boy in the room. Encolpius has almost persuaded Eumolpus that Giton is gone, when the boy sneezes three times from under the bed and thus unintentionally reveals his presence. Eumolpus pulls off the mattress and underneath it finds ‘a Ulysses whom even a hungry Cyclops might have spared’. On a first reading, the stratagem looks like a comic version of a Homeric episode, Odysseus’ escape from the cave by hiding under the ram. But there are significant differences. The ‘Cyclops’ of the Satyrica is not placed inside but outside the enclosed space of the room and later makes a violent entry; the stratagem is not intended to provide escape from the room but conceal-

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ment within the room; and Giton does not manage to escape but is caught. Of course a bed, unlike a ram, does not move, but is this all there is to it? The first question is this: does the narrative allude at all to the Homeric text of the Cyclops episode or are we merely dealing with a widely known story transmitted through various channels? It appears that there is not a single piece of linguistic evidence that the Satyrica is here drawing directly on the text of the Odyssey. The crucial phrase ut olim Ulixes †pro† arieti adhaesisset (‘as once Odysseus clung to the ram’s belly’) is hopelessly corrupt.47 Even so it is not probable that the original text would have looked like λασίην ὑπὸ γαστέρ’ ἐλυσθείς (‘curled up beneath its fleecy belly’, Od. 9,433). Before proceeding it would be informative to have a brief look at the most famous Petronian version of the Cyclops episode which occurs in chapters 100-103. According to Fedeli allusions to the Homeric Cyclops episode in chapters 97-98 anticipate the beginning of the ‘Odyssean’ part of the novel comprising a voyage, a storm and a shipwreck (100-115). Eumolpus inadvertently takes Encolpius and Giton aboard a ship which happens to be owned by Lichas and to be carrying Tryphaena, mortal enemies of our friends. In the opening chapters Lichas is envisaged as another ‘Cyclops’ and the ship as his ‘cave’, and the gang consider various stratagems for escaping. Though there are thematic parallels with the Odyssey and probable Euripidean inspiration behind the consilium salutis, no verbal reminiscences from Homer can be identified.48 There is, however, a certain Virgilian allusion. It occurs in Encolpius’ escape plan which is ‘to slip down a rope into the ship’s boat’ (per funem lapsi descendimus) and then ‘cut the painter’ (praecisoque vinculo) leaving the rest to Fortune (102,1). The verbal echo is from Aeneid 2,262 demissum lapsi per funem where the Greeks get out of the Wooden Horse by slipping down a rope. Of the utmost significance is the fact that Petronius could have alluded to Virgilian instances of hasty departure where cables are cut off.49 Instead he chose to allude to the Wooden Horse, but this has little to do with the fact that the Trojan Horse and ships were linked at the level of myth and literary tradition and shared a common stock of language and metaphors. The main reason is that in Petronius those inside and those outside the ‘Cyclops’ cave’ are birds of a feather. There is ————— 47

48

49

The MSS reading pro ariete is corrupt; for the numerous emendations proposed see Habermehl 2006, 292-293. On the Cyclops theme in the Satyrica see especially Fedeli 1981; Ferri 1988; Mazzilli 2000; Rimell 2004, chapter 6. They are cited in Mazzilli 2000, 54. Surprisingly Mazzilli relegates to a note the only certain Virgilian allusion.

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no mythical or moral or any other order to be preserved; both sides are equally cynical, corrupt, and immoral.50 Those that are trapped inside the ‘cave’ were or will be themselves a ‘threat’ when they come out of it (at Croton they become legacy-hunters). This would explain in part this sort of interaction in Petronius between the cave of the Cyclops and the cavity of the Trojan Horse. How does this apply to characters and events at the inn in chapters 9798? The tricks of Encolpius and Giton in this episode are part of their usual performance. The ‘threat’ Giton faces is yet another version of the cynical and opportunistic homosexual relationships that are typical in the novel. The role of hungry Polyphemus is here played initially by Ascyltos and later by Eumolpus, two praedatores corporis as Eumolpus himself had labeled pederasts in the story of the boy of Pergamum (85,3,4).51 As for their ‘prey’ Giton, he is ready to change sexual allegiance in the twinkling of an eye: as soon as Eumolpus-Cyclops discovers him, the boy covers him with hugs and kisses and confirms for him the Virgilian role of old Butes which the poet had claimed earlier: ‘in tua … pater carissime, in tua sumus custodia’ (98,8; cf. 94,1 discussed above in section 7). Then Encolpius and Eumolpus are reconciled with a kiss and soon they all get aboard Lichas’ ship, another ‘Cyclops cave’. The room itself is in every respect the realm of deceit and disguise. It is not just Giton hiding under the bed. Encolpius arranges the blankets so that they may look as if the boy were sleeping in bed. When Ascyltos comes in, Encolpius falls at his feet and, pretending ignorance, asks about Giton’s whereabouts in order to divert suspicion. He later falls at Eumolpus’ feet and lies to him that the boy has run away in the crowd. Is this a re-fashioning of the Odyssean tricks in the cave of the Homeric Cyclops or of the Wooden Horse deceit that pervades Petronius’ novel? Zeitlin pointed out that the Wooden Horse story functions as a ‘metaphor’ for the Satyrica: ‘The twin themes of deception and disguise exemplified by the Wooden Horse form perhaps the most consistent and pervasive pattern throughout the Satyricon.’52 Formally we have a situation where the ‘Cyclops’ is placed outside the room and has to break his way in through the door. The language used in the Satyrica for breaking the room door open (97,8 claustrorum firmitatem lax————— 50

51 52

For the evidence and some speculation concerning the relations of Encolpius and Giton with Lichas and Tryphaena see Courtney 2001, 46-47. Cf. also above, section 6 on Ganymede. Zeitlin 1971, 63.

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avit) is employed in the Aeneid when Sinon opens the Horse door (A. 2,259 laxat claustra Sinon) and in Eumolpus’ poem when the Greeks do so (89,57 Danai relaxant claustra).53 It is worthy of note that this kind of language, which associates the door of the inn room with the opening of the Wooden Horse, does not recur in the Satyrica. This would metaphorically make of the room a ‘wooden cave’ like the Trojan Horse in Virgil (A. 2,19-20 cauernas … ingentis) and in Eumolpus’ song (89,7 ingens antrum et obducti specus). This association transforms the room into a seat of deception and disguise. In a sense, Ascyltos and his party are assigned the role of Trojans who, in typical versions of the Wooden Horse story, are placed outside it and suggest means of destruction or of breaking an opening in order to show that it harbors danger inside. In the context of the latter option Capys in the Aeneid suggests piercing the Horse’s belly and Laocoon hurls his spear against it (2,38, 2,50-53); in Eumolpus’ poem Laocoon uses first his spear and then an axe (89,24 altaque bipenni latera pertemptat). The use of the axe for attacking the Horse became widespread in the poetry and art of the Imperial period,54 and it is precisely the axe which the municipal slave uses on the door to break an entry into the room. Further evidence for the association of the inn room with the Trojan Horse comes from another, important detail of the narrative. What betrays Giton’s hideout is a triple violent sneeze that ‘shakes the bed’ (98,4 ut grabatum concuteret). In Virgil’s narrative the emission of sound from within the Wooden Horse is represented as the clearest evidence of deceit. Laocoon’s spear throw causes the Horse to shake and the hollow space to reverberate. As a matter of fact, Petronius’ concuteret picks up Virgil’s recusso (2,52-53 stetit illa tremens, uteroque recusso / insonuere cauae sonitumque dedere cauernae). Later the sound of arms is heard from within as the Horse stops four times at the threshold of the Gates of Troy (2,242-243; note that Giton sneezes three times). In both cases the Trojans display disastrous blindness. For the Achaeans, keeping silent inside the Horse was vital. There was this story, told in the Odyssey (4,271-89) and in Triphiodorus (454-486), that Helen came to the Horse and provoked the concealed Achaeans by calling out the names of their wives or imitating their voices. Everyone remained silent, but Anticlus was eager to reply and voice his desire for Laodamia; so Odysseus shut his mouth with his strong hand – in Triphiodorus he causes ————— 53 54

Habermehl 2006, 296. Campbell 1981, 191; Sparkes 1971, 67.

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the hero to die of suffocation. Quite significantly Giton’s sneeze in the Satyrica comes when he is no longer able to withstand the pressure of air on his nose (98,4 collectione spiritus plenus). Immediately next (98,6) Eumolpus in a burst of indignation against Encolpius protests that ‘… If some god controlling human affairs hadn’t forced the boy to give himself away in that precarious posture, you’d have made a fool of me, making me wander round the drinking-houses’. In connection with ni deus quidam the learned reader will remember that in the Odyssey Helen was instigated to make her move by ‘some god’ (4,275 daimōn) and was later stopped by Athena, while in Triphiodorus she is instigated by Aphrodite and stopped by Athena. Finally it may not be unimportant that Eumolpus’ Troiae Halosis gives a unique and remarkable version of the sound heard from within the Horse when Laocoon strikes it with an axe (89,23-26): iterum tamen confirmat invalidam manum altaque bipenni latera pertemptat. Fremit captiva pubes intus, et dum murmurat, roborea moles spirat alieno metu. Again the priest essays with feeble hand, as with an axe he strikes that lofty flank. The enclosed warriors growl angrily; the wooden monster snorts with alien fears. Laocoon’s axe probing the sides of the Horse provokes in the Greeks hidden inside a mixed emotion of rage and fear, which the Horse ‘breathes out’ like a living being. Eumolpus’ version reveals an interest in the role played by human, rather than inanimate, sound in the attempt to throw the deception open, and this may have a bearing on Giton’s sneeze.

10. Conclusion I have examined chapters 79-99 of the Satyrica in order to show how familiar Virgilian signposts of the novel can be bridged into a continuous narrative against the backdrop of the Aeneid. Our reading of the Satyrica would be enriched by considering the sustained character of Virgilian presence instead of treating it as isolated allusions in independent scenes. I have also attempted to show the enormous importance of bringing into the discussion the

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overall context of Virgil’s text. Furthermore, I have argued that Homeric imitation is exclusively thematic, which raises the question of second-hand inspiration, and also that Homeric scenes or episodes are ‘Virgilianized’ in terms of both diction and substance. The section extending from the departure from Trimalchio’s house to the conclusion of Encolpius’ visit to the picture gallery (79-90) contains a sustained evocation of Virgilian Troy. In chapters 91-99 the interest shifts to a parody of the fortunes of Virgilian youths (Ganymede, Troilus, Lausus, Nisus and Euryalus, and Iulus-Ascanius). The two sections interact in a number of ways. The Homeric but ‘Virgilianized’ Cyclops episode that concludes the second section provides a link with the opening of the voyage section of the Satyrica.

Bibliography Austin, R.G. 1964. P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos Liber Secundus, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Baldwin, B. 1987. ‘Hannibal at Troy: The Sources of Trimalchio’s Confusion,’ PSN 17, 6. Bodel, J. 1994. ‘Trimalchio’s Underworld’, in: J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore – London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 237-259. Campbell, M. 1981. A Commentary on Quintus Smyrnaeus Posthomerica XII, Leiden: Brill. Collignon, A. 1892. Étude sur Pétrone. La critique littéraire, l’imitation et la parodie dans le Satiricon, Paris: Librairie Hachette. Connors, C. 1998. Petronius the Poet: Verse and Literary Tradition in the Satyricon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Conte, G.B. 1986. ‘The Helen Episode in the Second Book of the Aeneid: Structural Models and a Question of Authenticity’, in: The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 196-208. Conte, G.B. 1996. The Hidden Author: An Interpretation of Petronius’ Satyricon, translated by Elaine Fantham, Berkeley − Los Angeles − London: University of California Press. Courtney, E. 1991. The Poems of Petronius, Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press. Courtney, E. 2001. A Companion to Petronius, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cugusi, P. 2001. ‘Modelli epici “rovesciati” in Petronio. Osservazioni sul riuso di Odissea e Eneide nei Satyrica’, Aufidus 15, 123-135. Currie, H. MacL. 1993. ‘Closure / Transition and the nox erat topos’, LCM 18.6, 92-95. Damiani, G. 1999. ‘Il duello: dal serio al parodico (Petronio Sat. 82)’, Aufidus 13, 39-59. Fedeli, P. 1981. ‘Petronio: il viaggio, il labirinto’, MD 6, 91-117. Fedeli, P. 1988. ‘Encolpio – Polieno’, MD 20-21, 9-32. Ferri, R. 1988. ‘Il Ciclope di Eumolpo e il Ciclope di Petronio: Sat. 100 ss.’, MD 20-21, 311315. Griffin, M.T. 1984. Nero: The End of a Dynasty, London: Batsford. Habermehl, P. 2006. Petronius, Satyrica 91-141, Ein Philologisch-literarischer Kommentar, Band 1: Sat. 79-110, Berlin – New York: Walter de Gruyter. La Penna, A. 1994. ‘Me, me adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum …! Per la storia di una scena tipica dell’epos e della tragedia’, Maia 46, 123-134.

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Marino, F. 1996. ‘Modelli letterari di tre scene petroniane’, MD 37, 155-165. Mazzilli, C. 2000. ‘Petronio 101, 7-103,2: lusus allusivo e caratterizzazione dei personaggi’, Aufidus 14, 49-72. Mazzilli, C. 2006. ‘Petronio, Satyricon 79-82: implicazioni metanarrative nello stereotipo della relicta’, Aufidus 20, 51-82. Morgan, J.R. 2009. ‘Petronius and Greek Literature’, in: Prag and Repath, 32-47. Mueller, K. (ed.) 19954. Petronii Arbitri Satyricon reliquiae, Stuttgart – Leipzig: Teubner. Néraudau, J.-P. 1985. ‘Néron et le nouveau chant de Troie’, ANRW II 32.2, 2032-2045. Panayotakis, C. 2009. ‘Petronius and the Roman Literary Tradition’, in: Prag and Repath, 4864. Paschalis, M. 2009. ‘Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis and Petronius’ Satyricon’, in: M. Paschalis et al. (eds.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis, 102-114. Prag, J. – Repath, I. (eds.) 2009. Petronius: A Handbook, Chichester, West Sussex: WileyBlackwell. Rimell, V. 2004. Petronius and the Anatomy of Fiction, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roncali, R. 1986. ‘La cintura di Venere (Petronio, Satyricon, 126-131)’, SIFC 79, 106-110. Sparkes, B.A. 1971. ‘The Trojan Horse in Classical Art’, G&R 18.1, 54-70. Walsh, P.G. 1970. The Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walsh, P.G. (trans.) 1996. Petronius: The Satyricon, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zeitlin, F. 1971. ‘Romanus Petronius: A Study of the Troiae Halosis and the Bellum Civile’, Latomus 30, 56-82.

Platonic Love and Erotic Education in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe I AN R EPATH University of Wales Swansea

1. Introduction To put it crudely, the erotically-centred argument in the Phaedrus, exemplified by Socrates in Alcibiades’ speech in the Symposium, is that the philosophically-enlightened soul abstains from carnal satisfaction and instead derives incomparable benefit from the intellectual contemplation which beauty can inspire. The premise of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe is that the Liebespaar do not know what carnal satisfaction is, although that is what they subconsciously want; after varied instruction and prolonged experimentation they finally achieve it. If these two scenarios seem at odds with each other, it is worth adding that in Plato, with the notable exception of the Laws,1 eros is primarily male and homosexual or homoerotic, whereas Daphnis and Chloe represent the heterosexual ideal of the Greek novel. In this paper, I shall argue that Longus exploits these disjunctions both for humorous results and possibly with serious intentions.2 It is not new, of course, to suggest that Plato is one of the many authors to whom Longus alludes,3 and some scholars have even attempted to look for some pattern or meaning in Longus’ engagement with Plato.4 A good ————— 1 2

3 4

Aristophanes’ speech in the Symposium is another. The concept of ‘Platonic’ love is one which comes in for its fair share of humorous and satirical treatment in later authors, and especially in the fiction of the novels and the Second Sophistic: see, for instance, McGlathery 1998 and Repath 2010 on Petronius. Many allusions have been noted in passing, but with little or no development. See Forehand 1976 and MacQueen 1990, especially 168-174, although neither is convincing in their reading: see Morgan 1997a, 2254-2255, for brief criticism; Danek and Wallisch 1993 trace and argue for several allusions to the Phaedrus and Symposium and have a more integrated reading in mind, although this has not yet been published; Hunter Echoing Narratives, 99–122

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part of Danek and Wallisch 1993 in particular is concerned with love, and they are clearly thinking along the lines of a juxtaposition of, broadly speaking, good, Platonic love on the one hand, as represented by Daphnis and Chloe, and bad, unphilosophical love on the other, with Dorcon as an example of this.5 While I am not convinced by all their suggestions for allusions (and I hope to be able to add one or two more instances), I think it is right to investigate whether the numerous allusions in Daphnis and Chloe to Platonic texts which deal with love, in particular to the Phaedrus, constitute more than isolated examples and form a coherent and significant intertextuality, although the reading I suggest will be rather different.6

2. Plato in the prologue In suggesting that one text is a particularly important influence on another it is helpful if this can be seen straightaway to be the case, and it has been argued that the prologue of Daphnis and Chloe looks to the setting of the Phaedrus:7 (Socrates) By Hera, a fine stopping-place (καλή γε ἡ καταγωγή)! This plane tree (ἥ τε γὰρ πλάτανος αὕτη) is very spreading and tall, and the tallness and shadiness (τὸ σύσκιον) of the agnus are quite lovely (πάγκαλον); and being in full flower (καὶ ὡς ἀκμὴν ἔχει τῆς ἄνθης), it seems to make the place smell as sweetly as it could. The stream, too, ————— 5

6

7

1997 looks at the relationship between Daphnis and Chloe and Plato’s Phaedrus, and I hope to build on some of his thoughts. Cf. Forehand 1976, especially 109-110, on the ‘spiritual’ and ‘ideal’ love of Daphnis and Chloe; scant evidence is adduced to substantiate this argument. Space does not allow anything even pretending to be a complete investigation of the place of Plato in Longus’ novel (I think there is more that could be done with his engagement with Plato’s Symposium and Republic, for instance), nor of its erotics and the influences on them: for Chloe’s education in love and ways in which it might be possible to read it, see Winkler 1990; for the relationship between the text and erotics, see Zeitlin 1990; for an argument for ‘sexual symmetry’, see Konstan 1994; and for the novel’s engagement with contemporary concerns (especially virginity) and its implication of the reader in the erotic subject matter, see Goldhill 1995, ch.1. The sheer amount of intertextuality in Longus’ novel also complicates the picture significantly; however, my main point is that Plato is a very important and crucially under-explored part of what is going on in this text, and, especially given the erotic theorising in the Phaedrus and Symposium, a full appreciation of Daphnis and Chloe is impossible without an awareness of Longus’ engagement with this most influential of Classical forebears. Danek and Wallisch 1993, 46-47, and Hunter 1997, especially 17-18, and 23-28.

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flows very attractively under the plane (ἥ τε αὖ πηγὴ χαριεστάτη ὑπὸ τῆς πλατάνου) with the coolest water, to judge by my foot. From the figurines and statuettes, the spot seems to be sacred to some Nymphs and to Achelous (Νυμφῶν τέ τινων καὶ Ἀχελῴου ἱερὸν ἀπὸ τῶν κορῶν τε καὶ ἀγαλμάτων ἔοικεν εἶναι). Then again, if you like, how welcome it is, the freshness of the place, and very pleasant; it echoes with a summery shrillness to the cicadas’ song (θερινόν τε καὶ λιγυρὸν ὑπηχεῖ τῷ τῶν τεττίγων χορῷ). Most delightful of all is the matter of the grass (τῆς πόας), growing on a gentle slope and thick enough to be just right (παγκάλως ἔχειν) to rest one’s head upon. (230B2-C5)8 Literary loci amoeni on which Longus could draw were hardly rare, of course, and Theocritus is a fundamental influence on his novel as a whole, but the Phaedrus was an exceedingly popular and important dialogue in the second and third centuries A.D.,9 and it is a priori virtually certain that Longus and his readers knew it well. Longus begins his novel with the description of a locus amoenus: On Lesbos, while hunting, in a grove of the Nymphs, I saw the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, a depiction of an image, a history of love. The grove was beautiful too, thick with trees, brilliant with flowers, irrigated by running water; a single spring sustained everything, flowers and trees alike. (Pr.1) Although we do not have obvious verbal echoes,10 the trees, flowers, and spring are paralleled in the description of the Phaedran scenery, and the fact that it is a grove of the Nymphs recalls the nympheion in which Socrates finds himself.11 This is not the last we see of this scene, and the intertextual————— 8

9

10

11

The Greek of Plato’s Phaedrus and Daphnis and Chloe is cited, and the translations (with occasional adaptations) are taken, from Rowe 1986 and Morgan 2004 respectively. Trapp 1990. We find the setting of the Phaedrus evoked or explicitly alluded or referred to in, for example, Dio Chrysostom 1,52-53 and 36,1ff., Plutarch Amatorius 749A, frequently in Lucian, Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon 1,2,3 and 1,15, Apuleius Metamorphoses 1,18-19, and Ps.-Lucian Amores 12, 18, and 31. Nor do we have a plane-tree or cicadas, two of the most memorable and frequently exploited features of Plato’s setting, as Hunter 1997, 24, notes; however, see below, section 3. It should be noted that plane trees and cicadas do not appear in Dio 1 and 36, nor in Plutarch Amatorius, but there is no real doubt about Plato’s influence in these cases – see Trapp 1990. Danek and Wallisch 1993, 47, and Hunter 1997, 26-27. See section 3 for the Nymphs at 1,4,2, and that section more generally for the Phaedrus scenery in Daphnis and Chloe.

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ity is deepened by details revealed subsequently. Before exploring them, however, it is worth pausing to consider questions that are raised in the prologue about the narrator’s persona and attitudes, since, in having his narrator enter a scene reminiscent of the setting of the Phaedrus and describe it with comparable hyperbole, Longus invites the reader to make a comparison between the narrator and Socrates.12 In addition to his fascination with the beauty of the scene, the narrator is fixated on the erotic: the picture contains ‘amorous adventure (τύχην ἐρωτικήν)’ (Pr.1) and its subject matter is ‘amorous (ἐρωτικά)’ (Pr.2). The Socrates of Plato shows a preoccupation with erotic matters too,13 and the setting in which he and Phaedrus find themselves would be suited to a sexual liaison – the erotically-charged banter between the two men makes this clear.14 But Socrates will only talk about desire and love, describing how beauty can prompt memory of the Forms,15 whereas the interests of Longus’ narrator seem to be concerned with little more than the physically erotic. This contrast is emphasised by the narrator’s reaction, since he is inspired by this beautiful sight: ‘I looked and I wondered, and a desire (πόθος) seized me to respond to the painting in writing.’ (Pr.3) Thus imitation, or emulation, of a representation is the result,16 whereas the desire created by beauty in the Phaedrus and Symposium is a stimulus to philosophy and, ultimately, knowledge.17 The books that the narrator has produced are made as ‘an offering to Love, the Nymphs, and Pan’ (Pr.3),18 and the claim is made that ————— 12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Cf. Repath 2010 on the comparison invited between the impotent Encolpius and Socrates. See Symp. 177D6-8 (reflected in the spurious Theages at 128B2-6), and also Eryximachus at Symp. 193E4-7; cf. Phaedrus’ comment at Phdr. 227C3-5. This preoccupation is reflected ironically in Ps.-Luc. Amores 54. Cf. the scene between the anonymous narrator and Clitophon in Achilles Tatius’ novel (1,2). See Socrates’ second speech in the Phaedrus, especially 249D4-252C2 and 253E5256A6; cf. Diotima’s speech in the Symposium, especially 210A4-212A7. For an analysis of the ideas and levels of imitation in this text, with an emphasis on Platonic influence, see Herrmann 2007; cf. Hunter 1983, 45-46, and 1997, 27-28, Zimmermann 1994, 202-206, Morgan 2004, 147, and, on imitation more broadly, Zeitlin 1990. Cf. the parallel of what Morgan 2004, 150, says with reference to the penultimate sentence of the prologue: ‘An extra twist: for Plato earthly beauty, which arouses love, was only an image of real, ideal beauty; L’s narrator is aroused by an image.’ This is an allusion to Agathon’s words at the end of his speech in Plato’s Symposium (197E6-8): Forehand 1976, 107, Anderson 1982, 136, n.74, Hunter 1983, 91, Schönberger 1989, 175, and Morgan 2004, 149.

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they ‘will heal the sick19 and comfort the distressed, stir the memory (ἀναμνήσει)20 of those who have been in love, and give preparatory instruction (προπαιδεύσει) to those who have not.’21 (Pr.3) Herein lies another contrast with the Phaedrus, since in reply to Phaedrus’ surprised reaction (230C6-D2) to his overly enthusiastic description of their chosen spot (230B2-C5),22 Socrates says: ‘Forgive me, my good man. You see, I’m a lover of learning, and the country places and the trees won’t teach (διδάσκειν) me anything, as the people in the city (ἐν τῷ ἄστει) will.’ (230D3-5) While Socrates does not think the setting in the Phaedrus will teach him anything, in Longus’ prologue we find that books inspired by a painting in a Phaedran setting are designed to educate. Hunter’s take on this is: The country setting has nothing to teach Socrates (230d3). When therefore the narrator of D&C enters upon his locus amoenus, which is in fact … the literary space of the Phaedrus, and proclaims a tale that will bring instruction as well as delight, the Phaedran background, at the very least, ironises the claim. This is particularly so as what the novel has to teach us is itself expressed in Platonic terms, …23 I think it is right to suggest that the ironisation of the narrator, his attitudes, and his claims is a significant part of what is at stake in this prologue, but I think that another aspect here is that an attitude towards Plato is being staked out, that the reader is to consider the, not necessarily incompatible, possibility that it is Plato and his Phaedrus that is being ironised, or, perhaps better, being held up for comparison and commentary. Longus is not Plato, and the narrator is not Socrates, but that might be precisely the point.24 ————— 19 20

21

22 23 24

Cf. Aristophanes’ words at Symp. 189D1-3. On a possible connection with the Platonic theory of anamnēsis (‘recollection’), see Zimmermann 1994, 204, n.34; cf. Whitmarsh 2001, 101-102. The distinction between ‘those who have been in love’ and ‘those who have not’ might pick up the distinction between the non-lover and lover from Lysias’ speech (230E6234C5) and Socrates’ first speech (237A7-241D1) in the Phaedrus. See Rowe 1986, 141. Hunter 1997, 18. The narrator himself is not to be identified with the author, of course. Morgan 2004 is fundamental for this separation: see especially 17-20; also Morgan 2003. This separation can be applied to the Platonic intertextuality in the novel: the narrator is made to use words, phrases, and ideas which operate both at and within the level of his relatively straightforward narrative and also at a metanarrative level, creating and communicating between the author and his reader a meaning or discourse to which the narrator does not

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Platonic over-, or under-, tones can be seen in the final two sentences of the prologue as well. In the penultimate sentence the narrator is allowed a general claim, which might hint at something greater, a higher form of beauty, possibly even an almost Platonic universality:25 ‘For certainly no one has ever escaped Love, nor ever shall, so long as beauty (κάλλος) exists and eyes can see.’ (Pr.4) The question that a Platonically-aware reader will ask, though, is ‘What kind of beauty-inspired love is it impossible to escape?’ The suspicion must be that ‘Platonic love’ is not what is meant here and this is reinforced by the prayer with which the narrator ends the prologue: ‘For ourselves, may the god grant us to remain chaste (σωφρονοῦσι) in writing the story of others.’ (Pr.4)26 The disingenuous suggestiveness of this has been remarked on,27 and it is increased by the fact that it looks like a reworking of the prayer Socrates makes near the very end of the Phaedrus:28 Dear Pan and all you gods of this place, grant me that I may become beautiful (καλῷ) within; and that what is in my possession outside me may be in friendly accord with what is inside. And may I count the wise man as rich; and may my pile of gold be of a size which only a man of moderate desires (ὁ σώφρων) could bear or carry. (279B8-C3) Socrates is concerned with inner, philosophical, beauty and with what is appropriate, in terms of material possessions, for a man of moderate desires; the narrator, who is offering his four books ‘to Love, the Nymphs, and Pan’ (Pr.3), is worried that the titillating nature of his tale may prevent him from keeping his thoughts and desires moderate. Similarly, just as the Phaedrus moves away from erotic subject matter and madness and ends in Socrates’ prayer, so, at the beginning of Daphnis and Chloe, the narrator is signalling very clearly the erotic appeal of what is to follow and the potential it has to —————

25 26

27 28

have access. This might lead to a lack of any kind of control to calibrate the intertextuality, but the negotiations and slippages caused by Longus’ narrative strategy are some of what makes his novel such an intriguing and rich text. Cf. Pandiri 1985, 136, n.13, and Morgan 2004, 150. Herrmann 2007, 225-226, links this prayer with the name of the servant woman who took Daphnis to his exposure (4,21,3 – arguing that ‘Sophrosyne’ should be preferred to ‘Sophrone’) and suggests that tests of the protagonists’ ‘chastity’ are what the author is concerned with. As we shall see, the main reason that they maintain their chastity is that they do not know how not to: this is the central irony of the novel. See Morgan 2004, 148, and, more broadly, Goldhill 1995, ch.1. Cf. Hunter 1997, 26-27, on nympholepsy and sōphrosynē. Euripides’ Hippolytus 525-529 is also in the background to Longus’ narrator’s prayer: see Herrmann 2007, 211, n.28.

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disrupt sound mental states. Will we as readers be able to maintain a Socratic self-control, or might the bad horses in our souls be given free rein? Already in the prologue, then, there is a series of clear thematic connections between the novel and the Phaedrus, including the erotic concerns of both, the emphasis on beauty, and the visual stimulation of desire; there is also a set of divergences and hinted re-writings. The combination of these is the initial prompt for a Phaedran reading of Longus, which suggests both parallels and significant differences.29

3. Setting the scene(s) The presence of the setting of the Phaedrus is felt again very soon after the prologue, when Daphnis is discovered in ‘an oak-spinney and a bramblethicket, ivy creeping over it, and soft grass (πόα μαλθακή) … at the very height of noon (μεσημβρίας ἀκμαζούσης)’ (1,2,1-2). This place is linked to the Phaedrus by the soft grass (230C3-5) and the mention of midday (see in particular 242A3-5 and 258E6-259B2).30 The location in which Chloe is found is described like this: There was a cave of the Nymphs (Νυμφῶν ἄντρον ἦν), a huge rock hollow inside and dome-shaped outside. The statues of the Nymphs themselves (τὰ ἀγάλματα τῶν Νυμφῶν αὐτῶν) were made of stones … At the precise centre of the cave, the huge rock, water bubbling up from a spring made a running brook (ἐκ πηγῆς ὕδωρ ἀναβλύζον ῥεῖθρον ἐποίει χεόμενον), so that in front of the cave extended a velvety meadow of lush, soft grass nourished by the moisture (λειμὼν πάνυ γλαφυρὸς ἐκτέτατο πρὸ τοῦ ἄντρου πολλῆς καὶ μαλακῆς πόας ὑπὸ τῆς νοτίδος τρεφομένης). (1,4,1-3) ————— 29

30

There is plenty more that could be said about Plato in Longus’ prologue. In respect of the Phaedrus, one aspect worth exploring is the concerns of the latter part of that dialogue, namely speaking and writing: see Hunter 1997, 27-28; cf. Ní Mheallaigh 2007 on Achilles Tatius. For points of contact with the Republic in the prologue, see Morgan 2004, 149, on ‘I looked and I wondered (ἰδόντα με καὶ θαυμάσαντα)’ (Pr.3) with Rep. 359D5, and Herrmann 2007, especially 210-222, on ‘depiction of an image (εἰκόνος γραφήν)’ (Pr.1); cf. Turner 1960, 118, and Forehand 1976, 107. It is also linked to the prologue, since the estate is described as ‘a most beautiful possession’ (κτῆμα κάλλιστον 1,1,2), picking up the beauty emphasised in the prologue and the idea that the novel will be a ‘possession (κτῆμα) to delight all mankind’ (Pr.3); see Morgan 2004, 151.

