Fragments in Context - Frammenti e dintorni 394631726X, 9783946317265, 9783946317999

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Studia Comica Herausgegeben von Bernhard Zimmermann

Band 11

Fragments in Context – Frammenti e dintorni Edited by / A cura di Virginia Mastellari

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

Dieser Band wurde im Rahmen der gemeinsamen Forschungsförderung von Bund und Ländern im Akademienprogramm mit Mitteln des Bundesministeriums für Bildung und Forschung und des Ministeriums für Wissenschaft, Forschung und Kultur des Landes ­Baden-​Württemberg erarbeitet.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über https://dnb.de abrufbar. © 2021, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Göttingen Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Umschlagabbildung: Dionysos-Theater und Mosaik einer Komödienmaske, mit freundlicher Genehmigung des Reihenherausgebers Einbandgestaltung disegno visuelle kommunikation, Wuppertal

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage | www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISBN 978-3-946317-99-9

Sommario Premessa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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P. J. Finglass Editare frammenti nel loro contesto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Franco Montanari Le tortuose strade del frammento. Citazioni d’ autore nell’ erudizione antica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Renzo Tosi Alcune osservazioni sui frammenti tramandati dai lessici . . . . . . . . . 39 Eric Csapo Lachares and Menander: a Theatre-Historical Look at POxy 1235, col iii, 103–112 . . . . . . . . . 49 Federico Favi ‘New’ Greek in Old Texts (Alleged) Regionalisms and Anticipations of koiné in Epicharmus . . . . 69 Ioannis M. Konstantakos The Märchenkomödie in Classical Athens: Fragments, Pictures, Contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Angela M. Andrisano Una testimonianza comica a proposito delle coreografie di Cinesia (Ar. Ran. 366) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Antonis K. Petrides Menander’ s Leukadia A Re-Examination of the Fragments and a New Chapter in the Play’ s Modern Reception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Elisabetta Lupi Das 50. Fragment Jacoby des Timaios von Tauromenion bei Athenaios Zitierkontext und Deutung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Irmgard Männlein-Robert The Old Gods in Fragments or Modes of Deconstruction: Eusebius on Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 Indices  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

Premessa

Il presente volume raccoglie gli interventi presentati e discussi nell’ ambito del convegno “Frammenti e Dintorni / Fragmente im Kontext”, che ha avuto luogo presso l’ Accademia degli Studi italo-tedeschi di Merano dal 7 al 9 novembre 2019. Dal secondo Ottocento fino a tempi molto recenti, il dialogo sui frammenti e la produzione di edizioni di testi frammentari hanno rappresentato uno dei campi di interesse primario della filologia classica. Per quanto riguarda i testi drammatici, per limitarsi a un solo esempio, il Novecento è stato segnato da maestosi progetti editoriali, che hanno messo a disposizione eccellenti e rinnovate edizioni, oggi imprescindibile punto di partenza per chi voglia avvicinarsi allo studio del dramma antico. Il riferimento è ovviamente alla raccolta dei Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, in cinque volumi, la cui pubblicazione ha coperto gli anni dal 1971 al 2004, èditi da B. Snell, S. Radt e R. Kannicht per i tipi di Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, e al corpus dei Poetae Comici Graeci, èditi da R. Kassel e C. Austin presso Walter de Gruyter dal 1983 al 2001, fino a ora in otto volumi. Anche in seguito all’ acquisizione di ottime e aggiornate edizioni, ci si è presto resi conto del fondamentale contributo che alcuni testi, seppur frammentari, possono dare alla conoscenza di certi generi letterari e di specifici periodi storici. Per riallacciarmi all’ esempio dei testi drammatici, nessuno oggi potrebbe considerare la Commedia greca facendo esclusivo affidamento sulle opere integre di Aristofane e Menandro1. In aggiunta a ciò, una vasta bibliografia si è andata a costituire negli anni sul concetto di frammento, sulle metodologie di approccio a testi frammentari e sui limiti che il filologo deve porsi nella ricostruzione e nell’ esegesi2. Dei vari problemi e sfide che l’ approccio ai frammenti pone allo studioso, la novità di questo volume consiste nel concentrare l’ attenzione sui ‘dintorni’ di testi appartenenti a varî generi letterari sopravvissuti al “naufragio dell’ antichità”3 solo in forma frammentaria, appunto. Il termine ‘dintorni’ è declinato, nei contributi degli autori, in molteplici forme.

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Per simili considerazioni sulla tragedia cf. ora Finglass–Coo 2020, Introduction (p. 3) in iid. (eds.), Female Characters in Fragmentary Greek Tragedy, Cambridge 2020, pp. 1–16. Per un aggiornato status quaestionis, rimando ora alla trattazione del tema in Lamari– Montanari–Novokhatko, Introduction, in iid. (eds.), Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama, Berlin-Boston 2020, pp. 3–17. Per usare una efficace e fortunata metafora, su cui cf. R. Kassel, Fragmente und ihre Sammler (p. 243 n. 2), in H. Hofmann–A. Harder (eds.), Fragmenta Dramatica, Göttingen 1991, pp. 243–253.

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Nella maggior parte dei casi i ‘dintorni’ sono rappresentati dal contesto della citazione di un testo: in altre parole, il motivo per cui il frammento è citato e la fonte che lo riporta. È infatti estremamente pericoloso maneggiare testi frammentari senza considerare il contesto della loro provenienza o trasmissione4. D’ altro canto, ciò che noi chiamiamo frammento di testo5 è di fatto una citazione testuale incompleta, o perché ambiva, in origine, ad essere completa ma qualche danno materiale l’ ha impedito – è il caso tipico, ad esempio, dei papiri – o perché è stata sempre pensata come parziale, incompleta – ed è il caso di citazioni o excerpta (anche Montanari in questo volume)6. Il lavoro dell’ editore nei confronti di testi frammentari non è, quindi, mai meccanico: in questo senso è opportuno valutare sia i casi in cui il contesto offre informazioni utili all’ interpretazione, sia quelli in cui la fonte è responsabile di sovrastrutture interpretative che traviano il contesto e il significato originali7. La responsabilità dell’ editore relativamente al pericolo di tralasciare, o travisare, il contesto di provenienza di un frammento si concretizza nel rischio di alterare la natura del commento, così come l’ informazione destinata al fruitore del commento stesso. Se in un commento a un testo integro è il testo stesso ad agire da riscontro alle affermazioni di uno studioso, nel caso di testi frammentari ogni considerazione deve essere posta in un contesto ipotetico8 (anche Finglass in questo volume).

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G. Most, Preface, in id. (ed.), Collecting Fragments – Fragmente Sammeln, Göttingen 1997, pp. v-viii. In maniera invero impropria, seppur diffusa già a partire dagli Umanisti, chiamiamo oggi ‘frammento’ anche le citazioni di opere perdute testimoniate da autori successivi, le cosiddette ‘citazioni indirette’, che sarebbero più propriamente da identificare come ἐκλογαί o excerpta. Il termine fragmentum, in greco ἀπόσπασμα, denotava in origine testi ritrovati su supporti materiali (papiro, pietra, metallo, etc.), il cui stato è imputato al danneggiamento del supporto. Per la nomenclatura si veda e. g. M. Sonnino, Corruzioni antiche e moderne di testi frammentari: Eupoli Maricante fr. 212 K.-A. nel codice Marciano di Esichio (pp. 107–112), in N. Cannata–M. Signorini (eds.), Scrivere, leggere, conservare. A colloquio con Armando Petrucci, Roma 2014, pp. 107–140. G. Most, On Fragments (p. 10), in W. Tronzo (ed.), The Fragment: An Incomplete History, Getty Publications 2009, pp. 9–20 [trad. in tedesco in G. Most, Sensucht nach dem Unversehrten. Überlegungen zu Fragmenten und deren Sammlern (p. 30), in P. Kelemen et al. (eds.), Kulturtechnik Philologie: zur Theorie des Umgangs mit Texten, Heidelberg 2011, pp. 27–43] e G. Most, Fragments (p. 371), in A.T. Grafton–G. Most–S. Settis (eds.), The Classical Tradition, Cambridge (MA) 2010, pp. 371–377. Per un esempio, relativo a Euripide, si veda M. Sonnino, Sovrapposizioni interpretative e decontestualizzazione di testi frammentari: Euripide Cresfonte fr. 453 Kann. in Timeo, Polibio, Stobeo e Constantino VII Porfirogenito, in G. Ottone (ed.), Historiai Para Doxan. Documenti greci in frammenti: nuove prospettive esegetiche, Roma 2017, pp. 37–68. S. Stephens, Commenting on Fragments (p. 76), in R.K. Gibson–C. Shuttleworth Kraus (eds.), The Classical commentary: histories, practices, theory, Leiden-Boston-Köln 2002, pp. 67–88.

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I ‘dintorni’ di un frammento possono inoltre essere costituiti dalla formulazione e dal taglio che la fonte dà alla citazione. Di qui la scelta di includere nel volume casi di studio provenienti da diversi generi letterari (frammenti lirici, drammatici, storici e filosofici), in quanto essi presentano, anche e soprattutto relativamente ai ‘dintorni’, questioni e problematiche molto differenti tra loro. Infatti, se i frammenti lirici e drammatici sono citati perlopiù verbatim e il metro rende più semplice tracciare i confini tra la fonte e il testo del frammento, lo stesso non è sempre possibile per i frammenti storici, i cui confini non sono sempre nitidi (Lupi in questo volume), e neppure per quelli filosofici, riportati spesso tramite riformulazioni della dottrina o dell’ insegnamento e, come se non bastasse, da fonti viziate dal voler contestare quanto nel testo è sostenuto (Männlein-Robert in questo volume)9. A proposito di questi dintorni, intesi in senso ‘fisico’ (ciò che nella fonte del frammento viene prima e dopo), l’ editore si trova nella posizione di compiere delle scelte nei confronti del materiale da selezionare e stampare, scelte che talvolta possono indirizzare o addirittura stravolgere la lettura del frammento stesso (Finglass in questo volume). Ma il termine ‘dintorni’, riportato allo hic et nunc del testo o della partitura teatrale cui il frammento originariamente apparteneva, può anche designare contesti socio-culturali (Csapo in questo volume), linguistici (Favi in questo volume), meccanismi drammaturgici (Andrisano in questo volume) e processi di evoluzione di un genere letterario (Konstantakos in questo volume), fino ad arrivare alla ricezione di frammenti antichi in opere di molto successive, laddove il frammento diventa a sua volta ‘dintorno’ per una nuova composizione (Petrides in questo volume). Per i loro contributi, gli autori sono stati invitati, da un lato, a esporre i meccanismi che portano alla formazione di frammenti e il ruolo che il contesto o la fonte giocano nella selezione; dall’ altro, ad ampliare in questo senso i propri orizzonti interpretativi, non limitandosi allo studio dei testi in sé e per sé, ma cercando di mettere in risalto i vantaggi che un’ attenta contestualizzazione può fornire. Il volume si apre con l’ intervento di Patrick J. Finglass, che si concentra sull’ importanza dei ‘dintorni’ dal punto di vista dell’ editore di frammenti. Partendo da testi della lirica greca (Stesicoro, Pindaro e Saffo) e mettendo a confronto diverse edizioni critiche e i metodi di approccio ai ‘contesti’ di varî studiosi, il contributo esamina le questioni pratiche che l’ editore deve affrontare – la quantità di contesto che è opportuno fornire nel citare un testo, il ruolo che ha la numerazione dei frammenti e come collocarli nell’ edizione, in quale misura è opportuno sanare lacune – e la rilevanza di queste problematiche per i fruitori dell’ edizione. 9

Most 1997 [n. 3], vii. Sulla sfida di editare frammenti filosofici da un punto di vista diacronico dal passato a oggi, cf. inoltre G. Most, À la recherche du text perdu: On collecting philosophical fragments, in W. Burkert et al. (eds.), Fragmentsammlungen philosophischer Texte der Antike / Le raccolte dei frammenti di filosofi antichi, Göttingen 1998, pp. 1–15.

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Franco Montanari sostiene nel suo intervento che i frammenti pervenutici sono in realtà per lo più in origine citazioni, addotte per i più svariati motivi e trasmesse per via indiretta in molte fonti, tra cui la cosiddetta letteratura erudita. Egli fornisce un quadro di questo fenomeno, di enorme portata e complessità, e sottolinea l’ importanza dello studio e dell’ apprezzamento dei prodotti dell’ erudizione antica in se stessi, dei metodi degli antichi esegeti e del contesto culturale in cui essi agivano. Nella parte finale dell’ intervento sono esaminati a titolo esemplificativo alcuni frammenti comici (segnatamente di Eupoli e Cratino) provenienti dagli scolî all’ Iliade. Il contributo di Renzo Tosi prende in esame alcuni fenomeni caratteristici della tradizione indiretta lessicografica, caratterizzata da estrema fluidità: chi confezionava un’ opera di questo tipo non si preoccupava della fedeltà al modello, bensì intendeva creare un nuovo strumento, funzionale al suo centro culturale. Vengono presentati, relativamente alle testimonianze lessicografiche, i diversi livelli della corruzione, la lemmatizzazione, la presenza di interpretamenta desunti, in modo letterale o concettuale, dal contesto del locus classicus, la non perfetta corrispondenza morfologica tra lemma e interpretamentum, la disomogenea qualità dell’ esegesi e, infine, i pericoli dovuti alle epitomazioni. Eric Csapo fornisce una nuova interpretazione dell’ ipotesi papiracea agli Imbrioi di Menandro, finora letta come testimonianza di un caso di censura: il tiranno Lachares avrebbe bloccato, per ragioni politiche, la messinscena della commedia. Tuttavia, l’ analisi del frammento nel contesto del linguaggio degli archivi drammatici, della gestione del festival e della storia politica ateniese di fine IV–III sec. a. C., mette in luce che la cancellazione della messinscena, semmai vi sia stata, non ebbe nulla a che vedere con la persecuzione politica o con censura di sorta. Federico Favi offre una selezione di fenomeni linguistici in Epicarmo che trovano paralleli solo in testi successivi. In passato sono state esposte diverse teorie sull’ origine di queste forme: in particolare si è discusso se queste (presunte) anticipazioni della koiné fossero innovazioni siciliane, oppure avessero in origine una più vasta diffusione. L’ obiettivo del contributo è, tramite una selezione di casi, alcuni dei quali finora trascurati dalla critica, contribuire a una più articolata comprensione del lessico greco e delle teorie antiche sulla lingua. Ioannis M. Konstantakos si spinge alle origini di un particolare filone della Commedia greca, la cosiddetta Märchenkomödie. Il mondo della fantasia e della favola era un’ importante risorsa per la Commedia ateniese: motivi e temi tratti dall’ immaginario popolare sono sfruttati dalla prima generazione di poeti comici, specialmente Magnete e Chionide, e si ritrovano dopo gli anni ‘50 del 400, quando alcuni poeti drammatici – in particolare Cratete, Ferecrate e Archippo – mostrano una predilezione per il materiale favolistico e arricchiscono il repertorio precedente con nuovi temi fantastici, come oggetti animati, il motivo del ‘Paese di cuccagna’ e la costruzione di utopici mondi paralleli. L’ intervento di Angela M. Andrisano analizza un verso corale delle Rane (v. 366) e ne fornisce una nuova interpretazione che mette in luce la satira di

Premessa

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Aristofane contro Cinesia, ditirambografo di successo, presentato come diarroico ed empio. Ιl verso, isolato come ‘frammento’, viene letto non solo nel contesto della messinscena di riferimento, ma anche in quello delle strategie drammatiche di Aristofane. Il comico appare censurare in primo luogo, attraverso una metafora scatologica, le scelte estetiche e lo sperimentalismo di Cinesia; le accuse di empietà contro questo personaggio, derivanti anche da una interpretazione letterale del verso in questione, entrano a far parte di una tradizione aneddotica e non sono altrimenti verificabili. Il contributo di Antonis K. Petrides offre un esame di tutti i frammenti e le testimonianze della Leukadia di Menandro. In tempi successivi, un Nachleben per la commedia fu garantito dal fr. 1 Aust., otto dimetri anapestici sulla storia d’ amore tra Saffo e Faone, che sembra non fosse parte integrante della trama della Leukadia, quanto piuttosto fungesse da ‘specchio’ alla vicenda. Un nuovo capitolo della ricezione della storia di Saffo e Faone – e della Leukadia – è stato di recente scritto dal poeta greco-cipriota Kyriakos Charalambides (1940–). Le sue poesie Saffo a Leucade e Saffo (nelle onde di Leucade) sono analizzate nella seconda parte dell’ intervento. Elisabetta Lupi affronta il ruolo del contesto di citazione dei frammenti storiografici, esemplificato dal dibattito sull’ estensione e sul significato del fr. 50 di Timeo di Tauromenio. Il frammento è testimoniato in una lunga sezione dei Deipnosofisti di Ateneo sulla tryphē dei Sibariti (519b–520c), che Felix Jacoby attribuisce interamente allo storiografo, nonostante il suo nome compaia soltanto nel periodo iniziale. Il contributo mostra le conseguenze che una differente delimitazione del frammento ha sulla nostra interpretazione della storiografia ellenistica e ne propone una nuova lettura in considerazione del contesto citazionale e della tradizione letteraria su Sibari tra V e III secolo a. C. Infine, Imgard Männlein-Robert presenta un caso di studio esemplare nell’ analisi dei ‘dintorni’ travisanti nei frammenti filosofici: la trasmissione dell’ opera del neoplatonico Porfirio in quella del vescovo cristiano Eusebio di Cesarea. Il testo del Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων di Porfirio è incorporato nello schema argomentativo del terzo libro della Praeparatio Evangelica: la strategia di Eusebio consiste nel citare, manipolandoli, singoli passaggi dell’ opera di Porfirio, accusando e confutando il suo avversario con affermazioni proprie, fraintendendolo deliberatamente e ritagliando passi specifici utili al suo scopo argomentativo. *** L’ organizzazione della conferenza è stata possibile grazie a un premio per giovani ricercatori (“Ausschreibung 2019 zur Karriereförderung von Wissenschaftler*innen”) conferitomi dalla Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, che ha permesso anche la pubblicazione di questo volume. Mia sia concesso di ringraziare in questa sede l’ Accademia degli Studi italo-tedeschi di Merano, nelle persone di Ivo di Gennaro e Verena Pohl, che hanno ospitato la conferenza e mi hanno aiutata

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nell’ organizzazione. Il colloquio e la discussione che ne è seguita non sarebbero stati altrettanto stimolanti e fruttuosi senza il fondamentale contributo dei colleghi friburghesi e membri del progetto “KomFrag” (Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komödie), che hanno moderato le sessioni e mi hanno supportata in ogni momento dell’ organizzazione e dello svolgimento della conferenza. Desidero ringraziare Bernhard Zimmermann, alla guida del progetto e insostituibile sostegno a ogni iniziativa a esso collegata, Andrea Bagordo, Christian Orth, Francesco Paolo Bianchi, cui si aggiunga Massimiliano Ornaghi, presente a sua volta a moderare le sessioni. Posso affermare senza timore di esagerazione che questo gruppo di lavoro costituisce i ‘dintorni’ migliori che uno studioso possa auspicare. Freiburg i. Br., agosto 2020 Virginia Mastellari

P. J. Finglass

Editare frammenti nel loro contesto*

Parole chiave: frammenti, critica testuale, Stesicoro, Saffo, Pindaro, editare frammenti. “The truth is that the difficulties of the text of Lucilius are for the most part inexplicable and its corruptions for the most part irremediable. What more than anything else enables the critic and commentator of an ancient author to correct mistakes and to elucidate obscurities is their context; and a fragment has no context. An editor of Lucilius or Ennius or Nonius or the reliquiae scaenicae, unless he is grievously self-deluded, must know that the greater number of his corrections, and of his explanations also, are false”1.

Il titolo di questo libro è un paradosso intrigante, nel senso che la natura stessa di un frammento è il non avere un contesto, o almeno il non esistere più nel proprio contesto originale. Una citazione di un autore perduto, conservata negli scritti di un altro autore, non può più essere inserita nel testo dal quale veniva originariamente. Un papiro è praticamente sempre frammentario, e di conseguenza, generalmente, preserva solo una piccola parte di un determinato lavoro. Se il contesto di questi frammenti potesse essere magicamente ricostruito, non sarebbero più frammenti. “Frammenti senza dintorni” sembrerebbe, a prima vista, un titolo più logico – anche se intrinsecamente tautologico. Comunque, la domanda sul contesto è vitale per la nostra comprensione dei frammenti. Nel mio intervento, approccerò l’ argomento dalla posizione di vantaggio dell’ editore; e da quella posizione di vantaggio questo titolo evoca diverse interpretazioni. Questo mi porterà a riflettere sul compito cruciale dell’ editore. Se i frammenti sono testi che hanno perduto i loro ‘dintorni’, il compito dell’ editore è costruire nuovi ‘dintorni’ per loro. Di base, questi nuovi ‘dintorni’ sono altri frammenti dello stesso autore (o gruppo di autori, o genere letterario) su cui l’ editore sta lavorando; nel raccogliere insieme i frammenti, l’ editore spera di essere d’ aiuto ad altri studiosi, che possano così consultare i frammenti in un solo luogo invece che sparsi lungo tutta la letteratura antica. Ma c’ è di più. Osserviamo questo frammento di Stesicoro:

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Vorrei ringraziare la mia studentessa di dottorato, Martina Delucchi, per aver fatto questa traduzione italiana del mio inglese. Housman 1907, 53 = 1972 (II), 662.

P. J. Finglass

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fr. 219 Page ap. Plut. ser. num. vind. 10, iii 412 Pohl.–Siev. ὥστε πρὸς τὰ γιγνόμενα καὶ πρὸς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἀποπλάττεσθαι τὸ τῆς Κλυταιμήστρας ἐνύπνιον τὸν Στησίχορον οὑτωσί πως λέγοντα· τᾷ δὲ δράκων ἐδόκησε μολεῖν κάρα βεβροτωμένος ἄκρον, ἐκ δ’ ἄρα τοῦ βασιλεὺς Πλεισθενίδας ἐφάνη. Cosicché Stesicoro modella il sogno di Clitennestra rimanendo fedele a ciò che accade e quindi: Un serpente sembrava avvicinarsi a lei, la sommità del suo capo coperta di sangue rappreso e poi, da essa, un principe della genìa di Plistene apparve.

Questo frammento è citato da Plutarco nella sua opera De sera numinis vindicta, “Perché la giustizia divina punisce tardi”. Si riferisce al sogno di Clitennestra – un sogno che sembra abbia avuto una profonda influenza sulle riproposizioni del mito in tragedia, specialmente in Eschilo. Il testo è qui quello dell’ edizione di Denys Page2. Page ci dà ben poco contesto per il frammento – e con contesto si intende in questo caso il testo che lo circonda fisicamente nell’ edizione. E, in modo piuttosto irritante, quel contesto inizia con ὥστε. Esiste un’ altra parola che pretenda così tanto da un editore? E se ὥστε avesse una voce, gli direbbe: “Se citi il contesto di un frammento che inizia con me, non hai citato abbastanza – bisogna che tu vada indietro un pochino e citi di più in modo che i lettori possano vedere esattamente per quale ragione questo passaggio è stato citato”. Quando ho editato il frammento nella mia edizione, non ho cambiato il testo della citazione di Stesicoro, ma le ho dato più contesto – decisamente di più3: fr. 180 F. ap. Plut. De Sera Numinis Vindicta 554f–55a (pp. 411,22–412,11 Paton– Pohlenz–Sieveking) ἡ γὰρ ἰταμότης ἐκείνη καὶ τὸ θρασὺ τῆς κακίας ἄχρι τῶν ἀδικημάτων ἰσχυρόν ἐστι καὶ πρόχειρον, εἶτα τοῦ πάθους ὥσπερ πνεύματος ὑπολείποντος ἀσθενὲς καὶ ταπεινὸν ὑποπίπτει τοῖς φόβοις καὶ ταῖς δεισιδαιμονίαις· ὥστε πρὸς τὰ γιγνόμενα καὶ πρὸς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἀποπλάττεσθαι τὸ τῆς Κλυταιμήστρας ἐνύπνιον τὸν Στησίχορον, οὑτωσί πως λέγοντα· τᾷ δὲ δράκων ἐδόκησε μολεῖν κάρα βεβροτωμένος ἄκρον, ἐκ δ’ ἄρα τοῦ βασιλεὺς Πλεισθενίδας ἐφάνη. καὶ γὰρ ὄψεις ἐνυπνίων καὶ φάσματα μεθημερινὰ καὶ χρησμοὶ καὶ καταιβασίαι, καὶ ὅ τι δόξαν ἔσχον αἰτίαι θεοῦ περαίνεσθαι, χειμῶνας ἐπάγει καὶ φόβους τοῖς οὕτω διακειμένοις. Poiché quella avventatezza e la sfrontata natura della malvagità è forte e attiva fino a che i crimini sono commessi; ma poi la passione, come una tempesta che 2 3

Page 1962, 117. Finglass 2014b, 160.

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perde forza fino a diventare fiacca e debole, si arrende alle paure e ai terrori della superstizione. Cosicché Stesicoro modella il sogno di Clitennestra rimanendo fedele a ciò che accade, e quindi: Un serpente sembrava avvicinarsi a lei, la sommità del suo capo coperta di sangue rappreso e poi, da essa, un principe della genìa di Plistene apparve. Le visioni che si manifestano nei sogni, le apparizioni in pieno giorno, gli oracoli, le discese agli inferi e qualunque altra cosa che si possa immaginare si verifichi per causa divina suscitano tempeste interiori e orrori nelle persone che si trovano in una tale disposizione mentale.