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This cave recurs throughout the text and is the focal point of the young couple’s relationship.31 Most significant here is that near the very end of the novel we are told that Daphnis and Chloe ‘decorated the cave, dedicated images (εἰκόνας ἀνέθεσαν), built an altar to Love the Shepherd,32 and gave Pan a temple to live in instead of the pine tree, under the title of Pan the Soldier.’ (4,39,2) Even if the narrator does not make the connection, it seems likely that the reader is meant to connect these images with the picture in the grove in the prologue.33 If the locations are identical – and the presence of the nymphs reinforces this –, then we have more Phaedran elements to add to the anonymous narrator’s description of the prologue setting: as well as trees, flowers, and a spring (Pr.1), we have statues of the Nymphs (cf. 230B7-8), running water (cf. 230B5-7), and a meadow of lush grass (cf. 230C3-5). The grass also connects the two locations of discovery (cf. 1,2,1), and the nourishment provided by the spring links this one to the prologue (Pr.1). All three descriptions in Longus are closely connected, textually, verbally, and thematically in terms of discovery; two of them are presumably the same and are a location of central importance for the narrative; and all three contain elements which recall the famous setting of the Phaedrus. There is, I think, a further, unnoticed, nod to Plato’s text, when we are told about Dryas finding Chloe being suckled by a sheep: ‘and the baby, without a whimper, hungrily putting its mouth to one teat and then the other, clean and bright (φαιδρόν), as the ewe licked its face clean with her tongue when it had drunk its fill.’ (1,5,2) The pun in ‘bright’, phaidron, recalling the Phaedrus, is a nice touch of self-annotation, by which the author makes a signal to the reader of what is going on:34 this is the seal which confirms that a Phaedran reading of the settings is required. Before looking at some of what takes place in these settings, it is worth returning to the absence of plane-trees and cicadas in the prologue,35 since they are not absent from the text altogether. In Lamon’s garden, which is described in fulsome detail at the beginning of Book 4, we are told that ————— 31 32

33 34

35

See especially 1,4-5; 1,13-14; 1,32; 2,18; 2,20-24; 2,39; 4,37-39. In doing this they put into practice what humans should do according to Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium (189C4-8). I owe this reference to Fritz-Gregor Herrmann. Hunter 1983, 42-43, Wouters 1989/90, and Morgan 2004, 146-147. See Hinds 1998, ch.1, for this idea. For similar puns in texts steeped in the Phaedrus, see Plu. Amat. 762D: ‘a man seems to become more radiant (φαιδρότερον) through the heat of love’, noted by Trapp 1990, 160, and also Ps.-Luc. Amores 52, where Callicratidas is described as ‘beaming with a gleeful expression on his face’ (ἱλαρῷ τῷ προσώπῳ φαιδρός) after his victory in a debate about desire and sex. See above, n.10.

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among the trees there are ‘cypresses, bays, planes (πλάτανοι), and pines’ (4,2,3). This is the only mention of plane-trees in the novel, and although their presence among so many other sorts of tree might make it hard to find any significance, I am tempted to see Longus including the totemic symbol of the Phaedrus in his final description of a pleasant spot, as if he has been holding back the most expected or usual piece of the jigsaw until the end.36 Cicadas, on the other hand, or rather a single cicada, is a much more significant feature of Longus’ novel. In 1,25,1 we are told that ‘While he [sc. Daphnis] was piping at midday (τὸ μεσημβρινόν) and the animals were resting in the shade (τῶν ποιμνίων σκιαζομένων), Chloe nodded off (κατανυστάξασα) unawares.’ Daphnis utters a quiet soliloquy, in which he chides ‘Those noisy cicadas (ὢ λάλων τεττίγων), they will stop her sleeping with their din.’ (1,25,3) While he is speaking a cicada fleeing a swallow drops into her bosom. The swallow wakes her up, and, amid Chloe’s screaming, Daphnis seizes the opportunity to retrieve the insect. Delighted, Chloe puts it back again. Hunter has argued that behind this episode lies not only the presence of cicadas in the Phaedran setting (230C2-3), but also, and in particular, the passage where they form the focus of the conversation: 258E6-259D8.37 Here Socrates says that: … as the cicadas (οἱ τέττιγες) sing above our heads in their usual fashion in the heat, and converse with each other, they look down on us too. So if they saw us as well, just like most people at midday (ἐν μεσημβρίᾳ), not conversing but nodding off (νυστάζοντας) under their spell through lazy-mindedness, they would justly laugh at us, thinking that some slaves had come to their retreat (τὸ καταγώγιον) and were having their midday sleep around the spring, like sheep (ὥσπερ προβάτια μεσημβριάζοντα)’ (258E6-259A6). The similarity in both details and vocabulary is extremely close, and Hunter points out that the themes of music and loss in the story Socrates then tells of the genesis of the cicadas are picked up in the tale of the wood-pigeon which follows immediately afterwards in Longus (1,27,1). Hunter also argues that ————— 36

37

This is made more likely by the introduction of the estate which contains the garden as τὴν καταγωγήν (‘the residence’ 4,1,2), which would pick up the use of the same word at Phdr. 230B2, and the garden itself is described as πάγκαλόν τι χρῆμα (‘absolutely superb’ 4,2,1), which would pick up Phdr. 230B4 and 230C4. These are the only occurrences of these two words in Longus. For the significance of this garden to the text as a whole, see Zeitlin 1990, 444-457. Hunter 1983, 56-57.

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the couple’s protection of the cicada is a prolepsis of their happy ending, since ‘there is no doubt that Daphnis and Chloe honour Erato throughout the novel … and that the τέττιξ will give a very good report of them to the Muses.’38 This refers to Phdr. 259C5-D7, but this is where the difference from Longus is marked: Socrates is interested in talking and philosophy – this is what makes him (and to a lesser extent Phaedrus) different from everyone else, who would fall asleep in the midday heat like sheep, while the cicadas sang. Chloe has done precisely this (the sheep in her case are real, but even they are not necessarily asleep!), and the episode is an eroticised version of what we find in the Phaedrus: Daphnis and Chloe are not interested in doing philosophy, but precisely what they are interested in they are only just beginning to find out. This incident of the cicada, then, both gives a flavour of how Longus will adapt his Platonic intertext, highlighting his erotic concerns, and shows how pervasive is Longus’ exploitation of the setting of the Phaedrus, since all the relevant signals are there, placed strategically throughout the text. At this point there are some interim conclusions to draw. Just as the setting of the Phaedrus is emphasised repeatedly in that text, becoming the focus of the conversation at various points and to some extent driving the dialogue, so Longus dwells on his scene-setting: the natural environment he describes, along with its seasons, are important factors in his plot. In Daphnis and Chloe, Longus not only exploits the setting of the Phaedrus throughout, but his novel takes place at several levels in this Phaedran scene: much of the original action happened there, the narrative in the picture is dedicated there, the exegete explains this picture to the anonymous narrator, presumably in the grove, giving his own interpretation or narrative, and the anonymous narrator himself records a version, which he offers to the gods of the place. In other, more or less contemporary works, the Phaedran locus amoenus is a place to discuss love, as we can see in Plutarch’s Amatorius (749a), Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon (1,2,3, and 1,15), and Ps.-Lucian’s Amores (12, 18, and 31). In each of these texts the nature and workings of love are addressed (albeit in different ways), and the Phaedrus is fundamentally important for them; I think that the Phaedran setting in Daphnis and Chloe, which pervades the work, acts as a signal that we should expect something similar: Longus is going to tell us something about love rather than necessarily give us a novel which uses the love of a couple as a pretext for lots of exciting adventures.39 His text inhabits not only a world which is ————— 38 39

Hunter 1983, 57. See Morgan 1994, 65-66, and Morgan 2004, 4.

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physically similar to the world of the Phaedrus, but one which shares and addresses its literary and philosophical concerns too. The exposure of Daphnis and Chloe and the focus of the text on their development have led scholars to describe Longus’ novel as an ‘experiment’40 or ‘allegory’;41 it not only adds to, but must also shape such a reading of this narrative that Phaedran settings are so important and persistent in it: this is an allegorical thoughtexperiment in Phaedrus-world, where erotic feelings and their consequences are the centre of attention.

4. Erotic ignorance Chloe is the first to develop these feelings: her infatuation begins as a result of visual stimulation – so important a concept in the Phaedrus – and her reaction, as Morgan notes,42 is indebted to that dialogue: She had no idea what was happening to her (ὅ τι μὲν οὖν ἔπασχεν οὐκ ᾔδει), being but a little girl with a rustic upbringing, who had never so much as heard anyone speak love’s name (οὐδὲ ἄλλου λέγοντος ἀκούσασα τὸ ἔρωτος ὄνομα). An aching filled her soul (ἄση δὲ αὐτῆς εἶχε τὴν ψυχήν); her eyes were beyond her control, and the name of Daphnis was forever on her lips. (1,13,5) Chloe has not heard love’s name because even her parents do not know it (1,8,2): such knowledge is privileged in Longus’ rustic world, and it is Daphnis’ and Chloe’s acquisition of the knowledge of the name and deeds of love that forms the thrust of the novel’s plot.43 It is noteworthy that her soul is mentioned here: Longus pays relatively little attention to the soul, at least in comparison with the other Greek novelists and other Second Sophistic writers,44 and so I do not think it is a coincidence that Chloe’s soul is mentioned at a point where Longus is alluding to the Phaedrus, since Socrates’ second speech in that dialogue includes discussion and description of the immortality and structure of the soul, the transmigration of souls, and the ————— 40 41 42 43 44

Winkler 1990; cf. Whitmarsh 2001, 81-83. Turner 1960, Chalk 1960, and Herrmann 2007; cf. Hunter 1983, 46-47. Morgan 2004, 161-162. See Morgan 1994, 66-69, for a convenient summary; also Morgan 1997b. See Repath 2007.

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reactions of the soul to beauty.45 The passage to which Longus is alluding is the following, which describes the beloved in Socrates’ second speech: ‘So he is in love, but with what, he does not know; and he neither knows what has happened to him (οὔδ’ ὅ τι πέπονθεν οἶδεν), nor can he even say what it is ...’. (255D3-4) Chloe shares the beloved’s lack of knowledge about what has happened to him and what to call it. She also shares his ignorance concerning the cause of desire: the beloved does not realise that he is in love with his own beauty, some of which is rebounding from the lover, whereas while there is no ambiguity as far as the reader is concerned about what Chloe desires, she thinks the cause of Daphnis’ beauty is the bath (1,13,2) and his music (1,13,4). Daphnis soon experiences similar feelings: he is aroused by Chloe’s kiss, and also by the sight of her – ‘as if now for the first time he had acquired eyes’ (1,17,3) emphasises the visual again. Their shared reactions are described in a way which also seems to derive from the same passage of the Phaedrus:46 ‘They wanted something, but what they wanted they did not know. All they knew was that they were the victims, he of a kiss and she of a bath.’ (1,22,4) There is a fundamental similarity here in that both Daphnis and Chloe are in the position of the beloved: they have erotic feelings, but they do not know what they are, what they are called, or what to do about them. In what follows I shall compare what happens next in both texts as the Platonic lover and beloved on the one hand, and Daphnis and Chloe on the other, respond to their desires in accordance with their levels of knowledge and understanding.

5. Amorous advice What Daphnis and Chloe need is advice. This they soon get from an elderly cowherd called Philetas, who describes how he came across a little boy in

————— 45

46

Souls are mentioned elsewhere in Longus only at: 1,15,1 (Dorcon’s erotic feelings for Chloe); 1,17,1 (Chloe’s kiss warming Daphnis’ soul); 1,18,1 (Daphnis’ soliloquy on the effects of Chloe’s kiss); 1,30,1 (Dorcon dying); 1,32,4 (twice, of Daphnis in love); 2,7,1 (the effect of love on the soul – see below, section 5); 2,7,5 (Philetas in love); 2,8,1 (the effect of the name of love on Daphnis and Chloe); and 4,6,3 (Chloe worrying about her marriage). Hunter 1983, 109, n.43, and Hunter 1997, 15, Schönberger 1989, 184, Morgan 2004, 169, and Pattoni 2005, 274, n.112.

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his garden, at midday. This garden recalls the prologue in certain details,47 and so is plugged into the same Phaedran atmosphere as we see in the other settings of the novel and arouses our anticipation of Platonic possibilities. The little boy is, of course, Eros, and he is described, by both himself to Philetas and by Philetas to Daphnis and Chloe, in terms which exploit, among other things, Plato’s Symposium.48 Between these descriptions we find: They [sc. Daphnis and Chloe] were greatly delighted, as if the story they were being told was fiction, not fact (ὥσπερ μῦθον οὐ λόγον ἀκούοντες), and they asked what Love might be, a child or a bird, and what his powers were. So Philetas continued, ‘Love is a god, my children, young, and beautiful (καλός), and winged (πετόμενος). This is why he delights in youth, pursues beauty (κάλλος διώκει), and gives souls wings (τὰς ψυχὰς ἀναπτεροῖ). (2,7,1) There are several things that are Platonic here. The first is the distinction between mythos and logos,49 a recognisably Platonic distinction in the Second Sophistic,50 and one which highlights that levels and modes of discourse are important for our reading of Longus,51 just as they are for our reading of Plato. Second, Whitmarsh has suggested that the question of ‘what Love might be’ ‘looks to Socrates, Greek literature’s most famous searcher after definitions’, and this line is developed by Herrmann, with a particular focus on the Symposium and Phaedrus.52 There is a nice irony in this, since love is ————— 47

48

49

50 51 52

Philetas ‘laboured hard to create’ (ἐξεπονησάμην 2,3,3) his garden, just as the anonymous narrator ‘laboured hard to create’ (ἐξεπονησάμην Pr.3) his four books (the only two occurrences of this verb in Longus); Philetas comments that ‘if you took the wall away [sc. from his garden], you would think you were looking at a grove (ἄλσος)’ (2,3,5) – the place where the anonymous narrator encounters the painting is a grove (ἄλσει Pr.1); and thirdly, Philetas’ garden is ‘watered (κατάρρυτος) by three springs’ (2,3,5), while the grove in the prologue is also ‘watered’ (κατάρρυτον Pr.1), although there is only one spring there (the only two occurrences of this adjective in Longus). Danek and Wallisch 1993, 54-55, note the first two of these correspondences. Forehand 1976, 106, Anderson 1982, 136-137, n.78, Hunter 1983, 32, and Morgan 2004, 179. See Hunter 1983, 47-48 with nn., Schönberger 1989, 190, Morgan 2004, 182, and Pattoni 2005, 308, n.29. Herrmann 2007, 206-207, argues for the primacy of the Protagoras as the Platonic intertext here. Cf. in particular Achilles Tatius 1,2,2. See Morgan 1994, especially 76 with n.8, and Hunter 1997, 18-23. Whitmarsh 2005, 147, and Herrmann 2007, 207-209, respectively.

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famously the only thing that Socrates claims to know about,53 whereas Daphnis and Chloe genuinely have no idea at all. The third Platonic aspect here is the idea that love gives souls wings (ἀναπτεροῖ).54 As has been noted,55 this is a clear allusion to two passages in particular in Socrates’ second speech in the Phaedrus: ‘… on seeing beauty (κάλλος) here on earth, and being reminded of true beauty (τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἀναμιμνῃσκόμενος), he grows wings and when winged (πτερῶταί τε καὶ ἀναπτερούμενος) is eager to fly upwards …’. (249D5-8)56 The same verb occurs later in the same speech where Socrates describes the effect that having a lover has on the beloved: … the stream of beauty passes back into its possessor through his eyes, which is its natural route to the soul; arriving there and giving it wings (ἀναπτερῶσαν), it waters57 the passages of the feathers and causes the wings to grow, and fills the soul of the loved one in his turn with love. (255C5-D3) However, what we find in Longus is only superficially, and so subversively, Platonic: in Socrates’ speech the soul is responding to the philosophicallystimulating sight of beauty, whereas Philetas’ point is that love – sexual desire – arouses the soul to erotic longing. In the Phaedrus, the philosophical soul is able to tame its black horse, the appetitive part, and does not yield to base desire (253E5-256B7); in Longus, on the other hand, the soul is not divided.58 Love for Philetas, and in the text as a whole, is not a force that can

————— 53 54 55

56

57

58

See above, n.13. This is the only occurrence of this verb in Daphnis and Chloe. See Chalk 1960, 36, Hunter 1983, 109, n.43, Schönberger 1989, 190, Danek and Wallisch 1993, 55, and Morgan 2004, 182. Pattoni 2005, 309, n.31, points to Phdr. 246C. See also Plu. Amat. 766B and E, and cf. 751f. and 763f., for the language and imagery of wings in connection with love and the soul. There is some debate about the text at this point, but it does not affect the substance of my argument. Danek and Wallisch 1993, 55, see an allusion to ‘waters’ (ἄρδει) in Eros’ words at 2,5,4: ‘That is why your flowers and trees are so beautiful: they are watered (ἀρδόμενα) with the water I have washed in.’ This is the only occurrence of this verb in Daphnis and Chloe. See Repath 2007 on the other novelists’ division of the soul, especially Chariton, Achilles Tatius, and Heliodorus.

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be resisted by philosophical restraint, or by anything.59 So what can one do about it? The last thing that Philetas says to Daphnis and Chloe at this point in the novel is: ‘For there is no medicine for love, nothing that can be drunk or eaten or uttered in song, except a kiss and an embrace and lying down together with naked bodies (φίλημα καὶ περιβολὴ καὶ συγκατακλιθῆναι γυμνοῖς σώμασι).’ (2,7,7) There is a well-known and strong Theocritean influence here, of course,60 but Plato is also behind the second half of this:61 ‘His desires are similar to his lover’s, but weaker: to see, touch, kiss, and lie down with him (ὁρᾶν, ἅπτεσθαι, φιλεῖν, συγκατακεῖσθαι); and indeed, as one might expect, soon afterwards he does just that.’ (Phdr. 255E2-4) Philetas’ advice hardly needs to have the part about seeing, but he does add the bit about lying down together with naked bodies. This causes the couple considerable trouble, since they are, humorously, unable to interpret Philetas’ euphemism (2,9-11; 3,13,3-3,14).62 Philetas encourages precisely the kind of situation, with added nudity, which is the test in the Phaedrus and which may lead to (philosophically) dangerous results. Philosophical souls do not carry on past cuddling, since their minds are on higher things, whereas Daphnis and Chloe do not manage anything more because Philetas has not told them the crucial bit. We can thus observe an ironisation of Socrates and Platonic love in Philetas and his words: the latter uses Platonic phraseology to pass on knowledge about Love/love, but his advice concerns satisfying sexual desires, which he hinders by not providing full details.63 Daphnis learns what is required in the next book, but there is an intervening passage which is also part of the commentary on Platonic love I am tracing.

6. Ignoring the erotic? In Book 3, Daphnis is prevented by winter from seeing Chloe regularly, so he goes to her home on the pretext of catching birds; invited in for dinner, he then stays the night; Chloe sleeps with her mother and Daphnis sleeps with ————— 59

60 61 62 63

Daphnis will restrain himself, but only out of fear because of what Lycaenion says (3,1920, and 3,24): see below, section 7. Cf. Gnathon’s comment about ‘Love the invincible’ at 4,16,3, with Morgan 2004, 234. See, for instance, Morgan 2004, 183-184. Danek and Wallisch 1993, 56, and Morgan 2004, 184. See Goldhill 1995, 21-22. See the comments of Whitmarsh 2005, 148, including the suggestion that we might have ‘a characteristically Platonic aporia’ here.

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Chloe’s father; Chloe’s only pleasure is looking forward to the next day, when she will see Daphnis again: ‘but Daphnis enjoyed an empty pleasure,64 for he thought it a joy even to sleep beside (συγκοιμηθῆναι) Chloe’s father, so that he embraced and kissed him over and over again (περιέβαλλεν αὐτὸν καὶ κατεφίλει πολλάκις), dreaming that he was doing all this to Chloe.’ (3,9,5) This passage is linked to Philetas’ advice by the kissing, embracing, and sleeping together, and therefore also to the same part of the Phaedrus quoted in section 5 above (255E2-4).65 The respective ages of Dryas and Daphnis, as well as Daphnis’ actions in kissing and embracing the older man, would point to Daphnis being the beloved and Dryas the lover, but it is Daphnis who is fired with erotic ardour, albeit not for the person he is embracing. In addition to the passage from the Phaedrus, I think there is another bit of Plato in the background to this, an episode which sees the enaction of Socrates’ theorising in the Phaedrus. Towards the end of the Symposium, Alcibiades describes his paradoxically unsuccessful seduction of Socrates. Rather like the setting of the Phaedrus, this was an exceptionally famous passage in antiquity, and especially in the Second Sophistic.66 Despite spending the night under the same cloak and being embraced by the younger man (219B3-C5), Socrates resists the temptation offered by Alcibiades’ youthful beauty, provoking Alcibiades to exclaim: ‘Know well, by the gods and goddesses, that having slept (καταδεδαρθηκώς) with Socrates, I got up having undergone nothing more than if I had slept with my father (μετὰ πατρὸς καθηῦδον) or older brother.’ (219C6-D2) Alcibiades claims he might as well have slept with his father, for all the good sleeping with Socrates did him, whereas Daphnis actually does sleep with a father, Chloe’s, and gets a certain amount of satisfaction in doing to him what he wishes he were doing to Chloe. As with the passage from the Phaedrus, there is a humorous frisson caused by juxtaposing the two scenes, and there is also the additional similarity in this case since the youths are the ones with the amorous inclinations. However, Alcibiades is desperate to sleep with Socrates so that the latter will become his lover and pass on his wisdom to him, whereas Daphnis’ joy at ————— 64 65 66

Cresci 1999, 228, compares Theocritus 3,20 and 27,4 on the pleasure of empty kisses. See Morgan 2004, 205 for the former, and Danek and Wallisch 1993, 58, for both. It is referred to explicitly at Petronius Sat. 128,7, Ps.-Lucian Am. 49 and 54, and in Philostratus Ep. 7; it is used at Petronius Sat. 85-87 (see McGlathery 1998 and Repath 2010); and alluded to at Lucianus Vit.Auct. 15, and Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon 5,22,5; 5,25,7; and 8,5,2. See also Cornelius Nepos Alcibiades 2,2, and Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 219B-220A. See below, section 7, for another allusion to this passage in Longus.

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sleeping with Dryas derives from the fact that he is Chloe’s father. While Alcibiades’ assumptions are misguided and he will be left in a position to learn even more from Socrates’ philosophical restraint, Daphnis enjoys nothing more in his ignorance than an ‘empty pleasure’ and does not acquire new insights.67

7. Erotic education and reasoned restraint Spring returns, and Daphnis and Chloe have yet another abortive attempt at putting Philetas’ advice into action (3,13,3-3,14). In order to progress beyond this impasse they require further, more explicit instruction, and this is the point at which Lycaenion is introduced. One of the first things we are told about Lycaenion is that she is from the city (ἐξ ἄστεος 3,15,1); it is tempting, especially after the failed tuition from the rustic Philetas, to link this fact to Socrates’ comments about ‘the people in the city (ἐν τῷ ἄστει)’ teaching him rather than ‘the country places and trees’ (Phdr. 230D3-5, quoted in section 2). Daphnis and Chloe, too, do not learn what they want from life in the country and the natural world,68 but from someone from the city. What Socrates has learned in the city and the knowledge he brings to the setting of the Phaedrus is one thing, but Lycaenion represents a different sort of urban education: since the birds and the bees, and the goats and the sheep, are not enough to educate young people, and euphemisms will not do, what is needed is a practical lesson.69 Once Lycaenion had Daphnis in the position she wanted him in: ἐκέλευσεν αὐτὸν καθίσαι πλησίον αὐτῆς ὡς ἔχει καὶ φιλήματα φιλεῖν οἷα εἴωθε καὶ ὅσα καὶ φιλοῦντα ἅμα περιβάλλειν καὶ κατακλίνεσθαι χαμαί. ὡς δὲ ἐκαθέσθη καὶ ἐφίλησε καὶ κατεκλίθη, μαθοῦσα ἐνεργεῖν δυνάμενον καὶ σφριγῶντα ... She told him to sit beside her, just as he was, and kiss her with the same kind and the same number of kisses as usual, and, as he kissed her, to put ————— 67

68 69

What Lamon might have thought or felt is left unexplored; in any case, it is probably a fair guess that it was not philosophical restraint that prevented things from carrying on further. Cf. Cresci 1999, 226-227, on the erotic ineptitude of goatherds. Goldhill 1995, 24-25, and Morgan 2004, 212, suggest that Daphnis’ regarding his impending lesson as ‘truly heaven-sent (θεόπεμπτον)’ (3,18,2) recalls Platonic discussions of the nature of love and desire: the levels of focalisation and irony are multiple.

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his arms around her and lie down on the ground. He sat down, kissed her, and lay down, and when she found that he was ready for action and lusty … (3,18,3-4) Philetas’ advice is picked up here too,70 but Daphnis’ eagerness and ignorance, and the kissing and embracing, at this point reflect the actions and attitude of the beloved in the Phaedrus: … while its counterpart [sc. the bad horse] in the beloved has nothing to say, but swelling with confused passion it embraces (περιβάλλει) the lover and kisses (φιλεῖ) him, welcoming him as someone full of goodwill, and whenever they lie down together (συγκατακέωνται), it is ready not to refuse to do its own part in granting favours to the lover, should he beg to receive them; ... (256A1-5)71 However, there are no other conflicting impulses in Daphnis (cf. Phdr. 256A5-6), and the lover figure is far from philosophical in succumbing to her adulterous desires (cf. Phdr. 256A7-B7). She does, though, combine her satisfaction of them with the purpose of education, and in doing this she is parallel to disreputable imitators of Socrates (and to the presupposed model which lies behind Socrates’ inversion of it);72 she is also parallel to Socrates himself, and Diotima too, in passing on knowledge in erotic matters, but ironically so, since in this case the education is in sexual knowledge, not the philosophical heights to which beauty might lead the soul. Daphnis now knows what to do and is keen to do it to Chloe (3,19,1), but he abstains, not out of any philosophical desire to gaze on her face, be reminded of absolute beauty, and so ascend through contemplation to beholding the Forms; rather, he is worried by what Lycaenion says about pain and blood: … but Daphnis fell to thinking over (εἰς λογισμὸν ἄγων) what she had said; his earlier eagerness had gone, and he was reluctant to pester Chloe beyond a kiss and an embrace (φιλήματος καὶ περιβολῆς), because he did not want her to shout at him as if he were an enemy, or weep as if she was in pain, or bleed as if she had been murdered. (3,20,1) ————— 70 71 72

Morgan 2004, 212. Hunter 1997, 15, n.4, points to this passage, with a suggestion of ‘parody’. See especially Petronius Sat. 85-87, and, e.g., Lucianus DMeretr. 10, and Vit.Auct. 15.

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Daphnis’ reflection on the situation is repeated soon afterwards, when he finds himself in a position to be able to put what he has learned into practice: One day they even lay down naked together (γυμνοὶ συγκατεκλίθησαν), with a single goatskin for blanket, and Chloe might easily have become a woman, had not the thought of blood scared Daphnis. In fact, for fear that one day his reasoning would prove unequal to the test (δεδοικὼς μὴ νικηθῇ τὸν λογισμόν), he did not let Chloe take her clothes off very often. Chloe was surprised, but too shy to ask why. (3,24,2-3) The word translated by ‘thinking’ in 3,20,1 and by ‘reasoning’ in the second passage is logismos,73 a word used in other novelists, for instance, at philosophically-charged moments where a man is trying to overcome his sexual desire for a woman who cannot be his.74 However, Daphnis’ reasoning is not governed by the societal norms that Chloe should remain a virgin until her wedding night (though that is the result), nor, as we find in other novels, by the matrimonial propriety of respecting another man’s wife or by selfpreservation; his reasoning is certainly not of the Platonic, abstinent, kind; rather it is a sympathetic and loving wish not to inflict pain on his beloved.75 However, the intertextuality is not straightforward, since Daphnis and Chloe lying under a single covering looks to the same part of the Symposium which lay behind Daphnis’ night with Chloe’s father. Therefore, in doing what he thinks is best for Chloe, Daphnis could be seen to be reflecting Socrates’ attitude towards Alcibiades, since, as the one with the greater knowledge, he is in a position to make a judgement, and he makes the one which is based on unselfish desires; on the other hand, his ultimate aim is very different from Socrates’.76 This scene, then, is multi-layered: there is the humour in the juxtaposition of the philosophically-suggestive language with the impulses of sexual desire, and of the enaction of ‘Platonic’ love with the stilldesired and generically-inevitable outcome; but there is also a significant shift in the development of the couple, towards an appreciation on Daphnis’ ————— 73

74

75 76

Found elsewhere in Daphnis and Chloe only at 2,10,1, where the protagonists are thinking about what Philetas has told them. E.g. Chariton’s Dionysius at 2,4,4, 3,2,7, and 5,10,6, and Artaxerxes at 6,1,6. For passages such as these, and in Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus, see Repath 2007. There is an additional level at this point in Longus, since Daphnis is reasoning about his ability to reason. See Montiglio 2009, 47-48. Schönberger 1989, 206.

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part that satisfying their desires is not the sum of what they want, and that love and life are more complicated.

8. A Platonic lover? A potentially significant impediment to the expected outcome is presented by a character who has received plenty of scholarly attention – the urban parasite Gnathon.77 The reasons for this attention include the fact that he is the only character in Daphnis and Chloe to have homosexual desires, the debates surrounding his treatment in the text, and the levels of humour elicited from his portrayal and from the reactions of others to him, especially by Daphnis, the object of his desires. Of principal, although not separate, interest here is the particular concentration of Platonic allusions around Gnathon, the last such concentration in the novel. After his direct attempt on Daphnis fails (4,11-12), Gnathon persuades his master Astylus to promise to ask his father for Daphnis (4,16-17,1). However, Astylus cannot resist teasing Gnathon for fancying a smelly goatherd (4,17,2), and Gnathon’s response is introduced by: But Gnathon had had a thorough education in erotic mythology at dissolute drinking parties (ἐν τοῖς τῶν ἀσώτων συμποσίοις πεπαιδευμένος), and made a speech in defence of himself and of Daphnis that was right on target (οὐκ ἀπὸ σκοποῦ): ‘No lover (ἐραστής), my lord, bothers himself (πολυπραγμονεῖ) over such things, but, whatever the body in which he discovers beauty, he is smitten. (4,17,3) The Platonic language here is marked,78 and we are surely to think of Plato’s Symposium in the remark about Gnathon having ‘had a thorough education ————— 77

78

See Zeitlin 1990, 455-457, Winkler 1990, 112-114, and especially Goldhill 1995, 47-52, on Gnathon, and the rest of his ch.2 for developed discussion of the debates and humour in his being described as a ‘natural pederast’ (4,11,2), and in Daphnis’ use of the/an argument from nature against homosexuality (4,12,2); see also on this last point Morgan 2004, 231, and Hunter 1983, 71-72. Morgan 2004, 230, is a necessary nuancing of Winkler’s argument. See also Whitmarsh 2001, 102-103, on ‘the reader’s implicit selfconstruction’ in the educated figure of Gnathon. ‘on target’ (οὐκ ἀπὸ σκοποῦ) ‘is significantly Platonic/Sokratic’, Morgan 2004, 235, and ‘lover’ (ἐραστής), along with ‘darling’ (ἐρώμενον, 4,17,1) are ‘Platonic terms for male lovers ... looking forward to the Platonic intertextuality of Gnathon’s discourse’, Morgan 2004, 234. ‘bothers himself’ (πολυπραγμονεῖ) is redolent of the discussions of justice in the Republic (433A8, 433D5, 434B7, 434B9, 443D2, 444B2, and 551E6): see DeFilippo

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in erotic mythology at dissolute drinking parties’: symposia.79 But what intertextual relationship are we to see? In specifying ‘dissolute drinking parties’, is Longus preparing us for a degenerate form of argumentation and theorising, a low-brow version of what we find in Plato? Or has Plato’s Symposium itself and the philosophy it contains become dissolute?80 In a sense, the answer is ‘both’. The former is supported by the fact that Gnathon’s argument seems to start off in quasi-philosophical terms, but never progresses beyond the physical, and in fact resorts to hackneyed mythological exempla.81 Astylus’ response at 4,18,1 that ‘Love produces great sophists’ emphasises the distance between Gnathon’s desires and his defence of them on the one hand, and the sublime metaphysical goal of philosophy as described by Diotima to Socrates. The latter possibility – that Plato has become debased – can be seen in the amount of fun had in later prose fiction at the expense of philosophers hanging around with pretty boys on the pretext of educating them.82 Although he does not wear the cloak of philosophy and is not capable of sophisticated argument, Gnathon represents an alternative version of ‘Platonic’ love to the sexless kind observed so far. Gnathon’s version is the pederastic kind: he is an anti-Socrates, and his homosexuality emphasises that he is a figure of a type based on an ironic, or cynical, reading of Socrates and Platonic homoeroticism.

9. Conclusion One means by which a fairly sustained Platonic, or Plato-orientated, reading of the text is encouraged is by the settings which show the influence of the Phaedrus and occur at important points in the narrative: the prologue, the finding of the babies, the incident of the swallow and cicada, Philetas’ advice, Lamon’s garden, and the dedication at the end. Not only are significant parts of the novel set in the world of the Phaedrus, but the narrative is established there for posterity, since that is where the anonymous narrator comes across the picture. It is also noteworthy that the other Platonic allusions are concentrated at crucial junctures in the plot: where Daphnis and Chloe feel the symptoms and effects of love, when they receive advice, when they try to ————— 79 80 81 82

1990 on this and its possible significance for Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Gnathon was earlier characterised as the embodiment of the appetitive man (4,11,2). Pandiri 1985, 136, n.16, and Morgan 2004, 235; cf. Goldhill 1995, 47-48. Cf. Morgan 2004, 235, on this crux. Morgan 2004, 234-235. See above, n.72.

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put it into practice, and when they are educated, in diverse ways, by rivals from the city. But what might this sustained reading be? I have drawn attention to some elements of humour in Longus’ engagement with Plato, including the ironisation of the figure(s) of Socrates in the narrator in the prologue, and in Philetas, Lycaenion, Daphnis, and Gnathon, and also the voyeuristic and tantalising juxtaposition of teenage yearnings with intellectual theorising.83 However, the multiple levels of irony, focalisation, attitude, and education make Longus’ intertextual game one which stretches the reader in different directions, and it does not seem likely to me that Longus’ purpose is solely parody or satire; rather, there could be a relatively serious point made by the intertextuality. Longus, like Plato in the Phaedrus, presents a text which is set in a pastoral environment and looks at the workings of love and at the purpose and meaning of sexual desire; however, the conclusions are very different from those drawn in the Phaedrus. Through the course of his narrative, Longus deconstructs the Platonic love that is physically abstinent and philosophically aimed at absolute truth, but rather than this resulting in the antithetical hedonistic abandon as represented by the anti-Socratic Gnathon, we are given an alternative that suggests a non-sublimated but rationallycontrolled and mutually-fulfilling state. At the end of Longus’ novel, and after flirtation with alternative scenarios and outcomes, Daphnis and Chloe get married, have sex, have children, and live happily ever after: we can be left in little doubt as to what is generically and normatively desirable.84 In the final chapter of the novel we are told that, on their wedding-night, ‘Daphnis and Chloe lay together naked, embraced one another and kissed (γυμνοὶ συγκατακλιθέντες περιέβαλλον ἀλλήλους καὶ κατεφίλουν).’ (4,40,3) The recurrence of this motif at this point marks the climax of the erotics of the novel, as the Platonic (and Theocritean) attitudes to sexual love are subsumed and reconfigured in the novel’s conclusion. In sum, Longus has taken some particularly famous passages from the canonical texts on Platonic love

————— 83 84

Cf. Bretzigheimer 1988, 524-529, although Plato is not mentioned. Cf. Winkler 2002, 30: ‘Knowledge of good and evil and the Platonic ideal are two sides of the same coin. In Daphnis and Chloe, Longus is not quite this philosophical, but the concept that carnal knowledge leads to self-awareness and to a meaningful and happy life is the culmination point of his story.’ I think Winkler 1990 pushes his point too far, but that is not to say that fulfilment and happiness do not involve things which one, whether ancient or modern, might not find ideal. Cf. Plutarch’s attempt to ‘heterosexualise’ Platonic love in his Amatorius, with Rist 2001.

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and reworked them into a text which is concerned with and demonstrates romantic, novelistic, love.85

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1982. Eros Sophistes: Ancient Novelists at Play, Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Bretzigheimer, G. 1988. ‘Die Komik in Longos’ Hirtenroman “Daphnis und Chloe”’, Gymnasium 95, 515-555. Chalk, H.H.O. 1960. ‘Eros and the Lesbian pastorals of Longus’, JHS 80, 32-51. Cresci, L. 1999. ‘The novel of Longus the sophist and the pastoral tradition’, in: S. Swain (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 210-242. Danek, G., and Wallisch, R. 1993. ‘Notizen zu Longos, Daphnis und Chloe’, Wiener Studien 106, 45-60. DeFilippo, J.G. 1990. ‘Curiositas and the Platonism of Apuleius’ Golden Ass’, AJPh 111, 471-492; repr. in: Harrison (ed.) 1999, 269-289. Forehand, W.E. 1976. ‘Symbolic gardens in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, Eranos 74, 103112. Goldhill, S. 1995. Foucault’s Virginity: Ancient Erotic Fiction and the History of Sexuality, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harrison, S.J. (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Herrmann, F.-G. 2007. ‘Longus’ imitation: mimēsis in the education of Daphnis and Chloe’, in: Morgan and Jones (eds.), 205-229. Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R.L. 1983. A Study of Daphnis and Chloe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R.L. 1997. ‘Longus and Plato’, in: M. Picone and B. Zimmermann (eds.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalterliche Rezeption, Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, 15-28. Konstan, D. 1994. Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres, Princeton: Princeton University Press. MacQueen, B.D. 1990. Myth, Rhetoric and Fiction, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. McGlathery, D.B. 1998. ‘Reversals of Platonic love in Petronius’ Satyricon’, in: D.H.J. Larmour, P.A. Miller, and C. Platter (eds.), Rethinking Sexuality: Foucault and Classical Antiquity, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 204-227. Montiglio, S. 2009. ‘“My soul, consider what you should do”: psychological conflicts and moral goodness in the Greek novels’, AN 8, 25-58. Morgan, J.R. 1994. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: Love’s own sweet story’, in: J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 64-79. Morgan, J.R. 1997a. ‘Longus, “Daphnis and Chloe”: a Bibliographical Survey, 1950 – 1995’, ANRW 2.34.3, 2208-2276.

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I should like to thank the audience in Cork for their questions and comments, FritzGregor Herrmann for reading a subsequent draft and making helpful suggestions, and Konstantin Doulamis for his editorial patience.

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Morgan, J.R. 1997b. ‘Erotika mathemata: Greek romance as sentimental education’, in: A.H. Sommerstein and C. Atherton (eds.), Education in Greek Fiction, Bari: Levante Editori, 163-189. Morgan, J.R. 2003. ‘Nymphs, neighbours and narrators: a narratological approach to Longus’, in: S. Panayotakis, M. Zimmerman, and W. Keulen (eds.), The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden: Brill, 171-189. Morgan, J.R. 2004. Longus. Daphnis and Chloe, Oxford: Aris and Philips. Morgan J.R. and Jones, M. (eds.) 2007. Philosophical Presences in the Greek Novel. AN Suppl. 10, Groningen: Barkhuis. Ní Mheallaigh, K. 2007. ‘Philosophical framing: the Phaedran setting of Leucippe and Cleitophon’, in: Morgan and Jones (eds.), 231-244. Pandiri, T. 1985. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: the art of pastoral play’, Ramus 14, 116-141. Pattoni, M.P. 2005. Longo Sofista, Dafni e Cloe, Milan: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli. Repath, I.D. 2007. ‘Emotional conflict and Platonic psychology in the Greek novel’, in: Morgan and Jones (eds.), 53-84. Repath, I.D. 2010. ‘Plato in Petronius: Petronius in platanona’, CQ 60.2, 577-595. Rist, J.M. 2001. ‘Plutarch’s Amatorius: a commentary on Plato’s theories of love?’, CQ 51, 557-575. Rowe, C.J. (ed. & trans.) 1986. Plato: Phaedrus, Warminster: Aris and Philips. Schönberger, O. (ed.) 1989. Longos: Hirtengeschichten von Daphnis und Chloe, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Trapp, M.B. 1990. ‘Plato’s Phaedrus in second-century Greek literature’, in: D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 141-173. Turner, P. 1960. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: an interpretation’, G&R 7, 117-123. Whitmarsh, T. 2001. Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2005. ‘The lexicon of love: Longus and Philetas grammatikos’, JHS 125, 145148. Winkler, J.J. 1990. The Constraints of Desire: the Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece, New York and London: Routledge. Winkler, M.M. 2002. ‘Chronotope and locus amoenus in Daphnis and Chloe and Pleasantville’, in: M. Paschalis and S. Frangoulidis (eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel. AN Suppl. 1, Groningen: Barkhuis, 27-39. Wouters, A. 1989/90. ‘The εἰκόνες in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe IV 39, 2: “Beglaubigungsapparat”?’, SEJG 31, 465-479. Zeitlin, F.I. 1990. ‘The poetics of eros: nature, art and imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in: D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler, and F.I. Zeitlin (eds.), Before Sexuality:The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 417-464. Zimmermann, B. 1994. ‘Liebe und poetische Reflexion. Der Hirtenroman des Longos’, Prometheus 20, 193-210.

‘larvale simulacrum’: Platonic Socrates and the persona of Socrates in Apuleius, Metamorphoses 1,1-19 M AEVE O’B RIEN National University of Ireland Maynooth

This first episode in Apuleius’ novel includes a story about Socrates related by his companion Aristomenes after Socrates has died. Using the name of Socrates in the opening salvo of a novel rather than in a work on education, politics, rhetoric, or philosophy invites explanation. Central to Platonic dialogues, the figure of Socrates came to be assessed and used in myriad different ways from Antisthenes onward. Socrates has been the focus of interest in fictional first-person narratives since Plato made him up in his dialogues.1 Others have studied the persona of Socrates in Plato, Xenophon, and Aristotle.2 Therefore, the presence of Socrates in this tale by the second-century Latin writer Apuleius is worthy of a brief note at least, hence this paper.3 Apuleius is attracted to the well-known presentation of Socrates’ death in the ————— 1

2

3

Goldhill 2002, 88-89; Desjardin 1988, 110-125; and on the perils of mixing philosophy and ‘literary studies’ see review article by Griswold 2008, 205-216; Corrigan and Glazov-Corrigan 2004; Trapp 2007. For example, Navia 1985, esp. ch.4 ‘Socrates in the writings of Plato’, 147-210; Vander Waerdt 1994; Nehamas 1999; and the use of Socrates as a hero by the Cynic movement, Desmond 2006, 157-161; Striker 1994, 241-251; the Introduction by the editor in Vander Waerdt 1994, 1-19; Blondell 2002, esp. ch.2 ‘Imitation of Character’, 53-102; Vlastos 1991; Stanford 1968, 254; Montuori 1981; Fitzpatrick 1992, 153-208. On the figure of Socrates as the ‘most inscrutable’ in the Metamorphoses see Keulen 2007, 43. The Crito and other Platonic works were the substance of higher studies in the second century. It is inconceivable that the Crito was unread by Apuleius or unknown to him, the self-styled Philosophus Platonicus. Plato is Apuleius’ hero: Apul. Pl. 229; 183; 189 and Soc. 123-126, and cf. Apol. 65. Cf. D.L. Plato 3,49, on classification of the Platonic dialogues in the third century A.D. Gersh 1986, 221-222. Chroust 1988, 3-16. On the Crito in general, and the arguments contained in it, see Woozley 1979; Weiss 1998; Navia 1985, 159. Echoing Narratives, 123–137

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Crito and Phaedrus, the myth of Theuth in the Phaedrus, the famous description of Socrates by Alcibiades in the Symposium, and the one place where he describes himself as handsome in the Menexenus. After some introductory remarks, we consider Platonic Socrates as interpreted by Apuleius. More specifically philosophical discourse and Socrates, Socrates as a ‘family man’ and Socrates’ appearance are discussed, but always in the light of how these areas of interest are used and interpreted by Apuleius.

1. Introduction: A Platonic Palimpsest Our Socrates, the traveller in Thessaly, is ensnared by the charms of the witch Meroe in this very first story of the Metamorphoses.4 This story is one of fifteen so-called interpolated stories in the novel because it does not appear in the Onos of Pseudo-Lucian.5 After Socrates recounts stories about the old but not bad looking Meroe (anum sed admodum scitulam, Met. 1,7,7), Aristomenes tells us he himself is horrified by her powers and is especially afraid that this old lady (anus illa) will hear him and Socrates talking about her and take offence (Met. 1,11,2). Linking of discourse with the deceptive power of magic shows not only the nature of the magic but also of discourse. Aristomenes’ unnamed companion time and again warns (the hearer Lucius, the novel’s protagonist) about the substance of the tale: the words of the tale are absurd and monstrous (Met. 1,2,5), it is a lie (mendacium) equivalent to a magic spell (Met. 1,3,1).6 But Aristomenes himself asserts the truth of his tale citing the ‘fact’ that the next city of Thessaly will vouch for its veracity, since the events it describes are on the lips of all the citizens there. Thessaly is not renowned for nourishing unvarnished truths. So, for example, the woman herself appears to have a wholly different view of her age and beauty; she tells us she is young, a Calypso to Ulysses (Socrates) (Met. 1,12,6). Socrates is compared to Endymion and to Ganymede (Met. 1,12,4). Eternal youth was granted to these and Calypso promises Ulysses eternal youth if he stays with her. In the Thessaly of the Metamorphoses Socrates is a barefoot traveller bereft of the bloom of youth, whose poverty makes him unrecognizable there – even his friend Aristomenes does not recognize him. Platonic ————— 4

5 6

See the recent paper on theatricality in this particular episode by Keulen 2006, 43-61. Also, Thibau 1965, 89-144, esp. 104-117. Winkler 1985, esp. 25-37. Warnings repeated by Socrates to Aristomenes, Met. 1,8, and by Byrrhaena to Lucius, Met. 2,5. On an ‘atmosphere of initiation’ here, see Keulen 2007, 40 and 202.

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Socrates stays at home, never really leaving Athens and wears poverty as a kind of familiar trademark: he is so of the city that Phaedrus can see that Socrates is very much out of place even if he is only just outside the city walls (Phdr. 230D).7 In the Phaedrus Socrates is reputed to have gone barefoot all the time.8 Platonic Socrates is poor not because of robbers or witches but because of his unstinting loyalty and service to the god of wisdom.9 His poor and unpromising exterior opens to reveal a rich philosophical soul within, as in the famous comparison by Alcibiades of Platonic Socrates to a Silenus in the Symposium.10 However, Apuleian Socrates speaks only of the magical spells of the witch Meroe. He is enervated, bereft of his philosophical voice. His outer appearance does not hide any richness of soul or philosophical acuity. He has moved so far from his philosophical polis that he is not himself anymore. Observe that it is outside the city walls in nonphilosophical territory, so to speak, that Socrates makes his second speech, the rhetorical one, in the Phaedrus. His characteristic atopia or strangeness becomes absolute in the Metamorphoses. So that by the time Aristomenes is telling his tale Socrates is dead, having breathed his last under a plane tree by a clear, calm river.11 The plane tree is mentioned twice, in case the alert reader should miss the reference to Plato’s Phaedrus.12 This episode in Plato fascinates Apuleius. It appears again in his discussion of the daimōn of Socrates, characterized as ‘a kind of voice’ in De deo Socratis (163). Here, in keeping with the accuracy of Apuleius’ use of Plato’s text, vocem quampiam translates tina phōnēn (Phdr. 242C): ‘But Socrates claimed that he encountered not just a voice but ‘a certain kind of voice’, you may understand from this addition that no common or human voice is meant’ (Apul. Soc. 165).13 It is fair to say that verbal dominance characterizes Platonic Socrates. Indeed his skill is such that he is sometimes called a wizard with discourse, and references occur for example in the Symposium, Phaedo, and Meno, to name but three.14 ————— 7

8 9 10 11

12

13

14

Cf. Cri. 52B; Socrates does not leave Athens except for military service, Smp. 219E and Ap. 28E. Also, Phdr. 227D, 230D; Phd. 99A. Phdr. 229A. Pl. Ap. 23B. Pl. Smp. 215; Tht.143E; and X. Smp. 4,19. Met. 1,18 and 1,19. Pl. Phdr. 229B and 230B, a plane tree by the river Ilissus. Cic. de Orat. 1,1 and 1,28. Keulen 2007, 338, views this as ‘comic homage’ to Plato. See Trapp 2001, 41 for reminiscences of the Phaedrus in the Prologue of the Metamorphoses alone. Translation of Harrison 2001. Harrison – Hilton – Hunink 2001, 211; Beaujeu 1973, 242. The translation from Plato’s tina phōnēn (Phdr. 242C) is noted by Beaujeu and Harrison. Pl. Men. 80B, Tht. 157C-D, Mx. 235A-B, Smp. 215C-D, Phd. 78A and 77E.

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2. A Philosopher’s Discourse The very best speaker in Plato’s dialogues, Socrates, does not fare so well in this regard in the realms of the novel. Socrates dies due to a stabbing in the throat from where the voice issues, a gruesome scene reminiscent of Senecan drama.15 He is in truth a shadow of his Platonic self. For example, prior to his death, Platonic Socrates is left with his intimate friends discussing high philosophical ideas: how true philosophers are half-dead (hoi philosophountes thanatōsi, Phd. 64B5) and how he despises the pleasures of food and drink, smart clothes and shoes and turns away from the body to the soul. Aristomenes comes upon his intimate friend Apuleian Socrates (Socraten contubernalem, Met. 1,6,1), now a veritable ghostly image (larvale simulacrum, Met. 1,6,3) just prior to his death. But these two do not discuss the immortality of the soul or the nature of justice or even of rhetoric. They are more fascinated by the stories for which Thessaly is renowned. The word ‘Thessaly’ is repeated twice in the first sentence of the narration, in a reference to the Crito (Met. 1,2,1).16 In Plato’s Crito, the region of Thessaly is named as the place suitable for discourse describing magic and stories with unexpected twists in plot. Crito’s other friends in Thessaly certainly delight to hear such tales, but these frivolities are not for Socrates: ‘That is the home of indiscipline and laxity, and no doubt they would enjoy hearing the amusing story of how you managed to run away from prison by arraying yourself in some costume … and altering your personal appearance’.17 Apuleian Socrates has a really monstrous example of such a story in his repertoire, namely his erotic adventures with Meroe and how these adventures literally make him almost look like someone else (paene alius, Met. 1,6,1). Well might Apuleian Socrates blush in shame.18 One presumes he does so because the subject of his tale is the witch Meroe and all her deeds, not the nature of rhetoric as in the Phaedrus, for example, or the immortality of the soul or other philosophical subjects. Is it any accident that Meroe calls the deathly pale Apuleian Socrates catamitus meus (Met. 1,12,4), though this is usually translated ‘my Ganymede’?19 Apuleius’ Socrates is most unlike the Platonic Socrates, a fact emphasized by the skewed comparisons I have noted. He ————— 15

16 17 18 19

On drama and mime in this episode specifically, see Keulen 2006, 50; cf. Keulen 2007, 357: a ‘grotesque scene of farce’. Pl. Cri. 53E. Pl. Cri. 53D. I use the translation of Tredenick 1954. Met. 1,6,4, faciem suam iamdudum punicantem prae pudore obtexit. Unlike the chaste Socrates in the Symposium, for example, who did not succumb to the charms of Alcibiades, Smp. 219C-D; Ar. Nu. 1017.

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falls prey to the snares of Thessaly in exactly all the ways Platonic Socrates could not be persuaded to tolerate there, even though death awaited him in Athens. To what purpose are we, as readers, being invited to note these variations on the persona of Platonic Socrates in Apuleian Socrates? Let us turn to the Phaedrus. In the Phaedrus Socrates professes himself interested in speech and says Phaedrus’ eloquent speech is the magical recipe or spell (to pharmakon) which draws him.20 Socrates is both the charmer and the bewitched. A sophist-philosopher like Apuleius would be attracted to such a paradoxical irony in Socrates’ attitude to discourse. Socrates’ second speech is a rhetorical masterpiece constructed for the purpose of drawing the normally un-philosophic Phaedrus to philosophize.21 The Phaedrus has important links with the Apuleian episode under discussion. If one looks at the opening section of the Phaedrus more closely, one observes that Socrates and Phaedrus converse while walking.22 Lucius makes much of getting off his horse and walking along with Aristomenes and the unnamed companion. Platonic Socrates is outside the city walls, and humorously states that he is ready to walk towards Megara, such is his almost fevered desire to hear the speech, though it is well known that he never left Athens.23 Indeed he is almost like a tourist, says Phaedrus who walks with him.24 Apuleian Socrates is a traveller too, plying his trade between Macedonia and Larissa (Met. 1,7,6). He warns Aristomenes to moderate his ‘loose tongue’ in case he contracts a disease (noxam contrahas, Met. 1,8,2). Platonic Socrates portrays himself as so enthusiastic about the attractions of discourse that he appears ill with it (Phdr. 228B-C). He calls himself ‘one in love with speeches’, a lover of discourse (Phdr. 228C), yet one who sees ‘speeches’ as a disease, since he is ‘a man who is sick (nosounti) with passion for hearing people speak’.25 He characterizes himself as ‘extraordinary’, out of place (atopos, Phdr. 229C), because although he knows the story of Oreithuia and Boreas and believes it, nevertheless he does not have the time to interpret such mythological stories. He does not know himself, yet he will look into himself to see what kind of beast he is, rather than ‘inquire into things (ta allotria) which do not belong to me’ (Phdr. 229E). Eventually he does realise the power these stories have and will create a myth for his own purposes to use later in the text himself. Interpreting myths is the work of a person ‘not ————— 20 21 22 23 24 25

Phdr. 230D. Nehamas 1999, 351. Phdr. 227D. Phdr. 227D. Phdr. 230C-D. Phdr. 228B.

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altogether fortunate’ (Phdr. 229D) similar to the unfortunate Apuleian Socrates who is afflicted by evil fortune (mala fortuna, Met. 1,7,10).26 It is in the Phaedrus that Socrates also professes himself a lover of words in books.27 This is not a common reaction for Socrates.28 The written word is not to be trusted because it cannot be interrogated. This attitude is clear in the Egyptian story he makes up about the inventor Theuth who invented writing (Phdr. 274C-276E). Here writing is presented as a ghostly image, a phantom (eidōlon, 276A9). Writing is an image of a living and animate speech of the one who knows. Words written with the pen (kalamou, 276C8), are incapable of speaking in their own defence and are incapable of teaching what is true, their only purpose being amusement (paidias, 276D2). Theuth tells king Thamus that his discovery of writing is such that it acts as a magical spell (pharmakon, 275A6) for the improvement of memory and of wisdom. Earlier Socrates had realized the attraction of words in books using the same word, pharmakon (230D). But the king replies that writing has in effect seduced Theuth, first because he has fallen so deeply in love with his discovery that he does not realize that this writing, this pharmakon (275A7), rather than help memory will encourage forgetfulness in the souls of those who allow themselves to be bewitched by its magical substance, ‘as through reliance on writing they are reminded from outside by alien marks, not from inside, themselves by themselves’ (275A5).29 Now, this is where we see the opposition of writing and speaking, and the apparent denigration of writing as opposed to speech. It is true that writing, or as here the ‘alien mark’, seems to get the worst of it because other, different (‘allotriōn’), may sometimes imply a bad comparison. The word is used earlier in the dialogue to describe myths (ta allotria, 229E), where myths are not denigrated but are edged out in favour of study of the soul. The writing is ‘bad’ because it is a typos, an image, an imprint (to use more literal translation) of that which can be found ‘inside’ in the soul. But the image or mark is a reminder of what is inside. There is less of an opposition between speech and writing to the detriment of writing; rather there is, in reality, recommendation to seek out that writing ‘inside’. Dialogue, whether written or spoken, constitutes a pharmakon produced to draw those disinclined to be lovers of wisdom within, as for example Phaedrus, to philosophize. It is as if the ‘image’, the typos, written ————— 26 27

28 29

Phdr. 229D, translation from Rowe 1986, 25; Also Met. 1,7,1; Met. 1,6,4 for example. Phdr. 230D-E Socrates says to Phaedrus ‘you seem to be capable of leading me round all Attica and wherever else you please by proffering me speeches (logoi) in books in this way’. Socrates never wrote anything, Pl. Phdr. 275D; Ep. 7,341C-D; Ep. 2,314C. Noticed by Nehamas 1999, 330. Translation from Rowe 1986, 123.

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and spoken, becomes the playful un-serious charm medicine that will both attract such a person and at the same time cure him, so that he can proceed to the level of dialectic, to philosophize.30 It can be observed that the ‘image’ (typos) that constitutes the Theuth story is played with by Plato to achieve two things. First the myth is presented as the spoken word, emphasized in the repetition of verbs of speaking and hearing: Socrates has ‘heard’ the story he will ‘tell’ Phaedrus, Phaedrus asks Socrates to ‘tell’ him what he has ‘heard’, and Socrates begins with ‘I heard’ (Phdr. 274C1, 3, and 4). Then, the written version of the myth leads the reader to appreciate it as an image of dialogue between Phaedrus and Socrates. This appreciation in turn leads the reader to seeing both written and spoken words as the image (eidōlon) of that speech written in reality in the soul (Phdr. 276A): Phaedrus’ discourse, both spoken and written versions, cannot be the best ‘animate’ or, so to speak, ‘ensouled’ (276A) discourse, it can only approximate the best speech ‘genuinely written in the soul’ (278A4). It is the encouragement to recognize that the one is an image of the other rather than a focus on the content of the Theuth myth about whether writing is better or worse than dialogue that Plato emphasizes. It is generally accepted now that both speech and writing are presented in the Platonic dialogues as instruments inadequate as one another in the philosopher’s arsenal for the purpose of attaining to true knowledge, yet the only way to present the intellectual content of a person’s mind is through discourse, whether that discourse is written or spoken.31 Elsewhere, Socrates’ dialogue is a kind of medicine (pharmakon) for the soul because it makes one turn one’s eyes inward.32 But, nevertheless, the sort of man who can be an expert in the true speech is the one who knows how the speech was written in the soul and is the sort of person Socrates and Phaedrus should hope they might become (Phdr. 278B2). Where does this leave the reader of the Metamorphoses? Are the different written stories (varias fabulas, Met. 1,1,1) a starting point, a charm (lepido susurro, Met. 1,1,1) soothing to the ears of the hearers in the text? Change in the shapes and fortunes of people is promised (figuras fortunasque hominum in alias imagines conversas, Met. 1,1,2). The ‘stories’, the ‘other images’ (alias imagines, Met. 1,1,2) introduced in the famous preface of this novel as its charming subject matter are very similar to Plato’s other images that may induce forgetfulness in the soul but can be viewed as an ————— 30 31 32

Corrigan – Glazov-Corrigan 2004, 214. Desjardins 1988, 111; Blondell 2002, 57. Pl. Chrm. 155E; Navia 1985, 164.

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invitation to begin to philosophize by looking inward to the soul. Rather than allowing oneself to be seduced by ‘other images’, the images encourage one to see them as images only and to turn away from them and to begin to tread the path to true wisdom. This is why I believe that Socrates is introduced as a ghostly image equivalent to an eidōlon (larvale simulacrum, Met. 1,6,3). Far from encouraging his readers to forget themselves in other images, Apuleius too encourages attention (intende, Met. 1,1,6). The reader will wonder at the amazing ‘restoration of the images into themselves’ (in se rursum mutuo nexu refectas, Met. 1,1,2). The novel is Apuleius’ pharmakon: his magical spell to draw the reader to recognize the fact that the writing is actually an image (typos), and the figure of Socrates is presented as an eidōlon, a larvale simulacrum, a phantom or ghostly image to emphasize further this point in the same way Plato uses the Theuth myth in the Phaedrus.33 Through this story at the beginning of the Metamorphoses Apuleius explores the contrasts between philosophic discourse (whether spoken or written) and entertaining, un-philosophic, rhetorical discourse. The one discourse strives to attain inwardness with dialectic, the other looks out to the shape-changing transient world. The stories about Meroe and other witches contribute to this notion. Apuleius is writing a sophistic novel but one that has deep philosophical roots. In his novel he uses the persona of Socrates in a story about him and Meroe to illustrate the power of the discourse available to us as the only instrument for seeking truth. When ordinary speech and writing constitute pharmaka, this means that discourse, like magic is to the second-century mind, is equally a force for truth or deception, since pharmakon can mean ‘remedy’ or ‘poison’. The message of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is that truth can only be found by means of or even in this discourse. This is the only type of discourse (spoken and written) available to us. This discourse, this pharmakon, the written image of spoken discourse, is an ‘image’ constructed in the text to remind the reader to look inside ‘themselves by themselves’. In the Metamorphoses, the antitype of Meroe, Isis, might converse with the soul of Lucius (Met. 11,3,2), but who can hear it? Lucius can repeat it by writing it, but by so doing he is falling into using just another aspect of discourse. Meroe is the purveyor of the deceptive – Socrates calls it poisoned (noxam) – discourse that Socrates fears and to which he falls victim in the Metamorphoses. He dies an ignoble death. He has caught the disease and it is fatal. He grows pale, yet he greedily (avide, Met. 1,10,7) eats and drinks. ————— 33

Schlam 1992, 46-47. See Keulen 2007, 42 on the reader’s role as similar to a doctor trying to make the right diagnosis. Might the reader’s role also be as a philosopher trying to make the wisest judgement?

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Zombie-like and apparently alive he makes to take a drink from the river on his journey forward but falls dead on the spot. Platonic Socrates dies a noble death. He is expert in the use of discourse and aware of its power. He still dies, but he dies undefeated in his awareness of and skill in using discourse to seek out truth, and his soul lives on in the writings of Plato. The reader of the Metamorphoses has just met the mere image, the typos of Socrates, a meeting about which the reader becomes even more acutely aware towards the end of the Metamorphoses, when Lucius refers again to Socrates but, this time, to how Platonic Socrates was unjustly condemned even by those clever and skilled in distinguishing image from reality (Met. 10,33,3). Lucius (who is about to be retransformed from donkey to human form) refuses to continue to speak of Socrates at this point, anticipating that the reader will chide him for being a philosophizing ass (Met. 10,33,4).

3. A Family Man Additional elements of the story of his Apuleian counterpart compare again in a skewed way with accounts of Platonic Socrates and contribute to the notion of Apuleian Socrates as a kind of anti-Socrates, a written typos, of how not to philosophize.34 Apuleian Socrates’ wife, unnamed in the novel, is remarkable mostly for her tears and lamentation. Her eyes, according to Aristomenes, are almost blinded with all the tears she has shed – though she has remarried. Platonic Socrates’ wife, the famous Xanthippe, has to be removed from his presence in his final hours due to her excessive weeping.35 Platonic Socrates has children whose welfare he takes cognizance of before he dies.36 But Apuleian Socrates becomes a slave to Meroe. She remarks on his plan to run away yet again (verum etiam fugam instruit, Met. 1,12,5). She is his good wife (uxor bona, Met. 1,7,10) who will cry in lamentation at his desertion (Met. 1,12,6), except that she herself will be the cause of his deserting her since she is going to kill him! If Platonic Socrates deserts Athens and cheats death and flees to Thessaly, of all places, he will be forced to put on a disguise, a hard leather skin or leather jacket perhaps, or be metamorphosed or disguised in some other way.37 This issue is dealt with elsewhere, ————— 34 35

36 37

Thibau 1965, 107, calls it ‘le portrait a contrario’. Pl. Phd. 60A-B and 117D-E. Later in Xenophon she is described as a difficult woman, Mem. 2,2,7. Also, Apul. Met. 1,6. Pl. Ap. 34D; Phd. 116B. Pl. Cri. 53D.