I lettori di Stesicoro possono ora vedere la ragione per cui Plutarco ha citato questo passo – la Clitennestra di Stesicoro, in questa prospettiva, fornisce un esempio di qualcuno che soffre orribili ripercussioni molto dopo aver commesso il suo crimine. Il contesto apre una finestra sul poema di Stesicoro, che era chiaramente interessato alla psicologia di Clitennestra e al senso di colpa che aveva molto dopo aver ucciso suo marito. Siamo abituati a un grande interesse per la figura di Clitennestra dalla tragedia, e anche dalla Pitica 11 di Pindaro (in contrasto con l’ Iliade, in cui è a malapena menzionata, e con l’ Odissea, dove vi è più enfasi su Egisto come assassino di Agamennone)4. Grazie a questo frammento, e in particolare, al suo contesto, possiamo vedere che era già presente nella grande Orestea del poeta siciliano. Ora, qualcuno potrebbe obiettare che anche il contesto è insufficiente. L’ intero saggio è il contesto del frammento – un testo profondamente interessato alle ragioni per cui la punizione divina arriva tardi. Da un altro punto di vista anche quello potrebbe non essere sufficiente – l’ intero corpus delle opere di Plutarco è il contesto del frammento – dal momento che solo qualcuno che sia familiare con tutte le opere dell’ autore può essere davvero qualificato per disquisire in maniera completa sulle ragioni per cui Plutarco ha inserito proprio questa citazione in questo punto. Più ci allontaniamo dal frammento stesso, più è difficile vederne il reale ‘contesto’, ma un esperto potrebbe ben vedere qualcosa che altri hanno mancato di vedere. A questo punto, comunque, bisogna ammettere che entrano in gioco pressioni esterne riguardo a spazio e utilità. Aumentare il contesto di alcune righe è una cosa – pubblicare pagine e pagine di Plutarco risulterebbe invece nel confondere i lettori, più che aiutarli. Tuttavia, sottolineo il dilemma per evidenziare quanto sia difficile tracciare dei confini e far notare come la mia edizione, per quanto accademica, cerchi sempre il compromesso da molti punti di vista, compresa la questione ‘dintorni’. Ma almeno Page ha dato un po’ di contesto. Alcune edizioni sembrano obliterarlo completamente. Nell’ edizione di Pindaro di Snell e Maehler, per esempio, 4

Finglass 2007a, 252; Finglass 2007b, 12–14, 94, 98; Davies–Finglass 2014, 490–91, Finglass 2021b.

P. J. Finglass

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i frammenti sono presentati senza alcun contesto5. Per trovarlo bisogna andare in fondo alla pagina, dunque non è completamente inesistente. Eppure, rende l’ esperienza di lettura molto faticosa, forzando gli occhi del lettore a viaggiare su e giù come la pallina in una partita di tennis particolarmente aggressiva. Non è solo una questione di composizione della pagina – sistemando il frammento e il suo contesto in zone differenti, questi editori hanno, per così dire, frammentato il frammento, decontestualizzandolo dal suo contesto. La scelta di collocare il contesto della citazione del frammento alla fine della pagina implica che questa informazione sia in qualche modo secondaria, non così importante, che sia allo stesso livello di, per dire, gli emendamenti rifiutati che appaiono in un apparato critico. (E con questo non intendo dire che l’ apparato critico non sia importante – contando gli anni della mia vita che ho dedicato a costruirne molti sarebbe difficile per me sostenere una cosa del genere – ma che è letteralmente secondario piuttosto che primario). Infatti, il contesto, dandoci informazioni sul perché l’ autore stia citando le parole che cita, può gettare una luce sul lavoro originario dal quale il frammento è stato tratto, così come le parole originarie dell’ autore ci danno il frammento nella sua forma propria. Abbiamo già visto questo aspetto nel frammento di Stesicoro. Un altro esempio può essere il frammento 155 di Saffo6: πόλλα μοι τὰν Πωλυανάκτιδα παῖδα χαίρην Auguro alla figlia della casa di Polinasse una buona giornata. Non è certo il più commovente o poetico dei frammenti di Saffo. Ma per capirlo dobbiamo conoscerne il contesto, scritto da Massimo di Tiro, che ci dice che Saffo ha pronunciato ironicamente questa frase e che è un esempio della sua abilità nel cambiare tono nelle conversazioni con le sue amiche, talvolta criticandole, talvolta controinterrogandole. Questa è la parte davvero interessante del frammento, non il testo in sé, che appare molto blando a meno di non considerarne il contesto. Eppure, la magnifica edizione di Voigt relega il contesto in apparato. L’ edizione Loeb di Campbell è qui molto superiore, introducendo propriamente il frammento e ovviamente traducendolo7; il lettore trae molte più informazioni dal frammento quando è presentato in questo modo, piuttosto che nella maniera scelta da Voigt. Vediamo la stessa cosa su un’ altra scala con il famoso frammento 31 di Saffo, conservato grazie alla citazione dello pseudo-Longino. Egli lo cita a esempio di come il Sublime si ottenga selezionando e combinando gli elementi più importanti che l’ autore sta cercando di descrivere. Sia prima che dopo la lunga citazione 5 6 7

Snell–Maehler 1989. Voigt 1971. Campbell 1982, 164.

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del poema, egli commenta sull’ abilità poetica di Saffo – eppure, nell’ edizione di Voigt, questi ‘prima’ e ‘dopo’ non sono stampati. Nuovamente, Campbell ci viene in aiuto – ma anche lui avrebbe potuto dare di più, nel senso che apre la sua contestualizzazione con “Sappho, for example, always chooses…” (1982, 79). Esempio di cosa? Una maggiore porzione di testo avrebbe reso edotto il lettore riguardo al perché questo particolare passo sia stato citato dall’ autore di questo trattato. E se avessimo qualche dubbio sul valore del contesto per l’ interpretazione di Saffo, Campbell indica dove i commenti di Longino sembrano implicare che, nel poema di Saffo, leggeva una parola differente rispetto a quella trovata nel manoscritto8. Dal punto di vista della critica letteraria e testuale, questi sono ‘dintorni’ di maggiore importanza ed è sorprendente che alcune edizioni di frammenti classici siano così confusionarie nel citarli. Inoltre, è sorprendente che non ci siano regole concordate su come un’ edizione critica di frammenti dovrebbe essere impostata. Non avremmo forse bisogno di stabilire un Codice di Condotta, che determini principi chiari per le edizioni di testi classici che tutti dovrebbero seguire, che sistemi questo problema, assicurando che gli editori futuri tengano conto di come il loro lavoro possa poi venire utilizzato da terzi e le conseguenze delle loro decisioni? Sarei felice di stabilire qualche regola per tutti se avessi qualche speranza che qualcuno possa accettarla. Un’ altra questione che dovrebbe attirare l’ attenzione degli editori riguarda l’ ordine dei frammenti9. Inizio dicendo che i più ovvi ‘dintorni’ che i frammenti hanno sono gli altri frammenti e ne consegue che l’ ordine in cui questi frammenti sono disposti abbia implicazioni significative per la loro comprensione. Prendiamo a esempio il frammento 85 F. di Stesicoro:

5

οὕνεκα Τυνδάρεος ῥέζων ποκὰ πᾶσι θεοῖς μόνας λάθετ’ ἠπιοδώρου Κύπριδος· κείνα δὲ Τυνδαρέου κόρας χολωσαμένα διγάμους τε καὶ τριγάμους ἐτίθει καὶ λιπεσάνορας.

5

perché una volta quando Tindaro stava sacrificando a tutti gli dei, dimenticò solo Cipride, dolce dispensatrice di doni nella sua furia, lei rese le figlie di Tindaro sposate due volte, tre volte, e disertrici di mariti.

Gli scolî non informano da che poema questo frammento venga, e Page (seguito da Davies) lo include tra i fragmenta incerti carminis. Nella mia edizione l’ ho 8 9

Campbell 1982, 81. Finglass 2014a, 86–90; Finglass 2017, Finglass 2021a.

P. J. Finglass

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c­ atalogato fra i frammenti dell’ Elena (fr. 85), dal momento che il contenuto sembra adatto per quel componimento e il metro corrisponde a quello degli altri frammenti conservati. Tuttavia, la collocazione è incerta. Inserendolo fra i frammenti dell’ Elena, ho incoraggiato i lettori a interpretarlo alla luce dei suoi ‘dintorni’, e a usarlo per interpretare questi ‘dintorni’. Il commento mostra, naturalmente, che potrebbe anche non venire da quest’ opera – ma le persone non sempre leggono i commenti con l’ attenzione che meriterebbero e, in più, il potere della stampa è tale che quando le persone lo vedono lì, in un libro grosso e pesante con il logo della ‘Cambridge University Press’ sul dorso, danno per scontato che sia giusto inserirlo proprio a quel punto. L’ alternativa, comunque, sarebbe inserire tutti i frammenti a caso, o includere i frammenti sotto un determinato titolo solamente quando vi sia l’ assoluta certezza, ma questo porterebbe a rifiutarsi di accettare una sfida essenziale nel lavoro dell’ editore, ovvero quella di aiutare quanto più possibile il lettore a comprendere i frammenti. Le decisioni vanno prese, anche quando possono finire per essere sbagliate. In questo caso, se il frammento fosse correttamente collocato in questi ‘dintorni’, gli altri frammenti di questo componimento – che sembra fosse incentrato sul rapporto di Elena con Teseo, Menelao e Paride – prenderebbero un colore diverso, poiché Elena sarebbe stata maledetta prima di essere nata a causa di una mancanza del padre. Questo non la assolve necessariamente da tutta la colpa – non abbiamo abbastanza prove per dirlo, e certamente il famoso resoconto della Palinodia di Stesicoro fornito da Platone (fr. 91a F.) implica che non fosse trattata come un esempio di virtù nel poema che la precedeva (l’ Elena, appunto) – ma apre alla possibilità che la resa del personaggio di Elena fosse perlomeno complessa. Ora, se ho sbagliato a includere il frammento in questa sezione, ho davvero influenzato negativamente l’ interpretazione degli altri frammenti; ma se non l’ avessi inserito e si fosse poi scoperto che sul serio apparteneva al componimento, avrei negato ai lettori una vitale informazione di contesto per l’ interpretazione degli altri frammenti. Spero che questo esempio dimostri la cruciale importanza di dare un ordine ai frammenti – un altro aspetto del lavoro dell’ editore a proposito del quale non esistono regole condivise o aspettative di sorta fra i classicisti. Un ulteriore modo in cui gli editori creano ‘dintorni’ per i frammenti è ovviamente l’ integrazione. Questo è particolarmente vero per i frammenti papiracei, che sono generalmente lacunosi in un modo o nell’ altro e hanno bisogno di attento ragionamento da parte dell’ editore su come riempire i vuoti, o se riempirli. Quando vengono stampate, queste integrazioni sono segnalate da parentesi quadre. All’ inizio, la storia della papirologia ha registrato tentativi di riempire i vuoti eccessivamente audaci, e ha provvisto questi testi frammentari di un vicinato un po’ troppo popolato. Il caso più famoso riguarda l’ edizione di J.M. Edmonds di Saffo, pubblicata negli anni Venti per la Loeb10. Il suo libro, uscito solo una ventina di anni dopo la pubblica10

Edmonds 1922, Finglass 2021c.

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zione di un numero significativo di frammenti papiracei di Saffo, include molte integrazioni a cui l’ autore si riferisce come “lontane dall’ essere semplici azzardi”11. Si tratta di un giudizio piuttosto clemente. Vale la pena leggere la devastante recensione di Edgar Lobel, che si riferisce alla lingua di queste integrazioni non come eolico, ma come triballo12. L’ edizione di Lobel del 1925 è completamente diversa da quella di Edmonds, ed è estremamente parca di integrazioni; Lobel era orgoglioso del suo approccio, dichiarando nella sua introduzione: “Riguardo alla cautela con cui mi sono armato nel gestire un testo generalmente o frammentario o corrotto, anche se apparirà pusillanime agli spiriti più estrosi tra coloro che avranno il dispiacere di criticarmi, non sono disposto a scusarmi, ricordando le parole di un saggio re, le quali imbraccio contro la seducente apparizione di Congettura, ovvero che un folle può gettare una pietra nel Mar di Spagna e tutti i saggi del mondo non riusciranno a ripescarla”13. Ma anche questo approccio può causare problemi; la recensione di Martin West all’ edizione di Voigt, molti anni dopo, riporta che la sua edizione è “meticolosamente prudente, senza le tendenze ‘gimnosofiste’ di Lobel–Page: dove una lettura o un’ integrazione è probabile, è pronta a stamparla a testo”14. Se guardiamo al famoso frammento 16 nell’ edizione di Edmonds, possiamo vedere come enormi sezioni del poema siano ricostruite con sicurezza. Al rigo tredici Edmonds inserisce una riflessione sulla volubilità delle donne, una cosa che non ha alcuna base nel testo e che Campbell (che nell’ introduzione si riferisce alla “eccessiva volontà di riempire i vuoti”15 di Edmonds) rifiuta a ragione, preferendo non fornire ‘dintorni’. Ancora più recentemente, un frammento di uno dei nuovi papiri di Saffo ci dà ulteriori informazioni riguardo a questo particolare testo16. E mentre potremmo desiderare più materiale, è comunque rilevante vedere che le supposizioni di Edmonds sulla volubilità delle donne sono decisamente sbagliate. Il puro testo prodotto dall’ editore si rivela essere completamente errato, grazie a queste prove più recenti; la cautela mostrata da Campbell e altri editori è completamente giustificata. 11 12 13

14

15 16

“Far from being mere guesses”, Edmonds 1922, viii. Lobel 1922. “But for the caution which I have laid upon myself in handling a text usually either fragmentary or corrupt, though it will appear pusillanimous to the more swashing spirits among those who may be at the pains of criticizing me, I am not at all disposed to apologize, remembering the word of a wise king, with which I have steeled myself against the seductive apparition of Conjecture, that a fool can throw a stone into the Sea of Spain and all the wise men in the world not manage to get it out”, Lobel 1925, v. “Thoroughly prudent, without the gymnosophist tendencies of Lobel–Page: where a reading or supplement is probable she is prepared to print it in the text”, West 1977, 161–62. “Excessive eagerness to fill the gaps”, Campbell 1982, vii. Burris–Fish–Obbink 2014, 16–18.

P. J. Finglass

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Conformarsi a queste critiche può essere difficile per un editore. In un articolo del 201317 ho sostenuto la necessità di associare una serie di frammenti papiracei di Stesicoro ad una citazione di Ateneo dallo stesso poema. Il risultato è un frammento piuttosto sostanziale, che possiamo identificare come l’ apertura de La Caduta di Troia di Stesicoro, un poema che, ora è chiaro, iniziava con la secondaria figura di Epeo, condannato, sembra, a trasportare carichi d’ acqua per i re greci, finché la dea Atena non ebbe pietà di lui e lo ispirò a costruire il cavallo. Ho detto che possiamo riconoscere qui l’ inizio del poema, ma nel concreto i primi quattro righi sono completamente perduti e, naturalmente, vi sono lacune nel testo restante.

lwwlwwlwwlwwl xlwwlwwl xltlwwlxlwlx lwwlwwlxlwwlwwl

]δ̣ρ[ θε̣ά, τὺ [w]δο[wwlxlwl παρθέν[ε] χρυσ[wwlxlwwlww] ἱμείρει [δ᾿] ἀ̣είδε̣[ιν.

νῦν δ᾿ ἄγ̣ε̣ μ̣ο̣ι λ̣⟨έγ⟩ε πῶς παρ[ὰ καλλιρόου(ς) 10 δ̣ίνα̣[ς] Σιμόεν̣τος ἀνὴρ θ]εᾶς ἰ[̣ ό]τατι δαεὶς σεμν[ᾶς Ἀθάνας μ̣έ̣τ[ρα] τε καὶ σοφίαν του[lwwlwwl xlw]ος ἀντὶ μ̣ά̣ χα[ς καὶ] φυ[λόπ]ιδος κλέο̣ς̣ .[xlwl 15 εὐρυ]χόρ[ο]υ Τροΐας ἁλώσι[μον ἆμαρ wl xl]ν ἔθηκεν

(x)lww].εσσι πό̣.(.)ο̣.[xlwwlwwlx ep. ὤικτιρε γὰ┘ρ αὐτὸ└ν┘ ὕ└δωρ ἀεὶ φορέοντα Διὸς κούρα βασιλ ┘ε̣└ῦσι┘ν̣ α[wlx 5

ant.

O dea, tu . . . d’ oro- . . . fanciulla . . . [e] desideri cantare. Avanti, dimmi come, per le correnti del Simoenta [che scorre benevolo], un uomo imparò la misura e la saggezza per volontà della dea illustre [Atena], e . . . invece della battaglia che distrugge gli uomini e il conflitto . . . gloria . . . [il giorno] della presa dell’ ampia Troia . . . egli pose . . . Poiché la figlia di Zeus ebbe pietà di lui dal momento che portava continuamente l’ acqua per i re.

17

Finglass 2013 (= fr. 100 in Finglass 2014a).

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Editare frammenti nel loro contesto

δεῦρ’ ἄγε, Καλλιόπεια λίγεια, μέλος πάμφωνον ἄειδε, θεά, Τροίας χαλεπὰν μεγάλης κλείοισ’ ἅλωσιν αἱματόεντά τ’ Ἄρη χόλον τε βαρὺν μακάρων 5 ἀν]δρ[ῶν τε μόρον θαλερῶν. θεά, τὺ [δὲ ] δὸ[ς χαρίεσσαν ἐμβολάν, παρθέν[ε] χρυσ[οκόμα· πηδᾶι γὰρ ἐμὸν κέαρ] ἱμείρει [δ’] ἀείδε[ιν.

νῦν δ’ ἄγε μοι λ⟨έγ⟩ε πῶς παρ[ὰ καλλιρόου 10 δίνα[ς] Σιμόεντος ἀνὴρ θ]εᾶς ἰ[ό]τατι δαεὶς σεμν[ᾶς Ἀθάνας μέτ[ρα] τε καὶ σοφίαν, τού[τοις ἐπιπειθόμενος ῥηξήνορ]ος ἀντὶ μαχα[ς καὶ] φυ[λόπ]ιδος κλέος ἄ[ραθ’ οὕνεκα 15 εὐρυ]χόρ[ο]υ Τροΐας ἁλώσι[μον ἆμαρ ἄτερ λαῶ]ν ἔθηκεν.

llllllllll

τῶι ῥα τελ]εσσίπονον [πρόφρων χάριν ὤπασε Παλλάς. ὤικτιρε γὰ┘ρ αὐτὸ└ν┘ ὕ└δωρ ἀεὶ φορέοντα Διὸς κούρα βασιλ┘ε└ῦσι┘ν Ἀ[τρεί δαις.

str.

ant.

ep.

Vieni dunque, Calliope dalla bella voce; canta una melodia dalle molte voci, o dea, mentre celebri il doloroso sacco della valorosa Troia, il sanguinoso conflitto, la tetra rabbia dei privilegiati, e la morte di uomini forti. O dea, dammi un dolce preludio, fanciulla dai capelli dorati, poiché il mio cuore scalpita e desidera cantare. Avanti, dimmi come, per le correnti del Simoenta che scorre benevolo, un uomo imparò la misura e la saggezza per volontà della dea illustre, Atena, e confidando in queste invece che nella battaglia che distrugge gli uomini e nel conflitto, vinse la gloria poiché fece venire il giorno della presa dell’ ampia Troia senza usare gli eserciti. Su di lui Pallade, nella sua generosità, pose una grazia che mise fine ai suoi tormenti. Poiché la figlia di Zeus ebbe pietà di lui dal momento che portava continuamente l’ acqua per i nobili figli di Atreo.

È stato un lavoro molto divertente e c’ è una certa utilità in un esercizio del genere – perché mostra che si può fare, rafforzando la posizione espressa per cui i collegamenti originali, tra il papiro e la citazione, sono nel concreto corretti. Ma ovviamente non sto sostenendo che Stesicoro abbia scritto proprio quelle parole. Quando mi sono occupato della vera e propria edizione, ovviamente non ho inserito a testo quelle ricostruzioni exempli gratia. Con molto rimpianto ho scelto di non metterle nemmeno in apparato. Se lo avessi fatto, temevo che ciò avrebbe dato troppa autorità alla mia ricostruzione – nel senso che includendo questi ‘dintorni’

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P. J. Finglass

all’ interno dei ‘dintorni’ creati dal commento avrei corso il rischio che il testo venisse preso troppo sul serio, o stampato da altri senza le parentesi o senza una chiara dichiarazione che quel testo non era altro che un divertissement. È stato un grande sacrificio, dal momento che non penso di essermi mai divertito così tanto quanto a tentare di completare questo frammento di Stesicoro. Magari un giorno proverò a scrivere l’ intero poema, incorporando ogni singolo frammento in modo da fabbricare un nuovo antico poema. Ma quello sarebbe il momento in cui l’ editore lascia del tutto i ‘dintorni’ del lavoro accademico, divenendo non più un editore ma un artista di buon diritto. Bibliografia Burris–Fish–Obbink 2014 = S. Burris–J. Fish–D. Obbink, “New fragments of Book 1 of Sappho”, ZPE 189 (2014), 1–28. Campbell 1982 = D. A. Campbell, Greek Lyric i. Sappho, Alcaeus, Cambridge (MA)-London 1982. Davies–Finglass 2014 = M. Davies–P. J. Finglass, Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 54), Cambridge 2014. Edmonds 1922 = J. M. Edmonds, Lyra Graeca. Being the Remains of all the Greek Lyric Poets from Eumelus to Timotheus excepting Pindar. Volume i including Terpander Alcman Sappho and Alcaeus, London-New York 1922. Finglass 2007a = P. J. Finglass, Sophocles. Electra (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commen­ taries 44), Cambridge 2007. Finglass 2007b = P. J. Finglass, Pindar. Pythian Eleven (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 45), Cambridge 2007. Finglass 2013 = P. J. Finglass, “How Stesichorus began his Sack of Troy”, ZPE 185 (2013), 1–17. Finglass 2014a = P. J. Finglass, Introduction, in Davies–Finglass 2014, 1–91. Finglass 2014b = P. J. Finglass, Text and critical apparatus, in Davies–Finglass 2014, 93–205. Finglass 2017 = P. J. Finglass, Εκδίδοντας τον Στησίχορο, in M. Tamiolaki (ed.), Μεθοδολογικά Ζητήματα στις Κλασικές Σπουδές. Παλαιά Προβλήματα και Νέες Προκλήσεις, Heraklion 2017, 27–47. Finglass 2021a = P. J. Finglass, Editing Stesichorus, in M. Alexandrou–C. Carey–G.B. D’ Alessio (eds.), Song Regained. Working with Greek Poetic Fragments (Sozomena 20), Berlin-Boston 2021. Finglass 2021b = P. J. Finglass, Aeschylus, lyric, and epic, in J. Bromberg–P. Burian (eds.), A Companion to Aeschylus, Malden (MA)-Oxford-Chichester 2021. Finglass 2021c = P. J. Finglass, Editions of Sappho since the Renaissance, in P. J. Finglass–A. Kelly (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Sappho, Cambridge 2021. Housman 1907 = A. E. Housman, “Luciliana”, CQ 1 (1907), 53–74 [= 1972, II, 662–684]. Housman 1972 = J. Diggle–F. R.D. Goodyear (eds.), The Classical Papers of A. E. Housman, 3 vols., Cambridge 1972. Lobel 1925 = E. Lobel, ΣΑΠΦΟΥΣ ΜΕΛΗ. The Fragments of the Lyrical Poems of Sappho, Oxford 1925. Page 1962 = D. L. Page, Poetae Melici Graeci, Oxford 1962. Snell–Maehler 1989 = B. Snell–H. Maehler, Pindari Carmina cum Fragmentis. Volumen II, Leipzig 1989. Voigt 1971 = E.-M. Voigt, Sappho et Alcaeus. Fragmenta, Amsterdam 1971.

Franco Montanari

Le tortuose strade del frammento. Citazioni d’ autore nell’ erudizione antica

Parole chiave: frammenti, citazioni, letteratura erudita, frammenti comici Una parte molto grande, certo maggioritaria, della Letteratura Greca antica ci è pervenuta solo in frammenti: basta pensare ai Fragmente der griechischen Historiker di Felix Jacoby, alle raccolte dei frammenti dei poeti tragici e dei poeti comici, ai frammenti dei grammatici e dei filosofi. Una poderosa mole di materiale che, salvo l’ apporto minoritario di reperti papiracei (non di rado peraltro di notevole importanza), proviene da tradizione indiretta del più vario tipo. Una di queste fonti è la cosiddetta letteratura erudita, sulla quale è doveroso spendere alcune considerazioni preliminari. Quando si parla di letteratura erudita, di filologia, esegesi e commento ai testi nell’ antichità, si tende a pensare essenzialmente in primis ai materiali della scoliografia e alla lessicografia, i due generi che si identificano immediatamente con questo concetto. Ma assieme a scoliografia e lessicografia dovremmo porre mente intanto alla grammatica e alla riflessione sulla lingua e poi – per cercare una definizione riassuntiva – a ogni testo variamente legato all’ interpretazione dei prodotti letterari, comprese le raccolte erudite di materiali utilizzabili a scopo esegetico, i testi antichi sulla metrica, gli gnomologi e tutto quanto è in qualche modo legato allo studio dei testi letterari e dello strumento per crearli, cioè la lingua. Si tratta evidentemente di un fenomeno complessivamente di vasta portata culturale: una civiltà si rende conto dell’ importanza dei testi della sua paideia e fa un poderoso sforzo per dotarsi degli strumenti per conservarne il testo corretto e per interpretarli, considerando la necessità di approntare strumenti idonei a tutte le operazioni necessarie e a comprendere lo strumento con cui questi testi sono fatti, cioè la lingua. Questo contributo si muove in questo ambito: la Ancient Scholarship, per evocare una definizione che è anche il titolo di un libro epocale di Rudolf Pfeiffer. Si tratta di un ambito di ricerca particolare (in tempi andati ancor più particolare di oggi, forse persino peregrino), estremamente vasto e multiforme, nel quale un importante cambio di prospettiva nella ricerca si è realizzato nell’ ultimo mezzo secolo circa. È un dato di fatto accettato che il turning point sia stato la publicazione della History di Pfeiffer nel 1968. La generale e complessiva discussione dedicata a questo volume negli “Entretiens Hardt” del 1993, un quarto di secolo dopo la sua pubblicazione, dimostrava che il libro di Pfeiffer era già riconosciuto come un

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punto di riferimento, rispetto al quale si potevano indicare ampliamenti e aggiunte alla sua trattazione, non solo dall’ ovvio punto di vista cronologico1. Oggi la domanda essenziale che uno studioso deve rivolgersi a proposito di questo ambito tematico è la seguente2: cosa ci dicono i testi della filologia ed erudizione antica a proposito di se stessi? I prodotti che possediamo dell’ erudizione antica sono stati a lungo considerati e studiati essenzialmente (pur variando singoli e specifici oggetti di indagine) per due ragioni e con due approcci: a) come testimoni di frammenti di opere perdute e per ricavare informazioni altrimenti ignote, per esempio su Realien, fatti storici, istituzioni e così via; b) come fonte di informazioni per l’ interpretazione e la comprensione dell’ opera che commentano (oppure, occasionalmente, di altre opere chiamate in causa dal testo esegetico). Il primo caso è immediatamente comprensibile: tutte le edizioni di opere frammentarie abbondano di citazioni che si trovano nei corpora scoliografici, nelle opere grammaticali e nelle raccolte lessicografiche. Non è raro che studi su vari aspetti di diverse epoche storiche traggano vantaggio da fonti erudite (bastino per tutti gli esempi dei FGrHist di Jacoby, dei Vorsokratiker di Diels-Kranz, delle raccolte di frammenti di tragici e comici). Dall’ altro lato, accade talvolta che l’ esegesi delle opere dei principali autori della letteratura antica sia chiarita da uno scolio o dal lemma di un lessico, che l’ interpretazione di un passo controverso tragga vantaggio da una fonte erudita antica. Questi sono certo due aspetti rilevanti, che non devono essere né sottovalutati né messi da parte, dato che svolgono una funzione importante che non si può certo negare. Già da qualche tempo, però, l’ approccio sta cambiando e questo cambiamento dovrebbe consolidarsi come un progresso acquisito nella conoscenza del mondo antico. Possiamo esprimerlo così: quanto sono significativi per quello che dicono su tutto ciò che è diverso da loro stessi e che ci viene da loro apportato, almeno altrettanto i prodotti dell’ antica filologia sono importanti per quello che dicono a proposito esattamente di se stessi. Possiamo apprezzare il valore di un frammento sconosciuto di un’ opera perduta o di un dato relativo al mondo antico altrimenti ignoto, ma non meno rilevante e significativo (talvolta forse anche più di questo) è ciò che tali testi, difficili e complessi, ci dicono sui metodi degli antichi esegeti, sui loro assunti intellettuali, le idee, gli orientamenti, gli intenti dei loro tempi e dei loro contesti, in una parola sulla loro cultura. È un dato di fatto – e non possiamo più negarlo o ignorarlo – che l’ esegesi degli autori antichi, l’ erudizione, la grammatica, la riflessione sulla lingua, tutto ciò che di solito definiamo genericamente come Ancient Scholarship, deve oggi essere inteso come uno degli aspetti essenziali del quadro storico-culturale del mondo antico (nonché come il passo finale nell’ uscita da un classicismo estetizzante, le cui osservazioni e opinioni critiche sono irrimediabilmente effimere e per il quale i prodotti della filologia antica erano banalità di epoca tarda, di scarso o inesistente valore in se stessi). 1 2

Montanari 1994; cf. anche Montana 2012. Cf. Montanari 2018.