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but it is still worth repeating that by placing his Socrates in Thessaly, Apuleius puts him where Platonic Socrates would not go.38 The Laws’ charge of wrongdoing against Socrates in the Crito is that as a good philosopher he will not abandon his family. Apuleian Socrates is a down-on-his-luck, poverty-stricken wretch, separated from his family, presumed dead to them. This means that his wife remarries, that his children are under the protection of the magistrates, and that he is pathetically grateful for a free meal. In Crito Socrates is told that he will be represented as irresponsible and be the victim of cruel jibes and laughter, and he will be seen as someone who goes to a foreign land for material gain, namely a free dinner, if he leaves Athens.39 Apuleian Socrates receives three free meals in the Metamorphoses: one from Meroe, and two from Aristomenes. As a fugitive, he will become a virtual slave to the people of Thessaly and engage in all manner of dissipation in that country.40 Apuleian Socrates has become a slave to Meroe selling himself into her service for many years (Met. 1,7,9).

4. A Beggar’s Ghostly Appearance Socrates’ appearance shocks Aristomenes who asks: Quae facies? (‘How ghastly you look!’, Met. 1,6,2).41 He has become enslaved to Meroe, but he attributes the cause of his downfall to a band of robbers who attacked him near Larissa. Aristomenes here refers to Socrates’ appearance (facies, Met. 1,6,2) as does Socrates (ad istam faciem, Met. 1,7,10) – the emphasis is on outward appearance with the repetition of facies. Meroe then has put this guise or outward appearance on him even though, as he admits himself, he had nothing when he met her first, having been deprived of everything by huge robbers, and he gave her his ‘shabby clothes’ (ipsas etiam lacinias, Met. 1,7,10). He has drawn disaster upon himself by a long and poisonous contact with Meroe (Met. 1,7,9). Socrates is described as deformatus – he has lost his shape, so to speak (Met. 1,6,1). In fact, Socrates changes shape, a fate comparable to the actual metamorphoses suffered by Meroe’s other

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40 41

O’Brien 2002, 28-30. Pl. Cri. 53D; and 53A. For earlier mockery of Socrates cf. Ar. Nu. 849. Montuori 1981, 3-10. Keulen 2007, 42. Pl. Cri. 53E. The traditional appearance of Socrates, on which see Zanker 1995, 32-39.

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lovers.42 The magical discourse of Thessaly exemplified in Meroe wreaks havoc on Socrates. Platonic Socrates only parodies the effect discourse has on him in, for example, the dialogue Menexenus: Aspasia’s soaring rhetoric has an effect diametrically opposite to that visited on Apuleian Socrates by Meroe’s discourse. Aspasia’s speech is replete with rhetorical tricks designed to captivate the hearer with its persuasive flattery. The presentation of the speech is artistically mannered: Aspasia of Miletus is supposed to have narrated it to Socrates, and he, in turn, is narrating it to us. Women rarely appear as players in Platonic dialogues. Aspasia is one of three women mentioned in Platonic dialogues.43 Speeches such as hers can bewitch the souls of their listeners (Mx. 234C-235A).44 The hearer of Aspasia’s speech stands amazed, ‘bewitched’ by the sound of the speech (Mx. 235A).45 The speech insinuates itself into the listeners’ ears ‘so that I myself, Menexenus, when thus praised by them feel mightily ennobled, and every time I listen fascinated I am exalted and imagine myself to have become all at once taller and nobler and more handsome’ (Mx. 235C). Witnesses to Aspasia’s discourse scarcely can remember themselves, and see that they are actually on earth and not in the Isles of the Blest (Mx. 235C). Aspasia’s art has a controlling or coercive effect on the citizens of Athens and they, and Socrates, seem to become what they are not, in the sense that they change shape; and Socrates, whose ugliness is remarkable, seems taller and more handsome!46 The opposite effect is induced by Meroe in the Metamorphoses. Even though Socrates deformatus has changed shape, the change is not for the better. Apuleian Socrates’ outward appearance has certainly changed for the worse. He is almost naked (semiamictus) except for a torn shawl, barefoot, and filthy (lurore). He is the very image of a beggar (Met. 1,6,1). The fact that he is pale and wan and poor-looking does bring to mind Platonic Socrates’ traditional bare-footed image, but it is a dejected and hopeless pover————— 42

43 44

45

46

Met. 1,9,3, and 1,9,4, where she changed (deformavit) one into a frog and another into a ram. Keulen 2007, 216. Plu. Per. 24, Diotima in the Symposium and Xanthippe in the Phaedo are the others. Mx. 234C-235A, ‘And they praise in such a splendid fashion, that, what with their ascribing to each one both what he has and what he has not, and the variety and splendour of their diction, they bewitch our souls ...’. The notion of speech uttered by women specifically as a powerful but harmful drug is analysed in New Comedy for example by Dutsch 2008, 67-71. The verb kēlein (‘to charm’) is used. Cf. Pl. Smp. 215C on the entrancing effect of Socrates’ words, which Alcibiades compares to the music of the Satyr Marsyas. Pl. Mx. 235B. On the ugliness of Socrates, see Pl. Smp. 209C and Tht. 143E.

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ty in no way ideal or heroic.47 Miser, ‘poor’ or ‘wretched’, is the adjective most used to characterize Apuleian Socrates: me miserum (Met. 1,7,6), a wretched sight (miserum aerumnae spectaculum, Met. 1,6,5), his wretched thinness changes him (ad miseram maciem deformatus, Met. 1,6,5), his pallor and general wretchedness renders him almost unrecognizable to his friend who approaches him diffidently thinking he is someone else (paene alius, Met. 1,6,1). Such outer beauty is fleeting and of no consequence to the true philosopher. In the Crito we are told that Socrates, if he goes to Thessaly, will be ‘shapeless’ (aschēmōn), in the sense that he will lose his present figure (schēma) by metamorphosing in some way or other.48 This does happen to Socrates in the Thessaly of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Finally, Aristomenes has to bury the lifeless body (corpus exanimatum, Met. 1,19,10) of his poor friend (comitem misellum, Met. 1,19,11). The burial is referred to twice because the wretched Socrates dies not once but twice. First he is killed by Meroe in a gruesome night-time murder, after which Socrates breathes his last (spiritum rebulliret, Met. 1,13,6). Spiritum can mean ‘breath’ but also ‘soul’. He is apparently dead but his wound is plugged by a sponge which falls out when he drinks from the river flowing by the plane tree. Socrates ‘awakes’ but is not refreshed due to the magical ministrations of Meroe. She does not make him beautiful. On the contrary, he becomes almost transparent, paler than boxwood, and loses his healthy complexion (Met. 1,19,1-2). His unprepossessing outer appearance is the totality of him, a fact emphasized when he ‘dies’ again and is buried by his friend Aristomenes under the sandy bank of the river, forever (sempiterna) under the plane tree (Met. 1,19,11). The lush grass on which Platonic Socrates might lay his head has become sandy soil (Phdr. 230C). Socrates has indeed lost his soul and is a mere ghostly image in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. It is as if his outward appearance is all there is: his famous ugliness does not hide a philosophical soul. Observe too how Platonic Socrates pulls his clothing up over his face while he is dying, and only uncovers his face to make a final famous parting shot to Crito about how he hopes to awake refreshed like those who are healed by incubation at the Asklepieion at Epidaurus (Phd. 118A). Apuleian Socrates resists being uncovered, preferring in extremis to let fortune enjoy its victory over him (Met. 1,7,1). When dealing with such ‘unplatonic’ discourse, Platonic Socrates, in contrast, covers his face when reciting his first speech, an example of Isocratean discourse, in the Phaedrus ————— 47 48

Thibau 1965, 106. Pl. Cri. 53C-D and Apul. Met. 1,6,1, deformatus. See Desmond 2006, 211, n.48 on the poverty of Socrates; Pl. Ap. 21C and Mx. 238D.

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(237A). But Apuleian Socrates is a statue, an image of his former self; and a statue or simulacrum once it is covered is voiceless, since it cannot ‘speak’ to the viewer because it is covered and, therefore, unseen. His revival is apparent, not real, and he dies very soon afterwards. It is as if the very statue or image mentioned by Alcibiades in the Symposium is what Socrates becomes in the Metamorphoses.50 The ability to recognize that an external appearance is just superficial is lost in Thessaly, where true philosophical inquiry cannot take place because the world of appearance, shifting and uncertain, is taken for reality there. Aristomenes says that Socrates is larvale simulacrum, aptly characterizing this Apuleian variation of Socrates (Met. 1,6,3).

5. Conclusion Apuleius uses Platonic philosophy when he sends Socrates to Thessaly, somewhere Platonic Socrates will not go in the Crito. Unlike Socrates in the Phaedrus, Apuleian Socrates is mesmerized by the bewitching qualities of discourse. He sails towards the Sirens rather than away from them (Phdr. 259), something he scoffs at happening in the Menexenus. In the Phaedrus Platonic Socrates lies down on the grass by the riverbank under that tree, but he gets up again and again. The Socrates of the first episode of the Metamorphoses written by Apuleius’ Nilotic reed (Nilotici calami, Met. 1,1,1) is, in contrast, a pale imitation, larvale simulacrum (Met. 1,6,3), of the earlier Socrates. This reshaping of the philosophical Socrates in a novel is a transformation leading to pleasure, but pleasure tempered with attention, because it reveals that the reshaped Socrates actually is a ghostly image, and this revelation constitutes the first pleasurable step on the road to true wisdom.51

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Pl. Smp. 215B; Pl. Euthphr. 11B, where Socrates’ verbal skill is compared with the skill of Daedalus, on which see also the note of Burnet 1924 (repr. 1977), 130-131. Paus. 1,22,8 and 9,35,7. Keulen 2007, 48 and 169, on larvale simulacrum and the ways in which such an image vividly puts the implausible and fabulous before our eyes in the form of an ‘exaggerated, inane kind of rhetoric, symbolised by the Apuleian Socrates’. The author would like to thank Konstantin Doulamis and the audience of the conference held in August 2007 at University College Cork, where an earlier version of this paper was delivered.

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Bibliography Beaujeu, J. (ed. & trans.) 1973. Apulée: Opuscules philosophiques et fragments, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Blondell, R. 2002. The Play of Character in Plato’s Dialogues, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burnet, J. (ed.) 1924 (repr. 1977). Plato: Euthyphro, Apology of Socrates, Crito, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Chroust, A.-H. 1988. ‘The organisation of the Corpus Platonicum in antiquity’, in: N.D. Smith (ed.), Plato: Critical Assessments, vol.1, Routledge: London, 3-16. Corrigan, K. – Glazov-Corrigan, E. 2004. Plato’s Dialectic at Play: Argument, Structure, and Myth in the Symposium, University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press. Desjardin, R. 1988. ‘Why dialogues? Plato’s serious play’, in: C.L. Griswold (ed.), Platonic Writings, Platonic Readings, London: Routledge, 110-125. Desmond, W. 2006. The Greek Praise of Poverty, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press. Dutsch, D.M. 2008. Feminine Discourse in Roman Comedy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fitzpatrick, P.J. 1992. ‘The legacy of Socrates’, in: B.S. Gower – M.C. Stokes (eds.), Socratic Questions: The Philosophy and Its Significance, London: Routledge, 153-208. Gersh, S. 1986. Middleplatonism and Neoplatonism: The Latin Tradition, vol.1, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press. Goldhill, S. 2002. The Invention of Prose: Greece and Rome New Surveys in the Classics, Oxford: Oxford University Press for the Classical Association. Gower B.S. and Stokes, M.C. (eds.) 1992. Socratic Questions: The Philosophy and Its Significance, London: Routledge. Griswold C.L. (ed.) 1988. Platonic Writings, Platonic Readings, London: Routledge. Griswold, C.L. 2008. ‘Reading and writing Plato’, Politics and Literature 32, 205-216. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harrison, S.J. – Hilton J.L. – Hunink, V.J.C. (trans.) 2001. Apuleius: Rhetorical Works, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kahane, A. – Laird, A. (eds.) 2001. A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Keulen, W. 2006. ‘The wet rituals of the excluded mistress: Meroe and the mime’, in: R.R. Nauta (ed.), Desultoria Scientia: Genre in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Related Texts, Caeculus 5, Leuven: Peeters, 43-61. Keulen, W. 2007. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book I: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Long, A. 2007. ‘The form of Plato’s Republic’, in: R. Osborne (ed.), Debating the Athenian Cultural Revolution: Literature, Philosophy, and Politics, 430-380 BC, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 224-241. Montuori, M. 1981. Socrates: the Physiology of a Myth, Amsterdam: Brill Academic Publishers. Nauta, R.R. (ed.) 2006. Desultoria Scientia: Genre in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Related Texts, Caeculus 5, Leuven: Peeters. Navia, L.E. 1985. Socrates: The Man and his Philosophy, Lanham: University Press of America. Nehamas, A. 1999. The Virtues of Authenticity: Essays on Plato and Socrates, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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O’Brien, M.C. 2002. Apuleius’ Debt to Plato in the Metamorphoses, Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Rowe, C.J. (ed. & trans.) 1986. Plato: Phaedrus, with Translation and Commentary, Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Schlam, C.C. 1992. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius: On Making an Ass of Oneself, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Smith, N.D. (ed.) 1988. Plato: Critical Assessments vol.1, London: Routledge. Stanford, W.B. 1968. The Ulysses Theme: A Study in the Adaptation of a Tragic Socratic Hero, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Striker, G. 1994. ‘Plato’s Socrates and the Stoics’, in: Vander Waerdt (ed.), 241-251. Thibau, R. 1965. ‘Les Métamorphoses d’Apulée et la théorie platonicienne de l’Eros’, Studia Philosophia Gandensia 3, 89-144. Trapp, M.B. 2001. ‘On tickling the ears: Apuleius’ prologue and the anxieties of philosophers’, in: A. Kahane – A. Laird (eds.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trapp, M. 2007. ‘What is this philosophia anyway?’, in: J.R. Morgan – M. Jones (eds.), Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel, AN Suppl. 10, Groningen: Barkhuis, 1-22. Tredenick, H. (trans.) 1954. Plato: The Last Days of Socrates, London: Penguin. Ussher, R.G. (ed.) 1973. Aristophanes: Ecclesiazusae, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Vander Waerdt, P.A. (ed.) 1994. The Socratic Movement, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walsh, P.G. (trans.) 1995. Apuleius, The Golden Ass, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Weiss, R. 1998. Socrates Dissatisfied: An Analysis of Plato’s Crito, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor and Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley: University of California Press. Woozley, A.D. 1971. ‘Socrates on disobeying the law’, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), The Philosophy of Socrates, New York: Anchor Books. Woozley, A.D. 1979. Law and Obedience: The Arguments of Plato’s Crito, London: Duckworth. Zanker, P. 1995. The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity, translated by A. Shapiro, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Poets and Shepherds: Philetas and Longus J.R. M ORGAN KYKNOS, Swansea University

This is a symphony in four movements.

1. Allegro espositivo This movement introduces two contrasting blocks of thematic material, and establishes a tension between them to be resolved through development and argumentation. In Theocritus’ seventh Idyll, which is set on the island of Cos, the narrator Simichidas tells Lykidas that although everyone says he is the best singer he considers himself inferior to two others: Not yet to my mind do I surpass either the good Sikelidas from Samos or Philitas in singing, but I am like a frog vying with cicadas (7,40-42). Sikelidas is a pseudonym of Asklepiades of Samos,1 while Philitas of Cos appears under his own name.2 Although the remains of these two poets contain nothing demonstrably pastoral, Theocritus, through Simichidas, is acknowledging important older colleagues. Philitas is also praised, though not named, in the proem of Callimachus’ Aetia:3 the exact interpretation is much disputed, but the papyrus commentary explains that Callimachus is referring to Philitas, some at least of whose poetry is held up as paradigmatically short ————— 1 2

3

The point of the pseudonym is unclear; see Hunter 1999, 162. The name is attested in the forms Φιλήτας and Φιλητᾶς as well as Φιλίτας (which occurs on inscriptions from Cos); see Crönert 1902. In this paper, with no agenda beyond convenience and clarity, I use Philitas of the poet, and Philetas of the character in Longus. P.Oxy. 2079,9-10. Echoing Narratives, 139–160

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and superior. Roman poets also make great play with Philitas as an important Alexandrian forbear. Propertius repeatedly and programmatically pairs him with Callimachus as encapsulating the poetic values of elegy, enigmatically including the Actium poem in Bk.4. Ovid advises that knowledge of Callimachus and Philitas should form part of every seductress’s armoury, and that conversely their verses should be avoided by those seeking to get over a love affair. Statius includes Philitas, with Callimachus, Propertius, Tibullus and Ovid, in a list of love poets who should vie to celebrate the marriage of Stella and Violentilla.4 Philitas was clearly regarded as an early exponent of Alexandrian poetics: his leptotēs was so marked that a comic biographical tradition has him put lead in his shoes to avoid being blown over by the wind.5 Despite the enduring semiotic charge of his name, very few of Philitas’ own words survive.6 None of the fragments is of sufficient extent to allow any meaningful comment on its poetic quality. We know a few works by name, and in some cases the attribution of fragments to them is certain. A) Hermes. Fragments preserved and specifically assigned to this work by Stobaeus show it to have been a hexameter epyllion. According to a scholiast’s note, Parthenius drew the story of Odysseus’ love for Polymele, daughter of Aeolus, from this work of Philitas.7 This ascription is not Parthenius’ own, and the authority of the scholiast has been impugned.8 It is difficult to see what this story was doing in this text, as there is no apparent connection with Hermes, but obscurity and obliquity are key Alexandrian traits. For the moment, we might envisage it as a compendium-text, in which obscure para-mythic narratives were held together by the linking frame of Hermes. B) Demeter. Named fragments show this to be an elegiac text. There is a consensus that it is to be identified with the ompnia Thesmophoros, which Callimachus cites in the Aetia prologue as paradigmatically short and beautiful. Whether the poem’s form was that of a hymn or pure narrative elegy, the suggestion that it contained narrative(s) set on Cos, allowing Philitas to include antiquarian material on his home city, is plausible.9 Spanoudakis argues that there is extensive allusion to Philitas’ ————— 4

5 6 7 8 9

Prop. 2,34,31, 3,1,1, 3,3,52, 3,9,44, 4,6,4; Ov. Ars 3,329, Rem. 760; Stat. Silv. 1,2,250255. On Philitas in Roman poetry, see Knox 1993. Ael. VH 9,14, Athen. 12,552B. See further Bing 2003. Most recently collected and commented by Spanoudakis 2002; see now Lightfoot 2009. Parth. 2. Knox 1993, 62-65. Kuchenmüller 1928, 53-58.

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Demeter in Theocritus 7, and that it may be the object of some of the allusions in Roman poetry. 10 C) Bittis. Ovid cites Bittis as the love of Philitas (here called simply Coüs), alongside Antimachus’ Lyde, as comparison for his love for his wife from whom he is separated. Already Hermesianax had included a reference to Philitas’ Bittis in a list of poets and philosophers who suffered in love.11 This suggests that it was a poem or collection of poems addressed to his wife, and has led to speculation that it might constitute a Hellenistic precedent for Roman love-elegy. If the scholiast on the Aetia prologue is right in suggesting that Philitas’ Demeter is compared to a longer poem by the same writer, the inferior ‘large woman’ would be Bittis, but it is equally, if not more, plausible that she is the personification of another poet’s work, perhaps Antimachus’ Lyde, derided for its verbosity by Callimachus and Catullus.12 D) Paignia. In addition to the three named works, it is clear enough that Philitas composed a number of smaller poems, epigrams, from which the majority of surviving fragments appears to emanate. Longus’ novel Daphnis and Chloe is a very intertextual work. Its setting on Lesbos brings it into contact with Sappho, to whose poetry there are numerous allusions, particularly in the episode where Daphnis picks an apple left behind by the fruit-harvesters (3,33,3–34,2). The description of a hard winter on Lesbos, with which the third book opens, owes something to a poem of Alcaeus which we can glimpse through Horace’s description of snow-bound Soracte. Longus’ description of the countryside is largely assembled from motifs from Theocritus: Theocritus is specifically alluded to as a ‘Sicilian goatherd’ from whom Lamon learned the story of Pan and Syrinx (2,33,3). Theocritus’ programmatic ekphrasis of pastoral scenes on a carved cup (kissybion) is exploited in the early episode when Chloe, like the boy on Theocritus’ cup, weaves a cricket-cage from asphodel-stalks (1,10,2). And, of course, the name of Longus’ male protagonist, Daphnis, is a continual reminder of Theocritus’ most famous pastoral figure.13 ————— 10 11 12 13

Spanoudakis 2002, 244-273. Ov. Tr. 1,6,1-3; Hermesianax, fr.7,75-78 P. Call. Fr.398 Pf., Catul. 95,10. For details see Morgan 2004 on the cited passages. This is just a sample of Longus’ intertextuality, which could be multiplied from the notes in Morgan 2004. For a broadbrush overview, see Morgan 2008. The best treatment of Theocritus in Longus remains Cresci 1981/1999. Also Cozzoli 2000, di Marco 2000 and 2006, Czapla 2002, Pattoni 2004a, 2004b and 2005, Hubbard 2006a and 2006b.

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One of the most important secondary characters in the novel is called Philetas. He is an elderly cowherd who appears mainly in two scenes in Bk.2. In the first (2,3-8), he relates to Daphnis and Chloe the appearance of the god Eros in his garden, and tells them enough about the nature of love and his own experiences for them to be able for the first time to put a name to their feelings. In the second (2,32-37), he appears as a master of the panpipes, which are fetched for him by his son, Tityrus, while Lamon tells the story of Pan and Syrinx; after Philetas’ performance, Daphnis and Chloe dance out the story, and Philetas then presents his pipes to Daphnis. Between these two scenes, Philetas makes a brief appearance as a rustic elder who is called upon to adjudicate when the young tourists from Methymna blame Daphnis for the absurd loss of their boat (2,15,1-17,2), and he reappears, with his sons, at the very end of the novel, as a guest at Daphnis and Chloe’s wedding (4,38,2).14 Since the nineteenth century, scholars have presumed that there is a connection between Longus’ character Philetas and Philitas the poet, and have speculated that Philitas’ poetry left its mark on Longus’ novel.15 This position is far from commanding a consensus, however. There are two main objections to it. a) The name Philetas is cognate with philein (‘to love’ or ‘to kiss’), and Longus was clearly aware of this, since he makes repeated puns in the two Philetas scenes. It is still argued that this obviates any need to find a connection with Philitas.16 I note in passing that the puns work better if Philetas’ name is spelled with an eta, as in both branches of the manuscript tradition of the novel, rather than with an iota, which is arguably the more authentic form of the poet’s name. However, unless one is prepared to commit to the position that Longus is incapable of polyvalence and that the pun excludes the possibility of simultaneous reference to the poet, the argument proves nothing. b) There is a real problem about the availability of a text of Philitas in the early Imperial period. While it is clear that Theocritus had first-hand knowledge of Philitas, and that the first-century B.C. commentator, ————— 14

15

16

Philetas’ name is not in the manuscripts when the guests are listed, but his sons are mentioned; in the next sentence, however, the narrator tells us that Philetas was there and playing the pipes; all editors follow Boden’s insertion of the name into the guest-list. According to Cresci 1981, 1, the connection was posited first by Reitzenstein 1893, 260, and repeated by Legrand 1898, 154-156, Bignone 1934, 30, Schönberger 1989, 18, Mittlestadt 1970, 214. Most recently by di Marco 2006, 491: ‘As to the name Φιλητᾶς, this is in no way a useful clue for linking the character of Longus with the poetic production of Philitas of Cos’.

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Theon, was able to consult a text in the Library at Alexandria, a strong case can be made that subsequent references to Philitas are taken at second hand (so-called ‘window allusions’) from commentaries and literary histories. The Roman poets knew that Philitas was important but were not in a position to read him. It is even speculated that the last copy of Philitas’ poetry was lost in the fire that destroyed part of the Alexandrian library in 48 B.C. On this view, Longus’ knowledge of Philitas would be restricted to what came to him through Theocritus.17 Against b), the following objections can be raised: i) Is it credible that a poetic corpus acknowledged as being of major importance in literary history would simply vanish completely? It is true, of course, that Philitas’ poetry was never of mass appeal, and it never secured a place on the school curriculum. However, the case of Callimachus’ Aetia is instructive. Until comparatively recently it was assumed that it too was more cited than read, and did not survive. The discovery of papyrus fragments in a small provincial town in Egypt confounded the assumptions, and implied that it continued to be accessible in larger centres too. If Callimachus’ work continued to circulate, can we rule out the possibility of Philitas likewise clinging on? ii) In the absence of a precise knowledge of the contents of Philitas’ poetry, we cannot tell for sure how closely any later writers reflect him. If we are limited perforce to those passages where Philitas is cited by name or otherwise clearly identified (as ‘the Coan’, for example), there is a high likelihood that we are ignoring the most interesting and compelling evidence. Limited evidence for the knowledge of Philitas is likely to lead to the conclusion that knowledge of Philitas was limited. Again, the parallel with Callimachus might be cautionary. As our knowledge of the Aetia has expanded, we can see that its presence extends far beyond lines where Callimachus is named. We can see that Roman poets do not use the name casually, and it is methodologically inconsistent to assume that their references to Philitas are any different. So when Propertius writes, ‘Let the Roman garland vie with Philitas’ berried ivy, and the urn supply Cyrenaean water’,18 the connection of water with Callimachus reflects precise detail of programmatic imagery in the Greek poet: so the ivy————— 17

18

On the survival of Philitas, see Spanoudakis 2002, 55-60. Scepticism about knowledge of Philitas in Rome is voiced by, for example, Bulloch 1973, 84, Griffin 1985, 201, Lightfoot 1999, 88. Knox 1993 is more positive. Prop. 4,6,2-3. Propertius is quoted from the translation of Shepherd 1985.

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berries must have more significance in relation to Philitas than we are able to see. iii) Both positions – that later writers knew Philitas first-hand, or that they did not – involve a leap of faith and do not avoid circularity. If one starts with the assumption that Philitas had to all intents and purposes disappeared, then any evidence apparently to the contrary will be read as demonstrating only second-hand knowledge. Contrariwise, if one starts with the assumption that acquaintance with Philitas is there to be found, one will find it.

2. Andante: tema con variazioni This movement is slow and backward-looking. A seductively simple theme is subjected to variations of increasing complexity and sophistication. Arising from Theocritus’ self-affiliation to Philitas, there has been persistent speculation, since antiquity, that Philitas was in some sense Theocritus’ predecessor as a writer of pastoral. There is no concrete evidence for this, in either the fragments or the testimonia, and the idea has been strenuously rejected. The debate is an arid and largely semantic one. Where exactly would one differentiate between poetry that merely contained features later conventionally associated with pastoral and poetry that could properly be termed pastoral? In this section, I will survey some modern scholarship that has concerned itself with Philetas’ connection with Philitas. In many cases, the driving motive has been to use Longus as a tool in the reconstitution of Philitas, but ultimately this paper is more concerned with what we can learn about Longus himself.19 a) Cairns 1979, 25-27 identifies a number of poetic topoi in the Philetas scenes, particularly the first, which he characterises as ‘erotodidactic’. He suggests that Philetas’ encounter with Eros reflects Philitas’ meeting with an inspiring deity. Apparent similarities between Tibullus’ persona as herdsman and praeceptor amoris and Longus’ Philetas can be explained as emanating from the poetry of Philitas. b) Du Quesnay 1979 and 1981 discovers similarities between the Philetas scenes and Virgil’s first two Eclogues, which cannot be traced to Theocritus (or at least to his extant works), although both writers were using Theocritus. In du Quesnay’s view, the simplest explanation is that ————— 19

Morgan 1997, 2249-2250 covers some of this ground in a more summary fashion.

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Virgil and Longus were independently using Philitas. There is another possibility: which is that the similarities are due to Longus knowing his Virgil.20 It is difficult to assess the likelihood of this, but Longus does have a Roman name, and there are plausible connections between the Lesbian Longi and a Dionysiac coven at Rome.21 The description of Lesbian viticulture at 2,1,4 oddly comments on the normal Greek practice of growing vines low, perhaps suggesting an intended readership more familiar with the Italian method of training vines up trees. c) Hunter 1983, 76-84 offers a cautious review of the issue. He notes the possibility that, as Theocritus was certainly imitating Philitas, some of the apparent allusions to Theocritus in the Philetas scenes may in fact be allusions to Philitas, at first or second hand. He interestingly throws Propertius into the mix, discovering some parallels with Prop. 1,18, which is recognised as a re-imagining of Callimachus’ treatment of Acontius and Cydippe, and suggesting that Callimachus may himself have been drawing inspiration from Philitas at this point. His judicious conclusion, which must remain the only possible one, is that, despite the attractions of the idea, we will never be sure whether, or to what extent, Philitas underlies Philetas, unless ‘one day the sands of Egypt will be as kind to Philitas as they have been to some of his contemporaries and successors’.22 d) Bowie 1985 is not so cautious. He uses the Philetas scenes as part of a wide-ranging argument that Philitas wrote pre-Theocritean pastoral poetry set on Lesbos. Theocritus, Bowie suggests, drew the character of Lykidas from this Philitean pastoral and used him as an embodiment of its poetics. The pastoral Amaryllis and Tityrus, marginal in Theocritus but importantly associated with each other in Virgil, are figures from the poetry of Philitas. Lycaenion, who gives Daphnis his first sexual experience (3,15), seems related to Lycinna, who performs the same function for Propertius (3,15): again Bowie posits Philitas as the shared hypotext. ————— 20

21

22

This position is actively espoused by di Marco 2000 and 2006, and Hubbard 2006b, who provides evidence for knowledge of Virgil in the Greek-speaking parts of the Empire in the early Imperial period. Di Marco 2000, 26-28 also argues that Longus’ use of φηγός (properly a kind of oak-tree) is influenced by its Latin cognate fagus (usually = ‘beech’). The aptly named di Virgilio 1991 argues for an allusion to Ovid, but unconvincingly. Morgan 2004, 1-2 gives details. One of the primary manuscripts (F) gives the author’s name as ‘Logos’, giving rise to suggestions that ‘Longus’ is no more than an attempt to produce a recognisable name out of a book-heading. Hunter 1983, 82.

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e) Thomas 1992 takes Bowie a step further, finding resemblances between Philetas’ garden and that of the old Corycian in the fourth Georgic: there is a similar emphasis on the seasonal cycle and many of the products of the gardens are the same. From this evidence Thomas constructs a speculative stemma senum and also a stemma of settings. He argues that the Corycian recalls a Corycian Cave of the Nymphs (also known from Herodotus) in the poetry of Philitas, from which derive independently the cave of the Castalian nymphs in Theocritus 7, the cave setting of Eclogue 1, the cave-less Corycian of the Georgics, and the cave and grove of the Nymphs in Longus. f) Di Marco 2000 and 2006 is a curious argument, based, unnecessarily, on the dismissal of any connection between Longus and Philitas. The interpretation of Philetas is that he embodies the history of pastoral as a genre, his youth representing Theocritean poetry, with negative attitudes to love; his middle age is Virgil, and his senescence is the Longan embodiment of pastoral, whose text conveys a benevolent manifestation of Eros to its readers. g) Finally Whitmarsh 2005 focuses on the other aspect of Philitas’ literary activity, as lexicographer rather than poet. Longus, he suggests, plays on this by having Philetas offer a definition of erōs. In the remaining two sections of this paper, I will start from a maximal assumption about the presence of Philitas in Longus, to see what follows. After all, the poetics implied by the prologue of the novel are thoroughly Hellenistic.23 First, I suggest a few more places where we might find signs of Philitas in Longus, if we are so disposed, including some that fall outside the Philetas scenes themselves. I freely admit that Philitas can become a very easy hook on which to hang things, and that some of these suggestions might appear implausible; I myself am convinced by all of them, but I am less interested in proving anything (least of all about the poetry of Philitas) than in conducting a ‘what if?’ thought experiment. If Longus were to have incorporated Philitas into his novel (as he incorporated Sappho and Theocritus), what would that mean for our reading of it?

————— 23

See Imbert 1980, Briand 2006.