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Domandiamo dunque ai testi della filologia antica, anzitutto, che cosa possono dirci su se stessi e adottiamo come principio base il fatto che non importa se quanto ci dicono è giusto o sbagliato secondo noi, se le loro interpretazioni sono buone o cattive dal nostro punto di vista e secondo i nostri metodi. Importa piuttosto ciò che implicano e ciò che significano di per sé: che uno scolio a Omero o a Eschilo scelga una lezione o un’ interpretazione per noi sbagliata è del tutto secondario rispetto alla nostra comprensione dei metodi e degli assunti a cui si faceva ricorso per compiere quelle scelte testuali ed esegetiche. E del tutto inutile e ozioso è sottolineare quanto siano lontani dal giusto nelle scelte testuali, nelle interpretazioni dei passi, nelle ricostruzioni etimologiche: è ovvio e non serve a niente. Per difendere l’ ‘utilità’ dei testi della filologia antica non importa sforzarsi di segnalare che a volte interpretino bene secondo la nostra filologia e le nostre idee: importa invece comprendere le ragioni per cui hanno interpretato in un certo modo e hanno compiuto certe scelte, i loro presupposti intellettuali e culturali, per comprendere insomma ciò che dicono riguardo a se stessi, la loro epoca, il loro contesto, la loro cultura, i loro orientamenti critici e metodologici. Un punto essenziale diventa dunque il seguente. La svolta intellettuale della filologia antica è fondamentalmente una questione di metodo e di idee, non certo di qualità o quantità dei risultati. Un’ altra questione sostanziale consiste nello stabilire se la fase storica della filologia alessandrina debba essere considerata come un momento decisivo di svolta intellettuale nella storia culturale della nostra civiltà oppure no, cioè se abbia determinato la nascita di un metodo di studio dei testi letterari che sta all’ origine della disciplina che noi oggi chiamiamo filologia (classica). A questo proposito negli ultimi decenni c’ è stato un acceso dibattito. Alcuni studiosi non hanno voluto riconoscere ai filologi alessandrini nessun tipo di attività comprendente la collazione di copie e la scelta fra varianti, ritenendo che le loro lezioni fossero solo congetture e con questo pensando di svalutare fortemente il loro significato storico e culturale nella nascita e nello sviluppo della disciplina filologica. Si tratta di un aspetto centrale nella valutazione della filologia alessandrina dal punto di vista della storia culturale. Sarebbe fin troppo facile far notare immediatamente che appunto la congettura è uno degli strumenti fondamentali della prassi filologica, cosa che genererebbe una contraddizione insanabile e sufficiente a screditare una prospettiva che ritiene di svalutare i filologi antichi sostenendo che facevano solo congetture (come se questo non significasse appunto che erano filologi). Esistono d’ altra parte, in ogni caso, testimonianze chiare e indiscutibili del fatto che veniva effettivamente praticata la collazione fra diverse copie e che si sceglieva fra varianti testuali testimoniate in diversi manoscritti. All’ eventuale obiezione che poteva essere un fenomeno occasionale piuttosto che una prassi consolidata, si può facilmente rispondere che si tratta di un problema di principio e di metodo, non di quantità di dati (cioè numero di copie collazionate e di varianti discusse) o di qualità dei risultati (giusti o sbagliati dal nostro punto di vista di filologi moderni). Sarebbe del tutto ridicolo tentare di stabilire un numero minimo di copie da confrontare le une con le altre o di varianti da prendere in

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considerazione, tentare di determinare quante lezioni ‘corrette’ o interpretazioni ‘buone’ sono necessarie per poter parlare di filologia. Piuttosto, in una prospettiva storica, ciò che è necessario perché si compia un decisivo passo in avanti, in termini di progresso intellettuale, è il fatto stesso di comprendere e affrontare il problema, anche se in modo parziale, desultorio o incoerente: un testo letterario ha avuto una variegata storia della sua trasmissione, nel corso della quale può aver subito distorsioni e danni; è possibile ricostituire il testo corretto per congettura oppure scegliendo la lezione migliore tra quelle offerte da una tradizione discorde. L’ attività dei filologi alessandrini comprendeva senza dubbio sia varianti ricavate dal confronto tra più copie sia congetture ope ingenii, vale a dire in linea di principio gli stessi strumenti della filologia moderna. Assume valore decisivo un’ ulteriore considerazione di metodo, che riguarda l’ invenzione del segno critico chiamato obelos da parte di Zenodoto. Egli mise in pratica due diverse operazioni che segnano un’ importante svolta intellettuale di fronte a una tradizione testuale non univoca: da una parte la cancellazione materiale dei versi ritenuti sicuramente non autentici e da eliminare dal testo, dall’ altra la possibilità di segnalare il sospetto che un verso fosse spurio, quando non si era abbastanza sicuri per eliminarlo in modo permanente e definitivo. Tale verso rimaneva così nel testo, accompagnato da un segno di dubbio che lasciava al lettore la possibilità di formarsi una propria opinione. Fu la codificazione del dubbio filologico, che nelle moderne edizioni critiche indichiamo con i segni dell’ espunzione (o magari mettendola in apparato) per la parte di testo ritenuta incerta e discutibile, ma lasciandola a disposizione del lettore. Il riconoscimento di un guasto nel testo e della necessità di ripararlo rivela come l’ unità organica fra interpretazione e critica testuale fosse un dato acquisito. Benché rimanesse ancora molta strada da fare e la moderna filologia “Wolfiana”, le edizioni critiche e il commento scientifico cui siamo avvezzi fossero in un futuro ancora lontano, il punto di vista che stiamo esponendo – lungi dall’ essere un anacronismo – è la valutazione storica che un passo cruciale fu compiuto nel periodo tra Zenodoto e Aristarco e consegnato per sempre alla storia3. All’ inizio abbiamo accennato alla letteratura erudita come uno dei maggiori testimoni di frammenti di opere perdute. Questo tema rientra a pieno titolo nel discorso che stiamo facendo e ne rappresenta uno degli aspetti più significativi e importanti. Lo potremmo riassumere, forse genericamente e forse persino superficialmente, come la problematica dei loci similes o passi paralleli che si incontrano nelle argomentazioni delle opere esegetico-erudite. Anch’ esso deve dunque essere guardato da una prospettiva del tutto nuova: in sintesi, non tanto come una fonte di frammenti di opere perdute, bensì soprattutto come testimonianza di una prassi esegetica e come prova delle conoscenze, della cultura, degli orientamenti degli antichi interpreti. Una caratteristica dei commentari provenienti dal lavoro 3

Cf. da ultimo Montanari 2015a, 2015b e 2018, con bibliografia.

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filologico-esegetico degli eruditi grammatici dell’ età ellenistico-romana e tardoantica è infatti la frequente presenza di citazioni prese da autori e opere che sono differenti dall’ autore e dall’ opera oggetto del commentario stesso, oppure che appartengono allo stesso autore ma a un’ opera diversa da quella commentata. A questa diffusa prassi della citazione di loci paralleli nel lavoro filologicoesegetico si faceva ricorso per le ragioni più disparate, che possono tuttavia essere ricondotte sostanzialmente a tre categorie principali. In alcuni casi un testo parallelo è citato perché giova all’ interpretazione e alla comprensione del passo commentato: la citazione adempiva perciò ad uno scopo pratico di carattere esegetico e aveva una utilità diretta nel lavoro del commentatore. Talvolta, invece, si ricorreva ad essa perché il testo citato contiene una notizia o un’ informazione interessante per il testo commentato dal punto di vista contenutistico, per i Realien, o sotto il profilo lessicale o linguistico: la citazione rientrava dunque in un approccio più generale e decisamente erudito, non era dettata da una linea di indagine solo rigorosamente esegetica ma piuttosto da curiosità conoscitiva ampliata e diversificata. In altri casi, infine, il testo citato (andando anche incontro, a volte, a distorsioni e travisamenti) serviva a corroborare una certa opinione sostenuta dal commentatore, più o meno legata al testo commentato. Abbiamo dunque a che fare, in linea di massima, con loci similes in senso ampio, cioè passi utili per una migliore comprensione del testo oggetto del commentario, oppure talvolta con materiali in grado di fornire ulteriori informazioni e notizie erudite di varia natura, o ancora con passi addotti per uno scopo ‘ideologico’. In quest’ ultimo caso le citazioni ‘ideologicamente orientate’ prendevano come punto di partenza il testo commentato, che veniva però utilizzato come pretesto per dare avvio ad una più ampia argomentazione4. Queste considerazioni sono valide principalmente per i testi di carattere esegetico, sostanzialmente la scoliografia, ma non bisogna dimenticare che la letteratura erudita nel suo complesso comprende svariate opere appartenenti ad altri generi, opere di carattere non esegetico o non direttamente esegetico, come tutto il grosso insieme della lessicografia e delle opere grammaticali. Tutti questi testi pullulano di citazioni di opere perdute di autori della letteratura antica, addotte a scopo di esemplificazione, di parallelo o di discussione concettuale. È dunque un serbatoio enorme, del quale indagare e cercare di capire il significato storico-culturale, evitando di fermarsi all’ acquisizione di nuovi frammenti di opere perdute5. Mi piace molto la formulazione del titolo di questa raccolta come “Frammenti e dintorni”, o “Fragmente im Kontext”. Voglio sottolineare una cosa, che mi pare sia stata detta nelle fasi preparatorie di questo volume e che ritengo sia della massima importanza. Noi parliamo di ‘frammenti’, che troviamo raccolti, studiati e commentati soprattutto nelle edizioni famose e canoniche di testi frammentari (FGrHist, tragici, comici, filosofi, grammatici), ma dobbiamo avere ben presente 4 5

Cf. da ultimo Montanari 2016, con bibliografia. Cf. da ultimo Montanari, Lett. erudita, in stampa.

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e ben chiaro che quelli che noi chiamiamo ‘frammenti’ sono in realtà citazioni all’ interno di un testo che ce li restituisce e ce li fa conoscere, con tutto quello che questo comporta, prima di tutto che questi frammenti si trovano in un contesto, nel quale sono stati inseriti dall’ autore per uno scopo ben preciso (che non è quello di essere poi raggruppati e inseriti in raccolte di testi frammentari come quelle a cui facevamo riferimento). Le citazioni, in un determinato contesto, si fanno con uno scopo specifico, che ha molte conseguenze e molte implicazioni. Certamente i passi d’ autore citati erano assai più numerosi e abbondanti di quanto possiamo vedere oggi, perché, nel pesante processo di epitomazione prodottosi storicamente nel corso della trasmissione della letteratura erudita, è stato osservato come l’ elemento che tende a cadere per primo sia proprio quello delle citazioni di passi paralleli, che vengono via via contratte e ridotte (magari riducendosi addirittura al solo nome dell’ autore citato) fino a scomparire. L’ entità delle testimonianze che oggi abbiamo di fronte ci dà quindi un’ immagine assai limitata della poderosa mole di conoscenze dei testi poetico-letterari e dell’ impegno profuso nell’ utilizzarli a vari scopi esegetici, informativi ed eruditi: ma dobbiamo renderci conto che questo è uno degli aspetti importanti per valutare il livello raggiunto dalla filologia antica, dalla cultura dei filologi antichi e soprattutto per capire la sua portata come fenomeno storico-culturale. Questo è il tema che dobbiamo e vogliamo indagare. Trattando di questi problemi, più volte ho scelto di partire da un esempio che ritengo emblematico e che può valere benissimo per introdurre e capire la questione. Lo ripeterò qui in forma sintetica. Si tratta del piccolo frammento PAmh. 2.12 (MP3 483), contenente le ultime righe del commento di Aristarco al I libro di Erodoto, con tanto di sottoscrizione Ἀριστάρχου | Ἡροδότου | α | ὑπόμνημα. Per i primi editori il frammento era interessante solo per due aspetti: 1) quello che ci dice sul testo oggetto di commento, cioè Erodoto (una variante testuale ed elementi esegetici di un certo valore); 2) il ritrovamento di nuovi frammenti di opere perdute6. Però non dicono niente sulla storia della filologia come fenomeno storico-culturale, benché si trovino di fronte alla testimonianza di un’ opera della massima importanza e prima sconosciuta (nulla si sapeva di commenti degli Alessandrini su testi storici). Il modo diverso, per quanto stringatissimo, di considerare il testimone in Pfeiffer 1968 è una prova lampante del cambiamento di punto di vista7. Negli ultimi tempi la varia problematica relativa alla copiosa presenza di citazioni d’ autore nella letteratura erudita si sta sviluppando significativamente, con

6

7

Edito da Grenfell–Hunt 1901, 3–4 (Plate III): “The chief points of interest in the fragment are the proof of a hitherto unknown variant ἄμιπποι for ἄνιπποι in chap. 215 and a new quotation from the Ποιμένες of Sophocles”: cf. Montanari 2016, 74–76, e Montana 2019 con bibliografia. Pfeiffer 1968, 224 (trad. it. pp. 348–49); nuova edizione con introduzione e commento in Montana 2019.

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risultati di notevole interesse. Certo questa è un’ altra prova del cambiamento di prospettiva nella ricerca di cui dicevamo sopra8. In generale, come si può ben comprendere, non è facile, anzi è assolutamente difficile fare un rilevamento e un panorama concreto dei passi d’ autore sparsi come citazioni nei testi esegetico-eruditi e da noi di solito trattati come ‘frammenti’: gli ostacoli sono troppi e troppo gravi, gli strumenti del tutto inadeguati per non gettare un dubbio assai pesante anche sull’ estrapolazione di semplici dati quantitativi, che si potrebbe tentare di ricavare in qualche modo, ma si rivelerebbero peraltro di utilità molto limitata, al massimo una base di partenza per un’ analisi più approfondita e affidabile. Un’ osservazione molto superficiale mostrerà come Omero sia l’ autore largamente prevalente e come risulti (almeno tendenzialmente) costante la regola per cui l’ autore commentato è il più citato negli scolî che lo riguardano9. Per le complesse ed estese raccolte di opere esegetico-erudite trasmesse dalla tradizione medievale le cose sono molto più difficili e complicate. La ricerca delle citazioni di un qualunque autore in uno o più corpora scoliografici o lessici fatta con il TLG (per esempio le citazioni di Euripide negli scolî all’ Iliade oppure negli scolî a diversi autori, negli Etimologici e in altri lessici) darà un risultato puramente quantitativo e per di più ben poco affidabile, perché includerà quanto meno doppioni dovuti a diverse redazioni di scoli, a occorrenze congetturali e magari anche citazioni addotte come parallelo dall’ editore moderno (a seconda di come il testo è stato codificato nella banca dati e dello stato editoriale del testo stesso). Un quadro puramente quantitativo si rivelerebbe naturalmente solo un primo risultato, che mi sembra realizzabile solo per singole opere di erudizione e per singoli autori (per esempio le citazioni di Aristofane negli scolî all’ Iliade), perché comporta che poi ogni citazione sia esaminata e capita puntualmente nel suo contesto (se conservato) e nelle sue ragioni. Le considerazioni svolte sopra offrono alcune basi per delineare una tipologia delle citazioni di autori e opere nella letteratura erudita, una griglia di riferimento da utilizzare10. Ci si può servire degli indici delle edizioni delle varie raccolte erudite, ma sappiamo bene che diversi corpora scoliografici, lessici e opere grammaticali sono disponibili in edizioni anche molto vecchie11, i cui indici sono anch’ essi solo parzialmente affidabili: la qualità delle edizioni e dei loro indici spesso non permette un computo preciso senza una verifica puntuale di ogni citazione (certo un lavoro 8

9 10 11

Di seguito alcuni riferimenti bibliografici, che documentano il consolidarsi dell’ interesse per questo tema in generale: Montanari 1992; Grisolia 1992; Montana 1996; Scattolin 2007; Nünlist 2009, 8–11 e passim; Perrone 2010; Montanari 2016; Vergados 2017; Pagani 2018; Phillips 2013; Gennari Santori 2018; Comunetti 2020; Montanari 2020. Cf. Montanari 1992. Cf. anche le considerazioni conclusive di Perrone 2010, 100–102. Negli ultimi decenni le nuove edizioni delle opere della letteratura erudita si vanno moltiplicando, con grande vantaggio della ricerca in questo campo così vasto e difficile.

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enorme). Si scoprirà ben presto che abbiamo a che fare con una tipologia che contempla casi in cui troviamo un rimando a autore + opera + testo in extenso (o parafarsi) del passo e casi in cui uno o due dei tre elementi sono assenti, in diversi casi probabilmente perché perduti nel corso della tradizione. Per un singolo autore chiamato in causa avremo la citazione di opere conservate oppure di frammenti di opere non conservate: un dato di grande interesse per la storia della fortuna di quell’ autore. Ci saranno poi i casi in cui il riferimento è per antonomasia e dunque non compare in una ricerca automatica per nome. Soprattutto è facile evocare, a questo punto, i casi in cui l’ omissione del nome dell’ autore comporta un dubbio di attribuzione e per contro i casi in cui rimane solo il nome o poco più, per cui non è agevole capire il motivo e il senso della citazione da parte del grammatico antico. Un passo avanti reale e attendibile può essere fatto soltanto dedicandosi a studiare casi concreti e ben individuati, tipo le citazioni di x negli scolî a y, e/o nella lessicografia o in altro genere di opere erudite. Ogni passo avanti della ricerca acquisterà così la concretezza dell’ esame puntuale e preciso, con risultati attendibili. Se prendiamo per esempio le citazioni di Aristofane o di altri poeti comici negli scolî all’ Iliade, siamo facilitati dall’ esistenza dell’ edizione di Erbse, che però non comprende i cosiddetti Sch. D e altro ancora della scoliografia iliadica (mi riferisco agli scolî della classe h, che Erbse ha utilizzato non completamente e sistematicamente solo per il I canto, mentre per tutto il resto del poema devono ancora essere esaminati)12. In questa occasione ho provato dunque a fare un esempio di questi possibili studi, osservando le citazioni in particolare di Eupoli e Cratino, con un accenno ad Aristofane, negli scolî all’ Iliade, e inoltre alcune citazioni di Pindaro sempre negli scolî all’ Iliade. Non mi soffermerò, anche per ragioni di spazio, sulla campionatura di scolî con citazioni pindariche, che sono trattati in un lavoro in corso di stampa13: ne riassumo sinteticamente i risultati e gli argomenti emersi. Abbiamo innanzi tutto un paio di semplici casi in cui Pindaro è citato per versioni d ­ ifferenti di elementi del mito rispetto a Omero14. Disaccordi fra gli autori antichi su particolari di questo genere sono piuttosto comuni e spesso vengono notati, rivelando peraltro le puntuali conoscenze dei testi da parte dei grammatici antichi (sch. ex. Iliade 8.365–68 e sch. ex. Iliade 10.435: una variante mitica nella vicenda di Reso). Ancora uno scolio omerico (sch. ex. Iliade 13.20) cita un verso della Pitica 3 di Pindaro in parallelo con Il. 13.20. Il critico antico sostiene che Pindaro qui si sarebbe “ispirato” all’ Iliade e aggiunge una serie di considerazioni basate sul confronto fra i due passi, per chiudere con un problema testuale pindarico15. Più complesso e problematico è il caso, basato anch’ esso su un parallelo fra Omero 12 13 14 15

Cf. Montanari–Montana–Muratore–Pagani 2017. Cf. Montanari 2020. Cf. Merro 2015. Del problema testuale e metrico ho trattato in Montanari 1993.

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e Pindaro, trattato nello sch. di Aristonico a Iliade 2.670, nello sch. D a Iliade 2.670 e nello sch. Pind. Ol. 7,63 = 34, che si riferisce all’ insediamento a Rodi dei discendenti di Eracle, guidati dall’ Eraclide Tlepolemo, esiliato da Argo: il passo pose alcuni problemi alla filologia antica (come si legge negli scolî) e diversi altri ne pone agli studiosi moderni, sui quali ora non possiamo soffermarci (anche perché la nostra prospettiva in questa sede è del tutto diversa). La base del ragionamento e delle osservazioni dei critici antichi è senza dubbio l’ evidenziazione e l’ analisi del parallelo fra il passo di Iliade 2 e quello della Olimpica 7 di Pindaro. Ci basti sottolineare che in questo punto siamo praticamente certi che il materiale conservato risale ad Aristarco: per la filologia antica è stato essenziale rilevare e sottolineare il rapporto fra i due passi e la dipendenza di Pindaro da Omero, e analizzarne le differenze, sia dal punto di vista stilistico sia da quello del contenuto e della trattazione del mito. Il resto è un problema degli studi moderni. Chiariamo bene che non c’ è una gerarchia di importanza fra le due prospettive e che sono importanti due aspetti: 1) tenerle ben distinte, 2) non subordinare la seconda alla prima, liquidando la critica filologica antica come irrilevante o sbagliata perché non risolve i problemi della ricerca moderna. Passiamo alle citazioni di frammenti dei comici. Nell’ esame che segue ci basiamo sull’ indice dei nomi propri dell’ edizione di Erbse degli scolî all’ Iliade. Le testimonianze sono presentate nell’ ordine dei versi dell’ Iliade: si dà prima il riferimento allo scolio iliadico (indicando la classe dello scolio), seguito dal numero del frammento dell’ autore antico nell’ edizione di riferimento. Per Cratino ci sono 6 citazioni, tutte con il nome, nessuna anonima16. In due casi Cratino è citato assieme ad Aristofane, in un caso assieme a Eupoli. 1. Sch. Iliade 2.56c (sch. ex.), fr. 363 K. = 331 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Con ogni probabilità, una testimonianza di carattere linguistico-grammaticale. Un neutro con valore avverbiale, per cui Cratino sembra offrire un parallelo per il passo omerico. Il testo del frammento è problematico: Erbse mette in apparato il testo dei mss. b e quello dello sch. h, che ha la forma probabilmente più vicina a quella corretta. 2. Sch. Iliade 7.76 (POxy 1087, col. II 36–38), fr. 101 K. + CGFP 72 = 108 K.–A. (παρὰ Κρατίνῳ ἐν Μαλθακοῖς). Si tratta assai probabilmente di una testimonianza lessicale. Questo papiro (un tempo datato al I sec. a. C., oggi piuttosto al I sec. d.C.) restituisce un ampio frammento di commentario a Iliade 7.75–83, caratterizzato dalla tendenza alla disquisizione erudita di argomento lessicale. Si conserva una lunga nota (40 righi) a Iliade 7.76 ἐπὶ μάρτυρος ἔστω, nella quale sono elencati numerosi paronimi, intesi come nomi della seconda declinazione del tipo μάρτυρος, -ου, un nominativo derivato dal genitivo del corrispondente nome della terza declinazione, del tipo μάρτυς, μάρτυρος (paralleli 16

È sempre possibile, per gli autori perduti di cui abbiamo solo frammenti, che ci siano delle citazioni nella letteratura erudita che non riconosciamo (magari sfuggono anche come citazioni).

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3.

4.

5.