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3. Scherzo immaginativo A series of bizarre and apparently unconnected ideas exuberantly thrown off, though in fact they are all derived from a single basic theme. 1) The programmatic poem that opens Propertius’ third book associates Philitas, along with Callimachus, with a grove and a cave as a site of poetic inspiration. Callimachus’ shade and holy rites of Coan Philetas, Permit me, I pray, to enter your grove (nemus). I am The first initiate to attempt by pure spring water To lead Italian mysteries into the dances of Greece. In what cave (antrum) did you together spin your poems? (3,1,1-5) In the third poem of the same book, Apollo warns the poet off the composition of epic and directs him to a cave (spelunca), hung with various musical instruments including Pan pipes, where Calliope moistens his lips with the water of Philitas (3,3,52). The image is taken up by Ovid (Amores 3,1); he does not mention the names of the Greek forbears, but he does not need to. Spanoudakis argues that the image is drawn from a scene in Philitas’ Demeter, where Demeter reveals a spring in a cave to the local monarch, Chalcon of Cos.24 This seems to be reflected, in a scaled-down pastoral version, in Philetas’ garden in Longus.25 This is like a grove (alsos, 2,3,5), and is the location of a divine epiphany for its owner, which, Cairns and others have suggested, might reflect Philitas’ encounter with the source of his poetic inspiration. It also corresponds to the grove in the Prologue (alsos, pr.1) where the narrator of the novel receives his inspiration from an erotic vision, a painting that fills him with desire (pothos) to produce his text. Within the novel, these two groves are importantly connected by verbal echo of the exact same form of an uncommon but connotation-laden verb. After seeing the painting, the narrator laboured hard (exeponēsamēn, pr.3) to produce his book; Philetas has laboured hard (exeponēsamēn, 2,3,3) on his garden. The same verb is used of literary production by Theocritus, in the very poem where he ac————— 24 25

Spanoudakis 2002, 228-230. For discussions of the meaning of Philetas’ garden see Morgan 2004, 14-15, 177-178; Teske 1991, 29-35; Zeitlin 1991, 444-449. Spanoudakis 2002, 65 and 240 suggests a connection with the garden of Chalcon in Philitas’ Demeter.

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knowledges his debt to Philitas (7,51). The narrator’s creation of the text is thus assimilated to and figured by Philetas’ creation of his garden, and the garden is itself an analogue of the text within which it is planted. Just as Eros appears to Philetas in his garden, so the narrative will reveal Eros to its readers. At a meta-literary level, then, Longus has tied the creative impulse of his text to a programmatic inspiration-site of the first Alexandrian poet. The stress on the long, hard, labour needed to produce a text of beauty is the essence of the Alexandrian aesthetic, and the countryside of Daphnis and Chloe is alive with the symbolic furniture of Hellenistic poetry: cicadas, bees, rivers, springs. There is of course a third garden in Daphnis and Chloe, the ornamental park (paradeisos) of the urban landlord Dionysophanes, which is treated to an elaborate ekphrasis in the final book (4,2). Despite its elaboration and its social positioning, this garden seems ultimately less esteemed than Philetas’: its very formality and artifice renders it sterile and oppressive; it is reserved for the self-regarding pleasures of an elite.26 The fertilising presence of Eros is replaced by a temple of Dionysus decorated with violent scenes. This garden too is meta-literary, and represents the hazards of an excess of Alexandrian poetics. The poetics of natural simplicity opposed to sterile elaboration are also addressed in the second poem of Propertius’ Monobiblos, using some of the same images as Longus: Observe what tints the lovely earth puts forth: The better ivies come of themselves, The lovelier arbutus grows in lonely grottoes (in solis … antris) Pure water flows in unimproved courses. Beaches gemmed with native pebbles seduce. Birds sing the sweeter for lack of art. (Prop. 1,2,9-14) The images in these lines do not refer to the raw countryside, but to the features of a typical Roman garden. This poem is addressed to Cynthia; it is well known that Propertius makes a continual metaphorical equation between his poetry and his mistress, the corpus of his poetry and the body of his lover. The poem begins: Now what’s the point, my love In sallying forth with an elaborate hair-do, ————— 26

More detailed discussion in Morgan 2004, 223-225.

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Parading in rippling Coan silk (tenuis Coa veste movere sinus)? (Prop. 1,2,1-2) Particularly when coupled with tenuis, one of the buzz-words of elegiac (and hence Alexandrian poetics), the reference to Coan silk can hardly be other than an allusion to Philitas of Cos. The poem is a meta-literary discourse on the desirability of naturalness in poetry; Propertius is raising the question of why his poetry requires the artificial resources of Alexandrian technique. The discourse is complex, not least because of the Alexandrian polish of the verses and the abstruse mythical paradigms with which Propertius seems to argue against over-elaboration. Philitas in Propertius represents artifice obscuring natural beauty, whereas Philetas in Longus embodies an unadorned fertility placed in antithesis to sterile urban formality. It is not too difficult, however, to see how the apparent contradiction might be resolved. The persona of Propertius’ poet-lover is girt in irony; if Philitas were originally saying something typically Hellenistic about purity, brevity and beauty, it might simply be that Longus has taken him at face value, while Propertius has fun turning his aesthetics back on him. Or, as argued in the last movement of this piece, it may be that Longus was using Philetas to reverse something in Philitas. In any case, the congruence of garden-imagery between Longus and Propertius suggests that Philitas himself used the garden as an image to advance the case for technique as an enhancement of natural beauty.27 We seem to have two independent witnesses to the same body of Philitean dialectic, signing up their intertextuality in explicit ways, through borrowing his name for a character and hinting at his origins in the reference to Coan silk.28 2) Bion (fr.13 Gow) describes an encounter of a young bird-catcher with Eros, and the advice given to him by an aged ploughman: A young bird-catcher, hunting birds in a wooded grove (alsos), saw accursed Love sitting on a branch of a box-tree. When he saw him, rejoicing because the bird seemed to him a big one, fitting all his reeds together, he pursued Love, as he leapt this way and that. And the boy, distressed that no success came his way, threw down his reeds and went ————— 27 28

Perhaps the same garden of Chalcon in Demeter. The adjective ‘Coan’ in itself would be sufficient to trigger thoughts of Philitas: arguing for emendation of Prop. 3,1,1 Allen 1996 points out that in the Roman elegists ‘antonomasia appears to be the rule’, and Philitas is referred to simply as ‘the Coan’, or ‘the Coan poet’.

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to an aged ploughman, told him and showed him Love sitting there. But the old man smiled and shook his head and answered the boy: ‘Leave your prey, and do not go after this bird. Flee far from it; it is an evil beast. You will be fortunate so long as you do not catch it; and if you come to the measure of a man, this one that now runs away and leaps away will suddenly come to you of its own accord and sit on your head.’ Similarities between this poem and Longus’ novel have been noted.29 However, the pattern of similarities tells against the idea that Longus made use of Bion’s poem. Bion’s bird-limer is hunting in a grove, like Longus’ narrator in the prologue. During the winter of Bk.3, Daphnis goes to catch birds near Chloe’s house, in the hope of seeing her; within the image-system of the novel, birds are associated with winged Eros. Bion’s bird-catcher tries to catch Eros as he leaps from branch to branch; in Longus, Philetas tries to catch the boy in his garden, who, after revealing himself as Eros, escapes by climbing from branch to branch up a tree (2,6,1). Bion’s boy fits his reeds (kalamoi) together; in Longus this detail is transferred to Pan’s creation of the pan-pipes from reeds (kalamoi) at the end of the story of Syrinx in the second of the Philetas scenes (2,34,3). Bion’s character then throws away his reeds in despair, as Philetas in his youth discarded his pan-pies when they failed to win him Amaryllis (2,7,6). Finally the boy is advised about love by a rustic elder, as Daphnis and Chloe are advised by Philetas. The tenor of the advice is radically different, however, since Philetas’ advice for love consists in its gratification; this is coherent with Longus’ rewriting of pastoral Eros. So Longus’ Philetas combines the two human characters in the poem; but the characteristics of Bion’s bird-catcher are distributed over Philetas past, Philetas present, Daphnis, and Pan. Longus also plays ideologically, in a way that Bion does not, on the double utility of reeds, as tools for catching birds and as the components of pan-pipes. The easiest way to account for the differences between Longus and Bion might be to posit independent combination of motifs from the same model. In this context, it is hard to resist naming that model as Philitas. 3) At 2,7 Philetas eulogises Eros and his power. In a wide-ranging survey of Greek wedding literature, Reitzenstein discovered some standard topoi shared by a number of epithalamia by late rhetoricians (Menander Rhetor, Choricius, Himerius, Libanius, Aphthonius, Gregory of Nazianzus).30 Sev————— 29 30

Schönberger 1989, 189. Reitzenstein 1900, 90.

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eral of these motifs (such as the priority of Eros in creation, his power over the gods, and his function as the benevolent motive power of all creation, extending beyond human sexuality and driving the worlds of plants, animals and natural phenomena such as winds and rivers) are found in the hymn to Eros which Longus puts in the mouth of Philetas.31 Some of them derive ultimately from Sappho, but Reitzenstein argues (on the basis of their periodic reappearance in Roman poetry, among other considerations) that they were transmitted to later writers through Hellenistic poetry. ‘Den Namen des Dichters kenne ich nicht’, he says. I am sure we can help him out: motifs traceable to Hellenistic poetry voiced by a character bearing the name of a leading Hellenistic poet in a context other features of which can be connected to the same Hellenistic poet for other reasons – that is beyond coincidence. Philitas is the man. 4) After they have received their first lesson in love from Philetas, Daphnis and Chloe compare what he has told them to their own feelings: This must be love, and we must be in love with each other unawares. Or perhaps this is love and I am the only one in love? Then why do we feel the same pain? Why do we both long to see each other? Everything Philetas said was true. The little boy in the garden was the same one that appeared to our fathers in that dream and told us to graze the flocks. How could anyone catch him? He is small and will get away. And how could anyone get away from him? He has wings and will catch you. We must appeal to the Nymphs for aid. But Pan was no help to Philetas when he was in love with Amaryllis. We must try for one of those cures he mentioned: a kiss, an embrace, and lying together naked on the ground. There is a frost, but with Philetas as precedent, we shall endure it. (2,8,3-5) The problem here is that they seem to know more about Philetas’ past experiences than he has actually told them. He did not say that Pan was no help to him, and later he brings offerings to show the god his gratitude (2,32,1). Daphnis and Chloe are not yet ready to stop thinking of love as a disease, and they reason from Philetas’ enduring love and his marriage to Amaryllis that Pan must have failed to effect a cure. The reference to frost is also puzzling at this season, though the bathetic literalism is amusing. However, ————— 31

Reitzenstein does not mention Longus; the relevance of his discussion was pointed out by Schönberger 1989, 190.

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Philetas nowhere said that he lay on the ground in the frost, as the phrase ‘with Philetas as precedent’ suggests. The image suggested here is that of the paraklausithyron, the song of the lover on the doorstep. The ironies of the passage are complex, but would gain point if the poetry of Philitas somewhere included a paraklausithyron. This in itself is quite plausible, given the widespread use of the motif in Hellenistic and Roman poetry, and the certainty that some of Philitas’ poetry was erotically themed. It is worth noting that Daphnis himself later undertakes a winter paraklausithyron, and that Theocr. 3 is a paraklausithyron addressed to Amaryllis, whose name is associated with Philitas.32 I am proposing to aggregate these pieces of information, and suggest that the lover freezing on Amaryllis’ doorstep appeared in the work of Philitas. 5) Engelmann 1904 sees a connection between a scene in a painted frieze from the Casa Farnesiana (painted in the Augustan period), now in the Museo delle Terme in Rome, and the sequence following Philetas’ first appearance in Longus. Some rich holidaymakers from Methymna lose their boat when one of Daphnis’ goats, frightened down from the hills by their hunting, chews through the osier they have been using as a make-shift mooring-rope. The ensuing dispute is referred to Philetas for adjudication. In the frieze, a goat stands behind (or in a boat), while two men, one with a hunting spear and one with a shepherd’s staff, gesticulate angrily towards it. To the right, in another scene, the same two men stand before a seated judge. Other sections of the frieze illustrate a series of wise judgements, including one that looks like the Judgment of Solomon. Engelmann interprets the cycle as depicting the actions of the Egyptian king Bocchoris. Longus thus seems to be evoking a traditional archetype of wise judgement to add resonance to Philetas, but we know of no literary source for this episode. The link may be tenuous, but given that the painting dates from the very years in which Propertius was evincing programmatic interest in Philitas, and that Longus puts the judgement in the mouth of the poet’s namesake, it is tempting to see here an allusion to something in Philitas’ poetry. 6) The account of the invention of the syrinx by Pan is close to that found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (1,689ff.), which is the earliest extant version of this ————— 32

Bowie 1985, 80-81. In particular, Virg. Ecl. 1,5 (formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvam) appears to be echoed by Long. 2,7,6 (ἐπῄνουν τὴν Ἠχὼ τὸ Ἀμαρυλλίδος ὄνομα μετ᾿ ἐμὲ καλοῦσαν) in a way that by-passes Theocritus. For Daphnis’ paraklausithyron, see Pattoni 2004c.

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form of the story; other sources attribute the invention of the instrument to Hermes or Marsyas. Achilles Tatius’ account of the syrinx (8,6,7-11) is close to Longus, but not so close as to suggest that either of the two novelists is working directly from the other. The most likely explanation for this patterning is that all three were exploiting, independently, a pre-Ovidian Greek source. That would almost certainly be an Alexandrian poet, and given the prominence of Philetas in the scene where the story is told, his namesake is the obvious suspect. 7) The Philetas scenes include a number of choice lexical items, such as haimasia, (2,3,5 ‘dry-stone wall’), enkombōma (2,33,3 ‘smock’, apparently attested elsewhere only in lexica and here worn by the Philitean Tityrus). It is, of course, characteristic of Alexandrian poetics and scholarship to seek out the recherché. Longus’ interest in the professorial games of Alexandrian scholarship is illustrated by his use of the word kissybion (1,15,3, ‘ivy-cup’) a word deriving from the Odyssey, whose exact meaning was disputed.33 This object becomes a poetic totem in Theocritus’ first poem: not only do the scenes engraved on the kissybion which the goatherd trades for Thyrsis’ song about Daphnis encapsulate the world of pastoral, but Theocritus tacitly casts his vote for one of the two competing interpretations of the Odyssean context. By evoking the passage of Theocritus, Longus is also positioning himself in the debate. In the sequences of the second book in particular, where the character of Philetas is prominent, there is a possibility that Longus’ lexical interests reflect those of Philitas, either in his poems or in his scholarship.34 8) Daphnis’ city-bred brother is appropriately named Astylus. This name occurs elsewhere in pastoral only in the sixth eclogue of Calpurnius Siculus. Independent invention of the name by two pastoral writers would be a coincidence difficult if not impossible to swallow. A more likely explanation is that both were using the same pastoral or quasi-pastoral model. The etymological sense of the name, ‘city-boy’ is apt in Longus but not in Calpurnius, whose Astylus is simply a shepherd. This suggests that in the original the name possessed an aptness that Calpurnius has not retained. Elsewhere, Calpurnius shows an awareness only of Virgilian pastoral, and even his allusions to Theocritus seem to be derived from the Eclogues. The explanation ————— 33 34

Athen. 11,476F collects the interpretations. Words attested by Longus and the Lexicon of Pollux are noted by Alpers 2001, 46, esp. n.29.

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for the lack of appropriateness in Calpurnius may be that he had no knowledge of the text from which he took the name beyond the fact that it included the name. Other names in Longus are similarly interesting. Some, such as Dryas and Dorcon, are absent from Theocritus and Virgil, but nonetheless are clearly pastoral. The name Lamon occurs elsewhere only as the name of a fruit-grower in an epigram by Philippus (Anth. 6,102).35 Again we might look for a shared source. Likewise with Chromis, the name of Lycaenion’s partner: it is prominent in Ecl. 6, but occurs only incidentally in Theocritus as the name of the Libyan singer against whom Thyrsis has already competed (Id. 1,24). However, this leads into the programmatic ekphrasis of the kissybion (which, as we have seen, is picked up by Longus), hinting that Theocritus had not chosen the name at random. A Libyan (i.e. Alexandrian?) singer, against whom one of Theocritus’ personae has competed, looks like a cipher for another poet. For all of the above, Philitas looks to be the most likely candidate. 9) The episode where Daphnis fetches an apple for Chloe (3,33,4-34,3) alludes primarily to Sappho. However, at the end, when the narrator comments ‘The kiss he won was better even than a golden apple’, he also evokes the story of Atalanta, in which the golden apple was a successful love gift.36 This story is mentioned in Theocr. 3,40-42, a passage which Wilamowitz already linked to Philitas.37 A fragment of Philitas relating to Hippomenes and Atalanta is quoted by the scholiast on Theocr. 2,120,38 though it is too small for us to see how the story was treated. A different variant of the story is picked up as a paradigm of erotic suffering in the first poem of Propertius (1,1,9-16). 10) The story that Daphnis tells Chloe about the young female cowherd who was metamorphosed into a wood-dove after the theft of eight of her cows is described as a well-known tale (1,27,1), although no other extant text records it. Either this is a joke, or it was treated in a text now lost, probably Hellenistic poetry like the other inset myths. The story of Echo which Daph————— 35

36

37 38

Gow and Page emend the name in Philippus to Damon, on the basis of the character in Ecl. 3 and 8. The confusion of Λ and Δ is indeed easy, but we should note that Longus’ Lamon is also a fruit-grower, cultivating apples, myrtles, pears, pomegranates, figs and olives in Dionysophanes’ park (4,2,1). The context also specifically evokes the Judgment of Paris, in which Aphrodite was awarded a golden apple; on the complex intertextuality, see Morgan 2004, 221-222. Details in Spanoudakis 2002, 330-334. Fr.27 Spanoudakis = fr.17 Lightfoot.

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nis tells in Bk.3 (3,23) is a variant which also occurs in no other extant source, though it appears to underlie some passages of Nonnus.39 Longus’ version of the story of Echo hints at but never quite achieves a pun on the two meanings of the word melos, ‘limb’ and ‘melody’, perhaps implying that it is a descant on a version of the story where the double meaning was properly functional. Some of these passages would work if Longus simply had second-hand information about Philitas but others depend on more detailed reference. It is not enough, however, to identify places where Philitas might be a presence: in a highly literate text like Daphnis and Chloe, the point is that intertextuality creates meaning. This requires a level of shared knowledge between writers and reader, and implies a degree of currency and paratextual knowledge.

4. Finale: Allegro intertestuale ma non troppo After three attempts to advance towards closure and resolution, the work eventually collapses into a coda of aporia and indeterminacy. 1) The second of the Philetas scenes in Bk.2 is, on any reading, highly selfreferential. Just before Philetas arrives, the families of Daphnis and Chloe have been singing pastoral poems from the past.40 The effect is to re-locate the tradition of pastoral poetry within the fictional frame, which is itself located in the pastoral tradition by means of its constant referencing of pastoral hypotexts. This conceit is continued when Lamon sources his account of the invention of the pan-pipes to a Sicilian goatherd (2,33,3), which must be a reference to Theocritus, a native of Syracuse.41 Philetas’ compliment to Lamon for telling a story ‘sweeter than any song’42 makes sense only as Longus’ polemically self-referential praise of his prose pastoral form reworking material from the poetic pastoral tradition. It makes much more sense in the mouth of Philetas if Philitas is available as a precise model, as we have reason to suspect that he was. Longus, in other words, is here prais————— 39 40 41

42

Morgan 2004, 214-215 for details. 2,31,2, palaiōn poimenōn poiēmata. As far as we know, Theocritus did not compose a poem about the syrinx, but he was believed to be the author of the technopaignion shape poem included in the Theocritean corpus. 2,35,1, mython ōidēs glykyteron; note the precise verbal echo connecting this to the Sicilian goatherd’s telling of the same story: 2,33,3 mython … ēisen.

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ing himself for surpassing Theocritus, and puts the praise in the mouth of the genre’s ultimate literary ancestor.43 More importantly, after a virtuoso performance,44 Philetas passes his pipes to Daphnis, with the wish that he should in his turn find a worthy successor to whom to pass them (2,37,3). This is a profoundly meta-literary moment. Philetas’ pipes are like those that Pan first made from the metamorphosed Syrinx. Daphnis’ name is the single most important piece of intertextuality in the novel; he represents Theocritus and inherits his art from Philetas as Theocritus inherited his from Philitas. The worthy heir to whom the art of Daphnis/Theocritus will pass can be none other than Longus himself, who thus stakes his claim again as the culmination of the pastoral mainstream. What seems a merely decorative incident acquires great selfreferential importance once we make the assumption that Philetas inscribes Philitas. 2) Philetas’ garden is assimilated to the novel, through the verbal echo between the narrator’s prologue and Philetas’ own description of his garden.45 Philetas is thus constructed as the author’s alter ego, adding authority to his pronouncement of important truths about Eros. This also constructs his garden as a meta-literary space, commenting both on Longus’ novel and Philitas’ poetry as part of a dialectic about the roles of nature and technē in poetic composition. The garden represents a space where art and nature combine to produce Beauty; in this respect both text and garden are analogous to Longus’ didactic conception of Love. As a space intermediate between the urban and the rural, the garden also inscribes the impulses underlying pastoral as a literary form, and thus can stand for the enchanted world of poetry itself, incorporated in and identified with Longus’ novel. Both are protected magic spaces, produced by artistic labour and fertilised by divine inspiration, where the god of love can reveal himself to a select few – directly in the case of Philetas, through the didactic text in the case of the reader. The motif of the old man in love, reluctantly, even ridiculously, is found in Hellenistic epigrams and may reflect something in the poetry of Philitas, who apparently ————— 43

44

45

It is immaterial whether Philitas in fact wrote anything that could be described as pastoral poetry: the point is that from Longus’ perspective he could be represented as part of a specific tradition. The description of which resumes some key-terms (particularly terpnos ‘pleasurable’, technē ‘art’, and mimēsis ‘imitation’) from Longus’ own prologue, so that Philetas’ playing (like his garden) can be seen as a paradigm of artistic excellence analogous to the novel itself. See above, section 3,1.

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depicted himself as an old man in at least some of his work.46 However, it signifies more than that, something fundamental to Longus’ thought. The old Philetas, the young Daphnis and Chloe, and the children of both – in the case of the protagonists announced in an unusual external prolepsis at the end of the text, and in the case of Philetas represented by his son Tityrus, who bears a startling resemblance to the god of love himself,47 and whose name arguably derives from the poetry of Philitas – represent successive turns in the ever-renewed cycle of human life as driven by Eros. Philetas and Lycaenion, whose teaching helps the protagonists to take the next cognitive and affective step towards maturity and full humanity, constitute pivotal moments. In some sense, they both derive from Longus’ intertext. Through the metaliterary figure of Philetas, it is suggested that the poetic generations correspond to the reproductive ones, that, like life, literature perpetuates itself in cyclic form.48 3) But Longus is not a passive or inert user of his intertexts. A plethora of allusion and echoes, foremost among them the hero’s name, confirm the presence of Theocritus in the novel. However, at 2,7,7 Longus quotes a famous passage of Theocritus almost verbatim, only to correct it, programmatically. For Theocritus love is a negative, almost tragic power, which can be cured only by its sublimation into song; for Longus, as voiced by Philetas, Eros is the benevolent power that motors all creation, and the ‘cure’ proposed in Longus’ reversal is acceptance and enjoyment.49 One way to paraphrase the story of Daphnis and Chloe is as their progression from a Theocritean belief that love is an illness requiring a cure to a Longan view of Eros as the basis for human units of family and society. Philitas appears to be implicated in this discourse in a way that the wretched condition of his fragments prevents us from seeing exactly. The crucial point is that the ‘correction’ of Theocritus is put in the mouth of the namesake of the poet with whom Theocritus aligned himself. It is a fair bet that Philitas too is somehow ‘corrected’ by the words and allusions put in the mouth of his fictional counterpart. Similarly the arguably Philitean character of Lycaenion is ‘corrected’ in her assumptions about love and sexuality by the turn of the plot.50 The connections with Propertius 1,2 discussed above afford us a fleeting glimpse ————— 46 47 48 49 50

Hardie 1997. Morgan 2004, 180, 195. That Philitas used the garden as a metaphor for poetry is argued in section 3,1 above. Details at Morgan 2004, 183-184. Morgan 2004, 208-210 for details.

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of another perspective on Philetas’ garden, and perhaps allow us to guess that Longus was correcting Philitas by saying the exact opposite. In this perspective, the novel’s third garden would be Longus’ retake on the aesthetics of Philitas: excessive art leads to sterility and exclusion. We end with some wild speculation. Near the beginning of the novel, a goatherd and his wife name their foundling child Daphnis, ‘so that even the baby’s name should pass as pastoral’ (1,3,2). The jokey reference to Theocritean pastoral, voiced by peasants unable to read, is unmistakable. Three chapters later, a shepherd and his wife name their adopted daughter Chloe, and the joke is repeated: ‘she too, to avoid suspicion, gave the child a pastoral name’. The problem is that the name Chloe does not occur in any poem of Theocritus; it would indeed be metrically difficult in dactylic verse. So how is it that the name ‘Chloe’ is felt as quintessentially pastoral, the female equivalent of Daphnis? Commentators routinely refer to its use as a cult title of the goddess Demeter, and we may recall that one of the known poems of Philitas – indeed the poem that has been singled out by commentators as his most important work and the repository of his poetic statement – was called Demeter. Does Chloe represent Philitas in the novel as Daphnis represents Theocritus? In which case, the names of the protagonists inscribe the marriage of Longus’ principal intertexts, and their children the emergence of something new and beautiful from their union, an idea very much at one with the novel’s manifold thematics.

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Cresci, L. 1981. ‘Il romanzo di Longo Sofista e la tradizione bucolica’, Atene e Roma 6, 1-25; translated as ‘The novel of Longus the sophist and the pastoral tradition’, in: Swain 1999, 210-242. Crönert, W. 1902. ‘Philitas von Cos’, Hermes 37, 212-227. Czapla, B. 2002. ‘Literarische Lese-, Kunst- und Liebesmodelle. Eine intertextuelle Interpretation von Longos’ Hirtenroman’, A&A 48, 18-42. Di Marco, M. 2000. ‘Fileta Praeceptor Amoris: Longo Sofista e la correzione del modello bucolico’, SCO 47, 9-35. Di Marco, M. 2006. ‘The pastoral novel and the bucolic tradition’, in: Fantuzzi – Papanghelis 2006, 479-497. Di Virgilio, R. 1991. ‘La narrative greca d’amore: Dafni e Cloe di Longo’, Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 386, 1989 ; Memorie : classe de scienzi morali, storiche, e filologiche, serie 8 32/4, 301-44. Du Quesnay, I.M. le M. 1979. ‘From Polyphemus to Corydon. Virgil, Eclogue 2 and the Idylls of Theocritus’, in: West – Woodman 1979, 35-69. Du Quesnay, I.M. le M. 1981. ‘Vergil’s first Eclogue’, Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 3, 29-117. Engelmann, R. 1904. ‘Ein neues “Urtheil Salamonis” und die Friesbilder der Casa Tiberina’, Hermes 39, 146-154. Fantuzzi, M. – Papanghelis, T. (eds.) 2006. Brill’s Companion to Greek and Latin Pastoral, Leiden: Brill. Griffin, J. 1985. Latin Poets and Roman Life, London: Duckworth. Halperin, D.M., Winkler, J.J., Zeitlin, F.I. (eds.) 1991. Before Sexuality: the Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Hardie, A. 1997. ‘Philitas and the plane tree’, ZPE 119, 21-36. Hubbard, T.K. 2006a. ‘The pipe that can imitate all pipes. Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe and the intertextual polyphony of pastoral music’, in: Skoie – Velázquez 2006, 101-106. Hubbard, T.K. 2006b. ‘Virgil, Longus and the pipes of Pan’, in: Fantuzzi – Papanghelis 2006, 500-513. Hunter, R.L. 1983. A Study of Daphnis & Chloe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R.L. (ed.) 1999. Theocritus. A selection, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Imbert, C. 1980. ‘Stoic logic and Alexandrian poetics’, in: Schofield, Burnyeat, Barnes 1980, 182-216. Knox, P.E. 1993. ‘Philetas and Roman poetry’, Papers of the Leeds Latin Seminar 7, 61-83. Kuchenmüller, W. (ed.) 1928. Philetae Coi reliquiae, Berlin: Robert Noske. Legrand, E. 1898. Étude sur Théocrite, Paris: Albert Fontemoing. Lightfoot, J. (ed.) 1999. Parthenius of Nicaea. The extant works, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lightfoot, J. (ed.) 2009. Hellenistic Collection: Philitas, Alexander of Aetolia, Hermesianax, Euphorion, Parthenius, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Mittelstadt, M. 1970. ‘Bucolic-lyric motifs and dramatic narrative in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, RhM 113, 211-227. Morgan, J.R. 1997. ‘Longus, Daphnis and Chloe: a bibliographical survey, 1950-1995’, ANRW 2.34.3, 2208-2276. Morgan, J.R. 2004. Longus. Daphnis and Chloe. Translation, introduction and commentary, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Morgan, J.R. 2008. ‘Intertextuality: the Greek novel’, in: Whitmarsh 2008, 218-227.

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Pattoni, M.P. 2004a. ‘Innamorarsi nella Lesbo di Longo: Topoi romanzeschi, reminiscenze epiche e saffiche memorie’, Eikasmos 15, 273-303. Pattoni, M.P. 2004b. ‘I Pastoralia di Longo e la contaminazione dei generi. Alcune proposte interpretative’, MD 53, 83-123. Pattoni, M.P. 2004c. ‘Dafni davanti alla porta chiusa (Longus 3.5-9): variazioni in tema di paraklausithyron’, Lexis 22, 341-368. Pattoni, M.P. 2005. Longo Sofista, Dafni e Cloe, Milan: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli. Reitzenstein, R. 1893. Epigramm und Skolion, Giessen: Ricker. Reitzenstein, R. 1900. ‘Die Hochzeit des Peleus und der Thetis’, Hermes 35, 73-105. Schofield, M., Burnyeat, M., Barnes, J. (eds.) 1980. Doubt and Dogmatism. Studies in Hellenistic Epistemology, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schönberger, O. (ed.) 1989. Longos. Hirtengeschichten von Daphnis und Chloe. 4., neu bearbeitete Auflag, Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Shepherd, W.G. (trans.) 1985. Propertius. The Poems, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Skoie, M. – Velázquez, S.B. (eds.) 2006. Pastoral and the Humanities. Arcadia Re-inscribed, Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press. Spanoudakis, K. 2002. Philitas of Cos, Leiden: Brill. Swain, S. (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tatum, J. (ed.) 1994. The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Teske, D. 1991. Der Roman des Longos als Werk der Kunst, Münster: Aschendorff. Thomas, R.F. 1992. ‘The old man revisited: memory, reference and genre in Virg. Georg. 4, 116-48’, MD 29, 35-70; reprinted in Thomas 1999, 173-205. Thomas, R.F. 1999. Reading Virgil and his Texts: Studies in Intertextuality, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. West, D. – Woodman, A.J. (eds.) 1979. Creative Imitation and Latin Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2005. ‘The lexicon of love: Longus and Philetas Grammatikos’, JHS 125, 145148. Whitmarsh, T. (ed.) 2008. The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zeitlin, F.I. 1991. ‘The poetics of Eros: nature, art, and imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in: Halperin, Winkler, Zeitlin 1991, 417-464; partly reprinted as ‘The gardens of desire in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in: Tatum 1994, 148-170.