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in testi grammaticali). Fra i numerosi autori citati come testimoni di simili paronimi (Eschilo, Alceo, Antimaco, Euripide, Esiodo, Licofrone, Pindaro, Simonide, Sofocle, Stesicoro, Senofane, Archiloco e altri ancora) troviamo anche Cratino ἐν Μαλθακοῖς e poi Eupoli senza titolo della commedia (vedi infra Eupoli nr. 2). La ricostruzione del fr. di Cratino è problematica (una parte è in lacuna), ma certamente la citazione – come del resto tutte le altre della nota del commentario – offriva una testimonianza lessicale (vedi K.–A. 1983, 176–77 ad loc.). Sch. Iliade 9.77b1 (sch. ex.), fr. 158 K. = 164 K.–A. (ἐν Πανόπταις Κρατῖνος). Si tratta di una testimonianza di carattere linguistico-stilistico. Lo scolio dice che non è necessario sottintendere nel passo omerico un participio congiunto al verbo principale (cioè sottintendere ὁρῶν): si tratta invece di una παλαιὰ συνήθεια appunto di carattere stilistico. Per espressioni simili in parallelo al passo omerico vengono citati questo frammento di Cratino e Aristofane, Acarnesi 13: curioso è che nello scolio per la citazione di Aristofane siano caduti sia il nome dell’ autore che il titolo dell’ opera, entrambi conservati invece per Cratino. È dunque una delle citazioni di Aristofane senza nome, cf. infra. Sch. Iliade 16.428b (sch. ex.), fr. 406 K. = 444 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Testimonianza di carattere linguistico-grammaticale, probabilmente di un uso attico. A commento di una forma di nominativo femminile plurale di un aggettivo composto, che si trova in questo verso omerico (ἀγκυλοχεῖλαι da ἀγκυλόχειλος, anziché ἀγκυλοχειλεῖς da ἀγκυλοχείλης), Cratino è citato come parallelo morfologico per un altro aggettivo con forma morfologicamente analoga (δωδεκ(α)έται anziché δωδεκ(α)έτεις, da δωδεκ(α)έτης). Per la stessa forma δωδεκ(α)έται in un passo di Cherobosco (che parte dallo stesso verso omerico Iliade 16.428: Choerob. in Theodos. Can., GG IV 1, p. 167,37ss.) si citano οἱ Ἀττικοί: probabile dunque che il parallelo di Cratino fosse addotto come testimonianza di un uso attico. Sch. Iliade 18.521b1 (sch. Hrd.), fr. 364 K. = 397 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). A quanto pare abbiamo un parallelo di carattere linguistico-prosodico. Si tratta di un problema di quantità di sillabe, per cui Erodiano cita Aristofane, Cavalieri 96 = 114, ma anche questa volta il nome dell’ autore e il titolo dell’ opera sono perduti, come nel successivo sch. 18.521b2 (cf. infra, Aristofane, citazioni senza nome), e poi Cratino. È incerto se nel frammento di Cratino si debba leggere Ἄρης / Ἄρην oppure ἀρήν: vedi discussione in K.–A. 1983, 308–309 ad loc. Sch. Iliade 23.361a1 (testimonia). Questo frammento è tramandato da alcuni mss. degli sch. h all’ Iliade, che presentano materiali in più rispetto agli scolî principali, e si trova solo nell’ apparato dei testimonia di Erbse, che nell’ indice scrive: “Ψ 361 α1 (test. [error])”. C’ è stata una lunga discussione sull’ attribuzione del frammento a Cratino o a Cratete, facendo seguito alla collocazione

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sotto Cratete in Kock fr. 50 (CAF I 143)17. K.–A. lo includono come Cratin. fr. 472, ma tra parentesi rimandano a Cratete; sotto Cratete però non ne parlano per niente (cf. K.–A. 1983, 107–109, dove il rinvio al frammento 50 K. manca del tutto). Ne discutono e ne trattano Bonanno 1972 e Olson–Seaberg 2018 nel commento al fr. 472 di Cratino e sembra che sia stata raggiunta una concordia sull’ attribuzione a Cratino18. Si tratta comunque di una testimonianza di carattere linguistico-grammaticale, presumibilmente sulla forma attica di una forma verbale, per la quale ci sono oscillazioni nei mss. Per Eupoli abbiamo in tutto 8 citazioni, 6 con il nome, 2 senza nome (nrr. 7–8), più una congettura respinta (vedi nr. 9). In un caso (nr. 2) è citato assieme a Cratino (vedi Cratino nr. 2). 1. Sch. Iliade 2.333a (sch. ex.), fr. 314 K = 342 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Sono stati avanzati dubbi anche se il frammento non venga da una tragedia invece che da Eupoli (come dice lo scolio: κατὰ Εὔπολιν), magari da Euripide per erroneo scioglimento di abbreviazione (vedi K.–A. 1986, 493 ad loc.19). In ogni caso, il senso della citazione non è immediatamente chiaro: forse il frammento è addotto come un parallelo per il contenuto del verso omerico. 2. Sch. Iliade 7.76 (POxy 1087, II 45–47), CGFP 100 = fr. 352 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Vedi sopra Cratino nr. 2, la citazione di Eupoli ha perduto il titolo della commedia. Si tratta di una testimonianza lessicale, inserita come esempio in una serie di παρώνυμοι. 3. Sch. Iliade 13.353 (sch. ex.), fr. 43 K. = 49 K.–A. (Εὔπολις ἐν Αὐτολύκοις). Per il plurale ἐν Αὐτολύκοις vd. K.–A. 1986, 321 (Αὐτόλυκος α´ β´, test. ii): “de Eupolide fabularum retractatore vid. test. 14 [sc. Sud. δ 756], hinc explicandus videtur num. plur. ἐν Αὐτολύκοις fr. 49”. Si tratta di una testimonianza di carattere linguistico-stilistico, analoga a quella di Cratino nr. 3: non è necessario sottintendere nel passo omerico un participio congiunto al verbo principale (cioè sottintendere ὁρῶν), ἔστι δὲ τὸ τῆς φράσεως ἀρχαῖον; in Cratino nr. 3 si usava l’ espressione παλαιὰ συνήθεια. 4. Sch. Iliade 14.241c (Porph. vel sch. ex.?), fr. 435 K. = 472 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Cratino è citato come testimone di una forma di ottativo, è dunque una testimonianza di carattere linguistico-grammaticale. Nello stesso scolio è citato anche un frammento di Saffo, per confronto dialettale. 5. Sch. Iliade 15.412b1 (sch. ex.), fr. 447 K. = 483 K.–A. (incertae fabulae). Si tratta di una testimonianza lessicale. Sia lo sch. di Aristonico (412a) che lo sch. ex. rilevano l’ unicità dell’ uso della parola σοφία in questo passo (ὅτι ἅπαξ 17

18 19

Probabilmente il problema risale a Gaisford (E.M. 579,1), che scelse lo scioglimento Κράτης per un’ abbreviazione che invece indicava Κρατῖνος, come poi hanno confermato altri mss. degli sch. h all’ Iliade (vd. Erbse, test. ad loc.). Bonanno 1972, 169–70; Olson–Seaberg 2018, 305–307; cf. anche Perrone 2019, 17. Cf. Olson 2014, 51 ad loc.

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ἐνταῦθα), usata nel senso di τέχνη e riferita alla τεκτονικὴ τέχνη, cioè l’ arte del carpentiere. Non è conservato il nome, ma la formulazione nello sch. ex. rivela che dovrebbe trattarsi di uno degli argomenti addotti dai Chorizontes, perché la parola σοφία non è usata nell’ Odissea (Chorizontes fr. *XIX Kohl, collocato fra i Fragmenta probabilia et dubia). Lo sch. ex. annota che ogni τέχνη è chiamata σοφία e che i τεχνίται sono chiamati σοφοί: come prova di questo vengono addotti due passi, uno di Sofocle (fr. 820 N.2 = 906 P. = 906 R.), nel quale il citarodo è detto σοφιστής, e uno di Eupoli, nel quale è il rapsodo a essere definito σοφιστής. In Eupoli fr. 309 K.–A., si trova ὦ ῥαψῳδέ, ma senza specificazioni; Cratino fr. 2 K.–A. testimonia l’ uso di σοφιστής per i poeti. 6. Sch. Iliade 16.353b (sch. ex.), fr. 14 K. = 22 (et 13) K.–A. (Αἶγες). Anche questa è una testimonianza lessicale. Lo sch. osserva che il termine μῆλον significa sia capra (πρόβατον) che pecora (αἴξ), tanto è vero che Eupoli chiama προβατικὸν χορόν quello formato di capre: questo permette di attribuire la citazione alla commedia Αἶγες. 7. Sch. Iliade 17.463 (sch. ex.), fr. 94,3 K. = 102,3 K.–A. (Δῆμοι, senza il titolo e senza il nome dell’ autore). Si tratta di una testimonianza/parallelo lessicale. Il verso di Eupoli, qui citato senza il nome dell’ autore, appartiene a un ben noto frammento dei Demi, di 7 versi in tutto, riportato per intero da uno sch. a Elio Aristide e parzialmente da altre fonti (vedi infra il nr. 8), nel quale si fa allusione all’ eloquenza di Pericle20. In questo sch. omerico ne viene citato un solo verso, senza il nome di Eupoli, evidentemente caduto nella trasmissione. Il verso di Eupoli serve come parallelo lessicale per il fatto che lo scoliasta intende sostenere per l’ omerico ᾕρει il significato di κατελάμβανεν, cioè “prendere, uccidere”. Vedi il frammento seguente. 8. Sch. Iliade 24.85a (sch. ex.), fr. 94,7 K. = 102,7 K.–A. (Δῆμοι; ὡς ὁ κωμικός φησι, senza il titolo e senza il nome dell’ autore). Il nome di Eupoli si è probabilmente perduto nella tradizione ed egli è designato solo come ὁ κωμικός, epiteto che più spesso viene usato per antonomasia per Aristofane21. Eupoli è citato come parallelo per il passo omerico, per un’ espressione metaforica presente nel passo dei Demi, nel quale a quanto pare il comico sosteneva che, nel suo stile oratorio, Pericle spesso τὸ κέντρον ἐγκατέλειπε τοῖς ἀκροωμένοις. Commentando il passo omerico in cui si presenta Teti che piange la sorte di suo figlio che è vicino alla morte, per ora futura, lo scolio osserva che in questo modo il poeta anticipa il successivo compianto e dolore per Ettore e “lascia il pungiglione negli ascoltatori”, come dice appunto Eupoli (τὸ κέντρον ἐγκατέλειπε τοῖς ἀκροωμένοις).

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Vd. il commento di Telò 2007, ad loc., e di Olson 2017, ad loc. Il caso per es. di sch. ex. a Iliade 24.617a: Φιλήμων ὁ κωμικός non è un caso di antonomasia, ma sembra piuttosto di distinzione fra omonimi, anche se qui non sappiano se e quale omonimo avesse in mente il commentatore.

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9. Sch. Iliade 13.289–91 (sch. ex.). Congettura respinta. Nello sch., dopo una citazione di Lisia, c’ è una parte di testo corrotta, dove Meineke (1841, 687) indicava “comici vel tragici versus latere”: M. Runkel (ap. Kock 1880, 267, sub fr. 41) ipotizzava Eupoli, ma Kock (ibid.)22 sosteneva “sine idonea causa” e respingeva l’ attribuzione; Preller (1848, 522) proponeva Menandro, ma Körte sub fr. 942 “versus mihi potius tragicum quam comicum colorem habere videtur”: cf. Men. fr. *662 K.–A.). Il frammento è incluso fra i tragica adespota da Nauck2 sub fr. 450 e accolto fra i Tragica Adespota da Kannicht–Snell (fr. 450). Non abbiamo né tempo né spazio per passare in rassegna puntualmente le citazioni di Aristofane negli scolî all’ Iliade. Ci basti dire che abbiamo di lui 27 citazioni: 12 con il nome, 15 (dunque di più) senza nome. Prevalgono di gran lunga quelle contenenti testimonianze di carattere linguistico-grammaticale o lessicale o stilistico, rispetto a quelle nelle quali pare essere addotto un parallelo di contenuto, il che conferma quanto abbiamo visto analizzando le citazioni di Eupoli e Cratino23. Emerge comunque anche un dato significativo per i testimoni della storia della filologia omerica antica, che non riguarda direttamente il discorso che stiamo facendo. La maggior parte delle testimonianze di questo tipo proviene dai cosiddetti scholia exegetica, piuttosto che da quelli risalenti agli autori del Viermännerkommentar o dagli Sch. D: questo serve certamente a gettare luce sia sull’ origine storica che sui dati di contenuto di questa classe di scoli, che ancora devono essere indagati a fondo. Ma questo – come dicevamo – rientra in un altro discorso rispetto al tema di cui ci stiamo occupando. Nella scoliografia omerica le citazioni dei comici tendono dunque, almeno per quanto si è conservato fino a noi, a servire ed essere addotte come parallelo linguistico, lessicale o anche stilistico, il che sembra peraltro del tutto verosimile. Dal punto di vista storico-culturale (che fin dall’ inizio abbiamo messo al centro del nostro discorso) si impone un dato significativo e certamente importante. I filologi antichi, tra le numerose altre cose, avevano fatto uno studio approfondito e accurato anche della lingua dei comici, quanto meno dei comici della ­archaia: sappiamo bene che studi sul lessico comico risalgono almeno a Licofrone ed Eratostene. Le citazioni degli scolî confermano dunque l’ interesse per la lingua dei comici e ne testimoniano la persistenza, probabilmente da un certo punto in poi in connessione anche con l’ affermarsi dell’ Atticismo. Altre tappe dell’ indagine e ulteriori sviluppi della ricerca, nella stessa o in altre simili direzioni, potranno certamente allargare e arricchire i risultati e le conoscenze almeno per quello che abbiamo potuto vedere fino a questo punto. Nello stesso quadro generale rientra poi evidentemente anche Pindaro, sulle cui 22

23

Probabilmente il problema risale a Gaisford (E.M. 579,1), che scelse lo scioglimento Κράτης per un’ abbreviazione che invece indicava Κρατῖνος, come poi hanno confermato altri mss. degli sch. h all’ Iliade (vd. Erbse, test. ad loc.). Così già Perrone 2010, 100–102.

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citazioni abbiamo detto sopra solo poche parole, rinviando ad un lavoro in corso di stampa. E tanti altri autori. Insomma, uno dei risultati importanti di questo tipo di ricerche è di mettere in luce come la filologia di età ellenistico-romana avesse raggiunto una conoscenza della letteratura greca arcaica e classica (e poi anche di età ellenistica) di grande ampiezza, di altissimo livello e di sorprendente profondità: un dato storico-culturale che ancora attende di essere indagato e messo in luce in tutta la sua portata. Bisogna essere ben consapevoli che la posta in gioco di queste ricerche, se considerate nel loro insieme e non come ‘pezzi’ separati (il quadro complessivo è fuori dalla portata di un singolo studioso), non è di significato secondario e limitato, anzi è in grado di far emergere un aspetto di grande importanza per quanto riguarda la filologia nel mondo antico. Si tratta di rendersi conto lucidamente che i filologi antichi, a partire da quelli attivi nella ‘fondativa’ età ellenistica per continuare con quelli di tutto il periodo dell’ età romana, acquisirono tenacemente e furono in grado di utilizzare, nelle loro molteplici attività esegetico-erudite, una conoscenza della letteratura greca dei secoli precedenti fino ad Aristotele e poi anche di quella degli autori dell’ età ellenistica (i loro ‘contemporanei’, come li ho definiti una volta)24, assolutamente ampia, dettagliata e approfondita, tale da permettere loro di mettere in campo conoscenze vastissime e imponenti per l’ esegesi e il commento dei testi di cui si occupavano. L’ analisi delle citazioni di autori nella letteratura erudita, inoltre, dimostra ancora una volta come la filologia ellenistica sia figlia di Aristotele e della sua consapevolezza che bisogna studiare e capire il passato, le grandi figure di autori dei secoli precedenti e le loro opere, facendo ogni sforzo per attrezzarsi al meglio possibile per questo compito. Bibliografia Bonanno 1972 = M. G. Bonanno, Studi su Cratete comico, Padova 1972. Comunetti 2020 = M. Comunetti, “Le citazioni di Eschilo negli scolii a Euripide”, RFIC 148 (2020), 91–113. Gennari Santori 2018 = C. Gennari Santori, “Esiodo interprete di Omero: alcuni esempi di esegesi antica”, SemRom n.s. 7 (2018), 153–174. Grenfell–Hunt 1901 = B. P. Grenfell–A. S. Hunt, The Amherst Papyri, II. Classical Fragments and Documents of the Ptolemaic, Roman and Byzantine Periods, Nos. 10–201, London 1901. Grisolia 1992 = R. Grisolia, Critica letteraria e citazioni poetiche negli Scholia Vetera ai tragici greci, in A. De Vivo–L. Spina (eds.), ‘Come dice il poeta…’. Percorsi greci e latini di parole poetiche, Napoli 1992, 43–58. Kassel–Austin = R. Kassel–C. Austin, Poetae comici graeci. Voll. IV (1983), V (1986), Berolini-Novi Erboraci.

24

Cf. Montanari 1995, Montanari 2002.

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Merro 2015 = G. Merro, “ Ἰδίως φησί: singolarità del mito pindarico nell’ esegesi antica”, SemRom n. s. 4 (2015), 213–234. Montana 1996 = F. Montana, L’ Athenaion Politeia di Aristotele negli scholia vetera ad Aristofane, Pisa 1996. Montana 2012 = F. Montana, La filologia ellenistica. Lineamenti di una storia culturale, Pavia 2012. Montana 2019 = F. Montana, Herodotus 4: P.Amh. II 12. Aristarco, Commentario a I 171, 4?-215,2, in G. Bastianini et al. (eds.), CLGP – Commentaria et Lexica Graeca in Papyris reperta I 2.6, Berlin-Boston 2019, 39–61. Montanari 1992 = F. Montanari, Scoliografia e teatro greco: qualche appunto, in L. De Finis (ed.) Dal teatro greco al teatro rinascimentale: momenti e linee di evoluzione, Trento 1992, 73–87. Montanari 1993 = F. Montanari, Due note pindariche (Pitica 3, 43 e Nemea 7, 49), in R. Pretagostini (ed.), Tradizione e innovazione nella cultura greca da Omero all’ età elle­ nistica. Scritti in onore di B. Gentili, vol. II, Roma 1993, 461–467. Montanari 1994 = F. Montanari (ed.), La philologie grecque à l’ époque hellénistique et romaine, Entretiens préparés et présidés par F. M., Tome XL. Fondation Hardt, Vandoeuvres-Genève 1994. Montanari 1995 = F. Montanari, “Filologi alessandrini e poeti alessandrini. La filologia sui contemporanei”, Aevum(ant) 8 (1995), 47–63. Montanari 2002 = F. Montanari, Callimaco e la filologia, in F. Montanari–L. Lehnus (eds.), Callimaque. Entretiens préparés et présidés par F. M. et L. L., Tome XLVIII, Fondation Hardt, Vandoeuvres-Genéve 2002, 59–97. Montanari 2015a = F. Montanari, Ekdosis. A Product of the Ancient Scholarship, in F. Montanari–S. Matthaios–A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’ s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, I–II, Leiden 2015, 641–672. Montanari 2015b = F. Montanari, Aristarchus’ Conjectures (once) again, in M. Tziatzi–M. Billerbeck–F. Montanari–K. Tsantsanoglou (eds.), Lemmata. Beiträge zum Gedenken an Christos Theodoridis, Berlin-Boston 2015, 119–129. Montanari 2016 = F. Montanari, “Remarks on the citations of authors and works in ancient scholarship”, TiC 8 (2016), 73–82. Montanari 2018 = F. Montanari, Afterword. Ancient Scholarship today, in M. Ercoles–L. Pagani–F. Pontani–G. Ucciardello (eds.), Approaches to Greek Poetry. Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, and Aeschylus in Ancient Exegesis, Berlin-Boston, 2018, 345–354. Montanari 2020 = F. Montanari, Citazioni di Pindaro negli scoli omerici, in C. Meliadò–G. B. D’ Alessio–L. Lomiento–G. Ucciardello (eds.), Il potere della parola. Studi in onore di Maria Cannatà Fera, Alessandria 2020, 279–287. Montanari, Lett. erudita, in stampa = F. Montanari, Gli Etymologica e gli studi sulla letteratura erudita, in corso si stampa in Bollettino dei Classici dei Lincei. Montanari–Montana–Muratore–Pagani 2017 = F. Montanari–F. Montana–D. Muratore–L. Pagani, “Towards a new critical edition of the scholia to the Iliad: a specimen”, Trends in Classics 9 (2017), 1–21. Nünlist 2009 = R. Nünlist, The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia, Cambridge 2009. Olson 2014 = S. D. Olson, Eupolis frr. 326–497. Translation and Commentary, Heidelberg 2014. Olson 2017 = S. D. Olson, Eupolis. Testimonia and Aiges – Demoi (frr. 1–146). Translation and Commentary, Heidelberg 2017.

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Olson–Seaberg 2018 = S. D. Olson–R. Seaberg, Kratinos frr. 299–514. Translation and Commentary, Göttingen 2018. Pagani 2018 = L. Pagani, Interpretazioni di Omero in chiave tragica negli scolii all’ Iliade, in F. Conti Bizzarro (ed.), ΛΕΧΙΚΟΝ ΓΡΑΜΜΑΤΙΚΗΣ. Studi di lessicografia e grammatica greca, Napoli 2018, 67–95. Perrone 2010 = S. Perrone, Paralleli comici nell’ esegesi a commedia su papiro, in F. Montana (ed.), Aner Polytropos. Ricerche di filologia greca antica dedicate dagli allievi a Franco Montanari, Roma 2010, 85–103. Perrone 2019 = S. Perrone, Cratete. Introduzione, traduzione e commento, Göttingen 2019. Pfeiffer 1968 = R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginning to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford 1968 (trad. it. Napoli 1973). Phillips 2013 = T. Phillips, “Callimachus in the Pindar Scholia”, Cambridge Class. Journal 59 (2013), 152–177. Preller 1848 = L. Preller, “Zu den griechischen Komikern”, Philologus 3.1–4 (1848), 520–522. Scattolin 2007 = P. Scattolin, Sui meccanismi delle citazioni negli scolî antichi a Sofocle ed Euripide, in R. Pretagostini–E. Dettori (eds.), La cultura letteraria ellenistica: persistenza, innovazione, trasmissione, Quaderni dei Seminari Romani di Cultura Greca 10, Roma 2007, 233–245. Tosi 1988 = R. Tosi, Studi sulla tradizione indiretta dei classici greci, Bologna 1988. Tosi 2014 = R. Tosi, “The history of corpora scholiastica: a series of unfortunate events”, TiC 6 (2014), 15–23. Telò 2007 = M. Telò, Eupolidis Demi, Firenze 2007. Vergados 2017 = A. Vergados, Der Dichter als Leser und (Fehl-)interpret: Hesiod in den homerischen Scholien, in J. Grethlein–A. Rengakos (eds.), Griechische Literatur­ geschichtsschreibung. Traditionen, Probleme und Konzepte, Berlin-Boston 2017, 271–297.

Renzo Tosi

Alcune osservazioni sui frammenti tramandati dai lessici

Parole chiave: Tradizione indiretta, lessicografia, lemmatizzazione, autoschediasmo, epitomazioni. I miei Studi sulla tradizione indiretta dei classici greci (Bologna 1988) partivano dal presupposto che la tradizione indiretta non fosse uniforme, ma che ogni suo tipo avesse caratteristiche peculiari: è mia intenzione, in questo breve contributo, porre l’ accento su alcune peculiarità che interessano chi ha a che fare con frammenti tramandati dalla lessicografia. Innanzi tutto, bisogna ricordare che per tale genere erudito è valido il discorso che investe la tradizione di tutti gli strumenti, cioè l’ estrema fluidità: chi copiava un’ opera di questo tipo non aveva le stesse finalità di chi trascriveva un testo classico, perché non si preoccupava della fedeltà al modello, bensì intendeva creare un nuovo strumento, funzionale al suo centro culturale1; non si può neppure supporre semplici trascrizioni meccaniche perché ogni copista aveva particolari intendimenti, secondo quella che Jens Gerlach (2008) chiama Konzeptionalität. Di qui deriva una maggiore indipendenza di ogni singolo manoscritto: i modelli venivano integrati con materiali provenienti da altre fonti, e decurtati di ciò che sembrava superfluo; di solito, nelle epitomazioni, le prime a cadere furono le citazioni (o, almeno, le loro parti che non erano direttamente collegate al lemma) e i titoli delle opere, e, poco dopo, i nomi stessi degli autori. La conseguenza di tutto ciò non è solo quella, ovvia, dell’ aleatorietà delle citazioni, ma anche un’ altra che investe la possibilità che esse presentino corruzioni. Se S. Nicosia (1976) enucleò tre tipi di corruzione, caratteristici dell’ intera tradizione indiretta (l’ errore può essere antico, e imputabile alla tradizione del testo citato, o proprio di quella del testo citante, o dovuto a un adeguamento del testo citato al nuovo contesto in cui è inserito), per la lessicografia occorrerà tener presente una quarta possibilità: che si tratti di una variazione dovuta all’ intervento, in genere non piattamente meccanico, ma conscio e solo apparentemente maldestro, di chi trasferiva il materiale da uno strumento all’ altro. In tal caso, come nel terzo della classificazione di Nicosia, la variazione costituisce una corruzione per il testo citato, ma non per quello citante, e, quindi, il comportamento dell’ editore del primo non potrà che differire da quello del secondo. Sarebbe dunque importante ricostruire la storia di una citazione: se questo è talora possibile quando si ha il confronto con la tradizione diretta2, l’ operazione è quanto mai difficile per i testi 1 2

Particolarmente istruttiva a questo proposito rimane l’ analisi di Garzya 1981, 263–387 (= 1983, 37–71). In una prospettiva diversa, cf. anche Canfora 2002. In Tosi 2000a, 261–65, ad es., mostrai come alcune pretese varianti di testi classici non andavano prese in considerazione per la constitutio textus, perché dovute al tentativo,

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frammentari, per i quali non si può avere tale collazione. Per essi la conoscenza delle peculiarità lessicografiche si tradurrà inevitabilmente in un invito ancor più pressante alla prudenza. 1. La lemmatizzazione. I lessici greci sono primariamente raccolte di glosse, di termini difficili, che necessitano di essere spiegati perché lontani nello spazio o nel tempo (quindi appartenenti al linguaggio arcaico e poetico o a parlate locali). Ciò comporta che il lemma lessicografico possa presentarsi in due diverse modalità: o che venga recepito tout court nella forma in cui compare nel testo da cui è desunto, o che venga assunto a una forma paradigmatica, che cioè sia ‘lemmatizzato’. Le forme di lemmatizzazione lessicografica non sono solo quelle che a noi appaiono più ovvie, cioè il nominativo singolare per i sostantivi, l’ infinito e la prima persona singolare dell’ indicativo presente per i verbi, ma possono anche essere l’ accusativo per i sostantivi e la terza persona per i verbi. Occorre quindi essere cauti nel porre ad esponente termini che vengono attestati in queste forme: sarà bene che l’ editore avverta che la terminazione è incerta. Illuminante è il caso di Hippon. fr. 42a Degani Ἑρμῆ, φίλ᾽ Ἑρμῆ, Μαιαδεῦ, Κυλλήνιε, / ἐπεύχομαί τοι, κάρτα γὰρ κακῶς ῥιγῶ / καὶ βαμβαλύζω, dove nel locus classicus compare la prima persona singolare dell’ indicativo mentre in una glossa esichiana che lo chiosa (β 180 L.–C. βαμβαλύζει· τρέμει. τοὺς ὀδόντας. συγκρούει. ῥιγοῖ σφόδρα) si ha la terza persona. Un caso come questo fa senza dubbio sospettare che alla base del lessico ci sia un’ esegesi discorsiva, una specie di parafrasi, come conferma il finale ῥιγοῖ σφόδρα che riprende, e banalizza, il κάρτα γὰρ κακῶς ῥιγῶ di Ipponatte3. Va inoltre notato come la glossa compaia anche nella lessicografia atticistica, ma con la lemmatizzazione all’ infinito, cf. Phryn. Praep. Soph. 54,7–8 βαμβαλύζειν∙ τὸ ὑπὸ ῥίγους τρέμειν καὶ κρούειν τοὺς γομφίους ed Eust. 812,46 (= 3.93 V.) ἰστέον δὲ ὅτι ἐν ῥητορικῷ τινὶ Λεξικῷ (Ael. Dion. β 4 Erbse) φέρεται βαμβαλίζειν (h.e. βαμβαλύζειν) τὸ τρέμειν ὑπὸ ψύχους4. 2. Problemi inerenti all’ esegesi. Laddove non siano intervenute confusioni all’ interno della tradizione lessicografica, gli interpretamenta rispecchiano elementi dell’ esegesi antica: ciò significa che devono essere sempre tenuti in considerazione e sottoposti a un attento vaglio critico. Frequentemente, queste spiegazioni sono desunte dal contesto, immediato o più ampio: di fronte a termini astrusi, infatti, gli antichi non potevano che ricorrere o alle connessioni pseudo-etimologiche o a elementi contestuali. Da qui derivano quelle che sembrano glosse anomale, dove manca la corrispondenza semantica tra lemma e interpretamentum, le

3 4

intelligente ma falsificante, di un copista dell’ Etymologicum Magnum di ridare logicità a citazioni che, dopo precedenti epitomazioni, presentavano palesi incongruenze. Cf. Degani 1977–1978, 140. L’ ultimo interpretamentum si trova anche in parte della tradizione cirilliana. Cf. inoltre Phot. β 54 Th. βαμβαλίζειν∙ τρέμειν ὑπὸ ψύχους.