The Rhetoric of Otherness: Geography, Historiography and Zoology in Alexander’s Letter about India and the Alexander Romance E LIAS K OULAKIOTIS University of Ioannina

Geographical and ethnographical narratives from antiquity – such as About the Ocean of Pytheas and the now lost History of Persia of Ctesias of Cnidus – have the status of privileged testimonia of a society’s collective imagination. If these narratives still happen to have kept their comprehensive, systematic character (compare Herodotus’ Histories or even the Odyssey), they are especially helpful to the modern historian, for they allow a society’s categories of thought to be reconstructed in a more methodical way.1 The Letter of Alexander of Macedon to his teacher Aristotle about his campaign and the land of India (Epistola Alexandri Macedonis ad Aristotelem magistrum suum de itinere suo et de situ Indiae, henceforth referred to as the Epistola), a short text of about 15 octavo pages subdivided into 78 paragraphs and closely related to the Alexander Romance, belongs, in my opinion, to these testimonia.2 In an historically unconventional manner – ————— 1

2

See Cunliffe 2001 on Pytheas; Lenfant 2004 on Ctesias; Hartog 1980 on Herodotus; and Vidal-Naquet 2005, 39-68 on the Odyssey. There are two Latin translations of the Epistola: 1) The older one, which is also the subject of the present paper, was already known during the 5th and 6th centuries A.D. This text was edited by Boer 1973 and by Feldbusch 1976; it has been translated and commented upon by van Thiel 1974, 197-240, Gunderson 1980, Tardiola 1991, 63-91, and Bounoure – Serret 1992, 123-146. The numbering used in the present paper is to paragraphs in van Thiel’s edition. As for the dating of the Latin translation of the original text, the only useful indication is provided by the mention of the praefectus praetorio; his military role at 67 is an indication for a dating in the period before the Roman emperor Constantine, because this magistrate had later a civil role to play; cf. Gunderson 1980, 34; OCD3 s.v. praefectus praetorio. 2) The newer translation, produced during the 10th century A.D. by Archbishop Leo of Naples (ed. by Pfister 1910, 21-37; cf. Pfister 1939). Echoing Narratives, 161–184

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which is probably based on Clitarch’s historiographical account of Alexander the Great3 – the text talks about Alexander’s campaign to Bactria and India; about the subjection of the Indian king Poros and his encounters, frequently traumatic, involving exotic beasts (11-44); about the expedition to the boundaries of the inhabited world and through the monuments of Dionysus and Heracles to the Ocean and the land of the Fish-Eaters (Ichthyophagoi) and the Dog-Heads (Kynokephaloi) (35a-40); about the visit to the Cave of Dionysus and the consultation of the Oracle of the Trees of the Sun and the Moon (48-68), where he is informed about his own death. Lastly, it relates empirical knowledge of new kinds of animals and people and the return to Persia (69-77) by way of the Ganges and the land of the Seres (75-76). According to the author’s express intention, the purpose of this letter is to describe his own journey to India and to present a systematic exposition of the new kinds of animals found at the edge of the world.4 It therefore has to do with the communication of his newly acquired knowledge. Nonetheless, I am not interested here in pursuing the writer’s taxonomy, classifying the various animals according to whether they are aquatic, aerial, or terrestrial and scrutinizing their authenticity or verifying the accuracy of the information he provides about the countries he describes. That exercise would perhaps be of interest to historians of biology and climatology, or to historical and political geographers. What interests me more here is the means that the author uses in order to articulate the substance of his communication, and to what extent this has an impact on Alexander’s image as drawn in the fictional accounts of his deeds. In order to do this, I will first provide a short account of the context and dating of this text, and then, in section 2, I will briefly discuss the narrator’s theoretical premises. This will help me to reach the third part of my paper. As mentioned above, the author offers through his account a systematic consideration of the ‘exotic’ world of nature.5 I will therefore attempt to go behind his narrative to investigate whether ways of communicating with the ‘Other’, means and practices (e.g. sacrifices and oracle consultations) that were already known in Greek societies, are also operative in this exotic world. By ‘the Other’ I mean everything that is out—————

3 4

5

On the history of these texts see Ausfeld 1907, 177; Cracco-Ruggini 1965, 17; van Thiel 1974, 234; Cizek 1981, 78-79; Ross 1988, 28-29; Zaganelli 1995, 140-141; Stoneman 2007, lviii-lxxix. On Clitarch see Prandi 1996. ‘I thought that I should write to you about the regions of India, about the condition of the weather, and about the innumerable kinds of serpents’ (1). The English translation, unless otherwise mentioned, is that in Gunderson 1980. Cf. Pédech 1977, 125.

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side of human beings as members of a political-religious community – and certainly according to Aristotelian criteria – that is, mainly animals and gods.6 In such a process it is important to respect the ancient Greeks’ own categories of thought and to track their contingent metamorphoses.7 It is widely accepted that one’s perceptions of others mirror one’s perceptions of oneself. These perceptions do not remain unchanged within a society; they vary and thereby reflect political and social as well as economic and ecological changes and increases in knowledge. If, for example, Cyclopes and Phaeacians are to be found in Homer but not in Herodotus’ Histories, this can be explained by political and cultural changes.

I In the first century A.D., Pliny the Elder related in his Natural History that when King Alexander the Great became inflamed with a desire to learn the nature of the animal world, and assigned this pursuit to Aristotle, a man who excelled in every field of study, then the many thousands of people throughout all of Asia and Greece were given orders to obey – all those who earned their living from hunting, fowling, and fishing, and all who were in charge of pens, herds, beehives, fishponds, and aviaries – lest anything born anywhere escape his notice.8 The result of this zoological census was just as all-inclusive as it was impressive, namely around fifty volumes on the animal world edited by Aristotle. What Pliny recounts here is none other than the afterlife of a notorious war of revenge and conquest, of a military expedition just as emphatically exploratory as scientific in character.9 Whereas in Pliny’s History Alexander was merely the person who commissioned this program of research into nature, in the world of fictional literature he soon assumes the role of re-

————— 6

7 8 9

Arist. Pol., I,1253A4. Cf. Kullmann 1980 and Kullmann 1998, 334-363. Cf. also Dierauer 1977; Vidal-Naquet 1992a; Henrichs 1992; Wolff 1997; Bodson 1998; Lenfant 1999; Dinzelbacher 2000; Franco 2003. Cf. Winkler-Horaček 2008. HN 8,17,44 (my translation). See Pfister 1961; Bodson 1991; cf. Romm 1989.

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searcher himself, a researcher who wants to supplement the work of his teacher.10 In the form that it has been transmitted, the Epistola is a late product of the Alexander saga tradition. It is preserved in two versions, the older from the 5th/6th centuries A.D. and the more recent from the 9th/10th centuries A.D. The letter was certainly transmitted in Latin as an independent text and was much read and copied in the Middle Ages; it also appears, however, in abbreviated form, in the oldest surviving version of the Greek Alexander Romance, which was known as the work of Pseudo-Callisthenes. This fact already allows us to surmise that the Epistola is the translation of a Greek original.11 In the ‘labyrinth’ of the transmission of the Alexander Romance, it is always difficult to commit oneself to a more precise dating; however, the letter mirrors broader knowledge of new geographic, ethnographic, and economic horizons12 as well as social utopias and apocalyptic anxieties. In Greek literature, such ethnographic interests already existed from the very beginning (one thinks of Homer). The first attempt at a systematic exploration of the East, however, occurred in the time when the Persian Empire was expanding towards the East. According to Herodotus, Skylax of Karyanda, who wrote at the end of the 6th century B.C., explored the Indian Ocean at the behest of Darius I; a century later, Ctesias of Cnidus was in the service of Artaxerxes II. Above and beyond this, Nearchus of Crete explored India when he was in the service of Alexander, while some decades later Megasthenes was sent to the East as an emissary of Seleucus I.13 All these cases testify that narratives and accounts of distant lands had also a strong political, that is ‘imperial’, motivation and in effect expressed the will to dominate these lands. If one considers, too, that Alexander had actually not conquered India, it could be assumed that accounts of this exotic land in the Hellenistic world corresponded precisely with such a wish. This longing also remained unfulfilled in the case of Rome, which explains the Epistola’s immediacy in ————— 10

11

12 13

On Pliny see Beagon 2005. On political and cultural aspects of census in Rome see Nicolet 1991. It is generally accepted that the Epistola represents an enlarged version of the travel at the edges of the world, a subject also found after the battle against Poros and before the meeting with Kandake in the text A, ch.3,17, of Pseudo-Callisthenes (edited by Kroll 1926). It is very probable that the Epistola is closer to the original Greek text than the text A, on which see Jouanno 2002, 23; cf. Zaganelli 1995, 141 n.6; see also Stoneman 2008, 73-77. On the translations of the Alexander Romance see Paschalis 2007. On the trade between Greece and India see Rivaud 1999; Whittaker 2004, 163-180. On Skylax see FGrHist 709; Lenfant 2004, cxliii-cxliv. On Ctesias see Lenfant 2004. On Nearchus see FGrHist 133; Pédech 1984, 159-214. On Megasthenes see FGrHist 715; Koulakiotis 2006, 125-127.

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the Roman period as well. In other words, when the spears of the phalanxes and the swords of the legions failed, the ‘scientific’ logos was brought into play as a weapon of subjugation in order to summon up the idea of control over these lands and thereby also to signal the cultural superiority of Greeks and Romans over the East.14 According to Reinhold Merkelbach and Lloyd Gunderson, the first Greek version of the Epistola should be dated to the interval between 316 and 308 B.C.15 As a principal argument for this they used the revelations of the Oracle of the Trees, according to which Alexander’s mother would meet a cruel death, whereas his sisters would live happily.16 Olympias, as is well known, was executed by Cassander in 316 B.C., and Alexander’s sister Cleopatra was murdered by Antigonos around 308 B.C. All the same, such a precise dating for the Epistola is questionable because Thessalonike, Alexander’s half-sister, was murdered around 296 B.C. by her son Antipater. Besides this, in the kind of texts to which the Epistola belongs, a single episode cannot be considered decisive for the dating of the entire text. Such texts were enriched with new elements over and over again and it could be that older fragments were fitted into newer sections, so that generalizations based on single chronological elements are not valid.17 I proceed from the contention that the first version of the Epistola, like that of Pseudo-Callisthenes, originated within the Hellenistic cultural realm, perhaps a few decades after Alexander’s death. This first form of the Epistola would then correspond with the taste of the time for study of paradoxes and of monstrosities.18 In this connection, it cannot be ruled out that the letter, which portrays Alexander as a conqueror of enemies represented as beasts, functioned as a political allegory. Furthermore, Lloyd Gunderson placed the letter in a situation the historical context of which he believed he could demonstrate. He attempted on his own, in the tradition of positivistic ————— 14

15 16

17

18

Cf. Galinsky 2005, 2: ‘One aspect of power, as Foucault [The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, New York] 1971, argued, is that power is an outcome of knowledge’. See also Whittaker 2004, 144-162; König – Whitmarsh 2007, 3-42. On the three main periods of ‘Indography’, that is Achaemenidic, Hellenistic and Roman, see Parker 2008, 117-118. Merkelbach 1977, 59-60; Gunderson 1980, 112 and 117-119. ‘Your mother, in a pitiful and very disgraceful death, shall lack burial and shall lie dead in the road, the prey of birds and beasts, and your sisters shall be happy a long time because of divine will’ (66); cf. D.S. 20,37,3-6. Jouanno 2002, 24-25. Romm 1992, 111, n.63. Cf. also Baynham 2000 and Koulakiotis 2006, 190-196. Cf. Theopompus’ Thaumasia (FGrHist 115 F67-76); Jouanno, 2002, 24-25. Cf. also Sassi 1993 and Schettino 2008.

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source criticism (Quellenforschung), to find parallels to the Alexander historians.19 Alexander Cizek took another interpretative path, asserting that quite close, if not absolutely striking, affinities to Christian apocalyptic literature can be discerned.20 Despite their diametrically opposed readings, both authors correctly recognized elements of the letter’s intention, contextualization, and reception. Interpretations like these are numerous and reach all the way back to Friedrich Pfister and Adolf Ausfeld at the beginning of the 20th century, but none of them is perhaps what is needed. In my view, interpretation based on anthropological categories such as man, animal, or even divinity – the subject of works by James Romm and Corinne Jouanno – can reveal something more important about the context, the author, and the audience of this text.

II In Greek thought, the categories ‘animal’ and ‘man’ were an object of intense reflection in many fields. Scientific findings about such subjects were presented systematically by the Peripatetic school. The founder of the school was, as is well known, glorified already in antiquity as the teacher of the young Alexander. Although the historically demonstrable relationship of the two men was rather limited, in the afterlife Aristotle functions as the young king’s political and intellectual ‘Nestor’ and, even more so, as the eager recipient of the new natural-scientific and biological experiences of the Orient. For India, a land that was always an object of the greatest admiration, this was especially true. The Epistola, then, reflects that utopian way of thinking that is characteristic of the fictional travel narratives of the paradoxographers of this period (for instance, we may think of Theopompus’ Thaumasia). In this discourse, Alexander is presented as one of the most effective mediators of what is called ‘alterity’. He embodies the Orient, a ‘cognitive operator’ who calls existing categories into question as the vector of this mediation.21 The Alexander Romance, of which the Epistola is certainly a part,22 has a distinctly initiatory character. One of the text’s primary concerns is with the ————— 19 20 21 22

Gunderson 1980, 48-75. Cizek 1981, 79-80. Cf. Bologna 1997. Cf. also Infurna 1995. Cf. Gunderson 1980, 108; Stoneman 2007, lvii.

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exploration of boundaries, which are not so much political or geographical as transcendental, if not quite metaphysical.23 The edge of the world is, however, also a sacral sphere and place of the gods, as is frequently the case with frontier areas. According to ancient accounts, the Indians and the Ethiopians were regarded as the most pious of peoples because they were also situated closest to the gods geographically. The edge of the world, therefore, represents a space for communication between men and gods, in which it is possible to accomplish passage into both the world of the gods and that of the dead.24 The author of the Epistola, who follows faithfully the compositional line of Pseudo-Callisthenes, has Alexander travel to the end of the world, placing him in a zone of transgression that can be dangerous for any sort of identity. Dominant in this allegorized landscape are those two old archenemies of human culture, going wild and forgetting. In opposition to this, the author protects himself with his memory (memoria / mnēmē for the ancient Greeks), which he communicates to his teacher.25 Mnēmē, the prerequisite of which is amazement (Latin admiratio; Greek thaumazein), represents this function, which is in a position to preserve human identity as such, generally speaking. For the author,26 the memoria to which he appeals is based on autopsy (compare theōria) and as such on truth (alētheia). Accordingly, it possesses historical character for him.27 In any case, we should not forget that Aristotle, the author’s great model, was supposed to have written an Historia Animalium and that the Alexander Romance, to which the letter under discussion belongs, was also known as the Historia Alexandri Magni. If, therefore, a sharp division exists for us between the historical and the fictional, such a distinction obviously did not hold true in antiquity.28 To serve this aim, the author used the letter form as his literary vehicle.29 During the early Hellenistic period, the letter was a favourite medium for ————— 23 24 25 26

27 28

29

Koulakiotis 2006, 199-204. Cf. Sartre 1979; Daverio Rocchi 1999; Johnston 2005, 21. digna memoriae (‘[These matters] are worthy of remembrance’, 2). singula ac multis modis coacervata, quem ad modum inspexi ... meis oculis (‘I have considered these matters in detail and in their intricacies … before my eyes’, 2); cf. 1: studio et ingenio (‘with research and understanding’). has novas historias (‘these new inquiries’, 6). See Bowersock 1994. On the term historia see Darbo-Peschanski 2007, 11-38. Ancient authors of geographic fiction invented a topology of convincing their readers: Bichler 2006. For Gunderson 1980, 33-34; 86-90 and Merkelbach 1977, 56, n.32 (who accept a late dating of the creation of the Alexander Romance in the Roman period), there was a num-

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communicating personal experiences. The first-person account offers an immediate description that stands in the tradition of Herodotean personal observation (theōria)30 and even evokes reminiscences of the Odyssey. The hero presents himself as practically a loner, while his companions remain in the background.31 On the other hand, this letter attempts to preserve a pseudo-scholarly style: the name of Aristotle stands for the teacher’s authority (authentia) and envelops every pseudo-scientific utterance with its aura. The descriptions attempt to abide by the characteristics of scientific thought (epistēmē). Science is based on sharp distinctions between here and there and between the past and the future, a drawing of boundaries that the letter respects only as far as appearances are concerned. This letter pays much more attention to chronological sequence in order to give the appearance of historicity: exact months and times of day are mentioned, providing reference points for the narrative. In this way it stands also in the tradition of the itineraria.32 On the way to the end of the world, Alexander moves in a zone of transgression that divides the world of men (the oikoumenē) from the world of animals (thēriōdē, as Pseudo-Callisthenes 3,27 puts it). The further away he is from the soil of the Greek homeland, the less well-defined the forms of living creatures become. The boundaries between humans, animals, and plants dissolve, and even the very laws of nature are abolished; startling climatic changes occur. The journey to the end of the world is accordingly to be regarded as instigated by Alexander’s urge (pothos), with the goal of becoming acquainted with these new life-forms. The description of the wonders (mirabilia) at the edge of the world in the Epistola, then, should be conceived of as the closing narrative of his years of wandering and learning. The purpose of this epitome is consequently to portray Alexander as ruler of the world and a ‘master of wonders’ (mirabilium magister) who wants to expand his teacher’s classifications of living creatures.33 —————

30 31

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33

ber of ‘miracle-letters’, describing Alexander’s travel in the Orient. See also Stoneman 1994, 95; Rosenmeyer 2001, 169-192; Jouanno 2002, 25, n.145; Parker 2008, 314. On epistolography in general see also Morello and Morrison 2007. On the logographical tradition see Gunderson 1980, 13; 15. Cizek 1981, 81. Cf. however Epistola 5: ‘I am grateful for the bravery of the young men of Macedonia and for my invincible army, since they persevered with such endurance that I am called king of kings.’ For Gunderson 1970, 369, the author of the Epistola was one of Alexander’s bēmatistai; however, such an assumption is not plausible, on which see Jouanno 2002, 24 n.134. On Roman attitudes towards chorography see Whittaker 2004, 63-87. Cf. 1: per novarum rerum cognitionem (‘through the acquisition of new knowledge’), and 2: ne quid inusitatum haberes (‘so that you might not ever consider it something for-

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As an historical category, wonders (mirabilia) and the study of monstrosities associated with them are eminently significant of a society’s ways of thinking, a society that knows ‘men, monsters, and mutations’ in every imaginable assortment as the result of a complex process of development, and therein illustrates the anxieties and the imaginary abysses of the community that created them.34 This communal imagination (phantasia) can discover affinities among the beings it envisions (figurae) so as to create order as well as generate discontinuities, thereby inciting chaos.35 As regards the relationship of men with animals in particular, this process has resulted systematically in three main kinds of texts: the zoological-anthropological essay (as practised by the Peripatetic school); the ethnographic narrative (Ctesias, for example); and in texts that examine the metaphysical characteristics of animals, like, for example, works dealing with divination (Cicero’s De divinatione).36 There is much to indicate that the Epistola involved elements of all three genres and has transformed them in the service of its primary goal, namely that of fashioning the hero into a liminal figure in the literal and metaphorical sense. In the Greek world, the figure of the hunter was a well-known crosser of borders. Is the ‘master of wonders’ (magister mirabilium) none other than a warrior who likes to go hunting?37 To this we may add an emphatic religiosity which is manifest in, among other things, the practice of rituals, for example consulting oracles and offering sacrifices.38 In the following section, I —————

34 35

36

37

38

eign to your experience’). Cf. also Romm 1992, 115. On Aristotle’s Zoology see Lloyd 1991 and Lloyd 1997. On Aristotle as prōtos heuretēs of Zoology see Li Causi 2003, 104-106. On Aristotle’s interest in animal taxonomy see Lloyd 1991, 4-7; Zucker 2005. Cf. Sassi 1993; Bianchi – Thévenay 2004. Cf. Epistola 3: ‘One must marvel at how much of good or evil produces the earth, who is the common mother of forms (parens publica figurarum)’ (trans. Gunderson, slightly modified). Figurae could be understood as an allusion to the Aristotelian phainomena or even to the Platonic theory of Ideas: Lloyd 1996, 259-262. On phantasia see Sorabji 2004, xiv-xx; Labarrière 2004; Caston 2009. I do not deal here with information on sacrificial rituals provided by inscriptions and ‘sacred laws’. Cf. the hunts of the ‘historical’ Alexander in Arrian’s Anabasis. See Guggisberg 2008 and Seyer 2007. Cf. Arr. Ind. 18,12; FGrHist 117F3 and in general Pl. Lg. 4,716D. On the role of oracles and sacrifice in Alexander’s history see Blazquez 2000, 101-109; Amitay 2008. On Alexander’s religiosity see also Chaniotis 2003, 433; Aubriot 2004. Here I deal mainly with blood sacrifice followed by a common meal (cf. Arr. Ind., 18,12). On the political dimension of such a sacrifice see Scheid – Svenbro 2003, 17: ‘le sacrifice, où ‘diviser c’est unir’, autrement dit où la découpe et la répartition du corps animal établissent les liens entre les participants’; see also Loraux 1981. For a more recent discussion on dif-

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will attempt to show that hunting and sacrificial ritual constitute two important points of departure for interpretations that illuminate relationships with animals and the gods and say much about perceptions of self in a violently exotic world. In addition, these two institutions furnish arguments in favour of slotting the text of the Epistola into a specific form of society and assigning it to a certain literary genre.

III Up to now, scholarship has identified different narrative sequences in the text of the Epistola – for example the victory over Poros, the attack of the beasts at a lake, the visit to the Oracle of the Trees – and interpreted them as a loose succession or mishmash of incidents that seems to possess no coherence.39 The nature that the author describes, however, despite his apparently rationalistic attitude, is not a self-contained system existing independently of the world of the gods. Thus, if a geographical-religious or even cosmological standard of judgement is applied, the structure of the text could be analysed in the following manner. In the first main section (1-35), following a methodological discussion in the introduction (1-6), the preparations for the expedition to the edge of the inhabited world (oikoumenē) are set out in a list. They are symbolically placed after the subjugation of the Phasiakē (8 and 41), the territories around the river Phasis, which was regarded as the border between Europe and Asia, and the victory over the Indian king Poros. Thereupon follow the adventures at the edge of the inhabited world, the high point of which seems to be the visit to the monuments of Heracles and Dionysus, two divinities widely known for their association with liminality and life in the wild, and serving as paradigms for Alexander.40 In the second part (36-78), the hero, having already moved outside the oikoumenē, enters the uninhabited world, the aoikētos (ad desertos in the Latin text) and comes as far as the Ocean and the Cave of Dionysus. In search of immortality, he en————— 39

40

ferent aspects of this topic (e.g. holocaust, purification sacrifice, alimentary values) see Georgoudi – Koch Piettre – Schmidt 2005; Petropoulou 2008 ; Mehl – Brulé 2008. See the discussion of earlier scholarship on the subject in Jouanno 2002, 216-217 and Gunderson 1980, 48. Bosworth 1996a, 98-132; Aubriot 2003, 237-248. On Alexander and Heracles see Koulakiotis 2006, 51-55. On Heracles as defeater of monsters see Bonnet – JourdainAnnequin – Pirenne-Delforge 1998. On Alexander and Dionysos see Edmunds 1971, 369 and 376-378; Goukowsky 1981; Bosworth 1996b. See also O’Brien 1992; Seaford 2008, 36-38.

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counters still more amazing wonders and prodigies (mirabilia et prodigia). The high point of these experiences is the Oracle of the Talking Trees at the end of the world, through which the hero finds out about his future death and where he is also called upon to return.41 The author emphasizes his own interest in the natural sciences and his belief in the unity of all beings. The Earth is presented as the common mother of all existing forms – plants, stones, and animate beings: ‘One must marvel at how much of good or evil produces the earth, who is the common mother of forms: plants, stones, and animate beings (fructuum metallorumque atque animalium)’ (3) (trans. Gunderson, slightly modified). The lastnamed are classed as snakes, humans, or wild animals and slotted into a system (innumerisque serpentium et hominum ferarumque generibus, 1).42 In his account, every wonder (mirabilium) is assigned to one of these classes. It seems to me that this classification is made by the criteria of locomotion – that is, animals with no legs, or two or four legs – known in the Peripatetic school.43 If these taxonomies are still more or less respected in the first part, they end up muddled in the second part. Dog-heads and mermaids appear there (73-74), as do serpents wearing precious stones on their skins (69), male and female trees that can speak Indian and Greek (48-68), and a whole petting zoo of mythological creatures from chimeras to griffins (70).44 All these beasts cause the warriors anxiety and astonishment, and they shift their community into a defensive attitude. At the edge of the inhabited world, hoplites are forced into a particular sort of conflict, namely the hunt. Nevertheless, the warriors do not go hunting. Various animals are slaughtered, to be sure, but they are not eaten. It is significant that in the Epistola only meat from domesticated animals is consumed. Here, for the most part, it is the warriors who are hunted – in an absolutely unconventional way, without a doubt – at night, full of cunning and treachery (e.g. at 27). Cunning, ————— 41

42

43 44

Cf. Ps.-Callisth. 3,17. On this episode see Stoneman 1992, 103-106; Jouanno, 2002, 316317. Cf. also Demandt 2005, 99-101. Cf. Arist. HA 487A-487B. On the not entirely unproblematic division between plants and animals see Lloyd 1996b. Aristotle’s taxonomy is neither complete nor consequent, as can be understood by the interchangeable use of the terms genos and eidos; however, eidos should be understood as part of the genos: Dumont 2001, 226-229; see also Lloyd 1991, 4-7; Kullmann 1998, 161-176; for arguments against this view see Li Causi, 2008; Franco 2008. See Bodson 2003. Specific perceptions of time, space, and climate are also part of this sort of landscape, but they cannot be discussed here; see Bologna 1997.

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too, are the barbarian leaders who ensure that the warriors end up falling into ambushes (insidias) and becoming victims (20-31, 38-39). In this menacing landscape gone wild, the struggle for survival unfolds both inside and outside the community of warriors. Encouraged by Alexander to preserve hoplite order (taxis),45 they are thereby inspired to master their own anxieties, feelings, and urges. In an early highlight, the Epistola appeals to bravery and self-control (andreia and sōphrosynē in Greek),46 for the dangers that came from women were no less menacing. Whenever mothers and sisters functioned as figures of trust and love, sexual desire outside the household (oikos) and far away from any city (polis) became fatal. The man-eating mermaids (femmes fatales, so to speak),47 who are of course reminiscent of the Sirens of the Odyssey, make sure that they not only contravene the traditional division of roles in respect to Eros (another notorious old hunter), but also have a lethal effect. The sexualization of killing is paired here with the danger of genetic hybrids, wrong ways that can occur in an extreme situation (eschatia). Through these episodes, we can ascertain the characteristics of human – Greek, of course – identity, which is obviously masculine. Everything looks as if in this fight for survival only domesticated animals could still be of help.48 It is the elephants, the mules and camels, the dromedaries, the cattle, and the horses that undertake the transportation, furnish clothing, and supply food. This is why they are cared for, since at the edge of the world they are still more helpless than men themselves. Their helplessness is further intensified by their muteness (mutis).49 While the domesticated animals, in full accord with Greek conceptions, belong to the ————— 45

46 47

48

49

‘Nevertheless I ordered that they should march armed in a column. I laid down the law that I should punish anyone who was detected in the battle-line lacking his proper insignia.’ (18) ‘… so that they would not lose heart as women do in the face of misfortune.’ (32) ‘These women suffocated my men while they, ignorant of the area, were swimming. They did this either by holding them in the eddies or when they were caught in the thicket of reeds. Since the women were extraordinary in appearance, the men, who were completely overcome with their fond feeling for them, the women treated violently or killed during sexual pleasure.’ (73-74) ‘Indeed there were following me about 1000 elephants of great size which were carrying gold, 400 four-horse-cars, all of them scythe-bearing, 1200 two-horse cars, squadrons of cavalry to the number of 20,000 men, 250,000 infantry men under arms, about 2000 camp mules for carrying the soldier’s baggage, 2000 dromedary camels and oxen which carried grain, and a large number of cattle for supplying daily meat.’ (16) Cf. Arist. Pol. 1256B15-23. On a sort of contrat social between men and animals see Gilhus 2006, 2226. See also Durand 1979. ‘Yet I was more upset for the mute animals (pro mutis animalibus) than our want.’ (15)

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inarticulate components of everyday life (just like the nameless slaves whom the Epistola mentions only briefly at 25, by the way), things are different in the mirabilia. In the first part of the Epistola, beasts are characterized by every sort of noise, from the hissing of snakes and the grunting of hippopotamuses to the flitting of bats.50 Then, in the second part, they articulate themselves in their own voice. All the same, a voice (phōnē) which resounds from speaking trees is still a prodigy (prodigium) that can seldom betoken good.51 The prophetic logos of the trees makes the hysteron into a proteron as prophecy, and draws the past out of the future. Although the episode is reminiscent of the oracle of Zeus at Dodona, where the god speaks through the rustling of the leaves of the sacred oak tree, the context here turns out to be altogether different. At the end of the first part of the Epistola (ultimis oris, 35), the author has Alexander reach the golden monuments of Heracles and Dionysus, which were regarded as the furthest road markers of the inhabited world. He drills into these monuments in order to ascertain what they are made of and in so doing almost commits sacrilege, whereupon he has sacrifices offered to the two gods so as to win their favour.52 Everything necessary for sacrifices is on hand (cattle, wine, grain), and Alexander succeeds in earning this favour in an initial stage, having appeased the gods (placavi).53 But the king wants to top Dionysus and Heracles in geographical terms and become a divinity himself. As the Epistola has Alexander write, ‘since no one dared to try to go further than Heracles and Liber, the most sublime gods, had gone, I would appear so much greater to the locals if I went beyond their sacred footsteps than in a passion characteristic of mortal men’ (36). For this reason and for no other, he begins his pilgrimage to the end of the world and still further beyond in the second part of the Epistola.54 Alexander, despite his enlightened state, is nevertheless quite aware of his own hybris and the wrath of the gods. As soon as he and his army end up in the ————— 50 51

52 53

54

Cf. 24: ‘the whole area was hissing.’ Cf. Cassin 1996, 1024. In Ps.-Callisth. 3,28 it is a bird that fulfils this function, advising Alexander to turn back. Cf. Burkert 1984. ‘I placated (placavi) Dionysus and Heracles with sacrificial victims’ (35); ‘I arrived in his [Poros’] camp as some merchand of wine and meat’ (33); ‘there were following … and two thousand oxen which carried grain, and a large number of cattle for supplying daily meat’ (16). Cf. 68 (‘In fact the Indians, who tend the shrines of the gods towards ocean, said that I was also immortal since I was able to penetrate all the way to that point’), and 78 (‘so that my immortality would be perpetual’). On the role of the Indians in Alexander’s deification see Bosworth 1996b.

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greatest of difficulties because of the equinoctial tempests, he raises the question of ‘whether the gods’ wrath was afflicting us because I, a man, had tried to go beyond the footsteps of Heracles and Liber.’ (41)55 Alexander receives a preliminary answer to this question on his visit to the Cave of Dionysus.56 There, a sort of katabasis is attempted in order to find out the future; this fails, however, ‘since it was not possible to enter the cave contrary to religious ceremony and without gifts.’ (44)57 The ritual was not performed, the sacrifice was not offered. For this reason, Alexander’s prayer to the gods was not acceptable and his wish was not granted, as he observes: I kept praying in humble entreaty to the divine powers to send me back as king of the entire world triumphant with magnificent trophies to my mother Olympias in Macedonia. That I was seeking this in vain (frustra), I learned in the following way.’ (45) He will not receive the final answer until towards the end of the second part. The answer will be delivered by the Oracle of the Trees, and their message will devastate him: there would be no mercy for the world ruler. He would indeed have to die presently – to be exact, by the hand of his closest friends, in the way it is described in the rest of the Alexander Romance.58 Before the oracle is consulted, however, the priest in charge of the trees bars Alexander from offering a sacrifice to this sacred grove; instead, he is allowed to kiss the trees as a substitute offering.59 Has something like a pre-civilized Golden Age dawned here, in which killing is no longer permitted and meat is not consumed any more? Here, Alexander also becomes acquainted with the most rigid vegans of antiquity, who nourished themselves only by the trees’ resinous incense.60 According to the ancient conception, though, offering a ————— 55 56 57

58 59

60

See also Gunderson 1980, 127-128. On this episode see Jouanno 2002, 217. Cf. also Egelhaaf – Rüpke 2000; Ustinova 2008. For different versions of this passage see Boer 1973, 37. On religio see Bremmer 1998, 10-14. See Stoneman 2008, 190. ‘Both when I decided to make a sacrifice and to slay sacrificial victims, I was prohibited by the priest. He said that it was not permissible to burn frankincence in this shrine or to kill any animal, but [he admonished us] after we humbled ourselves, to kiss the trunks of the trees and to beg the sun and the moon to give me truthful answers.’ (56) On tree cult in India see Curt. 8,9,34. On the Indian philosophers in the Alexander Romance see Stoneman 1995. Oracle sanctuaries are often described as similar to a paradise. See Graf 1993. On food and eating at the edge of the world see Vernant 1979.

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sacrifice (which was a prerequisite for an oracle)61 was not killing,62 but that makes no difference to the fact that the domesticated63 animals are banned from one of their most important functions: the bond between gods and men cannot now be guaranteed because the world conqueror himself is in any event pretending to be immortal. As well, the bond connecting men to one another is called into question when, after consulting the oracle, Alexander refuses to partake of the common meal (‘though we returned to the banquet right away, because I was sick at heart, I went to rest’, 62). He thereby offends against the rules of the commensality that was usual after important religious acts.64 In the second part of the Epistola, Alexander therefore seems to have committed a whole string of offences (acts of hybris) against myth and ritual, for which he deserves death, not immortality. In my opinion, there is one episode of the expanded Alexander legend that belongs in this context. The fictional accounts of Alexander represent various versions of a myth and, in the long run, preserve their mythographic character as well. If someone wants to investigate the structures of a myth, he should compare all the versions of it. As an example of this, I would like to mention an episode that is related also to other oriental heroes and that appears only in the later versions of the Alexander Romance, concerning the search for the source of eternal life. In this sequence, which takes place in the land of darkness, Alexander searches for the spring which bestows immortality on the first person to drink from or bathe in its waters. This accomplishment, however, belongs to Alexander’s cook, who in one version bears the symbolic name of Andreas, ‘(virile) man’. While he was cleaning dried fish (tarichos) in a spring, the fish became alive again.65 Andreas then drank of the water of this spring and, unfortunately for Alexander, won immortality for himself. In the ancient Greek text, Andreas is described as a mageiros – a cook. However, the mageiros was also the individual who, during the sacrificial ritual, divided up the animal and prepared it for sacrifice.66 I cannot resist the temptation to connect Andreas’ function as mageiros with the sacrificial ritual in the Epistola presented above, although, admittedly, fish are by no means customary sacrificial animals and here we have no clear sacrificial context. At the moment, I can only explain it as an ————— 61 62 63 64 65

66

See Vernant 1974; Burkert 2005. Cf. also Petropoulou 1984, 8; 160. See Vernant and Detienne 1979; Henrichs 1992, 155-158. On the role of wild and domesticated animals in sacrifice ritual see Schörner 2008. Burkert 1997, 104; 342. On this episode and its connection with Egyptian practices of immortalization see Nagy 1990, 271-272. See Berthiaume 1982.

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indication of problematic communication with the world of the gods and the animals in a land where everything seems to be upside down. Before I conclude, I would like to make a final remark about the style of this work. The Epistola is a multifaceted text that blends the most diverse literary genres and presents them as an engaging unity. Elements of zoological essays, ethnographic reports, and metaphysical tales are combined to portray Alexander as a ‘master of wonders’. One could go on and on about the symbolic or historical interpretation of every single episode, but I believe that one of the author’s main objectives should be sought in the fact that he wanted a magnificent panorama of creation in all its luxuriance to unfold before the mind’s eye of his readers. At the same time, however, the texture of the letter is permeated by a latent vanity-of-vanities symbolism that envisions every would-be Alexander as its addressee, and that characterizes also the text of Pseudo-Callisthenes.67 In addition, the author of the Epistola does not lack a certain sense of irony: if one considers that, according to a persistent rumour, Aristotle was thought to be the poisoner of Alexander,68 then an Alexander who reveals the secret of his own death to his murderer can, in his naïveté, almost make one feel sorry for him.

IV To sum up, let us sketch an outline of this most remarkable offshoot of the myth-making surrounding Alexander, which is itself not exactly poor in curiosities. If we attempt to supply a conclusive answer to the questions posed at the beginning of this paper – those of the basic way to interpret the Epistola Alexandri ad Aristotelem, its relation with different literary genres (geography, historiography, zoology), its role within the Alexander Romance, and finally its performativity – it turns out that in a piece of writing in which violence and bestiality seem to be omnipresent, the categories of ‘hunting’ and ‘sacrifice’ carry the greatest weight, hermeneutically speaking, and are the most fruitful. Relations with fauna and flora as well as with the world of the gods, and especially the categories of hunting, sacrificial ritual, and oracle consultation, are taken up dialectically one after another in order to evoke civilizing conceptions of physicality and removal of boundaries, of sentiment and sex, of myth and ritual. Such themes are central also in the Alexander Romance. ————— 67 68

Cf. Ps.-Callisth. 2,22. Koulakiotis 2006, 83-84.

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Whereas Pseudo-Callisthenes’ Alexander is depicted as the master of the world (kosmokratōr), by the influence of the Epistola this image is enlarged. The Alexander portrayed in the Epistola is now also the ‘master of wonders’. And by leaving the footsteps of Dionysus and Heracles behind, Alexander became, in addition, the ‘master of animals’, be these animals real or symbolic. As Michael Paschalis has argued in a recent study,69 the literal or metaphorical taming of domesticated animals, especially horses and bulls, played an important role in Alexander’s way to the world conquest as depicted in the Alexander Romance and the work of the Alexander historians. In the Epistola it is the beasts’ turn to be tamed. Yet this did not happen for nothing. To attain this status, the world ruler went into a zone in which important social practices and religious conceptions were inverted or attacked. Consequently, transgressions and offences of this sort have to do with a zone that recognizes utopias and dystopias, but no proper political community. Still worse, the confusion that reigns there could not permit a political community to arise. Upon the cognitive ‘disenchantment’ of the East, therefore, follows a second disenchantment of a political kind, according to which – and this could count as the author’s political mission – the military control of these exotic lands is not only dangerous to every interloper but, in the long run, useless, since a political life in the Aristotelian sense is impossible there.70 In this way the Epistola marks in its own way an important caveat in the imitatio Alexandri.71

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Henrichs, A. 1998. ‘Dromena und legomena’, in: Graf 1998, 33-71. Infurna, M. 1995. ‘Alessandro viaggiatore medievale’, in: F. Rosa – F. Zambon (eds.), Pothos. Il viaggio, la nostalgia, Trento: Dipartimento di Scienze Filologiche e Storiche, 165-187. Jacob, C. 1995. ‘L’Inde imaginaire des géographes alexandrins’, in: Carriere – Geny – Mactoux – Paul-Lévy 1995, 61-80. Johnston, S. (ed.) 2004. Religions of the Ancient World. A Guide, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Johnston, S. 2005. ‘Introduction’, in: Johnston – Struck 2005, 1-28. Johnston, S. – Struck, P. (ed.) 2005. Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination, Leiden – Boston: Brill. Jouanno, C. 2002. Naissance et métamorphoses du Roman d’Alexandre (Domaine grec), Paris: CNRS Éditions. Kartunnen, K. 1989. India and the Hellenistic World. Studia Orientalia 65, Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. König, J. – Whitmarsh, T. (eds.) 2007. Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Koulakiotis, E. 2005. ‘Domination et résistance dans la cour d’Alexandre: le cas des basilikoi paides’, in: V. Anastasiadis – P. Doukellis (eds.), Esclavage antique et discriminations socio-culturelles. Actes du XXVIIIe Colloque International du Groupement International de Recherche sur l’Esclavage Antique, Mytilène, 5-7 décembre 2003, Peter Lang: Bern, 167-182. Koulakiotis, E. 2006. Genese und Metamorphosen des Alexandermythos im Spiegel der nichthistoriographischen Überlieferung bis zum 3. Jh. n. Chr. Xenia 47, Konstanz: Universitätsverlag. Koulakiotis, E. 2008. ‘Tiere, Menschen und Götter in der Epistola Alexandri ad Aristotelem: Jagd und Opferritual am Rande der Welt’, in: Alexandridis – Wild – Winkler-Horaček 2008, 417-438. Krell, D. F. 1988. ‘‘Knowledge is remembrance’: Diotima’s instruction at Symposium 207 c 8-208 b 6’, in: Benjamin 1988, 160-172. Kroll, W. (ed.) 1926. Historia Alexandri Magni (Pseudo-Callisthenes) I. Recensio Vetusta, Berlin: Weidmann. Kullmann, W. 1980. ‘Der Mensch als politisches Lebewesen bei Aristoteles’, Hermes 108, 419-433. Kullmann, W. 1998. Aristoteles und die moderne Wissenschaft, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Labarrière, J.-L. 2004. ‘Phantasia’, Mètis n.s. 2, 189-191. Lenfant, D. 1999. ‘Monsters in Greek ethnography and society in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE’, in: Buxton 1999, 197-214. Lenfant, D. 2004. Ctésias de Cnide. La Perse. L’Inde. Autres fragments, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Li Causi, P. 2008. ‘Generare in commune. L’ibrido e la costruzione dell’uomo nel mondo greco’, in: Alexandridis – Wild – Winkler-Horaček 2008, 441-464. Llewelyn, J. 1988. ‘On the saying that philosophy begins in thaumazein’, in: Benjamin 1988, 173-191. Lloyd, G. 1983. Science, Folklore and Ideology. Studies in the Life Sciences in Ancient Greece, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Lloyd, G. 1991. ‘The development of Aristotle’s theory of the classification of animals’, in: G. Lloyd (ed.), Methods and Problems in Greek Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1-27. Lloyd, G. 1996a. ‘Observation et recherche’ in: Brunschwig – Lloyd 1996, 250-275. Lloyd, G. 1996b. ‘Fuzzy natures?’, in: G. Lloyd (ed.), Aristotelian explorations, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 67-82. Lloyd, G. 1997. ‘Les animaux de l’antiquité étaient bons à penser. Quelques points de comparaisons entre Aristote et Huainanzi’, in: Cassin – Labarrière – Romeyer Dherbey 1997, 545-562. Loraux, N. 1981. ‘La cité comme cuisine et comme partage’, Annales ESC 36, 614-622. Mehl, V. – Brulé, P. (eds.) 2008. Le sacrifice antique. Vestiges, procédures et stratégies, Rennes: Presse Universitaire. Merkelbach, R. 19772. Die Quellen des griechischen Alexanderromans (unter Mitarbeit von J. Trümpf), Zetemata 9, München: Beck. Meuli, K. 1975. ‘Griechische Opferbräuche’, in: K. Meuli (ed.), Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 2, Basel – Stuttgart: Schwabe & Co, 907-1021. Morello, R. – Morrison, A.D. (eds) 2007. Ancient Letters, Classical and Late Epistolography, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nagy, G. 1990. Pindar’s Homer: The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past, London-Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Nicolet, C. 1991. Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. O’Brien, J. 1992. Alexander the Great. The Invisible Enemy, London – New York: Routledge. Parker, G. 2008. The Making of Roman India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Paschalis, M. 2007. ‘The Greek and Latin Alexander Romance: comparative readings’, in: M. Paschalis – S. Frangoulidis – S. Harrison – M. Zimmerman (eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel. Parallel Readings, AN Suppl. 8, Groningen: Barkhuis, 70-102. Patinaud, F. 2004. ‘Inde imaginaire’, in: Battistini – Charvet 2004, 756-760. Pédech, P. 1975. ‘Le paysage chez les historiens d’Alexandre’, QS 1, 1-14. Pédech, P. 1977. ‘Les historiens d’Alexandre’, in: T. Reeckmans – E. van’t Dack – E. Verdin (eds.), Historiographia Antiqua. Commentationes Lovanienses in honorem W. Peremans septuagentarii editae, 119-131, Leuven: Leuven University Press. Pédech, P. 1984. Historiens Compagnons d’Alexandre, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Petropoulou, A. 1984. Studies in Greek Cult and Sacrificial Ritual, PhD Thesis, University of Colorado at Boulder: University Microfilms International. Petropoulou, M.-Z. 2008. Animal Sacrifice in Ancient Greek Religion, Judaism, and Christianity, 100 BC-AD 200, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pfister, F. (ed.) 1910. Kleine Texte zum Alexanderroman. Commonitorium Palladii, Briefwechsel zwischen Alexander und Dindimus, Brief Alexanders über die wunder Indiens, Heidelberg: Winter. Pfister, F. 1939. ‘Zur Epistola Alexandri ad Aristotelem’, AC 8, 409-412. Pfister, F. 1961. ‘Das Alexander-Archiv und die hellenistisch-römische Wissenschaft’, Historia 12, 30-67. Prandi, L. 1996. Fortuna e realtà dell’opera di Clitarco, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rivaud, C. 1999. Les relations entre le monde indien et l’Empire romain. Une introduction, Paris: L’Harmattan. Romm, J. 1989. ‘Aristotle’s elephant and the myth of Alexander’s scientific patronage’, AJPh 110, 566-575.

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The Divided Cloak in the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri: Further Thoughts S TELIOS P ANAYOTAKIS University of Crete, Rethymnon

In the introduction to his edition of the Narratio eorum quae contigerunt Apollonio Tyrio (Augsburg, 1595) Markward Welser, relying on some of the Greek loanwords found in the text (tribunarium, sabanum, apodixin, aporiatus), firmly stated that the anonymous Latin narrative he was editing, now acknowledged as a ‘mixed text’ or derived recension of the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri, was a translation of a Greek original.1 His argument does not convince because, on the one hand, it does not take into account that the majority of the specific Greek loanwords had already been established in the Latin vocabulary by the late fifth or early sixth century A.D., when the earliest extant versions of the Historia Apollonii, also known as principal recensions A and B, were composed;2 on the other, it fails to acknowledge that Grecisms, either lexical or syntactical, found in a Latin text constitute important evidence for the stylistic register, not the origins, of the literary composition.3 Nonetheless, Welser’s list is of interest, since it comprises words which stand for the different linguistic and literary traditions that coexist in the Historia Apollonii, namely Greek (tribunarium) and late Latin (apodixis, sabanum), pagan and Christian (aporiatus). It is unfortunate that this diversity has, too often since Welser, been emphasized as an indication of a cor————— 1

2

3

Welser 1595, 679: ‘De auctore vix hoc solum afferimus, graece scripsisse, nam id multis se aperit indiciis, uno maxime, quod Latinus interpres aliqua prioris sermonis verba retinuit, tribunarium pro veste sordida, quae Graecis τρίβων est, sabanum pro balneari linteo, apodixin pro specimine, aporiatum pro turbato dixit’. For the importance of Welser’s edition see Kortekaas 1984, 17, 108, and 135; Archibald 1991, 205. For the terms sabanum, apodixis, and aporiatus see e.g. Kortekaas 1984, 99-100, 105, 117. See e.g. Coleman 1999, 45-47, 63-64; Meyer 1999, 157-182; Adams 2005, 93-94. Echoing Narratives, 185–199

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rupt text rather than as a means of understanding a literary product in its late antique context. Much as he was looking in the wrong direction in his evaluation of the Historia Apollonii, Welser perceptively pointed out the word tribunarium as a remnant of an alleged Greek original; indeed, this Latin term, which corresponds to the Greek noun τριβωνάριον (Souter 1946, s.v.), is a hapax, and is still viewed as strong, though not decisive, evidence that the alleged predecessor of the Latin Historia Apollonii was a Greek fictional text. The view expressed on this matter by the most recent editor of the Historia Apollonii, though originally moderate (‘here again one cannot preclude the possibility of its [sc. tribunarium] having been used by a Latin author to evoke ‘couleur locale,’ perhaps actuated by a Greek model’), has become positively firm (‘a word that clearly points to a Greek origin’).4 It is my aim in this article to demonstrate that the term tribunarium deserves our attention not merely for its value as linguistic evidence, but also for its connotations of a ‘philosophical’ background, which (I would like to argue) affects our reading of Apollonius’ early adventures. I shall first review the context in which the term under examination (and the object to which it refers) occurs, and then briefly present previous scholarly treatments of the episode. Fleeing the wrath of the incestuous king Antiochus, Apollonius, the prince of Tyre, is shipwrecked on the shores of Pentapolis, and is rescued by an aged fisherman. Their encounter is described as follows: Et cum sibimet ipsi increparet, subito animadvertens vidit quendam grandaevum, sago sordido circumdatum. Et prosternens se illius ad pedes effusis lacrimis ait: ‘Miserere mei, quicumque es, succurre naufrago et egeno, non humilibus natalibus genito. Et ut scias, cui miserearis: ego sum Tyrius Apollonius, patriae meae princeps. Audi nunc tragoediam calamitatis meae, qui modo genibus tuis provolutus deprecor vitae auxilium. Praesta mihi, ut vivam.’ Itaque piscator, ut vidit primam speciem iuvenis, misericordia motus erigit eum et tenens manum eius duxit eum intra tecta parietum domus suae et posuit epulas, quas potuit. Et ut plenius misericordiae suae satisfaceret, exuens se tribunarium suum, scindit eum in duas partes aequaliter et dedit unam iuveni dicens: ‘Tolle hoc, quod habeo et vade in civitatem: forsitan invenies, qui tibi misereatur. Et si non inveneris, huc revertere et mecum laborabis et piscabis: paupertas, quaecumque est, sufficiet nobis. Illud tamen admoneo ————— 4

See, respectively, Kortekaas 1984, 240 n.594; 2007, 162.

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te, ut, si quando deo adveniente redditus fueris natalibus tuis, et tu respicias tribulationem paupertatis meae.’ Cui Apollonius ait: ‘Nisi meminero tui, iterum naufragium patiar nec tui similem inveniam!’ (RA 12,826)5 While he was complaining to himself, he suddenly noticed an elderly man wearing a dirty cloak. Apollonius threw himself at his feet and said, weeping: ‘Have pity on me, whoever you are! Help a destitute, shipwrecked man, who is not of lowly birth. So that you know on whom you are taking pity, I am Apollonius of Tyre, prince of my country. Listen to the tragedy of the misfortunes of the man who has fallen at your knees and is begging for help to stay alive. Help me to survive.’ When he saw the handsome appearance of the young man, the fisherman was touched by pity. He raised him up, led him by the hand into the shelter of the walls of his own house, and served him the best food that he could. And to satisfy his sense of compassion more fully he took off his cloak, cut it into equal halves, and gave one to the young man, saying: ‘Take what I have, and go into the city. Perhaps you will find someone who will take pity on you. And if you do not find anyone, come back here, and you shall work and fish with me: however poor I may be, there will be enough for us. But I give you this warning: if ever through God’s favour you are restored to your birthright, be sure to remember my suffering and my poverty.’ Apollonius said to him: ‘If I do not remember you, may I be shipwrecked again, and not find anyone like you!’ (trans. E. Archibald) The helpful fisherman is a familiar figure in myth and literature (e.g. Dictys in the legend of Perseus, Gorgines in Plautus’ Vidularia). His treatment of the shipwrecked Apollonius corresponds not only to the hospitality of a poor host, exemplified in Eumaeus’ treatment of the beggar Odysseus or in Hecale’s reception of Theseus, both praised in Dio Chrysostom (Or. 7,81-83) and Julian (Ep. 186 Bidez) respectively, but also to similar injunctions found in the Bible (e.g. Is. 58,7; II Cor. 8,2).6 For some scholars, on the other hand, the encounter between the shipwrecked prince and the poor fisherman is modelled after an episode in the novel of Xenophon of Ephesus, namely the ————— 5

6

Textual citations of the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri are from Kortekaas 2004. All references are from the earliest Latin version, recension A, and give chapter and line number(s). Bold characters in the Latin text indicate differences from Kortekaas’ edition. For a detailed treatment of this character, see my forthcoming commentary.

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encounter between the hero Habrocomes and the fisherman Aegialeus, which takes place during the wanderings of the hero in Syracuse while in search of his beloved Anthia.7 Καὶ δὴ ἐνοικίζεται πλησίον τῆς θαλάσσης παρὰ ἀνδρὶ Αἰγιαλεῖ πρεσβύτῃ, ἁλιεῖ τὴν τέχνην. Οὗτος ὁ Αἰγιαλεὺς πένης μὲν ἦν καὶ ξένος καὶ ἀγαπητῶς αὑτὸν διέτρεφεν ἐκ τῆς τέχνης· ὑπεδέξατο δὲ τὸν Ἁβροκόμην ἄσμενος καὶ παῖδα ἐνόμιζεν αὑτοῦ καὶ ἠγάπα διαφερόντως. (X. Eph. 5,1,2) So he took lodgings near the sea with an old man, Aegialeus, a fisherman by trade. This man was a poor stranger who just scraped a living from his work. But he gladly took Habrocomes in, treated him as his own son, and was exceptionally kind to him. (trans. G. Anderson) To adduce this passage from the novel of Xenophon of Ephesus as the (Greek) model for the episode in the Historia Apollonii is to miss the point in the discussion; for what sets the scene in question apart as an ‘objectcentred story’8 is neither the character of the merciful fisherman nor his humble hospitality, but its culmination in the act of dividing his cloak. The same argumentation can be employed in relation to another episode from ancient fiction, which has been viewed as an alternative (Latin) model for the incident with the fisherman and his cloak, namely the encounter between Aristomenes and his friend Socrates in the first book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, in which Aristomenes describes his effort to look after his wretched friend, once a wealthy family man, now a beggar and a victim of the magical powers of the inn-keeper Meroe.9 Effeci sequatur, et simul unam e duabus laciniis meis exuo eumque propere vestio dicam an contego et ilico lavacro trado. Quod unctui, quod tersui, ipse praeministro, sordium enormem inluviem operose effrico; probe curato, ad hospitium, lassus ipse, fatigatum aegerrime sustinens perduco, lectulo refoveo, cibo satio, poculo mitigo, fabulis permulceo. (Apul. Met. 1,7,2-3) ————— 7 8

9

See e.g. Rohde 19143, 440-441; Garin 1914, 202. Pizarro 1989, 173-211 discusses object-centred stories in late antique and early Medieval literature. Unfortunately, our passage is not included. Klebs 1899, 189.

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I made him come along with me, and I took off one of my two garments and hastily clothed him, or should I say covered him up. Then I took him straight to the baths, myself furnished the materials for oiling and drying him, and with effort scraped off his immense crust of filth. When this had been properly attended to, I brought him to an inn, supporting his exhausted body with great difficulty, since I too was tired. I put him to rest on a bed, filled him with food, relaxed him with wine, and soothed him with talk. (trans. J.A. Hanson, LCL) In this case there are no strong thematic or verbal similarities between the passage in the Historia Apollonii and the episode in Apuleius which may suggest direct influence, although the Apuleian passage intriguingly includes the sharing of a person’s clothes with a naked man,10 which echoes John the Baptist’s words in Luke 3,11 ‘Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise’ (Vulg. Qui habet duas tunicas, det alteram non habenti; et qui habet escas, similiter faciat).11 Nevertheless, unlike the scene in the Historia Apollonii which deals with two strangers and one garment divided into two halves, in Apuleius the situation involves two garments and two friends. Scholars who suggest the passages from Xenophon of Ephesus and Apuleius as models for the scene of the divided cloak in the Historia Apollonii aim not only at relating the late Latin text to a Greek or a Latin novel, and accordingly to a Greek or a Latin literary tradition, but also at refuting possible connections of this text with other late antique, especially Christian, narratives. The latter view is particularly strong as far as our episode is concerned, since many scholars, including Alexander Riese, twice an editor of the Historia Apollonii in the Teubner series and a strong proponent of the theory of the Greek original, are struck by the resemblance between the passage under discussion and the celebrated act of charity performed by the young St. Martin, who as a soldier gives half of his military cloak to an old beggar freezing outside the gate at Amiens;12 in his biography of St. Martin the late fourth century author Sulpicius Severus provides the earliest literary account of this popular legend that was widely imitated in later literature and art:13 ————— 10 11 12

13

Keulen 2007, 179 observes that this is a recurrent pattern in the Metamorphoses. All translations of Biblical passages are from Kee 1993. Riese 1893, XVIII: ‘Ceterum interpres latinus omnino libere et ultimae antiquitatis Romanis accommodate rem tractavit. Sic piscatorem dimidiam sagi partem Apollonio naufrago dantem [...] ad Sancti Martini exemplum [...] conformavit.’ On the interpretation and the literary afterlife of this episode see Fontaine 1968 ad loc.; Devos 1975; Labarre 1998, 147-159.

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Quodam itaque tempore, cum iam nihil praeter arma et simplicem militiae vestem haberet, media hieme, quae solito asperior inhorruerat, adeo ut plerosque vis algoris exstingueret, obvium habet in porta Ambianensium civitatis pauperem nudum: qui cum praetereuntes ut sui misererentur oraret omnesque miserum praeterirent, intellegit vir Deo plenus sibi illum, aliis misericordiam non praestantibus, reservari. Quid tamen ageret? Nihil praeter chlamydem, qua indutus erat, habebat: iam enim reliqua in opus simile consumpserat. Arrepto itaque ferro, quo accinctus erat, mediam dividit partemque eius pauperi tribuit, reliqua rursus induitur. Interea de circumstantibus ridere nonnulli, quia deformis esse truncatus habitu videretur: multi tamen, quibus erat mens sanior, altius gemere, quod nihil simile fecissent, cum utique plus habentes vestire pauperem sine sui nuditate potuissent. Nocte igitur insecuta, cum se sopori dedisset, vidit Christum chlamydis suae, qua pauperem texerat, parte vestitum. Intueri diligentissime Dominum vestemque, quam dederat, iubetur agnoscere. mox ad angelorum circumstantium multitudinem audit Iesum clara voce dicentem: “Martinus adhuc catechumenus hic me veste contexit”. (Sulp. Sev. Vit. Mart. 3,1-3) One day, then, in the middle of a winter more bitterly cold than usual (so much so that many perished as a result of the severity of the icy weather), when Martin had nothing with him apart from his weapons and a simple military cloak, he came across a naked beggar at the city of Amiens. The man begged the people who were passing to have pity on him but they all walked past him. Then Martin, who was filled with God’s grace, understood that this man had been reserved for him, since the others were not showing him any mercy. But what was he to do? He had nothing apart from the cloak he was wearing, for he had already used up the rest of his things for a similar purpose. So he seized the sword, which he wore at his side, divided the cloak in two, gave half to the beggar, and then put the remaining piece on again. Some of the bystanders began to laugh because he looked odd with his chopped-up cloak, but many who were more sensible sighed deeply because they had not done the same despite the fact that, because they had more than Martin, they could have clothed the beggar without themselves being reduced to nakedness. The following night, therefore, when Martin had fallen asleep, he saw Christ clothed in the part of his cloak which he had used to cover the beggar. He was told to look very carefully at the Lord and to recognize the clothing which he had given. Then he heard Jesus

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saying in a clear voice to the host of angels standing all around ‘Martin who is still a catechumen covered me with this cloak.’ (trans. C. White) Riese’s view that the motif of the divided cloak was inserted in the Historia Apollonii during the process of the translation/adaptation and ‘Christianization’ of the text has generally been adopted and used for purposes of dating the Latin romance (after 397),14 although scholars are inclined to notice the similarities rather than the differences between the two narratives. An exception is Lana, who discusses theme and language in the two episodes without explicitly arguing for any dependence, and concludes that these late Latin narratives share nothing more than the same motif; for the rest, he argues, these narratives are products of entirely different mentalities – the romance is directed towards the earthly kingdom, the biography towards the heavenly one – and project radically different visions of the world.15 Robins has recently revisited the suggestion of a direct connection between the two texts. Relying, on the one hand, on a detailed structural and verbal analysis of the episodes, and, on the other, on a discussion about the literary controversies among Latin ascetic writers at the end of the fourth and the beginning of the fifth century A.D., Robins suggests that the romance functioned as the model for the biography, rather than the other way around.16 His view has been rejected by Kortekaas, who points out that the motif of the divided cloak was also known in Greek pagan literature (Lucian, Toxaris 30; see below) and therewith concludes: ‘the change of RA from a Greek text into a Latin one need not have been radical.’17 Moreover, to describe St. Martin’s garment Sulpicius Severus uses chlamys, a term of Greek origin for a garment frequently found in military use in Latin literature, but also employed as a Roman imperial symbol and related to the iconography of Christ βασιλεύς.18 Whereas the terminology used for the gesture of dividing the chlamys in Sulpicius Severus (Mart. 3,2 mediam dividit partemque eius pauperi tribuit) evokes passages from both Classical and Biblical literary tradition,19 the ————— 14 15 16

17 18 19

See e.g. Mazza 1985, 605 n.16 and 623. Lana 1975, 60-69. Robins 2000, 548-554, esp. p. 553: ‘Given the nature of the textual correspondences and given all that we know about Sulpicius’ religious ideals and literary practices, the hypothesis that Sulpicius Severus is here invoking and polemically transforming the shipwreck scene from the Historia Apollonii is persuasive.’ Kortekaas 2004, 21-22 n.23. See e.g. Fontaine 1968, 482-484, 492. Fontaine 1968, 484-485 points to e.g. Verg. Aen. 9,750 mediam ferro ... frontem diuidit; Vulg. Psalm. 12,6 cantabo Domino qui bona tribuit mihi.

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same gesture in the Historia Apollonii (RA 12,18-20 scindit eum in duas partes aequaliter et dedit unam iuveni) is phrased in (almost) exclusively Biblical language; see Vulg. IV Regn. 2,12 (Elijah ascends to heaven) ‘But when he (sc. Elisha) could no longer see him (sc. Elijah), he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces (adprehenditque vestimenta sua et scidit illa in duas partes)’, and Matth. 27,51 (the death of Jesus) ‘At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two (velum templi scissum est in duas partes), from top to bottom’.20 In an intriguing passage Jerome comments upon a custom derived from the misinterpretation of the Scripture, ‘si videris nudum, operi’ (Is. 58,7) and ‘Qui habet duas tunicas, det alteram non habenti’ (Luc. 3,11). Jerome’s comment (Non enim unam iussit scindi et dividi, quod multi popularis aurae causa faciunt, sed alteram non servari (in Is. 16,58,7) ‘he did not command that a single cloak should be split and shared, such as many people do for reasons of popularity, but he commanded not to reserve a second cloak’) is possibly a veiled criticism against Sulpicius Severus, but Robins acutely observes the combination of scindi et dividi, the two verbs that feature in both of the parallel episodes in the romance of Apollonius and the Life of Saint Martin. As Robins argues, the dismissal of the motif of cloak-sharing as unfit for the exemplary purposes of Christian edification may indicate Jerome’s familiarity with, and disapproval of, the shipwreck scene from the Historia Apollonii.21 The passage from Lucian’s Toxaris, a dialogue which was possibly intended to satirize the theme of idealized friendship as depicted in ‘ideal’ novels, features Demetrius, a student of Cynic philosophy, who finds his friend Antiphilus unjustly imprisoned and, ‘like St. Martin’, cuts his cloak in two and shares it with him:22 Χρόνῳ δὲ ἀναλαβὼν αὑτόν τε καὶ τὸν Ἀντίφιλον ὁ Δημήτριος καὶ σαφῶς ἕκαστα ὡς εἶχεν ἐκπυθόμενος παρ’ αὐτοῦ θαρρεῖν τε παρακελεύεται καὶ διελὼν τὸ τριβώνιον τὸ μὲν ἥμισυ αὐτὸς ἀναβάλλεται, τὸ λοιπὸν δὲ ἐκείνῳ δίδωσιν, ἃ εἶχε πιναρὰ καὶ ἐκτετρυχωμένα ῥάκη περισπάσας. καὶ τὸ ἀπὸ τούτου πάντα τρόπον συνῆν ἐπιμελούμενος αὐτοῦ καὶ θεραπεύων· παραδοὺς γὰρ ἑαυτὸν τοῖς ἐν τῷ λιμένι ἐμπόροις ἕωθεν εἰς ————— 20

21 22

For the use of aequaliter in this verbal context, see Cic. Leg. 2,6 (Fibrenus) diuisus aequaliter in duas partes; Vitr. 9,7,7 uti dies ... in duodecim partes aequaliter sit diuisus; Sen. Nat. 6,30,5 sectam esse aequaliter ... in partes duas statuam; Vulg. Deut. 19,3 in tres aequaliter partes ... prouinciam diuides. Fontaine 1968, 485 n.2; Devos 1975, 160; Stancliffe 1983, 298; Robins 2000, 554. On the Toxaris see recently Pervo 1997, 163-180, with earlier literature; he notices the similarity with the legend of St. Martin on p. 171.