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quali costituiscono le cosiddette ‘coppie contigue’ o ‘coppie endiadiche5. In questi casi, il primo evidente problema, per quanto riguarda i testi frammentari, è comprendere quali elementi derivino in effetti dal locus classicus. La possibilità che non solo il lemma ma anche l’ interpretamentum comparissero nella fonte è sicura, alla luce di vari passi noti per tradizione diretta e di casi come Archil. fr. 185,5 W.2 τῷ δ’ ἆρ’ ἀλώπηξ κερδαλῆ συνήντετο (estesamente testimoniato dallo Pseudo-Ammonio [18 N.]). Con ogni probabilità, è questa la fonte primaria di una glossa della Συναγωγή, cf. Σ (v.ant.) κ 284 C. = Phot. κ 595 Th. = Suda κ 1382 A. κερδαλέος∙ ποικίλος, πανοῦργος. κερδαλέη (κερδαλῆ Phot.) γὰρ ἡ ἀλώπηξ, nonché Hesych. κ 2037 L. κερδαλέη∙ ἀλώπηξ, e del lessico di Cirillo6. Il materiale ritorna variamente anche nell’ esegesi omerica7, ma l’ ascendenza archilochea dell’ annotazione riguardante la volpe è confermata non solo dall’ emergere, in Fozio, del peculiare κερδαλῆ, ma anche dalla presenza di altre glosse esichiane legate allo stesso passo8 e da Plat. Resp. 365c τὴν δὲ τοῦ σοφωτάτου Ἀρχιλόχου ἀλώπεκα ἑλκτέον ἐξόπισθεν κερδαλέαν καὶ ποικίλην9. Se in questo caso si può parlare di autoschediasmo letterale, in cui l’ interpretamentum è costituito da una parola direttamente tratta dal contesto10, talora, invece, esso è di tipo concettuale, cioè la spiegazione della glossa si basa sul significato generale del passo, ma non ne riprende puntualmente un termine. Bisogna dunque operare con la massima prudenza quando mancano precisi indizi della letteralità dell’ esegesi: un esempio mi sembra che confermi con chiarezza l’ aleatorietà del nostro materiale. Alla luce di Hesych. α 1180 L.–C. ἀδούλευτος· οἰκέτης ἑνὶ δεδουλευκὼς καὶ μὴ παλίμπρατος è lecito il sospetto che nella fonte fosse presente l’ οἰκέτης dell’ interpretamentum, 5

6

7

8 9

10

Per la querelle inerente a queste strutture esegetiche rinvio a Marzullo 1968, secondo cui si trattava di fenomeni meccanici, e, di contro, a Degani 1977–1978; più articolata, alla luce di vari tipi di autoschediasmo, la posizione di Bossi–Tosi 1979–1980 e di Tosi 1988, 127–37. La glossa nel suo complesso si trova nelle redazioni vg (κερ 23): g offre κερδώ invece di κερδαλέη (va segnalato che la Suda completa la glossa con καὶ κερδώ). In g si trova anche la semplice κερδαλῆ∙ ἀλώπηξ (κερ 14), in A (κερ 51) κερδαλέος∙ ποικίλος. Cf. in particolare schol. D Il. 10.44 (= Etym. Gud. 316,22–24 Sturz) κερδαλέης∙ συνετῆς, ὠφελίμου, ἢ πανούργου· παρὰ τὸ κερδὼ, ἥ ἐστιν ἀλώπηξ· ἔστι δὲ πανουργότατον ζῶον, Ap. Soph. 98,1–3 κερδαλέον∙ πανοῦργον, περιποιοῦντα καὶ ὠφέλειαν. ὅταν δὲ λέγῃ “ἔνθα δὲ Σίσυφος ὃς κέρδιστος γένετ᾽ ἀνδρῶν” (Il. 6.153) ὁ συνετώτατος καὶ πανουργότατος, scholl. Od. 6.148; 13.291. Cf. Bossi 19902, 210. Che Archiloco fosse il referente principale per l’ astuzia della volpe mi pare confermato dalla grande risonanza, già antica, del suo fr. 201 W.2 πόλλ᾽ οἶδ᾽ ἀλώπηξ, ἀλλ᾽ ἐχῖνος ἓν μέγα (per quanto riguarda il nostro materiale, è interessante Aelian. NA 6.64 ἡ ἀλώπηξ πονηρὸν ζῷόν ἐστιν, ἔνθεν τοι καὶ κερδαλέην οἱ ποιηταὶ καλεῖν φιλοῦσιν αὐτήν· πονηρὸν δὲ καὶ ὁ χερσαῖος ἐχῖνός ἐστι). Va notato come esso qui preluda a un fatto di langue, perché la volpe è l’ animale κερδαλέος per antonomasia: in casi come questo non è raro che l’ aggettivo tenda a sostituirsi metonimicamente al nome, cf. Bossi–Tosi 1979–1980, 20.

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che anzi si tratti di una glossa ‘sintattico-contestuale’, dove cioè si precisa a quale termine è riferito un aggettivo in un determinato contesto11. Istruttivo è però Phot. α 376 Th. ἀδούλευτος οἰκέτης∙ ὁ ἑνὶ δεδουλευκὼς καὶ μὴ παλίμπρατος. Ὑπερείδης ἐν τῷ κατὰ Πατροκλέους (fr. 139a J.)∙ “ἀδούλευτον ἢ βάρβαρον πριάσθω”. λέγει δὲ καὶ τὸν νυμφίον ὁ Μένανδρος (fr. 517 K.–A. = 813 K.–Th.), a proposito del quale va notato: 1. Nel corso della trasmigrazione di materiale da un lessico a un altro la distinzione fra lemma e interpretamentum si fa fluida: quello che in Esichio è l’ interpretamentum in Fozio è parte integrante del lemma; 2. Nel passo di Iperide, a quanto pare, non c’ era – almeno nelle immediate vicinanze di ἀδούλευτον – il termine οἰκέτης, ma che si tratti di uno schiavo è chiaro alla luce del verbo πριάσθω. È a mio avviso inutile la congettura αʹ δούλευτος (ossia πρωτοδούλευτος) di Latte, né, tanto meno, appare necessario il fantasioso emendamento ὁ ενὶ δεδουλευκὼς καὶ μὴ παλίμπρατος della glossa di Fozio proposto da Conomis (1981, 384)12: nel luogo dell’ oratore si parlerà del comprare o un barbaro o uno mai fatto schiavo in precedenza, quindi ἀδούλευτος, e che – al momento dell’ acquisto – risulterà essere lo schiavo di un solo padrone (è questo, a mio avviso, il significato del participio perfetto in ὁ ἑνὶ δεδουλευκώς); 3. Parallelamente, nel passo di Menandro l’ aggettivo designerà invece uno sposo che non ha avuto precedenti esperienze matrimoniali (o sessuali?); che in tale luogo ci fosse il solo ἀδούλευτος, evidentemente usato con accezione traslata, o anche νυμφίος, rimane incerto13. Va poi notato che l’ esegesi può operare anche attraverso una non perfetta corrispondenza morfologica. In glosse come Suda α 2874 A. ἀπ᾽ ἀκροφυσίων λόγους ἐνδεικνύναι· οἱονεὶ καινοὺς καὶ νεοποιήτους. Ἀριστοφάνης (fr. 719 K.–A.)· ῥήματά τε κομψὰ καὶ παίγνια ἐπιδεικνύναι πάντα ἀπ᾽ ἀκροφυσίων καὶ τῶν ἀπὸ κινναβευμάτων. λέγει γὰρ διὰ μὲν τοῦ ἀπ᾽ ἀκροφυσίων, καινῶς εἰργασμένα καὶ οἷον ἐκ πυρὸς, διὰ δὲ τοῦ ἀπὸ κινναβευμάτων, οἷον καινῶς πεπλασμένα καὶ διάθεσιν ἔχοντα e Suda α 2874 A. ἀπὸ θυμοῦ· μισητός, una locuzione formata da preposizione + sostantivo è chiosata da un aggettivo che ne sintetizza il significato. Interessante è un caso dove l’ esegesi fa riferimento al contesto e non è un semplice equivalente dell’ espressione. Si tratta di Suda α 3622 A. ἀπ᾽ οὔατος ἄγγελος ἔλθοι∙ παρὰ Καλλιμάχῳ. τουτέστι δύσφημος, μὴ ἄξιος τοῦ μὴ ἀκουσθῆναι, in cui l’ interpretamentum δύσφημος non determina ἀπ᾽ οὔατος, ma qualifica l’ ἄγγελος del locus classicus, spiega come mai ci si augura che questo stia lontano dalle orecchie, non venga sentito, e lo stesso – a maggior ragione – si deve dire del successivo μὴ ἄξιος τοῦ μὴ ἀκουσθῆναι, vera e propria parafrasi di ἀπ᾽ οὔατος ἔλθοι. Il non 11 12 13

L’ espressione ‘sintattico-contestuale’ è quella adottata in Bossi–Tosi 1979–1980, 19–20. Lo stesso studioso si dichiarò successivamente (1982–1983, 153) insoddisfatto della congettura; contro di essa si espresse inoltre Kassel 1983, 71. Si noti l’ accusativo in Fozio, che evidenzia come si possa supporre che la lemmatizzazione al caso accusativo sia dovuta alla dipendenza da un verbum dicendi, esplicito o sottinteso.

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aver inteso la logica della spiegazione porta sia Pfeiffer (fr. 315) sia Hollis (fr. 122) a pubblicare in Callimaco il monstrum ἀπούατος, cioè un aggettivo inesistente, di cui δύσφημος sarebbe l’ equivalente usuale ed esplicativo; invece il luogo callimacheo, con ἀπ᾽ οὔατος trova vari probanti paralleli, a partire da Hom. Il. 18.272 αἲ γὰρ δή μοι ἀπ᾽ οὔατος ὧδε γένοιτο (chi parla è Polidamante, che vorrebbe non avere l’ annuncio di una strage di Troiani dovuta al ritorno in battaglia di Achille) e Il. 22.454 αἲ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ οὔατος εἴη ἐμεῦ ἔπος (dove si tratta della notizia della morte di Ettore)14. Questa, almeno, mi sembra la soluzione più probabile: un aggettivo ἀπούατος era invero già stato inventato da alcuni commentatori omerici, che fornivano una bizzarra interpretazione del primo dei due passi iliadici, come mostra il relativο scolio (D): αἲ γὰρ δή μοι ἀπ᾽ οὔατος∙ ὤφελεν γὰρ ἀπὸ τῆς ἐμῆς ἀκοῆς γενέσθαι. τοῦτ᾽ ἔστιν· εἴθε γὰρ μὴ ἀκούσαιμι. τινὲς δὲ ἀπούατον, τὸν κακόν. ἵν᾽ ᾖ τὸν Ἀχιλλέα. ἀντὶ τοῦ, εἴθε γὰρ κακὸς ἐγένετο, τοῦτ᾽ ἔστι δειλός. Scrivendo ἀπούατος in Callimaco si verrebbe a presupporre che il poeta alessandrino condividesse questa esegesi15, il che è perlomeno strano per un finissimo conoscitore di Omero come lui, tanto più che nello scolio ἀπούατος è spiegato con κακός, ma nel senso di δειλός, non di δύσφημος. Giustamente, poi, van der Valk (1963, 275–76), alla luce della struttura dello scolio, sospetta che i τινὲς δέ siano i cosiddetti ‘glossografi’, cioè gli interpreti di Omero precedenti ad Aristarco, cui si devono molte bizzarre esegesi: esse in effetti trovano seguito nella poesia alessandrina, ma in genere Callimaco si distingue per una più approfondita e consapevole conoscenza del testo omerico e del suo significato16. Quanto all’ esegesi, bisogna fare un discorso analogo a quello che riguarda gli scolî, che cioè si devono evitare due posizioni estreme e opposte, parimenti perniciose, quella di chi non prende in considerazione, da tale punto di vista, i nostri materiali, reputandoli pregiudizialmente poco attendibili, e quella di chi pensa che siano decisivi per la spiegazione dei testi. In realtà si è di fronte a una situazione molto diversificata, a proposito della quale è difficile fornire parametri generali di giudizio. Al massimo, si può affermare che devono essere viste con particolare attenzione quelle interpretazioni che scaturiscono da una conoscenza del contesto maggiore rispetto alla nostra: per questo motivo Archil. fr. 196a,13–15 W.2 τ]έρψιές εἰσι θεῆς / πολλαὶ νέοισιν ἀνδ[ράσιν / π̣αρὲξ τὸ θεῖον χρῆμα· τῶν τ̣ις̣ ἀρκέσε[ι non può che essere illuminato da Hesych. π 839 L.–H. πάρεξ τὸ θεῖον 14 15

16

Von Jan 1893, 91–92 ipotizzava che Callimaco riprendesse il luogo di Polidamante. Così Pfeiffer 1968, 140, il quale inseriva questo fra i “rather exemples of Homer epithets”, che Callimaco aveva desunto dall’ esegesi omerica; parimenti Hollis 1990, 306 afferma che l’ aggettivo “is the most curious product of Homeric controversy to be found in the Hecale”; nella stessa direzione si sono mossi anche Rengakos 1993 e van der Valk 1963, 275–76. Ho argomentato questo, con vari esempi, in Tosi 1997. Leggendo ἀπ᾽ οὔατος, poi, si inserisce il passo del poeta ellenistico nell’ ambito di una lunga tradizione letteraria: per questo e altri particolari rinvio a Tosi 2000b, 665–69.

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χρῆμα· ἔξω τῆς μίξεως (per un lettore antico doveva essere lampante che si trattava dell’ unione sessuale)17. Quanto invece alla spiegazione di singoli lemmi glossematici, bisogna tener presente non solo quanto si è detto finora sui meccanismi dell’ esegesi antica, ma anche la possibilità che la lessicografia rispecchiasse un testo già corrotto e tentasse di fornirne una esegesi: esemplare è il caso di Hesych. β 203 L.–C. βάρ· μικρόν ed ε 7535 L. ἐφουδ βαρ· ἱερατικὸν ἔνδυμα. τὸ δὲ βαρ μικρὸν λέγεται, che derivano da un errore di trascrizione dell’ originario bad ‘di lino’, avvenuto in LXX Reg. 1.2,18–19 καὶ Σαμουηλ ἦν λειτουργῶν ἐνώπιον κυρίου παιδάριον περιεζωσμένον εφουδ βαρ καὶ διπλοΐδα μικρὰν ἐποίησεν αὐτῷ ἡ μήτηρ αὐτοῦ, e dove il μικρόν è, con ogni evidenza, desunto autoschediasticamente dal contesto, nel quale Samuele è un παιδάριον (il particolare è importante perché la madre nel momento l’ aveva promesso a Dio in ogni istante della sua vita) e l’ εφουδ βαρ è parallelo alla διπλοΐδα μικράν18. Data la possibilità che i lessici riprendano testi in cui erano già avvenute variazioni dovute a incomprensioni, Hesych. λ 1369 L. λυκαιμίας· ὁ λυκόβρωτος non costringe a supporre che in Alcae. fr. 130,24–26 V. φεύγων ἐσχατίαισ᾽, ὠς δ᾽ Ὀνυμακλέης / ἔ̣ν̣θα[δ᾽] ο̣ἶος ἐοίκησα ]ον [π]ό̣λεμον, il λυκαιμίαις sia corretto e che debba essere λυκαιμίαις· / [ interpretato come qualcosa in cui c’ entrano i lupi: il “cibo per lupi” esichiano è un chiaro tentativo di spiegare una problematica glossa attraverso un’ analisi etimologica e quindi non costringe ad escludere la lettura ἀλυκαιχμίαις, sagacemente proposta da Antonietta Porro19 ed eventualmente confermata dal φεύγων τὸν πόλεμον nel verso successivo20. In effetti, è spesso problematico capire l’ importanza di una glossa per l’ esegesi di un determinato locus classicus. Difficile è, ad esempio, individuare la rilevanza di Hesych. β 1047 L.–C. βράκος· κάλαμος. ἱμάτιον πολυτελές per un’ esatta comprensione di Sapph. fr. 57,3 V. οὐκ ἐπισταμένα τὰ βράκε᾽ ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων, visto che ῥάκος in Omero significa ‘straccio’21, mentre Teocrito (28,11 πόλλα δ᾽ οἶα γύναικες φορέοισ᾽ ὐδάτινα βράκη), la cui memoria saffica è fuori discussione,

17 18

19

20 21

Questa glossa ha inoltre permesso di capire che il frammento archilocheo era nell’ antichità noto e chiosato, cf. Degani 1975, 229. Il βαρ significherebbe propriamente “figlio di” (come giustamente segnala Cunningham, oltre all’ errore e al passo dei Re, in calce alla β 203). La ε 7535, tuttavia, dimostra che la nostra glossa non ha nulla a che vedere con tale valenza propria. Una prima volta proposto in Porro 1989, poi ribadito, con ulteriori argomentazioni, in Porro 1992; recentemente, ripreso da Langella 2019, 59–60 (cui rinvio per un’ esaustiva bibliografia, e in particolare per l’ indicazione di quanti ipotizzano la presenza dei lupi nel carme alcaico). In tal caso, si tratterebbe di un lampante caso di ‘glossierende Synonymie’ (per questo meccanismo cf. Bottin 1976, 43–56). I ῥάκη rivestono Odisseo al suo ritorno in Itaca, cf. Od. 13.434 = 14.342; 14.512; 22.488. La valenza negativa è poi confermata dall’ uso successivo (significativo è Ar. Ran. 1063, dove i re cenciosi euripidei sono abbigliati con ῥάκια).

Alcune osservazioni sui frammenti tramandati dai lessici

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usa il termine a proposito di vesti eleganti e raffinate22. I filologi si sono divisi fra quanti pensano che Saffo, nel disprezzo per Arignota, che non sa neppure tirare la veste sopra le caviglie23, la abbia anche voluta vestire come una pezzente e quanti, invece, preferiscono vedere nel frammento un’ opposizione fra il rozzo incedere della rivale e i suoi abiti lussuosi24. Se il luogo teocriteo sembra confortare la seconda interpretazione, la prima si ritrova nell’ esegesi omerica, cf. Eust. ad Hom. χ 1 (p. 1916,46ss.) χρῆσις δὲ τοιαύτη παρὰ Σαπφοῖ ἐν τῷ, τίς δ᾽ ἀγροιῶτις θέλγει νόον, οὐκ ἐπισταμένη τὰ βράκεα ἕλκειν ἐπὶ τῶν σφυρῶν; ἤγουν ποία γυνὴ χωριτικὴ ἐζωσμένη ἀγροικικώτερον ἐφέλκεται ἐραστήν; In tale situazione, la glossa esichiana non può essere certo accampata come prova decisiva: è anzi probabile che, come giustamente indica Cunningham, la sua fonte fosse il luogo teocriteo e non quello saffico: a parte l’ imbarazzante interpretamentum κάλαμος25, nutro seri dubbi che un esegeta antico, avvezzo a spiegare le glosse con ragionamenti autoschediastici, potesse interpretare, nel contesto saffico, βράκος con ἱμάτιον πολυτελές, dato che la protagonista è rappresentata come goffa e rozza. 3. Il pericolo delle epitomazioni. Il fatto che i materiali a nostra disposizione siano stati sottoposti a numerose epitomazioni fa sì che le nostre acquisizioni in questo campo non si possano mai dire del tutto certe. Ad esempio, in Poll. 8.25 Κριτίας (fr. 71 D.–K.) δὲ ἀποδικάσαι ἔφη τὴν δίκην τὸ ἀπολῦσαι ἢ νικῶσαν ἀποφῆναι, ὡς ἂν ἡμεῖς ἀποψηφίσασθαι. ὁ δ᾽ αὐτὸς καὶ διαδικάζειν τὸ δι᾽ ὅλου τοῦ ἔτους δικάζειν, la citazione di διαδικάζειν è stata giustamente attribuita da L. Canfora (1980, 79) a [Xen.] Ath. 3,2 εἰ δ᾽ αὖ ὁμολογεῖν δεῖ ἅπαντα χρῆναι διαδικάζειν, ἀνάγκη δι᾽ ἐνιαυτοῦ, perché se διαδικάζειν significa “condurre a termine un giudizio”, in questo locus classicus c’ è un peculiare legame con δι᾽ ἐνιαυτοῦ, che poteva essere facilmente chiosato con δι᾽ ὅλου τοῦ ἔτους. La logica deduzione, fatta 22

23

24

25

Fondamentale è l’ aggettivo ὑδάτινος, che può solo significare “simile all’ acqua”, quindi, detto di un tessuto, lo designerà come finissimo, quasi trasparente, e forse l’ uso di βράκος si giustifica non solo come ripresa di una glossa saffica da parte del dotto poeta alessandrino, ma anche perché la trama è tanto sottile che la veste potrebbe strapparsi facilmente. Che questo sia il punto nodale della pointe è stato dimostrato da Aloni (1997, lxvi–lxxv) e Andrisano (1997–2000), la quale cita giustamente i paralleli di Eur. Ba. 935–36 e Theocr. 15,134. Secondo la Andrisano (1997–2000) il senso primario del termine è quello di “tessuto, pezza” e si tratta quindi di una vox media; in Saffo, esso avrebbe tale valenza neutra, ma sarebbe connotato dal rozzo comportamento di Arignota, in Teocrito il significato deriverebbe dal prezioso aggettivo. Belardi 1950, 59–61 lo spiegava con un arzigogolato ragionamento linguistico; tra le congetture proposte vanno segnalate quella di M. Schmidt (καὶ λάκος) e soprattutto quella, plausibile anche se paleograficamente non immediata, di Gianotti 1981 (μαλακόν). Non escludo peraltro che l’ interpretamentum sia il residuo di un più ampio contesto che riguardava ὑδάτινος.

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dallo studioso, è che Polluce, o, con maggiore probabilità, la sua fonte, conoscesse l’ operetta, che noi abitualmente denominiamo Costituzione degli Ateniesi dello Pseudo-Senofonte, come di Crizia; questa testimonianza ha il suo peso, e trova conferma nell’ osservazione di G. Zecchini (2007, 22–23) che molte citazioni di Crizia fanno sospettare che Polluce avesse una conoscenza (secondo Zecchini diretta) di un’ opera di questo autore su Atene. A proposito di tale attribuzione, che risale addirittura a Böckh, M. Treu (1967, 1960) aveva ripreso un’ obiezione, prima di lui già avanzata da molti26, che per λυτρῶνες, unica sicura glossa dello Pseudo-Senofonte presente in Polluce, il testo in 9.43 offre παρὰ Ξενοφῶντι ἐν Ἀθηναίων πολιτείᾳ27. L’ obiezione ha un peso solo se si crede – come Zecchini e Tuci 2007 – che Polluce riprendesse i classici direttamente28; se si considera la tradizione lessicografica come un incessante fluire di materiale da uno strumento all’ altro, si dovrà invece supporre una pluralità di fonti, e non si potrà pretendere una coerenza nelle citazioni. In compenso, proprio questo modo di concepire la lessicografia permette di intravvedere l’ unica riserva che a mio avviso è lecito avanzare: non si può escludere infatti che gli interventi epitomatori abbiano tolto dal nostro testo il nome dell’ autore che costituiva il referente di αὐτός. Queste mie poche osservazioni non esauriscono certo un argomento che meriterebbe una ben più lunga, approfondita e articolata trattazione. Sono, d’ altra parte, conscio che questo mio intervento ha seminato dubbi e ha messo in crisi certezze, quando, forse, si sarebbe voluto che fornisse indicazioni assolute e definitive, ma, in questo ambito come probabilmente in tanti altri, è opportuno ricordare il motto di un vecchio saggio: dubium sapientiae initium. Bibliografia Aloni 1997 = A. Aloni, Saffo. Frammenti, Firenze 1997. Andrisano 1997–2000 = A. M. Andrisano, “Sapph. fr. 57 V. (una rivale priva di stile)”, MCr 32–35 (1997–2000), 7–23. Bearzot–Landucci–Zecchini 2007 = C. Bearzot–F. Landucci–G. Zecchini (eds.), L’ Ono­ masticon di Giulio Polluce. Tra lessicografia e antiquaria, Milano 2007. Belardi 1950 = W. Belardi, “Saffo 61,3”, Maia 3 (1950), 59–61. Bossi–Tosi 1979–1980 = F. Bossi–R. Tosi, “Strutture lessicografiche greche”, BIFG 5 (1979– 1980), 7–20. Bossi 19902 = F. Bossi, Studi su Archiloco, Bari 19902. Bottin 1976 = L. Bottin, “Retorica e lessicografia”, BIFG 3 (1976), 38–62. Canfora 1980 = L. Canfora, Studi sull’«Athenaion Politeia» pseudosenofontea, Torino 1980. 26 27 28

Per la bibliografia rinvio a Canfora 1980, 79–80. In 7.67, per lo stesso λυτρῶνες, ha il solo nome di Senofonte. Lapini 1989–90, supponeva, d’ altro canto, che la nostra citazione fosse spiegabile con un errore mnemonico.