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μέσην ἡμέραν οὐκ ὀλίγον ἀπέφερεν ἀχθοφορῶν. εἶτ’ ἐπανελθὼν ἂν ἐκ τοῦ ἔργου, μέρος μὲν τοῦ μισθοῦ τῷ δεσμοφύλακι καταβαλὼν τιθασὸν αὑτῷ καὶ εἰρηνικὸν ἀπειργάζετο αὐτόν, τὸ λοιπὸν δὲ εἰς τὴν τοῦ φίλου θεραπείαν ἱκανῶς αὐτῷ διήρκει. (Tox. 30-31) After a time Demetrius brought both himself and Antiphilus to their senses, and ascertained from him definitely how everything stood. Then he bade him have no fear, and tearing his short cloak in two, put on one of the halves himself and gave the remainder to Antiphilus, after stripping from him the filthy, worn-out rags that he was wearing. From that time forth, too, he shared his life in every way, attending and cherishing him; for by hiring himself out to the shipmen in the harbour from early morning until noon, he earned a good deal of money as a stevedore. Then, on returning from his work, he would give part of his pay to the keeper, thus rendering him tractable and peaceful, and the rest sufficed well enough for the maintenance of his friend. (trans. A.M. Harmon) This is an intriguing passage because, like the episode with Apollonius and the fisherman, it contains the motif of the divided cloak and the sharing of a frugal life between two men. In addition, a diminutive form of a term denoting a worn garment (τρίβων) is employed to describe the divided cloak in both episodes: it is called τριβώνιον in Lucian, and tribunarium (< τριβωνάριον) in the Historia Apollonii. Even though it is tempting to suggest direct influence of the Lucianic dialogue on our text, it is more important (I think) to understand the significance of the short cloak and of the gesture of splitting it, which goes hand in hand with the sharing of a life in poverty. For this purpose I now propose to return to the episode in the Historia Apollonii and closely examine the terminology used to describe the fisherman’s cloak and the relation of this significant object to different literary traditions. Tribunarium ‘small cloak’, as has already been stated, occurs only in the Historia Apollonii,23 but its unique character may be moderated by the fact that the related noun tribon is attested in Ausonius’ epigrams (55,1-2 Green: Pera polenta tribon baculus scyphus, arta supellex / ista fuit Cynici, ‘A knapsack, a barley pudding, a cloak, a staff, and a cup, those were the meagre accoutrements of the Cynic’, transl. N.M. Kay), which is modelled after Anth. Plan. 333 (Antiphilus of Byzantium): ἡ πήρη καὶ χλαῖνα καὶ ὕδατι ————— 23

The term occurs five times in rec. A, namely 12,19 (cited above); 13,7 exuens se tribunarium; 14,6 eum sordido tribunario coopertum; 51,13 qui ei medium suum dedit tribunarium; 51,21 cui tu dedisti dimidium tuum tribunarium.

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πιληθεῖσα / μάζα, καὶ ἡ πρὸ ποδῶν ῥάβδος ἐρειδομένη, / καὶ δέπας ἐκ κεράμοιο, σοφῷ κυνὶ μέτρα βίοιο / ἄρκια, ‘the knapsack and cloak and barley-bread uneaded with water, and the staff before his feet which he leaned on, and the earthenware cup – these were sufficient to support the life of the Cynic’ (trans. N.M. Kay).24 The Greek diminutive τριβωνάριον, after which the Latin term tribunarium is formed, is found (albeit very rarely) both in literary sources and in papyrical evidence: it is attested twice in Arrianus’ Discourses of the Stoic philosopher Epictetus, twice in Athenaeus’ citations of earlier authors including Clearchus of Soli, and is likely conjectured in a papyrus, dated to the third century A.D., which contains a description of a runaway slave (P.Oxy. 3617,12-13, ed. J.R. Rea).25 The τρίβων (a woolen short mantle) is in literature worn by the poor, the ascetic philosophers, and the Spartans,26 is ideally associated with a life of frugality and selfsufficiency (e.g. Plut. Phoc. 18,4 πένητα πρεσβύτην ἐν τριβωνίῳ ῥυπαρῷ πορευόμενον ... ἀπ’ ἐλαττόνων ἐμοῦ ζῇ καὶ ἀρκεῖται), and was characteristically worn double by the philosophers as a means of exercise against the heat and of protection against the cold; the inventor of this special custom was said to be either Antisthenes or Diogenes (Diog. Laert. 6,13; 6,22), and the folded cloak became in effect two garments (Teles p. 41,6 Hense = Stob. 4,33,31 ἐκεῖνος δὲ διπλώσας τὸν τρίβωνα περιῄει τρόπον τινὰ δύο ἱμάτια ἔχων). On the other hand, in most of its admittedly very few occurrences in literary sources the diminutive form τριβωνάριον features as an ostentatious symbol of the Cynic movement (Epict. 3,22,47-48 ‘Look at me ... I am without a home, without a city, without property, without a slave; I sleep on the ground; I have neither wife nor children, no miserable governor’s mansion, but only earth, and sky, and one rough cloak (οὐ γυνή, οὐ παιδία, οὐ πραιτωρίδιον, ἀλλὰ γῆ μόνον καὶ οὐρανὸς καὶ ἓν τριβωνάριον). Yet what do I lack? Am I not free from pain and fear, am I not free?’ trans. W.A. Oldfather, LCL), indicates unkempt appearance as opposed to elegant style (Epict. 3,23,35), and is worn by people who obsequiously imitate others (Athen. 6,258A citing Clearchus of Soli on the parasite) or pretend to follow the ideal life of a sage/philosopher (Athen. 13,565E (a reproach against the Stoics) ‘professing to clothe yourselves in the garments of independence and economy, you are discovered living squalidly at the gates of avarice, while you wrap yourselves about with worn cloaks too small for you (βουλόμενοι ————— 24 25 26

See Kay 2001, 185. See LSJ9 s.v., and Revis. Suppl. s.v. τριβωνάριον. See e.g. Schuppe in RE A 6.2, 2415-2419.

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... ἐνδύεσθαι τὴν αὐτάρκειαν καὶ τὴν εὐτέλειαν ... ῥυπαρῶς ζῶντες καὶ τριβωνάρια περιβαλλόμενοι μικρά)’, trans. C. Burton Gulick, LCL). The use of the diminutive form in a pejorative sense, found in some of the passages mentioned above, should be understood against the background of the negative criticism on the Cynic dress (τρίβων, τριβώνιον), which developed during the Imperial period and was particularly manifest in the works of Epictetus, Lucian, and the emperor Julian; however, this critique aimed at attacking sham Cynics and their way of life, not the true philosophy of Cynicism.27 Tribunarium is not the only term to describe the fisherman’s cloak in ch.12; another term, which, like the Greek loanword, conveys an exotic atmosphere, is found when the fisherman is introduced in the narrative, although the MSS disagree about the exact term:28 some manuscripts of the derived recension Rα (L, G) give sago (circumdatum), which is printed by Riese, Tsitsikli and Schmeling, while the main witness of the principal recension RA (MS P) has sacco, which is also the reading found in another manuscript from the derived recension Rα (Atr); the latter is printed by Ring and Kortekaas. The sagum (or sagus) is a Gallic loanword for a rectangular cloak of wool originally worn by Gauls and Spaniards, but later adopted in Rome as a short military cloak, also worn by country workers.29 The alternative saccus ‘sackcloth’ is a symbol of mourning, sorrow, and penitence in the Bible (e.g. Vulg. II Reg. 3,31 ‘tear your clothes, and put on sackcloth, and mourn over Abner’; Ion. 3,6 ‘when the news reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, removed his robe, covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in ashes’). Kortekaas opts for sacco, although he hesitates (he observes in the appar. crit.: sago ‘fort. lectio genuina’). He rejects the reading sago because he finds sagum ‘a military cloak’ ‘too warm for a fisherman.’30 However, this is too realistic a reading of the text, and certainly one that pays no attention to the fact that both sagum and tribunarium refer to short cloaks. Moreover, I would like to suggest, in defence of the reading sago, that the odd detail of the fisherman wearing a cloak strongly associated with the military life (cf. the expressions saga sumere, ad saga ire ‘to put on the (military) cloak, to resort to war’) may well be intended to evoke the ————— 27 28

29 30

See Goulet-Cazé 1990, 2738-2746; Billerbeck 1996, 207-208. The reader is referred to Kortekaas 1984 for the description of the MSS tradition of the Historia Apollonii. Other editions of the Historia Apollonii mentioned are the following: M. Ring (Leipzig 1871); A. Riese (Leipzig 21893); D. Tsitsikli (Königstein/Ts. 1981); G. Schmeling (Leipzig 1987). See Croom 2000, 51; Bonfante Warren 1973, 611; on Enn. Ann. see Skutsch 1985, 529. Kortekaas 2007, 162.

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episode of St. Martin’s charity, which takes place during the Saint’s military career. Nevertheless, I would like to suggest that the gesture of the divided cloak in the Historia Apollonii is significant primarily as an invitation to the simple and hard life of a philosopher, and secondarily, if at all, as the imitation of saintly compassion. The splitting of the ‘philosopher’s’ cloak into two equal parts (aequaliter) and the fisherman’s proposal to Apollonius to share a frugal life (mecum laborabis et piscabis: paupertas, quaecumque est, sufficiet nobis) are tightly interrelated, and, although they are described in terms strongly echoing Biblical passages,31 nevertheless mainly evoke the striving towards the philosophical ideal of self-sufficiency (αὐτάρκεια) and the notion of τοῖς παροῦσιν ἀρκεῖσθαι (‘to be satisfied with what is at hand’), which is a primary means of achieving virtue in ancient thought.32 However, the ideal of a simple, frugal life is problematized in this narrative and the short cloak, elsewhere associated with a superficial and ostentatious life, here too is shared by people whose ambitions and aspirations would be unthinkable for followers of true philosophy; the hero accepts the half-cloak as merely a temporary solution until he regains his royal birthright and wealth, and the fisherman dreams of a better life, devoid of the hardships related to his present condition; the latter’s dreams actually come true at the end of the story when he is generously rewarded with a royal office and a life full of riches (RA 51,21-23 Et donavit ei ducenta sestertia auri, servos et ancillas, vestes et argentum secundum cor suum, et fecit eum comitem, usque dum viveret ‘He gave him two hundred thousand gold sesterces, servants and maids, clothes and silver to his heart’s content, and made him a count for the rest of his life’).33 In his brief encounter with the fisherman, Apollonius is ————— 31

32 33

See Tobit 5,17-22 (Anna’s outburst at the departure of her son Tobias) ‘Why have you sent my boy away?’ she said to Tobit. ‘Is he not our prop and stay? Has he not always been at home with us? Why send money after money? Write it off for the sake of our boy! Let us be content to live the life the Lord has appointed for us’ (LXX ὡς γὰρ δέδοται ἡμῖν ζῆν παρὰ τοῦ κυρίου, τοῦτο ἱκανὸν ἡμῖν ὑπάρχει; Vulg. sufficiebat enim nobis paupertas nostra, ut divitias computaremus hoc, quod videbamus filium nostrum). Translation quoted from Dancy 1972, 35. For a discussion of this ideal see e.g. Vischer 1965; Malherbe 1996, 131-137. Cf. Lucian’s criticism of the Cynics in Fugitivi 20: εἶτ’ ἐπειδὰν ἱκανῶς συλλέξωνται καὶ ἐπισιτίσωνται, ἀπορρίψαντες ἐκεῖνο τὸ δύστηνον τριβώνιον ἀγροὺς ἐνίοτε καὶ ἐσθῆτας τῶν μαλθακῶν ἐπρίαντο καὶ παῖδας κομήτας καὶ συνοικίας ὅλας, μακρὰ χαίρειν φράσαντες τῇ πήρᾳ τῇ Κράτητος καὶ τῷ τρίβωνι τῷ Ἀντισθένους καὶ τῷ πίθῳ τῷ Διογένους ‘and then, when they have levied tribute and stocked themselves up to their heart’s content, throwing off that ill-conditioned philosopher’s cloak, they buy farms every now and then, and luxurious clothing, and long-haired pages, and whole apart-

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offered half of a small cloak and the perspective of a life that is nowhere near his values. It is no wonder that at nearby Pentapolis, Apollonius’ clothing is a cause of embarrassment (RA 14,12 abiecto habitu) and is replaced by more decorous garments (RA 14,12-13 dignis vestibus) at the table of the king; when the hero relates his misfortunes, the king’s daughter presents him with gold and servants as if to redress his losses, and she soon falls in love with him and marries him. The progression from shipwreck to marriage runs parallel to the loss and recovery of rank.34 The division of the fisherman’s cloak has neither meaning nor value outside the context in which it occurs, and remains a sweet memory of a hard life that is definitely gone at the end of the story (and of Apollonius’ life).35

Bibliography Adams, J.N. 2005. ‘The Bellum Africum’, in: T. Reinhardt, M. Lapidge, J.N. Adams (eds.), Aspects of the Language of Latin Prose, Oxford [Proceedings of the British Academy – 129]: Oxford University Press, 73-96. Archibald, E. 1991. Apollonius of Tyre. Medieval and Renaissance Themes and Variations, Cambridge: Brewer. Billerbeck, M. 1996. ‘The Ideal Cynic from Epictetus to Julian’, in: R. Bracht Branham – M.O. Goulet-Cazé (eds.), The Cynics: The Cynic Movement in Antiquity and Its Legacy, Berkeley: University of California Press, 205-221. Bonfante Warren, L. 1973. ‘Roman Costumes. A Glossary and Some Etruscan Derivations’, ANRW I,4, 584-614. Coleman, R.G.G. 1999. ‘Poetic Diction, Poetic Discourse and the Poetic Register’, in: J.N. Adams – R.G. Mayer (eds.), Aspects of the Language of Latin Poetry, Oxford [Proceedings of the British Academy – 93]: Oxford University Press, 21-93. Croom, A.T. 2000. Roman Clothing and Fashion, Stroud, UK: NPI Media Group. Dancy, J.C. 1972. The Shorter Books of the Apocrypha, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Devos, P. 1975. ‘Le manteau partagé. Un thème hagiographique en trois de ses variantes’, AB 93, 157-165. Fontaine, J. 1967-1969. Vie de Saint Martin, 3 vols., Paris: Editions du Cerf. Garin, F. 1914. ‘De Historia Apollonii Tyrii’, Mnemosyne 42, 198-212. Goulet-Cazé, M.-O. 1990. ‘Le cynisme à l’époque impériale’, ANRW II,36,4, 2720-2833.

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ment-houses, bidding a long farewell to the wallet of Crates, the mantle of Antisthenes, and the jar of Diogenes’ (trans. A.M. Harmon, LCL). See Robins 2000, 549-550. Early versions of this paper were presented at seminars held at Rethymno (May 2008), and at Pavia and Arezzo (October 2007), and a first version of the argument appeared in Panayotakis 2010. I wish to thank all those who offered suggestions for the style and the content of the paper on these occasions, and especially the editor of this volume for his patience.

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Welser, M. 1595. Narratio eorum quae contigerunt Apollonio Tyrio, Augustae Vindelicorum: ad insigne pinus; repr. in: Chr. Arnold (ed.), Marci Velseri Opera Historica et Philologica, Norimbergae: Typis et sumptibus Wolfgangi Mauritii, & Filiorum Johannis Andreae, Endterorum, 1682, 679-704.

Abstracts Less than Ideal Paradigms in the Greek Novel K OEN D E T EMMERMAN – K RISTOFFEL D EMOEN In an examination of earlier literature in the Greek novels, one important aspect is the novelists’ engagement with paradigms (paradeigmata/exempla). In this article, we discuss a number of paradigms in the Greek novels, ranging from implicit intertextual allusions or brief comparisons to fully fledged narratives. We adopt a narratological approach, distinguishing between the Eigenbedeutung and Ernstbedeutung of paradigms on the one hand, and between their argument function and key function on the other. Our discussion points out that the hermeneutical dynamics underlying the use of these paradigms and the ambiguity involved make problematic the widely-held idealistic reading of the novelistic protagonists.

Forensic Oratory and Rhetorical Theory in Chariton Book 5 K ONSTANTIN D OULAMIS This chapter investigates Chariton’s use of rhetoric in Book 5 of his novel Callirhoe. An examination of the structure, content, and style of the speeches delivered by Dionysius and Mithridates during the trial in Babylon brings out the influence of contemporary rhetorical theory upon this novel. Both addresses contain echoes of Attic orators who were canonically prescribed in the rhetorical treatises of the Imperial period, along with specific style-markers discussed by ancient rhetorical theorists. The novelist knowingly and self-reflexively alludes to the stylisation of the speeches under discussion in the narrative context of the trial scene, which, I argue, is primarily aimed for the entertainment of Chariton’s sophisticated, rhetorically trained reader.

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The Literary Context of Anthia’s Dream in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca M ARIA -E LPINIKI O IKONOMOU Recent decades have seen a fair number of interpretations of dreams in the ancient novel and in Xenophon of Ephesus in particular. This chapter attempts a fresh reading of Anthia’s dream, the third and final one in the Ephesiaca, by drawing both on ancient dream theory (notably Artemidorus) and dreams and dream interpretation in non-technical literature. Xenophon is shown to have constructed, in Anthia’s dream and its aftermath, a multilayered episode which sets up the concluding part of his novel as a culmination of previous events, in a sophisticated dialogue with the earlier Chariton.

Petronius and Virgil: Contextual and Intertextual Readings M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS This paper examines Satyrica 79-99 against the backdrop of the Aeneid. It attempts to show how isolated Virgilian allusions can be bridged into a sustained and meaningful subtext, especially by considering the implications of each Virgilian intertext. In addition it investigates the interaction between Homeric and Virgilian allusions: differences in diction and substance, the reasons for which Homeric scenes and episodes are ‘Virgilianized’, and the possibility of second-hand Homeric inspiration.

Platonic Love and Erotic Education in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe I AN R EPATH This chapter investigates how Longus’ novel negotiates a relationship with, and forms a commentary on, the notion of chaste, ‘Platonic’ love, arguing that the verbal and thematic allusions to Platonic texts which deal with love, in particular the Phaedrus, constitute a coherent and significant intertextuality. Longus sets his novel in the literary and philosophical world of the Phaedrus and, with a characteristic blend of humour and seriousness, alludes to Plato throughout the erotic development of his protagonists. The ignorance that leads to unfulfilling abstinence and the education that results in the consummation of Daphnis’ and Chloe’s relationship invert Plato’s philosophical ideal and replace it with a novelistic, romantic ideal.

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‘larvale simulacrum’: Platonic Socrates and the Persona of Socrates in Apuleius, Metamorphoses 1,1-19 M AEVE O’B RIEN This essay concentrates on the first episode in Apuleius’ novel, which includes a story about the character Socrates related by his friend Aristomenes. The Platonic Socrates and also discourse and Socrates (Socrates as a ‘family man’ and Socrates’ appearance) are discussed in this chapter but always in the light of how these areas of interest are used and interpreted by Apuleius. Apuleius’ Socrates is most unlike the Platonic Socrates. It is as if the very statue or image mentioned by Alcibiades in the Symposium is what Socrates becomes in the Metamorphoses, and so the phrase larvale simulacrum, ‘a pale imitation’, which is how Aristomenes describes his friend (Met. 1,6,3), aptly characterises this Apuleian variation of Socrates.

Poets and Shepherds: Philetas and Longus J.R. M ORGAN This paper explores the relationship between the character Philetas in Daphnis and Chloe and the Hellenistic poet Philitas of Kos. Previous approaches to the question are surveyed and some new connections are suggested. The point is not to use Longus as a source for expanding our knowledge of Philitas, but to speculate how our reading of the novel would be enriched if we were to accept Philitas as a hypotext. I suggest that Longus is unlikely to have been a passive reflector of Philitas. There appears to be a meta-literary dialogue between the two authors, focussing, among other things, on the interplay of simplicity and elaboration in poetry.

The Rhetoric of Otherness: Geography, Historiography and Zoology in Alexander’s Letter about India and the Alexander Romance E LIAS K OULAKIOTIS The purpose of Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle is to describe the author’s journey to India and to present a systematic exposition of the new kinds of animals found at the edge of the world. It therefore has to do with the communication of his newly acquired knowledge. The aim of this essay is to put this apocryphal letter in its broader ethnographic context and to discuss the

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ways and means that the author uses in order to articulate the substance of his communication. It is argued that this piece of utopian literature has an impact on Alexander’s image as drawn in the fictional accounts of his deeds, and that it has a strong political message as well.

The Divided Cloak in the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri: Further Thoughts S TELIOS P ANAYOTAKIS This paper revisits the episode of Apollonius’ encounter with the fisherman and the motif of the divided cloak in the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri, and argues that whereas its comparison with similar episodes from the ancient novel (Xenophon of Ephesus, Apuleius) and Christian biography (Sulpicius Severus’ Life of Martin) are misleading, Lucian’s Toxaris offers an interesting thematic parallel. The significance of the Greek loanword tribunarium in this episode lies in its capacity both to evoke a Greek ‘philosophical’ background and to indicate an idealized way of life which is mere appearance. In this function tribunarium reinforces the values of rank and riches that prevail in the narrative.

List of contributors K OEN D E T EMMERMAN , Ph.D. (2006) in Classics, is a Postdoctoral Fellow of the Research Foundation Flanders (Belgium) (F.W.O.-Vlaanderen) at the Classics Department of Ghent University. He has published on ancient rhetoric and Greek novelistic literature (details are listed at http://users. ugent.be/~kdtemmer) and is currently preparing a monograph on characterization in the ancient Greek novel. K RISTOFFEL D EMOEN , Ph.D. (1993) in Classics, is Professor of Greek Literature at Ghent University. He has published mainly on the interplay between rhetoric, literature and ideology in Late Antiquity and Byzantium, including Pagan and Biblical Exempla in Gregory Nazianzen (Brepols, 1996), and Theios Sophistes. Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii (Brill, 2009, co-edited with Danny Praet). K ONSTANTIN D OULAMIS is Lecturer in Classics and Director of the International Summer School of Greek and Latin at University College Cork. He has been working, and has published, on the ancient novels as well as on the reception of ancient Greek literature and culture in the works of the Anglo-Irish author George Moore. M ARIA -E LPINIKI O IKONOMOU read Classics at Swansea and Oxford and is teaching Classics at Howell’s School Llandaff, Cardiff. She has worked on Xenophon of Ephesus and is currently preparing an introduction to the Ancient Greek Novel for Bristol Classical Press. M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS is Professor of Classics at the University of Crete. He has written on Apuleius, Petronius, Longus, the Alexander Romance, and the reception of the novel. He co-organizes RICAN and has co-edited the volumes Space in the Ancient Novel (2002), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel (2005), The Reception of Antiquity in the Byzantine and Modern Greek Novel (2005), The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings (2007), and Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel (2009).

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I AN R EPATH is lecturer in Classics at Swansea University. He works and has published on the Greek and Roman novels, the reception of Plato and Homer in antiquity, and literary aspects of Plato. He is co-editor of Petronius: A Handbook (2009, Wiley-Blackwell, with J.R.W. Prag), and of Where the Truth Lies: Fiction and Metafiction in Ancient Narrative (forthcoming, Barkhuis, with J.R. Morgan). He is a founding member of KYKNOS, the Swansea and Lampeter Centre for Research in Ancient Narrative Literatures: www.kyknos.org.uk. M AEVE O’B RIEN lectures in the Department of Ancient Classics, National University of Ireland Maynooth. She has published articles on Apuleius and his philosophy and her book Apuleius’ Debt to Plato in the Metamorphoses (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press) was published in 2002. J.R. M ORGAN is Professor of Greek at Swansea University, and Leader of KYKNOS (the Swansea and Lampeter Centre for Research on the Narrative Literatures of the Ancient World). He has published extensively on the ancient novels. His commentary on Longus was published in the Aris & Phillips Classical Texts series in 2004. E LIAS K OULAKIOTIS teaches in the Department of History and Archaeology at the University of Ioannina. His research interests include political, cultural and intellectual history. His publications include Genese und Metamorphosen des Alexandermythos im Spiegel der griechischen nichthistoriographischen Überlieferung bis zum 3. Jh. n. Chr., Konstanz 2006; ‘La privation du charisme: Idéologie monarchique et rituel magico-religieux dans la Vie d’Alexandre de Plutarque’, in M.-F. Baslez (ed.), Écritures et mises en scène des vies dans les religions du monde gréco-romain, (forthcoming). S TELIOS P ANAYOTAKIS is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Crete. His research interests include Greek and Latin fiction, and early Christian narrative. He is co-author and co-editor of the Groningen Commentary on Apuleius’ Tale of Cupid and Psyche (Groningen 2004), co-editor of The Ancient Novel and Beyond (Leiden 2003), and is currently preparing for publication a commentary on the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri (Walter de Gruyter, Texte und Kommentare).

Indices Index locorum Achilles Tatius 1.5.6, 5 2.23.2-6, 8 8.6.7-11, 153 Anth. Plan. 333 (Antiphilus), 193 Apuleius Met. 1.1.1-2, 129 1.7.2-3, 188 11.3.2, 130 Soc. 165, 125 Artemidorus 1.1, 63 Ausonius Epigr. 55.1-2 Green, 193 Bion fr. 13 Gow, 149 Callimachus P.Oxy. 2079.9-10, 139 Chariton 2.5.11, 14 2.6.1, 14 4.1.2-4, 16 5.5.9, 11 5.6.1-10, 23 5.7.1-10, 24 Epictetus 3.22.4, 194 Epistola Alexandri 1-2, 168 36, 173 41-45, 173 62, 175 73-74, 171, 172 Heliodorus 3.7-8, 6

Historia Apollonii RA 12.8-26, 187 51.21-23, 196 Longus Pr. 1, 101 3, 147 3-4, 104 1.4.1-3, 105 1.5.2, 106 1.13.5, 109 1.15.3, 153 1.27.1, 154 2.3.3, 147 2.3-8, 142 2.7, 150 2.7.1, 111 2.8.3-5, 151 2.10, 63 2.15.1-17.2, 142 2.32-37, 142 2.35.1, 155 3.9.5, 114 3.15.1, 115 3.18.3-4, 115 3.33.4-34.3, 154 4.2.3, 107 4.17.3, 118 4.38.2, 142 Lucianus Tox. 30-31, 192 Petronius 50.5, 74 79.1-10, 77 79-82, 79 83-89, 83 91.1-3, 86 94.1-2, 88

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208 94.8-15, 90 97-98, 92 frg. 30 Bücheler, 61 Plinius NH 8.17.44, 163 Plutarchus Phoc. 18.4, 194 Propertius 1.2.9-14, 148 3.1.1-5, 147

IN D IC ES

4.6.2-3, 143 Ps.-Callisthenes 2.22, 176 Sulpicius Severus Vit. Mart. 3.1-3, 190 Xenophon Eph. 1.12, 50 2.8.2, 52 5.1.2, 188 5.8.5-9, 54

General Index Alcibiades in Plato’s Symp., 114 Alexander acts of hybris, 175 Alexander Romance initiatory character of -, 166 transmission, 164 Alexandrian aesthetic, 148 Alexandrian poetics, 149, 153 Alexandrian scholarship, 153 allegory, 109, 165, 167 allusion ways of identifying -, xii Anderson, G., 2 animal and man in Greek thought, 166 Antisthenes, 194 antithesis, 32 Archibald, E., 187 Aristoteles, 167, 180, 181 Asianic oratory, 37 Ausfeld, A., 166 Baldwin, B., 75 Bierl, A., 53 Biraud, M., 12 Bowie, E.L., 145 Cairns, F., 144 Callimachus Aetia, 139 Callirhoe, 9, 11 ~ Helen and/or Penelope, 11 Chaereas, 15 ~ Patroclus, 15

characterization Anthia, 66 Chaereas, 3 Dionysius, 42 in Greek novel, 2 Mithridates, 43 Charicleia, 6 Chariton rhētoros hypographeus, 29 Cizek, A., 166 clausulae, 36 Clitophon, 6 collective imagination, 161 Collignon, A., 73, 80, 81 Connors, C., 75 Conte, G.B., 73 Cyclops theme in Satyrica, 93 Cynicism, 195 Dalmeyda, G., 55 Danek, G., 100 Daphnis ~ Theocritus Chloe ~ Philitas?, 158 De Jong, I.J.F., 57 Di Marco, M., 146 diēgēsis, 24, 42 dilogia, 35 Diogenes, 194 Dionysos, 170, 178, 180 dream theory enhypnion, 63 in Antiquity, 62 oneiros, 63

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Du Quesnay, I.M. de M., 144 ekphrasis, 83, 148, 154 elenchōn apaitēsis, 32 emulation, 102 Encolpius ~ Aeneas, 75 Engelmann, R., 152 epic intertexts in Petronius, 76, 82 epilogos, 24 Epistola Alexandri transmission, 164 ethnographic interests in Greek literature, 164 Eumolpus, 83 Euripides, 178 exempla, 1, 6 Fedeli, P., 93 Fernández Garrido, R., 57 Fusillo, M., 7 Gärtner, H., 55 Giangrande, G., 56 Giton ~ Ganymedes, 87 Gnathon an ‘anti-Socrates’, 119 Greek loanwords in Latin texts, 185 Gunderson, L., 165 Habermehl, P., 84, 88 Habrocomes ~ Hippolytus, 53 Hägg, T., 55 Hanson, J.A., 189 Harmon, A.M., 193 Helena, 14 helpful fisherman in myth and literature, 187 Hermes, 181 Herrmann, F.-G., 111 Historia Apollonii dating of -, 191 Hunter, R., 103, 107, 145 imitation, 102 intertextuality complex - in Longus, 154 device of characterisation, xiv Longus ‘correcting’ Theocritus, 157

stylistic - , lexical -, xiii thematic connections, xii ‘window allusions’, 143 itineraria, 168 Jouanno, C., 166 καθαρότης, 36 Kay, N.M., 194 Kortekaas, G.A.A., 191, 195 La Penna, A., 80 lamprotēs, 43 Lana, I., 191 liminality, 170 locus amoenus, 101 Longinus On the Sublime, 43 Longus groves in -, 147 intertexts in -, 141 lexical interests of -, 153 pastoral names in -, 154 Philetas ~ Philitas ?, 142 scene-setting in D&C, 108 subverting Platonic intertext, 112 sustained Platonic intertextuality, 120 Lycophron Alexandra, 85 lysis, 24 MacAlister, S., 53, 55 Merkelbach, R., 55, 165 mirabilia, 169 Morgan, J.R., 76, 109 names Homeric - in Petronius, 81 pastoral - in Longus, 154 narrative ‘interlace technique’, 57 fictional travel -, 166 first-person account, 168 ‘object-centered story’, 188 narrator in Longus ironisation of -, 103 Nisus and Euryalus, 80 Oldfather, W.A., 194 Ovidius and Virgil, 74 Panayotakis, C., 76 paradoxography, 166

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210 paragraphē, 28, 33 paraklausithyron, 152 paraskeuē, 26 Parthenius, 140 Paschalis, M., 177 Perry, B.E., 2 Petronius Cyclops theme in Sat.-, 93 Homeric names in Sat., 81 Wooden Horse theme in Sat.-, 94 Pfister, F., 166 pharmakon discourse as -, 130 Philitas, 139 ‘corrected’ in Longus?, 157 in Roman poetry, 140 pisteis, 23 Pizarro, J.M., 188 Plastira-Valkanou, M., 56 Plato’s Phaedrus in lit. of 2nd and 3rd cent. A.D., 101 prayer in forensic oration, 29 prooimion, 23 prose rhythm, 36 in Chariton, 40 prosōpopoiia, 44 Pseudo-Callisthenes, 165 reader demands on - in Xenophon, 70 Reitzenstein, R., 150 rhetoric Asianism, 37, 44 rhetorical theory in Chariton, 32

IN D IC ES

Riese, A., 189, 195 Rimell, V., 84 Ring, M., 195 Robins, W., 191 Rohde, E., 2 Romm, J., 166 saccus, 195 sagum (or sagus), 195 saphēneia, 42 σαφήνεια, 36 Schmeling, G., 195 Smith, S.D., 3 Socrates in Phdr., 127 in Phdr. and Symp., 102 in Pl. Crito and in Apul. Met., 132 sōphrosynē, 4, 13, 27, 53, 104, 172 Spanoudakis, K., 140, 147 syntomia, 42 syrinx Pan’s invention of the -, 152 Theocritus and Philitas, 144 debt to Philitas, 147 Thomas, R.F., 146 tribunarium, 186, 193 Tsitsikli, D., 195 Wallisch, R., 100 Weinstock, F., 55 Welser, M., 185 Whitmarsh, T., 111, 146 Wooden Horse theme in Satyrica, 94 Zeitlin, F.I., 73, 81, 84, 94