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Canfora 2002 = L. Canfora, Il copista come autore, Palermo 2002. Conomis 1981 = N. C. Conomis, “Concerning the new Photius I”, Hellenika 33 (1981), 382–393. Conomis 1982–1983 = N. C. Conomis, “Concerning the new Photius II”, Hellenika 34 (1982–1983), 151–190. Degani 1975 = E. Degani, “Πάρεξ το θεῖον χρῆμα nel nuovo Archiloco di Colonia”, QUCC 20 (1975), 229. Degani 1977–1978 = E. Degani, “Problemi di lessicografia greca”, BIFG 4 (1977–1978), 137–142 (= Filologia e storia, Hildesheim-Zürich-New York 2004, 732–737). Garzya 1981 = A. Garzya, “Testi letterari d’ uso strumentale”, JÖB 31 (1981), 263–287 (=  Il mandarino e il quotidiano. Saggi sulla letteratura tardoantica e bizantina, Napoli 1983, 37–71). Gerlach 2008 = J. Gerlach, Gnomica Democritea. Studien zur gnomologischen Überlieferung der Ethik Demokrits und zum Corpus Parisinum, Wiesbaden 2008. Gianotti 1981 = G. F. Gianotti, “Nota di lessicografia. Hesych. β 1047 L.”, QUCC 38 (1981), 163–168. Hollis 1990 = A. S. Hollis, Callimachus. Hecale, Oxford 1990. Kassel 1983 = R. Kassel, “Zum neuen Photios”, ZPE 53 (1983), 70–72. Langella 2019 = E. Langella, Πολυώνυμοι θεοί, Alessandria 2019. Lapini 1989–90 = W. Lapini, “Crizia tiranno e il lemma di Polluce: analisi di RA 3,6–7”, Sandalion 12–13 (1989–1990), 27–41. Marzullo 1968 = B. Marzullo, “La ‘coppia contigua’ in Esichio”, QIFG 3 (1968), 70–87 (= Studia Classica et Orientalia Antonino Pagliaro oblata, I, Roma 1969, 85–105). Nicosia 1976 = S. Nicosia, Tradizione testuale diretta e indiretta dei poeti di Lesbo, Roma 1976. Pfeiffer 1968 = R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship, I, Oxford 1968. Porro 1989 = A. Porro, “Un commentario papiraceo ad Alceo e il fr. 130 B Voigt”, Aevum(ant) 2 (1989), 215–222. Porro 1992 = A. Porro, “A proposito di Alc. fr. 130 B Voigt”, QUCC 41 (1992), 23–27. Rengakos 1993 = A. Rengakos, Der Homertext und die hellenistischen Dichter, Stuttgart 1993. Tosi 1988 = R. Tosi, Studi sulla tradizione indiretta dei classici greci, Bologna 1988. Tosi 1997 = R. Tosi, “Callimaco e i Glossografi omerici”, Eikasmos 8 (1997), 223–240. Tosi 2000a = R. Tosi, “Casi di emendatio ope ingenii nell’ Etymologicum Magnum”, Lexis 18 (2000) 261–265. Tosi 2000b = R. Tosi, Callim. Hec. fr. 122 Hollis (= 315 Pf.): ἀπούατος?, in M. Cannatà Fera–S. Grandolini (eds.), Poesia e religione in Grecia. Studi in onore di G. Aurelio Privitera, Napoli 2000, 665–669. Treu 1967 = M. Treu, “Ps.-Xenophon Πολιτεία Ἀθηναίων”, RE 9A.2 (1967), 1928–1982. Tuci 2007 = P. A. Tuci, Boulé e assemblea ateniesi in Polluce, Onomasticon VIII, in Bearzot– Landucci–Zecchini 2007, 69–102. van der Valk 1963 = M. van der Valk, Researches in the Text and Scholia of Ilias, I, Leiden 1963. von Jan 1893 = F. von Jan, De Callimacho Homeri interprete (Diss.), Strassburg 1893. Zecchini 2007 = G. Zecchini, Polluce e la politica culturale di Commodo, in Bearzot– Landucci–Zecchini 2007, 17–26.

Eric Csapo

Lachares and Menander: a Theatre-Historical Look at POxy 1235, col iii, 103–112*

Keywords: Menander, Lachares, censorship, theatre history, Greek festivals All scholars of comic fragments are familiar with the papyrus hypothesis to Menander’ s Imbrians1. It seems to give us evidence of political interference in the Athenian theatre that is without parallel.

105

110

Ἴμβριοι, ὧν ἀρχή· “δι᾽ ὅσου χρόνου σε, Δημέα βέλτιστ᾽, ἐγώ”. ταύτην [ἔγρα]ψεν ἐπὶ Νικοκλέο[υς .ca..2–3.]την καὶ ἑβδομηκοστ[ὴν, κἀξ]ἔδωκεν εἰς ἐργασίαν [εἰς τὰ] Διονύσια, οὐκ ἐγένετο δ[ὲ διὰ] Λαχάρην τὸν τυρανν.[.ca..3–4.] τα· ὑπεκρίνετο Κάλ[λιπ]πος Ἀθηναῖος.

106  ἐπὶ Νικ i.e. 296/5 BC Wilamowitz   107  ἑβδομηκοστ[ὴν καὶ] Hunt   ἑβδομηκοστ[ὴν· ἐξ]- Gronewald   ἑβδομηκοστ[ὴν κἀξ]- Luppe   110–11  τύραννọ [ν·ἔπει]τα Wilamowitz  τυραννή̣[σαν]τα Gronewald  τυραννε̣[ύον]τα Luppe   111  υπεκρεινετο papyrus

Imbrians, which begins: ‘My dear friend Demeas, how long since I…’. [He wro]te this seventy[-first (or ‘-third’ or ‘-sixth’ or ‘-ninth’) in the Archonship of Nikokle[s], and he delivered it for production [at the] Dionysia, but it did not take place [because of] Lachares who (reading *

1

Heartfelt thanks to the organisers of the conference on Frammenti e dintorni in Meran. For scholarly suggestions and assistance I am indebted to E. Bakola, A. Hartwig, M. Miller, E. Stavropoulou, P. Wilson, I. Worthington and audiences in Meran and at the University of Birmingham. The research for this paper began while I was a Senior Fellow and Marie Curie Fellow of the European Union at the Institute for Advanced Studies of the University of Freiburg, and completed while I was British Academy Global Professor at the University of Warwick. I am deeply grateful for the generous support of these institutions. POxy 1235, col. iii 103–112 ( Ἴμβριοι test. 1, fr. 190 K.–A.). My text here follows Hunt 1914, Gronewald 1992 and Luppe 1993. The work may be the Summaries of Menander’ s Plays by Homeros Sellios, a writer of the 2nd c. AD (Körte 1918; Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 40).

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with Luppe’ s emendation) “[was] tyran[t at the time]” or “[was making himself] tyran[t]” (or reading with Gronewald “who was once tyrant”). Kal[lip]pos the Athenian was the actor. A lot of this information seems to come from good documentary sources. The Archon dating and the recording of the actor who performed Menander’ s play would appear to derive from a didascalic list that itself probably depended ultimately upon Athenian public archives. Also typical of didascalic lists is the general asyndeton, and the imperfect tense of ὑπεκρίνετο, the word for ‘acted’ (the aorist is only used in the lists to record extraordinary events like παλαιὸν δρᾶμα πρῶτο[ν] παρεδίδαξαν οἱ τραγ[ωιδοί], “the tragedians first added a production of an old play”)2. The name of the actor Kallippos is also presumably taken from a reliable archival source. Kallippos is known to have been active at this time. Indeed, we know of a Kallippos the Elder and a Kallippos the Younger, both comic actors: the Elder acted for Menander at the Dionysia of 312 BC; the Younger also performed in 312 BC, probably on Delos in 268 BC, and may have performed for Alexis3. It is not known which, if either, of these is the Kallippos son of Kallias named on the Monument of Xenokles of 306 BC4. Didascalic too is the formula οὐκ ἐγένετο “it did not take place” that appears on l. 9 (about which more will be said below)5. On the other hand, some details seem far removed from an archival source. For one thing, it is very difficult to understand what place an archive could have for information about a production that did not take place. Moreover, Athenian archives might record that a contest failed to take place, but we have no parallel for recording the reason why. Though the tradition, particularly that derived from the Aristotelian Didaskaliai, does sometimes add incidental information, we have no parallel for information about political tampering of any sort. Furthermore, the statement that Menander “wrote ([ἔγρα]ψεν) Imbrioi seventy-first (or ‘-third’ or ‘-sixth’ or ‘-ninth’)” is a matter of purely literary historical interest and could have no place in the production records of any city or festival6. We find such numerical ordering for single plays of Aristophanes, Euripides and Sophocles: the hypothesis for Birds says “it was 35th”; that for the Alcestis tells us that “it was composed 16th”; the hypothesis to Antigone, said to be by Aristophanes the Grammarian, reports “this drama is said to be 32nd”7. This kind of ordinal dating is also found 2 3

4 5 6 7

IG II2 2318 1010–1011 M–O; cf. ll. 1565 M–O; IG II2 2323a, l. 13 M–O. Millis–Olson 2012, 73 n. 3: the Elder: Stefanis 1988, 1352, IG II2 2323a l. 3 M–O); the Younger: Stefanis 1988, 1349, IG II2 2323a l. 4 M–O, IG XI 2, 110 l. 33, IG II2 2322, l. 3 M–O. IG II2 3073. Luppe 1993, 10; O’ Sullivan 2009, 55 n. 1. As seen already by Boeckh in CIG I p. 351. The papyrus hypothesis to Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros (POxy 663) may also mark it as the eighth play he produced (but see Luppe 1966, 188–91; Bakola 2005, 49).

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in the general imitation of Greek hypotheses in the hypotheses attached to the manuscripts of Plautus and Terence. Deufert and others ascribe it to Varro, which would at least give us a terminus ante in the first century BC8. Some Hellenistic Greek scholar evidently felt it necessary to number all the works of the main poets in order of composition. In the case of Menander it is especially unclear just what information could have contributed to the construction of such a chronology given that a large proportion of Menander’ s comedies must have been written for production outside of Athens (indeed, no more than about 60 plays could have been mentioned in Athenian archives). The ordination of the other Greek plays, as transmitted, is widely doubted, and in some cases, like Aristophanes’ Birds, either rejected or emended: Aristophanes produced many plays after 414 BC, but his total output is only forty, so Birds cannot be his 35th play9. Another sign of much later scholarship is the language used for dramatic ‘production’ in ἔδωκεν εἰς ἐργασίαν, “he delivered (a playtext) for production”. The word ἐργασία has only two parallels in the language of the theatre, the earliest of which is found in a 3rd c. AD papyrus10. So at best it seems we have a mixture of good documentary information but filtered through Hellenistic or later scholarship, which was not above speculation and fanciful reconstruction and is indeed unlikely in this case to have had any other recourse. From a source-critical viewpoint, some of the information in the hypothesis for Imbrians is probably good, some probably bad, but close scrutiny will be required to ascertain which is which. Did Lachares persecute Menander and could it have happened in 301 BC? Despite doubt about many details, most scholars accept the papyrus as evidence of what we could call ‘political interference’ in the theatre, and in effect ‘political censorship’. Jeffrey Henderson, for example, in the Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy after raising several doubts about the information on the papyrus says “in any case, such an action against Menander at this time would have been motivated on grounds similar to his arraignment in 307: associating with (antiAntigonid) oligarchs or somehow espousing their interests in (a) play(s)”11. We have very little evidence for the exercise of censorship in any form in the Athenian theatre: but the little evidence we do have suggests that there were only three instruments available by which anyone could level such constraints: legislation, the Archon’ s selection or a threat of persecution by an individual that might 8 9 10 11

Deufert 2002, 88–95. Flickinger 1910, 4–12. PMich 36 col. 1, l. 5; Vita Soph. 55–58 (Ister FGrHist 334 F 37; Neanthes FGrHist 84 F 18). Henderson 2014, 189 (cf. Henderson 2013, 260). Csapo–Slater 1994, 105 shares this view, but I am now convinced that it is wrong.

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induce a poet to exercise pre-emptive self-censorship12. Of the legislative attempts to ban the ridicule of private individuals in comedy the most widely accepted is the legislation attested by the scholiast to Acharnians 67 for the Archonship of Morychides (440/39 BC and repealed in 437/6 BC)13. This legislation, if our source is reliable, was directed not at any individual but at all comic poets, restricting their licence to ridicule individuals in the theatre, but by no means curtailing the performance of their comedies (we have both epigraphic and literary evidence for the comic competition continuing during these years)14. We know of no legislation barring an individual play from performance at an Athenian festival nor any legislation barring a dramatic competition from taking place15. Could Lachares, then, have somehow influenced the Archon’ s selection process? Hartwig’ s recent study is clear that at any time: “censorship by the archons […] seems very unlikely”16. But the language of the papyrus indicates that Menander’ s Imbrians had already been accepted by the Archon. Menander “delivered his play for production”, ἔδωκεν εἰς ἐργασίαν. This does not refer to submission to the Archon, for which the proper terminology is χορὸν αἰτεῖν, as we know from Aristophanes’ Knights 513 and Cratinus fr. 17 K.–A. The expression used by the papyrus refers to delivering the final script for materialisation by actors and chorus, a process that comes some time after the selection by the Archon. Acceptance by the Archon in this case is especially clear: an actor had already been assigned. But what of pre-emptive self-censorship from fear of persecution? We do have good evidence for intimidation tactics, notably Cleon’ s attempted legal prosecution of Aristophanes on a charge of hybris. But the case never came to trial and the threat notoriously failed: a settlement had been reached but Aristophanes openly flauted it and taunted Cleon in Acharnians (502–503, 628–32) and Wasps (1284–91). In any case, legal prosecution of this sort necessarily followed a performance. The precedent, nonetheless, leaves open the possibility that Menander withdrew his comedy out of fear of legal redress by Lachares. But even if it were possible for a poet to withdraw a play from a festival competition, which is very doubtful (actors, who withdrew after they were engaged, had to pay very stiff fines for non-appearance, but poets could easily be dispensed with once the script was delivered), it is in the case of Menander, impossible to see either a motive for a ­threat of prosecution or a viable charge. The papyrus goes on to give the begin12 13 14 15

16

See the recent discussion by Hartwig 2015. Hartwig 2015, 20 with further literature in n. 7. IGUR 216 ll. 4, 13; IG II2 2325C l. 22 M–O; Anon. de comoedia 3.29, p. 8 Koster (= Phere­crates test. 2,6 K.–A.); cf. Millis–Olson 2012, 33, 225–27. We should note the very exceptional legislation against the reperformance in Attica of Phrynichus’ tragedy, Capture of Miletus, reported by Herodotus 6.21. The tragedy did have a first performance at the Athenian Dionysia. Hartwig 2015, 32.

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ning of a plot summary: “Two poor friends inhabited Imbros working together to make a common living and they married twin sisters. They even shared all of their property. Working hard both on the land and the sea […]”17. It is hard not to see a typical virtuous-pauper-gets-rich plot here. No safer theme ever graced the Attic stage. Indeed, from what we know of Menander’ s plays, the ­possibility that Imbrians had politically provocative content must certainly be excluded. Moreover, everything we know about Lachares, which is admittedly not much, shows him to be more anti-Antigonid than Menander ever was. Lachares was associated with Cassander as was Menander’ s friend, Demetrius of Phaleron. At all events, a singling out of Menander’ s play for prosecution of any sort is decisively excluded by the phrase οὐκ ἐγένετο. All parallels show that this does not mean the play was withdrawn – for this we would expect οὐκ ἐδιδάχθη – it means that the Dionysia or the competition did not take place (we will examine the parallels later). Not Imbrians, but ‘the comic contest’ or ‘Dionysia’ is the implied subject of οὐκ ἐγένετο. Before going on, we should address the very reasonable objection that the arguments presuppose normal conditions under the Athenian democracy. Though we know of no legal or administrative instrument that Lachares could have used to stop Menander’ s performance, it could be argued that Lachares’ characterisation as a ‘tyrant’ implies (by definition) a certain disregard for law and custom. But here we encounter the most serious of all the problems with the information in the Oxyrhynchus papyrus. Lachares was not tyrant. The Dionysia took place in Elaphebolion, the third month of 301 BC, roughly March/April. But Lachares’ coup is inconceivable before late summer 301 BC when the news of the defeat of Demetrius and Antigonus at Ipsos reached Athens18. From late Metageitnion (roughly early September), the second month of the following Archon year, we have a decree proposed by Stratocles (IG II2 640), a strong supporter of Demetrius, which should indicate that Athens was till then still firmly in Demetrius’ camp. To avoid this chronological problem, it has been proposed we read the reference to Lachares’ ‘tyranny’ in this passage “proleptically”, taking l. 110 to read [διὰ] Λαχάρην τὸν τυρανν[εύον]τα or indeed τυρανν[ήσον]τα to mean “the Lachares who later became tyrant”19. The problem remains however: short of acting tyrannically, there is no capacity in which Lachares could have stopped the production. Unfortunately, we do not know for certain when Lachares actually did become tyrant. Dating for the onset of the tyranny ranges from late 301 BC (Dreyer) or the spring of 300 BC (Habicht) to as late as 295 BC (Beloch)20. But proponents of the early dates rely heavily on the evidence of the hypothesis to Menander’ s Imbrians, 17 18 19 20

POxy 1235, col. iii 114–21. Dreyer 1999, 64. Iversen 2010. Dreyer 1999, 17–76; Habicht 1997, 83; Beloch 1927, 247­–48. For a summary of the positions and arguments, see Paschidis 2008, 125–29.

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and yet none are prepared to admit that Lachares was tyrant by the time of the Dionysia of 301 BC, as the papyrus states. No action of Lachares could have interfered with Menander’ s production at the Dionysia in the Archonship of Nikokles. The coup that brought Lachares to power is most often dated between 300 and early 297 BC, and more likely to belong to the end of this period21. Pausanias (1.25,7) tells us that Lachares was supported by Cassander and Cassander died in the spring (April or May) of 297 BC22. But the coup that brought Lachares into power may have happened only shortly before Cassander’ s death23. Another papyrus from Oxyrhynchus (POxy 2082) seems to mention Cassander’ s death right after the account of the power struggle between “the generals” Charias and Lachares24. There are, moreover, positive reasons to suppose that Athens suffered no political disruption before 298/7 BC: inscriptions attest regular decrees of the Athenian Assembly from as late as Thargelion (late spring) 298 BC but they disappear thereafter until Elaphebolion 295 BC25. That Lachares persecuted Menander is improbable; that he did so in 301 BC, either in the capacity of private citizen or tyrant, virtually impossible. But the formula that appears on l. 9, οὐκ ἐγένετο “it did not take place”, as noted above, uses archival language, and it is possible that the papyrus preserves a trace of archival information about the cancellation of a competition or a festival. I propose therefore to test this possibility by first examining the conditions under which contests or festivals might be cancelled, and then to see if these conditions ever arose in the time period in which Menander and Lachares might have interacted. We will, in other words, examine the claims of the papyrus first in the general theatre-historical context, and secondly in the specific political-historical context of the events it describes. The Theatre-historical context: When are contests and festivals cancelled? Our first question therefore is: under what circumstances might a Dionysian competition or festival be cancelled? Fortunately this topic has received considerable attention in the fairly recent past, above all from Christian Habicht and Johanna Hanink26. The studies generally confirm Demosthenes’ claim (4,35) that “the festivals of the Panathenaia or the Dionysia always take place at the regular time” (τὴν μὲν τῶν Παναθηναίων ἑορτὴν καὶ τὴν τῶν Διονυσίων ἀεὶ τοῦ καθήκοντος χρόνου 21 22 23 24 25 26

Paschidis 2008, 125–26; Worthington forthcoming. Rzepka in BNJ 257a F 3; Landucci Gattinoni 2003, 23. FGrHist 257a FF 1–4 with Thonemann 2003. FGrHist 257a FF 1–3; Oliver 2007, 61 n. 64. Cf. Bayliss 2003. Habicht 1979, 18–19; Osborne 1982, 148 n. 641; Paschidis 2008, 126; but see Dreyer 2000, 57–59. Habicht 2006; Hanink 2014.

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γίγνεσθαι). They stress the religious importance of festivals and the feeling that any lapse or alteration risks alienating the gods who support the city. The ancients were most reluctant to cancel or alter festivals even in extreme cases. To take an example with some contemporary resonance, we could note that during the plague years, at a time when a quarter to a third of the Athenian population perished, the Dionysia (and apparently Lenaea) regularly took place, though the disastrous effects of crowding, most extreme in the ancient theatre, were well understood27. Hanink gives another excellent example. She convincingly demonstrates that even the Dionysia of 404 BC took place though the Spartans were besieging Athens and manifestly within days of occupying the city. It was precisely at such times that keeping religious observances was felt important to maintain the good will of the gods and to demonstrate civic solidarity. We might note, that, to the later mythic imagination at least, this piety paid off: Plutarch tells us a Phocian delegate sang the parodos of Euripides’ Electra at the congress of the Spartan allies and this quelled the clamours to raise Athens to the ground and enslave its population (Lys. 15,1–3). In Athens there were probably only two cancellations of festivals. We assume that all festivals were cancelled in 480 BC when the city was evacuated and occupied by the Persians. Otherwise, before the late third century, we have evidence for only one cancellation: the Great Panathenaia in 286 BC28. Julia Shear argues that was cancelled due to the siege of the city by Demetrius the Besieger: the siege had a high impact on the festival organisation, not least because the stadium and hippodrome were outside the city walls29. The cancellation of religious festivals is a rare event anywhere in Greece. Again, war is the principle reason – but only when the sanctuaries and processional 27

28 29

The first onset of the plague was late spring 430 BC and it would appear to have been at its height at the time that preparations for the Dionysia normally begin; it recurred in summer 428, winter 427/6, and ended winter 426/5 (Morens–Littman 1992, 276). The Dionysia (and Lenaea) most affected were 429, 427–425. In 429 we are told Eupolis and Phrynichus competed (de com. 3.33, p. 9 Koster; test. 2,6 K.–A.). Sophocles is also often claimed to have performed his Oedipus the King in 429, but this is a modern inference from the role of the plague in the text. In 427 Aristophanes performed Daitales at the Dionysia (test. iv, v K.–A.; Millis–Olson 2012, 157) and Hermippus was “almost certainly” victorious (Millis–Olson 2012, 13 n. 28). In 426 Aristophanes performed Babylonioi at the Dionysia (Ar. Ach. 6, 378; test. ii, iv K.–A.; Millis–Olson 2012, 158, 163, 167), and a performance of the tragedian Theognis might be inferred from Ar. Ach. 9, 138. A victory by Eupolis at the Lenaea is to be dated between 429 and 426 and most likely in a plague year (Millis–Olson 2012, 178, 183). In 425 Eupolis possibly won his first victory at the Dionysia and Aristophanes and Cratinus performed at the Lenaea (Millis–Olson 2012, 158, 163, 167). All these Dionysia had full entries in the Fasti according to Millis–Olson’ s reconstruction (2012, 34–35, cf. 183). IG II3 1, 911, ll. 64–65; Shear 1978, 35–39; Habicht 2006, 158–59; Shear 2010. Shear 2010, 151–52.

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r­ outes were occupied or directly threatened by a foreign invader. The festival of Apollo on Delos lapsed when Athens lost its naval supremacy and, consequently, control of the island after the Battle of Aegospotami in 405 BC, but the festival was revived soon after Athens’ naval recovery following the Battle of Knidos in 394 BC30. Other testimony of festival cancellation dates only from the third century onwards. Several examples are given by Habicht31. Almost all can be directly connected with fear of exposing participants and performers to hostility. Clearly, the cancellation of a festival was thought a serious affair, and likely to cause anxiety, even when a city had little choice. Third-century decrees establishing new festivals sometimes include specific exemption clauses in time of war32. Only in the first century BC do we find a couple examples of the complete lapse of festivals for other reasons, such as lack of funds33. Athens and other states preferred any viable alternative to outright cancellation. Sometimes the location or route of a festival could be altered to reduce the threat of attack by an invader. When the Spartans occupied Deceleia (413–408 BC), the Mystery processions from Athens to Eleusis were conducted by sea, omitting the traditional wayside dances and sacrifices34. In 346 BC the Athenians moved the Herakleia into the city after Philip invaded Phocis35. In 373 BC, the Ionians shifted the traditional location of the Panionia to safer ground near Ephesus after war broke out36. To outright cancellation of a festival Greek cities preferred to omit or abbreviate parts of a festival’ s program. The examples of reduced programs are again limited to extreme situations, and mainly, as in the case of the Mystery processions in Athens just mentioned, when the normal processional routes or gathering places were under direct threat of enemy attack. We have a clear instance in Claros in the late third century BC, where a recent inscription tells us the competitions and the feast of a penteteric festival for Apollo lapsed “when the wars began […] because of the attendant circumstances”37. The traditional sacrifices continued, however, to be observed. The god’ s displeasure was nonetheless felt and Apollo soon commanded the Colophonians, through oracles and omens, to revive the festival’ s full program. These examples, incidentally, belie the theory that comic competition at the Dionysia was reduced from five to three comedies during the 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

IDélos 98, ll. 32–40; Parker 1996, 222–23; Habicht 2006, 156. Habicht 2006, 157–64. OGI 55 (TAM II 1, 1) ll. 29–35 (Telmessos in 241); IG IX I 694, ll. 16–19 (Corcyra in 229); IG IX 12 583, ll. 46–47 (Olympia in 216). The Ptoia of Akraiphiai (IG VII 2712, ll. 55–59; Habicht 2006, 164); Halicarnassus (GIBM IV, p. 62 on no. 893, ll. 14–18; Habicht 2006, 164–65). Plut. Alc. 34,3: πολλὰ τῶν δρομένων καθ᾽ὁδὸν ἐξελείπετο; Xen. Hell. 1.4,20. Dem. 19,86, 19,125; Parker 2005, 472–73. D.S. 15.49,1. Müller–Prost 2013, 94 l. 8.

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Peloponnesian War merely in order to save time or money. There are, however, other good reasons for doubting this theory, which I will not go into here38. The most significant exception to the rule that festival programs are reduced only in extremis is the Athenian Dionysia from the late third to the mid second century BC. In the inscription known as the ‘Didaskaliai’ the entry for comedy at the Dionysia for 216 BC reads “when Hoplon was Archon, it did not take place” ([ἐπὶ  Ὅπλωνο]ς οὐκ ἐγένετο)39. In the list we find the same formula preserved or securely restorable eleven times for Dionysia from 202 BC to 155 BC40. In addition space calculation requires several more years where the οὐκ ἐγένετο formula must have replaced the annual fifteen-line account of entries. Millis­–Olson notes that the periodicity of securely attested lapses is never more than two years in a row and at least once every third year41. We are in other words dealing not with ad hoc cancellation, but with a systematic restructuring of the festival competitions. Given the importance of maintaining religious festivals, the Didaskaliai’ s formula οὐκ ἐγένετο, “it did not take place”, is unlikely to refer to the Dionysia in its entirety and should refer, as Millis–Olson argue, only to the competition for comedy42. The reason for these lapses is obscure. They are too regular to have been the result of military emergencies. But one should not be too quick to assume simple cost cutting, especially because there are signs that the cuts were compensated elsewhere. Whenever the comic competition did take place the number of comedies at the Dionysia rose from five to six43. Moreover, Millis–Olson suggest that the Dionysia and Lenaea adopted a system whereby one festival included an expanded version of the contest that the other festival omitted44. The reduction in the program of competition was, it seems, compensated in other ways. By the third century, probably from the early 270s, the Dionysian program had already expanded to include regular competitions for revivals in old tragedy, comedy and satyrplay (amounting to the addition of nine plays to the program). With the rapid expansion of the theatre industry throughout the Eastern Mediterranean it may just have been difficult to get performers. Possibly the Artists of Dionysus proposed this restructuring to facilitate workflow. Greek cities had ways of making sure that festivals “took place at the proper time” as Demosthenes (cited above) puts it. If problems threatened to throw off the schedule, one could always change the calendar. The most notorious case of calendar meddling is Athens in 304/3 BC. To oblige the whims of Demetrius 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Full discussion in Csapo–Wilson forthcoming a, I Avi. IG II2 2323, l. 13 M–O. IG II2 2323, ll. 138, 170, 265–66, 282, 298, 410, 507–508, 588–89 M–O. For the supplement at l. 461, see Summa 2014, 38. Millis–Olson 2012, 77; Millis 2014, 437. Millis–Olson 2012, 76, 158. Millis–Olson 2012, 76; Millis 2014, 437. Millis–Olson 2012, 76; Millis 2014, 437.

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the Besieger, the politician Stratocles initiated legislation to change the month Mounichion to ‘Anthesterion’ so that Demetrius could be initiated into the Lesser Mysteries (which normally took place in Anthesterion). When Demetrius had completed his initiation, the same month was decreed to be ‘Boedromion’ so that Demetrius could then immediately be initiated into the Greater Mysteries45. A decree of that year names the month ‘Second Anthesterion’, [Ἀνθεστερ]ιῶνος ὑστέρου46. Less invasive calendrical meddling is a common solution to sudden emergencies. It is argued for example that the Athenians intercalated two days before the Battle of Marathon so as not to force cancellation of the Eleusinian Mysteries47. In 270 BC, there were eight days inserted in early Elaphebolion (the ninth of Elaphebolion being repeated four times) in order to delay the beginning of the Dionysia48. Third- and second-century BC Athens in fact seems not infrequently to have repeated days in early Elaphebolion in order, apparently, to buy time to prepare the Dionysia or to remove obstacles to its success49. Such procedures allowed the Dionysia to begin on Elaphebolion 10, technically permitting the festival to take place τοῦ καθήκοντος χρόνου. Other cities also used this convenience: in 419 BC, for example, the Argives delayed the Karneia so that they could attack Epidaurus, thereby avoiding any irregularity to their festival, even by an emergency of their own creation50. Later during the Corinthian War, around 388 BC, Xenophon reports that the Argives were accused of manipulating their calendar so as to demand a truce for the Karneia whenever the Spartans threatened to attack51. In this spirit the early third-century Euboean festival decree makes specific provision for the use, if needed, of up to three intercalary days for adjustments52. In light of the obvious reluctance of Athens and other cities to postpone curtail, or cancel festivals, except in the most extreme circumstances, it is hard to interpret Plutarch’ s description in the Life of Demetrius (12,3–7) relating to events at a Dionysia at the end of the fourth century BC, when the Athenians are said to have “broken up the Parade because of the onset of a severe unseasonal cold snap”. This is an important passage for our discussion, so I will cite the passage along with Plutarch’ s quotation of Philippides (fr. 25, 4–8):

45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Plut. Demetr. 26,2–3; D.S. 20.110,1; Dunn 1998, 227. Woodhead 1989. Dunn 1998, 219, 230. SEG 14, 65; Agora 16, no. 188, ll. 3–5. Meritt 1961, 26–33, 147–52, 161–65, 208; Pritchett 1976, 350; Dunn 1998, 221–22, 226, 230–31; Pritchett 2001, 26–27. Thuc. 5.54,1–4. Xen. Hell. 4.7,2–3. Le Guen 2001, TE 1 28–29.

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ἐπεσήμηνε δὲ τοῖς πλείστοις τὸ θεῖον· ὁ μὲν γὰρ πέπλος, ὥσπερ ἐψηφίσαντο μετὰ τοῦ Διὸς καὶ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς προσενυφηναμένων Δημήτριον καὶ Ἀντίγονον, πεμπόμενος διὰ τοῦ Κεραμεικοῦ μέσος ἐρράγη θυέλλης ἐμπεσούσης. περὶ δὲ τοὺς βωμοὺς τοὺς ἐκείνων ἐξήνθησεν ἡ γῆ κύκλῳ πολὺ κώνειον, μηδ’ ἄλλως τῆς χώρας πολλαχοῦ φυόμενον. ᾗ δ’ ἡμέρᾳ τὰ τῶν Διονυσίων ἐγίνετο, τὴν πομπὴν κατέλυσαν ἰσχυρῶν πάγων γενομένων παρ’ ὥραν, καὶ πάχνης βαθείας ἐπιπεσούσης οὐ μόνον ἀμπέλους καὶ συκᾶς ἁπάσας ἀπέκαυσε τὸ ψῦχος, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦ σίτου τὸν πλεῖστον ἐν χλόῃ διέφθειρε. διὸ καὶ Φιλιππίδης ἐχθρὸς ὢν τοῦ Στρατοκλέους ἐν κωμῳδίᾳ πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐποίησε ταῦτα· δι’ ὃν ἀπέκαυσεν ἡ πάχνη τὰς ἀμπέλους, δι’ ὃν ἀσεβοῦνθ’ ὁ πέπλος ἐρράγη μέσος, τὰς τῶν θεῶν τιμὰς ποιοῦντ’ ἀνθρωπίνας. ταῦτα καταλύει δῆμον, οὐ κωμῳδία. The divinity showed signs [of outrage] to most of these acts. The peplos that [the Athenians] voted to be woven with the images of Demetrios and Antigonos along with Zeus and Athena was torn in half when a gust of wind fell upon it as it was being carried in procession through the Kerameikos. Hemlock blossomed around their [Demetrios’ and Antigonos’] altars, though it was not particularly plentiful anywhere else in the country. And on the day that the rites of the Dionysia began, they broke up the Parade because of the onset of a severe unseasonal cold snap. When a heavy frost settled the cold not only scorched all the vines and figs but destroyed most of the young shoots of grain. This is why Philippides, who was an enemy of Stratokles, wrote these lines against him in a comedy: Because of this man [Stratokles] the frost withered the vines. Because of his impiety the peplos [of Athena at the Panathenaia] was torn in half. He brought the privileges of [the] gods to men. These things, not comedy, overthrow the People.

The language does not make it clear if the Parade was cancelled53, postponed54, or simply curtailed. From what we have seen, cancellation seems most improbable and the cold weather of which Plutarch speaks seems insufficient for either cancellation or curtailment. If Plutarch is correct about the interruption of the Parade we should probably suppose a more spectacular weather event, e. g. a major “ice storm”, as Olson translates55, rather than the mere cold snap implied by Plutarch’ s language, but if so it is hard to see why Plutarch is not more explicit. His words ἰσχυρῶν πάγων γενομένων παρ’ ὥραν imply “unseasonal cold” not a freak storm. It is even harder to see why Philippides in the comic verses, though he mentions 53 54 55

O’ Sullivan 2009, 61. Meritt 1936, 205. Olson 2007, 226.

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frosts withering the vines, makes no mention of a storm affecting the Dionysia, as such a recollection would much more obviously serve his purpose in listing signs of divine displeasure. Threatening weather would most easily have been dealt with by postponement through the normal process of intercalation. For this reason Meritt links this passage with evidence of calendrical manipulation in 307/6 BC56. If there is nothing but calendrical manipulation behind Plutarch’ s words, then they are misleading. But it is worth considering whether they are deliberately so. Philippides’ charge against Stratocles that “he brought the privileges of [the] gods to men”, is close to the moralising theme Plutarch pursues throughout the Life of Demetrius. In the lead up to this passage Plutarch makes much of Demetrius’ assumption of the privileges of the gods, living in the Parthenon, having his and his father’ s portrait woven into the sacred peplos of Athena, and changing the Dionysia into the ‘Dionysia and Demetrieia’. Plutarch is in fact guilty of confusing the chronology of Demetrius’ impieties. The addition of ‘Demetrieia’ to the Dionysia did not happen until after Demetrius’ return in 295 BC57, but Plutarch mentions it just before this passage (Demetr. 12,2) to give a religious resonance to the implied weather event that disrupted the late-fourth-century BC Dionysia. He means us to take the cold snap as one of the acts by which “the divinity showed signs (of outrage)” for an encroachment on Dionysus’ festival that had not yet taken place. Though it is clear that Plutarch in his prescript alleges much more information than could be drawn from the quoted text of Philippides, the reuse of Philippides’ word καταλύει in “these things overthrow the People” for “broke up the [Dionysian] Parade” leads one to wonder if Plutarch or his source is not indulging in creative extrapolation from the text. It may be that Plutarch or his source had only the fragment of Philippides to build upon, combined δι’ ὃν ἀπέκαυσεν ἡ πάχνη τὰς ἀμπέλους and ταῦτα καταλύει δῆμον to come up with a pleasing parallel for the squall of the Panathenaia, the sign of Athena’ s outrage, in the form of the cold of the Dionysia, the ‘sign of Dionysus’, but in a symbolically more balanced form to suit his moralising theme in the Life of Demetrius. Two weather events marring a festival procession are a more forceful expression of heavenly wrath than one. In light of these problems, one has to entertain the possibility that Plutarch is presenting as a major disruption what was at best a mere weather inconvenience or, at worst, a postponement of a Dionysia, sometime in the late fourth century. The conclusion of this theatre-historical survey is that cancellation or curtailment of the Athenian Dionysia is unlikely except in time of an invasion. Let’ s now look at the political-historical context to see if any military emergency may have occurred at the time of a Dionysia in the late fourth or early third century within the lifetime of Menander and at the time or around the time Lachares was tyrant. 56 57

Meritt 1936, 205. Thonemann 2005; Hartwig forthcoming. See further below.

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The political-historical context: Could any Dionysia or comic competition have been cancelled in the time of Lachares and Menander? If we take the words of the Oxyrhynchus Papyrus to imply that Lachares was tyrant at the time he obstructed Menander’ s play, then the only possible times for the alleged event are the six Dionysia from 300–295 BC, and the most likely times, for the reasons given earlier, are the Dionysia of 297, 296 or 295 BC. There are in fact strong independent reasons for positing a major disruption around the time of the Dionysia in mid Elaphebolion 295 BC, and most probably at the time of the festival itself. The disruption is the entry of Demetrius the Besieger into Athens which put an abrupt end to Lachares’ reign. IG II3 1, 851 is valuable evidence for the timing of Demetrius’ arrival:

5

ἐπὶ Νικίου ἄρχοντος ὑστέρ[ου, ἐπὶ] τῆς Ἀκαμα̣ντίδ̣ος τετάρ̣της π[ρυτα][νε]ίας, ἧι Ἀν̣τικ̣ρ̣άτης Κρατίν[ου ․․] [․․]ίΛ̣ης ἐγ[ρ]αμ̣[μ]άτευε· Μουνιχ[ιῶ][ν]ος ἕκ[τ]η[ι ἐπ]ὶ̣ [δ]έκ[α]· ἑβδόμη[ι τῆς vv] [π]ρυτανε̣[ία]ς· [ἐκ]κ̣λησ̣ία· τῶ[ν προέδρ][ων ἐ]πε[ψήφιζ]ε[ν ․․]αρχ̣[․․․․10․․․․] [— — — — — — — — — — — — — —] In the second archonship, that of Nikias (or “in the archonship of the second Nikias”), in | the fourth prytany of the tribe Akamantis | for which Antikrates, son of Kratinos, | of the deme […] was secretary on Mounichio|n 16; on the 7th day | of the prytany, Assembly. Of the prohed|roi [ ..]arch[…] put the motion to the vote …

This is the first decree of the Athenian Assembly that we have after Thargelion, 298 BC. Only the prescript remains, dated to Mounichion, 295 BC, but this is enough. There are two anomalies in the prescript. One is the use of the word ὑστέρου in the Archon date. The second is the extraordinary misalignment of the calendar and administrative years. It is the tenth month of the Archon year, but the seventh day of the fourth prytany (at a time when there were twelve tribes in Athens). Osborne, Thonemann and others convincingly argue that the Archon year was restarted with the return of Demetrius the Besieger58. The expression ἐπὶ Νικίου ἄρχοντος ὑστέρ[ου] Thonemann takes to mean “in the Archonship of Nikias, second of the year”: the archonship in other words that came after the expulsion of Lachares and his appointees, one of whom was presumably the Archon for the first eight months of the year59. Another possibility is that Nikias was Archon all year long, 58 59

Osborne 1985, 276; Thonemann 2005, 66–69. Thonemann 2005, 69.

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but that the way of referring to the Lacharean and Demetrian parts of the year differed60; a much less likely possibility is that there were two different Nikiases dividing the Archonship. In any case, we can determine rougly, but, within a small span of days, precisely, when the Archon year recommenced. The mathematics from Mounichion 10, day one of Prytany four, gives 77–80 days to complete the administrative cycle, divided by the 9 tribes = 8 to 9 days per prytany. Therefore counting back 24 to 27 days before Mounichion 10, we arrive at a date for the new administrative year sometime between Elaphebolion 12, the day the comic competition would have taken place, and Elaphebolion 16, the day after the end of the Dionysia, depending on whether Elaphebolion 295 was a hollow or full month of 29 or 30 days61. It would seem that Demetrius had some leeway to choose his moment to enter Athens. He chose to come in at the time of the Dionysia. A Euboean inscription can be interpreted to indicate that Demetrius ‘liberated’ Eretria on the day of the Dionysian Parade probably in 304 BC62. Demetrius in any case, possibly from 295 BC onwards, began to identify himself with Dionysus. This was doubtless encouraged by Ptolemy I’ s active Dionysification of Alexander, that began in the decade after Alexander’ s death63. We get a strong sense of Demetrius’ posturing as Dionysus from Plutarch’ s account of his entry into Athens (Demetr. 34): Despite the fact that the Athenians threatened with death anyone who spoke of peace and reconciliation with Demetrius, they immediately opened the near gates and sent ambassadors, though they expected no good to come of it, but they were forced by scarcity of food. […] With the city in this state, Demetrius entered the city and ordered everyone to gather in the theatre. He fenced off the skene building with armed soldiers and surrounded the stage with his bodyguard. He himself descended from above by the side-entrances like a tragic actor. As the Athenians were even more terrified than before, he put an end to their fear with his first words. He eliminated any bitterness in his words or tone, but after chiding them in a gentle and friendly fashion he declared himself reconciled, gave them 100,000 medimnoi of grain and appointed the most popular democratic leaders to public office. The people in their joy were competing with all manner of proposals with the accolades of the demagogues from the speaker’ s platform. Seeing this, the politician Demetrius introduced a resolution to 60 61 62 63

Osborne 1985, 275, 281; Woodhead 1989, 299. Thonemann 2005, 72–73. The timing of the Dionysia and the order of competitions will be discussed fully in Csapo–Wilson forthcoming a, I Avi. Chaniotis 2011, 162; Csapo–Wilson 2020, 662–63 (IV Dvii 9), 671–72. There is a considerable literature on Demetrius’ self-identification with Dionysus and on the Dionysification of Alexander. Among the more recent contributions, see Chaniotis 2011. The issues will be dealt with in Csapo–Wilson forthcoming b, VI G, VI K.

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give King Demetrius the Piraeus and Mounychia. When this had been voted on, Demetrius added a garrison on the Mouseion hill on his own account, so that the demos might not try to throw him off again and cause him the nuisance of further difficulties.

Demetrius appeared before the Athenians in the theatre descending to the stage from on high like a tragoidos or theatre god αὐτὸς δὲ καταβὰς ὥσπερ οἱ τραγῳδοὶ διὰ τῶν ἄνω παρόδων64. The expression “from the upper side entrances” seems to indicate a descent from the skene roof or theologeion. In other words he descended “like the tragic actors” who perform divine epiphanies in the theatre. Like the god of the Dionysia, Demetrius brought Athens food and peace65. Significantly we are told he replaced the existing administration with individuals sympathetic to the demos, which explains the splitting of the administrative year beginning on that very day. It is therefore overwhelmingly likely that the only time the comic competition was cancelled in Menander’ s lifetime was in Elaphebolion, 295 BC, when Demetrius, so to speak, stole the show for himself. The only other reasonable possibility would be in 297 BC, supposing that Lachares’ coup took place at the time of the Dionysia, but for this we have no evidence, and it is also difficult to see why an internal change of government would have required cancellation of the Dionysia, or indeed why intercalation would not have been used to save the festival. Postponement was not an option in the case of Demetrius’ seizure of Athens: the evidence indicates that, if he did not actually engineer his entry into the city during the Dionysia, he certainly exploited the coincidence to good effect. Demetrius apparently wanted to be remembered for appearing at the Dionysia. And so he was. Thonemann argues that it was probably at the following Dionysia in 294 that the Dionysia was renamed the ‘Dionysia and Demetrieia’ to commemorate the anniversary of Demetrius’ epiphany66. Dionysia were combined with Demetrieia in Euboea and Sicyon as well. It may have been at the first Dionysia and Demetrieia, probably 293 BC, that the skene was painted, as Duris tells us, with the image of Demtrius riding the world67. 64

65 66 67

The source may be Duris (Sweet 1951, 180). Plutarch’ s expression may imply an entrance onto the proskenion roof from the skene. Athens did not have a proskenion before the second century BC (Moretti 2014, 112). Plutarch’ s conceptualisation of the space is anachronistic (Frickenhaus 1917, 63). Papastamati-von Moock (2014, 74 n. 234) would connect Plutarch’ s expression ‘the upper parodoi’ with the passageways leading on either side of the theatron from the Diazoma to the orchestra, but actors never used this space (and besides it would then be difficult to make sense of Demetrius’ ringing the skene with soldiers). For Dionysus and the Dionysia as god and festival of food, see Csapo 2016, 148–49. Thonemann 2005, 76–80. Duris FGrHist 76 F 14; Thonemann 2005, 79.

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If we turn back now to the Oxyrhynchus papyrus in light of these conclusions, we have to acknowledge that the dating of the cancellation of the Dionysia to the Archon Nikokles is an error. But we already knew it was impossible. This is why Wilamowitz suggested emending ἐπὶ Νικοκλέο[υς] to ἐπὶ Νικ68. Perhaps a date ἐπὶ Νικίου ὑστέρου created confusion, corrupted the transmission and set ancient scholars searching for an Archon with a longish name starting with ‘Nik-’. But the papyrus is still misleading in another way: “because of Lachares the tyrant” (or “being tyrant”) would in fact have to be a brachylogy meaning “because Lachares’ tyranny created a crisis which Demetrius, liberation of the city solved”. Our sources tell us that Lachares fled to Boeotia, absconding with some of Athens’ treasures, when the situation seemed hopeless69. This might have been enough to throw the city into consternation and bring an end to the Dionysia, especially if his supporters left with him. Putting the blame on Lachares rather than Demetrius shows a pro-Demetrian perspective of the sort that could not have been avoided by public archivists in ‘post-liberation’ Athens. Under the circumstances, perhaps, the aorist participle read by Gronewald permitted just as much clarity as was needed or desired at the time: οὐκ ἐγένετο δ[ὲ διὰ] Λαχάρην τὸν τυραννή̣[σαν] τα, the contest “did not take because of Lachares who had ceased to be tyrant”70. A certain sense can now also be made of naming the actor of a play that was not performed. The cancellation of the dramatic competitions probably took place at the last moment, when the play had been announced at the Proagon, and all but performed. Demetrius’ haste to secure Athens, and doubtless his concern to prevent mass gatherings of citizens before he had done so, would explain why the convenience of calendrical manipulation was not employed to restart the contests that Demetrius had interrupted. To conclude. Short of military invasion, Athens was reluctant to cancel or curtail its festivals and seems not to have compromised the conduct of its Dionysia in any way before the late third century and, even then, we have to regard the changes in terms of restructure rather than cancellation. The Dionysia was too important to be compromised by extreme weather or ordinary political intrigue. In the long history of the Athenian Dionysia we only have reason to believe that the festival was cancelled or seriously interrupted twice, in 480 when the city was abandoned to the Persians, and in 295 when Demetrius the Besieger ousted the tyrant Lachares. It is in the context of Demetrius’ siege of Athens and his interruption of the festival that we can best construe the information that Menander’ s Imbrians was not performed.

68 69 70

In Hunt 1914, 82–83; cf. Habicht 1979, 20. Plut. Demetr. 33,8; Paus. 1.25,8; Polyaen. 3.7,1–3. Gronewld 1992, 21.

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Bibliography Bakola 2005 = E. Bakola, “Old Comedy Disguised as Satyr Play: A New Reading of Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros (P. Oxy. 663)”, ZPE 154 (2005), 46–58. Bayliss 2003 = A. J. Bayliss, “Curse Tablets as Evidence: Identifying the Elusive ‘Peiraikoi Soldiers’”, ZPE 144 (2003), 125–140. Beloch 1927 = K. J. Beloch, Griechische Geschichte IV 2, vol. 2, Berlin-Leipzig 1927. Chaniotis 2011 = A. Chaniotis, The ithyphallic hymn for Demetrios Poliorketes and Hellenistic religious mentality, in P. Iossif–A. S. Chankowski–C. C. Lorber (eds.), More than Men, Less than Gods: Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship. Proceedings of the International Colloquium Organized by the Belgian School at Athens (November 1–2, 2007), Studia Hellenistica 51, Leuven-Paris-Walpole 2011, 157–195. CIG = A. Boeckh, Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum, 4 vols., Berlin 1828–1877. Csapo 2016 = E. Csapo, The ‘theology’ of the Dionysia and Old Comedy, in E. Eidinow–J. Kindt–R. Osborne (eds.), Theologies of Ancient Greek Religion, Cambridge 2016, 117– 152. Csapo–Goette–Green–Wilson 2014 = E. Csapo–H. R. Goette–J. R. Green–P. Wilson (eds.), Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC, Berlin 2014. Csapo–Slater 1994 = E. Csapo–W. J. Slater, The Context of Ancient Drama, Ann Arbor 1994. Csapo–Wilson 2020 = E. Csapo–P. Wilson, A Social and Economic History of the Theatre to 300 BC, vol. 2, Theatre beyond Athens, Cambridge 2020. Csapo–Wilson forthcoming a = E. Csapo–P. Wilson, A Social and Economic History of the Theatre to 300 BC, vol. 1, Theatre in Athens, Cambridge forthcoming. Csapo–Wilson forthcoming b = E. Csapo–P. Wilson, A Social and Economic History of the Theatre to 300 BC, vol. 3, Theatre People and Patrons, Cambridge forthcoming. Deufert 2002 = M. Deufert, Textgeschicht und Rezeption der plautinischen Komödien im Altertum, Berlin-New York 2002. Dreyer 1999 = B. Dreyer, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des spätklassischen Athen (322-ca. 230 v. Chr.), Historia 137, Stuttgart 1999. Dreyer 2000 = B. Dreyer, “Athen und Demetrios Poliorketes nach der Schlacht von Ipsos (301 v. Chr.). Bemerkungen zum Marmor Parius, FGrHist 239 B 27 und zur Offensive des Demetrios im Jahre 299/8 v. Chr.”, Historia 49 (2000), 54–66. Dunn 1998 = F. M. Dunn, “Tampering with the Calendar”, ZPE 123 (1998), 213–231. Flickinger 1910 = R. C. Flickinger, “Certain Numerals in the Greek Dramatic Hypotheses”, CPh 5 (1910), 1–18. Frickenhaus 1917 = A. Frickenhaus, Die altgriechische Bühne, Schriften der Wissen­schaft­ lichen Gesellschaft in Straßburg 31, Strasbourg 1917. Gronewald 1992 = M. Gronewald, “Bemerkungen zu Menander”, ZPE 93 (1992), 17–23. Habicht 1979 = C. Habicht, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Athens im 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (Vestigia 30), Munich 1979. Habicht 1997 = C. Habicht, Athens from Alexander to Antony, Cambridge 1997. Habicht 2006 = C. Habicht, “Versäumter Götterdienst”, Historia 55 (2006), 153–166. Hanink 2014 = J. Hanink, “The Great Dionysia and the End of the Peloponnesian War”, ClAnt 33 (2014), 319–344. Hartwig 2015 = A. Hartwig, Self-censorship in ancient Greek comedy, in H. Baltussen–P. J. Davis (eds.), The Art of Veiled Speech: Self-Censorship from Aristophanes to Hobbes, Philadelphia 2015, 18–41.

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Hartwig forthcoming = A. Hartwig, Nikostratos II, Philippides, Sosippos, Stephanos, Theaitetos (Fragmenta Comica 22.2), Göttingen forthcoming. Henderson 2013 = J. Henderson, “A Brief History of Athenian Political Comedy (c. 440– 300)”, TAPhA 143 (2013), 249–262. Henderson 2014 = J. Henderson, Comedy in the fourth century II: politics and domesticity, in M. Fontaine–A. C. Scafuro (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford-New York 2014, 181–198. Hunt 1914 = A. S. Hunt, “1235. Arguments of Menander’ s Plays”, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 10 (1914), 81–88. Iversen 2010 = P. A. Iversen, “P. Oxy. X 1235 Lachares ‘The Tyrant’, and Menander’ s Imbrioi”, SSRN: https://ssrn.com/abstract=1605346. Körte 1918 = A. Körte, “Die περιοχαὶ τῶν Μενάνδρου δραμάτων des Homeros Sellios”, BPhW 38 (1918), 787–791. Landucci Gattinoni 2003 = F. Landucci Gattinoni, L’ arte del potere. Vita e opere di Cassandro di Macedonia (Historia 171), Stuttgart 2003. Le Guen 2001 = B. Le Guen, Les Associations de Technites dionysiaques à l’ époque hellénistique, 2 vols., Nancy 2001. Luppe 1966 = W. Luppe, “Die Hypothesis zu Kratinos’ Dionysalexandros”, Philologus 110 (1966), 169–193. Luppe 1993 = W. Luppe, “Nochmals zur ‘Imbrioi’-Didaskalie”, ZPE 96 (1993), 9–10. Meritt 1936 = B. D. Meritt, “The Seventh Metonic Cycle”, Hesperia 5 (1936), 201–205. Meritt 1961 = B. D. Meritt, The Athenian Year, Berkeley-Los Angeles 1961. Millis 2014 = B. W. Millis, Inscribed public records of the dramatic contests at Athens: IG II2 2318–2323a and IG II2 2325, in Csapo–Goette–Green–Wilson 2014, 425–445. Millis–Olson 2012 = B. W. Millis–S. D. Olson, Inscriptional Records for the Dramatic Festivals in Athens: IG II22318–2325 and Related Texts, Leiden 2012. Morens–Littman 1992 = D. M. Morens–R. J. Littman, “Epidemiology of the Plague of Athens”, TAPhA 122 (1992), 271–304. Moretti 2014 = J.-C. Moretti, The evolution of theatre architecture outside Athens in the fourth century, in Csapo–Goette–Green–Wilson 2014, 107–137. Müller–Prost 2013 = C. Müller–F. Prost, “Un décret du koinon des Ioniens trouvé à Claros”, Chiron 43 (2013), 93–126. Oliver 2007 = G. J. Oliver, War, Food, and Politics in Early Hellenistic Athens, Oxford 2007. Olson 2007 = S. D. Olson, Broken Laughter: Select Fragments of Greek Comedy, Oxford 2007. Osborne 1982 = M. Osborne, Naturalization in Athens II, Brussels 1982. Osborne 1985 = M. Osborne, “The Archonship of Nikias Hysteros and the Secretary Cycles in the Third Century BC”, ZPE 58 (1985), 275–295. O’ Sullivan 2009 = L. O’ Sullivan, “History from Comic Hypotheses: Stratocles, Lachares and P.Oxy 1235”, GRBS 49 (2009), 53–79. Papastamati-von Moock 2014 = C. Papastamati-von Moock, The theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens: New data and observations on its ‘Lycurgan’ phases, in Csapo– Goette–Green–Wilson 2014, 15–76. Parker 1996 = R. Parker, Athenian Religion: A History, Oxford 1996. Parker 2005 = R. Parker, Polytheism and Society at Athens, Oxford 2005. Paschidis 2008 = P. Paschidis, Between City and King: Prosopographical Studies on the Intermediaries Between the Cities of the Greek Mainland and the Aegean and the Courts in the Hellenistic Period (322–190 BC), Meletemata 59, Athens 2008.

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Pritchett 1976 = W. K. Pritchett, “The Calendar of the Athenian Civic Administration”, Phoenix 30 (1976), 337–356. Pritchett 2001 = W. K. Pritchett, Athenian Calendars and Ekklesias, Amsterdam 2001. Rossum-Steenbeek 1998 = M. van Rossum-Steenbeek, Greek Readers’ Digests?: Studies on a Selection of Subliterary Papyri, Leiden 1998. Shear 1978 = T. L. Shear, Kallias of Sphettos and the Revolt of Athens in 286 B.C, Hesperia Supplement 17, Princeton 1978. Shear 2010 = J. L. Shear, Demetrios Poliorketes, Kallias of Sphettos, and the Panathenaia, in G. Reger–F. X. Ryan–T. F. Winters (eds.), Studies in Greek Epigraphy and History in Honor of Stephen V. Tracy, Bordeaux 2010, 135–152. Stefanis 1988 = I. E. Stefanis, Διονυσιακοὶ Τεχνῖται, Herakleion 1988. Summa 2014 = D. Summa, Review of Millis–Olson 2012, CR 64 (2014) 37–39. Sweet 1951 = W. E. Sweet, “Sources of Plutarch’ s Demetrius”, CW 44 (1951), 177–181. Thonemann 2003 = P. Thonemann, “Charias on the Acropolis”, ZPE 144 (2003), 123–124. Thonemann 2005 = P. Thonemann, The tragic king: Demetrios Poliorketes and the city of Athens, in P. Hekster–R. Fowler (eds.), Imaginary Kings: Royal Images in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome, Oriens et Occidens 11, Stuttgart 2005, 63–86. Woodhead 1989 = A. G. Woodhead, “The Calendar of the Year 304/3 BC in Athens”, Hesperia 58 (1989), 297–301. Worthington forthcoming = I. Worthington, Athens After Empire: A History from Alexander the Great to the Emperor Hadrian, Oxford forthcoming.

Federico Favi

‘New’ Greek in Old Texts (Alleged) Regionalisms and Anticipations of koiné in Epicharmus*

Keywords: Epicharmus, Greek language, Greek dialects, Greek koiné, ancient Greek grammar and lexicography 1. Epicharmus’ language has been the object of special attention in modern scholarship1. This was already the case in antiquity. Many surviving fragments are quoted by ancient sources in that they attest to the use of forms which were deemed remarkable in one way or another. However, the ancient sources’ interest is not always innocent, and it is crucial for us to understand how they treated the evidence and what they put it up to. My interest in this paper is quite specific. Epicharmus’ fragments provide evidence for a number of rare forms which are only paralleled in later, or even much later, texts2. Some of these forms are Sicilian regionalisms, which eventually entered the koiné. Other forms may have originally had a wider diffusion than Sicily and the Greek West already in classical times, even though they are scarcely (if at all) paralleled elsewhere in the Greek speaking world. The aim of this paper is to discuss a few such cases which have either received little consideration or for which a new interpretation is possible. In the first two paragraphs, I shall examine the forms κόλαφος and πέποσχα, which are (almost) undocumented outside Sicily before the Hellenistic period, and a case is made that these forms need not be deemed regionalisms (although πέποσχα is a more complicated case). I shall then discuss Epicharmus’ use of γαμψώνυχος, arguing that it is a descriptive adjective to be treated on an equal footing with the occurrences in later zoological literature. A comparable, and possibly even more striking, case is Epicharmus’ use of ἐπίφθεγμα ‘saying’ and ‘maxim’, which is only paralleled in texts dating from late antiquity and early Byzantine times; this evidence is usually disregarded in modern lexicography. Some concluding remarks will close the paper, pointing out how these examples allow for a better understanding of the available documentation for, and of the ancient views about, the Greek language. *

I wish to thank Albio Cesare Cassio and Olga Tribulato for reading and discussing this paper with me. I also wish to thank Theodore Hill for revising the English. I am solely responsible for any remaining infelicities. This research is funded by a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellowship. 1 See especially Cassio 2002 and Willi 2008, 125–58. A full bibliography on Epicharmus, edited by Lucia Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén and regularly updated, is available at https://www.lnoriega.es/epicarmo.html. 2 The more relevant discussions are Willi 2008, 148–49, Cassio 2012, and Cassio 2014.

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2. Epich. fr. 1 K.–A. is one of the three surviving fragments from Epicharmus’ Ἀγρωστῖνος: ὡς ταχύ Κόλαφος περιπατεῖ· δῖνος How fast Colaphus walks around: a whirlpool 1  ταχύ Et. Gen. AB, Et. Mag. : ταχεῖ Et. Gud. || 2  δῖνος Meineke (ap. Lorenz 1864, 219) : δεινός codd. Et. Gen. AB (Et. Mag. p. 525,4 Gaisford, Et. Gud. p. 333,33 Sturz) κολαφίζω καὶ κόλαφος· […] ὁ δὲ Ἀπίων, ἀπὸ τοῦ κολάψαι [fr. nov.]3. τὸ δὲ ὄνομα Ἑλληνικὸν παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ· ὡς – δεινός. οὕτω Σωρανός. Hsch. κ 3316 Latte κόλαφος· κόνδυλος. παρὰ δὲ Ἐπιχάρμῳ ἐν Ἀγρωστίνῳ καὶ παιδοτρίβου ὄνομα, Phot. κ 931 Th. = Sud. κ 2030 A. κόνδυλον· […] ὁ δὲ κόλαφός ἐστι παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ, Eust. In Od. p. 1817,52 κόλαφος παρὰ Ἐπιχάρμῳ.

I present the fragment with a slightly revised text from that given in the current standard edition4. We know from Hesychius that Κόλαφος was a παιδοτρίβης5. The speaker (whose identity is unknown) comments on the swift movements of Κόλαφος, presumably as he walks among his pupils. This Κόλαφος may, but need not, be a character of the play. In the light of the comedy’ s title and the mention of a παιδοτρίβης, one might envisage the possibility that the countryman, or perhaps a younger family member of his, practiced gymnastics at a trainer’ s school6; good 3 4

5 6

See Theodoridis 1989, 346. Kassel–Austin 2001, 17 print ὡς ταχύ· / Κόλαφος περιπατεῖ δῖνος and refer to Men. Dysk. 52 (XAIR.) ἐρῶν ἀπῆλθες εὐθύς; (ΣΩΣΤ.) εὐθύς. (ΧΑΙΡ.) ὡς ταχύ in support of this punctuation. Dettori 2009, 133–34 accepts this text and takes δῖνος as an example of identification or comparison without ὡς, i.e. Κόλαφος περιπατεῖ (sc. ὡς) δῖνος. Other reconstructions are possible, though. Tammaro 2013, 113–14 suggests ὡς ταχύ / Κόλαφος περιπατεῖ· δῖνος, for which he collects a few parallels (see especially Men. Sam. 454 πρεσβεύεταί τις πρός με· δεινόν, which in Tammaro’ s view could also suggest taking into more consideration the transmitted reading δεινόν). I find that Tammaro’ s reconstruction is the more reasonable one, and a further parallel in support of it is Men. Sam. 595–96 ὡς ταχὺ / εὕρομεν. While editors generally print the fragment as two consecutive 3ia, Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 1996, 14–15 prints it as a single 4tr ;̭ one may notice that ὡς ταχύ is paralleled at line-beginning (though in a 3ia) in Eur. Or. 423 ὡς ταχὺ μετῆλθόν σ’ αἷμα μητέρος θεαί. On the figure of the παιδοτρίβης in ancient education see extensively Jüthner 1942 and Marrou 1956, 116–32. Reading, writing, μουσική, and gymnastics were the cornerstones of classical education (see Ar. Nub. 973–76, Plat. Crit. 50d, Aeschin. 1,12; see further Biles–Olson 2015, 365).

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parallels for this would be Aristophanes’ Banqueters and Clouds and Eupolis’ Αἶγες7. However, we know too little of Ἀγρωστῖνος to speculate further. The name Kόλαφος requires consideration. The word κόλαφος literally means “knuckle” or “slap”. Thus, Κόλαφος is best taken as the sobriquet of the παιδοτρίβης rather than his real name. Sobriquets (Spitznamen) are not personal names stricto sensu, but rather nicknames which describe physical or moral characteristics (one may think of Latin cognomina). Scholars generally agree that Κόλαφος may refer to the corporal punishments inflicted by this teacher on his pupils8; such a possibility would also be supported by the fact that Colaphus is the name of a lorarius in Plautus’ Captivi9. Alternative possibilities can also be explored, though. For instance, the παιδοτρίβης may also be known as Κόλαφος because of his prowess as a boxer; this type of sobriquets is famously paralleled, e. g., in the case of Plato’ s (nick)name10. Interestingly, Epicharmus’ fragment provides the only known occurrence of κόλαφος in classical literature. After an interval of several centuries, κόλαφος will only surface again in early Byzantine literature11; yet, the denominative verb κολαφίζω is already fairly common in the New Testament. However, colaphus is also attested in Latin as early as in Plautus’ comedies. On the basis of such a diachronic and diatopic distribution of the evidence, the occurrence of Kόλαφος in Epicharmus has been taken as proof, even though the sources do not attest to this, that κόλαφος must have been a Western regionalism12; consequently, Latin

7 8

9 10

11 12

See Cassio 1977, 26 and Olson 2017, 91 and 138. Kassel–Austin 2001, 17: “Κόλαφος cognomen praeceptoris plagosi”. On ancient corporal punishments see Bloomer 2015. Violence is a topical feature of Greek and Roman teachers (Marrou 1956, 127, Cunningham 1971, 103, and Zanker 2009, 79); beside Horaces’ infamous plagosus Orbilius (Hor. Ep. 2.1,69–71 and Dom. Mars. fr. 4 Blänsdorf [ = Suet. Gramm. 9.3]), violent schoolteachers are mentioned by Ar. Nub. 966–72, Herod. 3.58–93, Plaut. Bacch. 431–34, Phaen. AP 6,294 (= 2 GP), and Quint. 1.3,17. The παιδοτρίβης was no exception (see Jüthner 1942, col. 2394,30–53), and a παιδοτρίβης who hits his trainee, even though victorious, is described by Ael. Var. hist. 2.6. See Plaut. Capt. 657–58. The lorarius was the slave in charge of inflicting corporal punishment to fellow slaves. The philosopher Plato’ s real name was Aristocles, but he was given the nickname Πλάτων because of his athletic vigour (see Diog. Laert. 3.4 ἐγυμνάσατο [sc. Plato] δὲ παρὰ Ἀρίστωνι τῷ Ἀργείῳ παλαιστῇ· ἀφ’ οὗ καὶ Πλάτων διὰ τὴν εὐεξίαν μετωνομάσθη, πρότερον Ἀριστοκλῆς ἀπὸ τοῦ πάππου καλούμενος [ὄνομα], καθά φησιν Ἀλέξανδρος ἐν Διαδοχαῖς [ = FGrHist 273 F 88]). It carries the meaning ‘wounds’ in Hsch. Homil. 13,5 and ‘affliction’ in Call. Vita sancti Hypatii 30,5. There is nothing inherently ‘dialectal’ in κόλαφος. Besides, the common denominative verb κολάπτω is based on κόλαφος (it is unclear why Fraenkel 1912, 86–87 and DELG s.v. argue against this; see further EDG s.v.).

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colaphus is deemed likely to have been borrowed directly from the Western (not necessarily Sicilian) Greeks13. Yet, a close comparandum to Epicharmus’ Κόλαφος is Κολαφίδιον, the name of a female slave which is attested on an early-Hellenistic Attic funerary inscription (IG II2 11886): Κολαφίδ[ι]ον | Πασ[ί]φρονος | γυνή Kolaphidion wife of Pasiphron Scholars maintain that Κολαφίδιον was given her nickname because of the thrashes she received14. Put on a par with the occurrence of κόλαφος and κολαφίζω in the New Testament and in later texts, this distribution of the evidence suggested to a number of scholars that κόλαφος, originally a Sicilian word, entered the koiné during the Hellenistic period15, which would explain the early use of Κολαφίδιον in the Athenian funerary inscription. Actually, the Etymologica16 which quote Epicharmus’ fragment openly qualify κόλαφος as Ἑλληνικόν, which is an indication of koiné as opposed to good Attic17, and it is certainly not incidental that some lexicographical sources discuss κόλαφος alongside its Attic equivalent κόνδυλος18, which in turn is well attested (among others) in an authoritative source of information for Atticist lexicography such as Old Comedy (e. g. κόνδυλος occurs eight times in Aristophanes). To sum up, the general agreement of scholars is that κόλαφος was a Sicilian regionalism borrowed into Latin from the Western Greeks and also taken up in the koiné. Although this is a widely held view, we have good reason to fundamentally re-think this scenario, taking in the diaphasic information provided by the evidence for κόλαφος and related forms19. 13 14 15 16

17 18

19

See DELL s.v. and Willi 2008, 142. Thus Bechtel 1917, 615 and DELG s.v. κόλαφος. Similar examples are in Lambertz 1907, 42. See Shipp 1979, 326–38 and Willi 2008, 142. The source of the Etymologica is the medical writer Soranus of Ephesus, most likely his treatise on the etymologies of the body parts Ἐτυμολογίαι τοῦ σώματος τοῦ ἀνθρώπου (which is an important source for the Etymologica, see Ellis Hanson–Green 1994, 1021–23 and Gielen 2018, 157). On this use of   Ἕλληνες and  Ἕλληνικόν see Matthaios 2014, 291. Phot. κ 931 Th. = Sud. κ 2030 A. κόνδυλον· […] ὁ δὲ κόλαφός ἐστι παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ. Relying on these sources, Erbse 1950, 45 n. 2 reconstructed Paus. κ 38 Erbse κόνδυλος· κόλαφος, ὅθεν τὸ κολαφίζω. ὁ δὲ Κόλαφος παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ ἐν Ἀγρωστίνῳ καὶ παιδοτρίβου ὄνομα. Generally speaking, nothing stands in the way of the possibility that Western Greek forms may have entered the koiné. An interesting case has attracted little consideration. The form ῥογός “granary, barn” is an Italic loanword in the Greek dialects of Sicily and Magna Graecia, which is already documented in a fragment of Epicharmus and

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Only recently have scholars realised how important sobriquets are as a source of information for the lower registers of the Greek language, which are largely unattested in literary texts and inscriptions20. Something of this sort should be taken into account for κόλαφος as well. The occurrence of κόλαφος as the sobriquet Kόλαφος and Κολαφίδιον in Epicharmus’ fragment and as a slave name makes it quite likely that this form may have belonged to a colloquial register which, although it is unattested in literary texts, existed in the spoken language, not just in the Greek West but in mainland Greece too. An illuminating parallel neatly supports this new interpretation. The very rare name Τρέλλων occurs in a fragment of Sophron (fr. 126 K.–A. = Hdn. Π. μον. λεξ. GG II p. 938,4 Lentz): Τρέλλων· παρὰ Σώφρονι τὸ ὄνομα Trellōn: the name occurs in Sophron This name Τρέλλων is a hapax. However, a variant form Τρέλλος appears on an Athenian lekythos dating from the late 5th or the early 4th century (IG II2 12552): Πυθίων Τρέλλο̄. Καθαρὰ Τρέλλο̄ Pythion son of Trellos. Kathara daughter of Trellos. Although these forms are unparalleled in ancient Greek texts, Adolf Wilhelm was the first to understand that Τρέλλων and Τρέλλος are most likely the ancient Greek antecedent of the adjective τρελλός ‘mad’, which, though unattested until late antiquity, is well documented in Medieval and Modern Greek21. There are many similarities between this case and that of Κόλαφος and Κολαφίδιον. The very rare names Τρέλλων and Τρέλλος are also sobriquets and are unattested until very late, and so are very likely to provide evidence for a colloquial sub-standard register of the language which, although unattested in surviving texts (both literary and documentary), may nevertheless have been familiar in Sicily, in Athens, and perhaps elsewhere too. The parallel distribution of Κόλαφος and Κολαφίδιον and the kind of literary (comedy, mime) and epi-

20 21

then in the Heraclean Tables (see Cassio 2002, 67, Willi 2008, 33 and 140, and Poccetti 2012, 68). However, this use of ῥογός is also attested in Byzantine Greek and in modern Greek dialects too. (To the materials in LBG s.v. ῥογός one may add a passage in Vita Lazari in monte Galesio [Delehaye 1910 p. 556 col. 2,54 = Greenfeld 2000 cap. 160 p. 252] αὐτὸς τὸν σάκκον, ἐν ᾧ οἱ κύαμοι ὑπῆρχον, ἐπωμισάμενος εἰς τὴν μονὴν ἀνεβίβασεν καὶ εἰς τὴν ῥογὸν κομίσας ἐκένωσεν.) In view of the Italic origin of ῥογός it is unlikely that this word may have entered the koiné from any source other than the Greek dialects of Sicily and Magna Graecia, especially since Latin rogus, although etymologically connected with ῥογός, has an obviously different meaning. See especially Curbera 2013 and Curbera 2016. See Wilhelm 1906 and Cassio 2014, 40 (who rightly stresses that the paroxytone accent in Τρέλλος, however common in modern editions, is far from certain).

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graphical evidence attesting to the use of these forms suggests that κόλαφος is a similar case to τρελλός. In Roman comedy too, colaphus is typically used by lower class characters, such as lenones and slaves22; on top of that, as anticipated, Colaphus is a slave name in Plautus23. This distribution might be deemed of little importance as far as the register of colaphus is concerned; there is a strong tendency in the palliata for Hellenisms to be used by lower-class characters24, and so the use of colaphus could just be part of the same conventions. However, Quintilian openly describes colaphus as an inappropriate word for the gentleman to use (Quint. Inst. or. 6.3,83): illud vero, etiam si ridiculum est, indignum tamen est homine liberali, quod aut turpiter aut potenter dicitur: quod fecisse quendam scio qui humiliori libere adversus se loquenti “colaphum” inquit “tibi ducam, et formulam scribes quod caput durum habeas”. hic enim dubium est utrum ridere audientes an indignari debuerint On the other hand, foul or brutal language, however funny, is unworthy of a decent citizen. I know a case of this, when a man said to an inferior who had spoken freely against him, “I will give you a clout on the head, and then bring an action against you for having such a hard head.” Here it is doubtful whether the audience ought to have laughed or been angry. (Transl. Russel 2001, 107) Quintilian’ s opinion may well apply to the register of colaphus in Latin as a whole (and possibly in Greek as well). Therefore, it can probably be concluded that colaphus, when used by lower class characters in Roman comedy, functioned both as a Hellenism and as a vulgarism. If, then, one asks where did the Romans derive colaphus from, it is still possible that they first became familiar with this form through contact with the Greeks of Magna Graecia and Sicily, but this does not entail that κόλαφος was a purely local form: a more general contact with Greek speakers should be allowed for. One final question remains to be addressed. If κόλαφος was a ‘colloquial’ form already in use in the Classical period, why do ancient lexicographical sources describe it as Ἑλληνικόν, i.e. koiné Greek25? To my mind, this verdict must be seen in the light of the opposition with κόνδυλος, the ‘pure’ Attic counterpart of κόλαφος. Ancient grammarians were familiar with κόλαφος from their own spoken language, and so they knew that this was a common form in the koiné. However, since ancient lexicographers relied on authoritative classical literary 22 23 24 25

See Adams 2003, 351 n. 100. On comic slave names see Lowe 1991, 31 and Papaioannou 2008–2009, 111 n. 2 See Karakasis 2005, 83–84 and Fedriani 2015 (who also discusses some exceptions). Et. Gen. AB (Et. Mag. p. 525,4 Gaisford, Et. Gud. p. 333,33 Sturz) κολαφίζω καὶ κόλαφος· […]. τὸ δὲ ὄνομα [sc. κόλαφος] Ἑλληνικὸν παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ.

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texts for assessing the chronology, distribution, and linguistic prestige of a word, they must have come to the conclusion that since κόλαφος (unlike κόνδυλος) is unattested in linguistically authoritative Attic writers, then κόλαφος must have only been a koiné form; the occurrence in Epicharmus, i.e. an author outside the Atticist canon, would thus provide the additional information that this (alleged) koineism was already used in Sicilian Doric. That is to say, ancient lexicographers may have wrongly interpreted the opposition between κόλαφος and κόνδυλος in diachronic and diatopic terms, when in fact the distinction between these forms may have been diaphasic in nature26. 3. Only three quotations and two lexicographical entries survive from Epicharmus’ Ἁρπαγαί. None of these pieces of evidence is informative as regards the plot. Since however a description of πονηραὶ μάντιες occurs in fr. 9 K.–A.27, the robberies referred to in the title may perhaps allude to the activity of fortune-tellers; however, it may also be the case that the μάντιες were simply mentioned in passing. One of the three surviving quotations from Ἁρπαγαί is used by erudite sources as evidence for the perfect πέποσχα, a form which is worthy of more detailed consideration than it has received so far (Epich. fr. 11 K.–A.): ἁ δὲ Σικελία πέποσχε Sicily has suffered Et. Gen. AB (Et. Mag. p. 662,11 Gaisford) πέποσχε· ἀπὸ τοῦ πάσχω, πάσξω, πέπασχα· τὸ τρίτον, πέπασχε· καὶ κατὰ τροπὴν τοῦ α, πέποσχεν. ἐν Ἁρπαγαῖς Ἐπιχάρμου· ἁ — πέποσχε. Ζη(νόβιος) [ = fr. 13 Schoemann].

It is apparent that πέποσχα is an analogic remodelling of πέπονθα on the basis of the present πάσχω. The conjugation of πάσχω is an irregular one, and the analogic normalisation does not surprise us too much. However, the brevity of the fragment makes the discussion difficult. One cannot venture to identify the dramatic context, nor is there scope for us to make any specific comment on the use of πέποσχα: there is no way of knowing the context in which this form was 26

27

The distribution of the two forms is very uneven. On the one hand, κόλαφος belonged to a lower register, which explains why it is never attested in literature save for Epicharmus’ fragment. On the other hand, the substantial evidence for the use of κόνδυλος in a variety of 5th and 4th century literary texts (comedy, oratory, medical literature) makes it perfectly clear that κόνδυλος was an unmarked form as pertains to its register, i.e. it was neither a cultism nor a vulgarism; this status must have remained so throughout, since this form is still very common in a variety of Hellenistic and Imperial prose writers (e. g. Plutarch, medical writings, etc.). Epich. fr. 9 K.–A. ὡσπεραὶ πονηραὶ μάντιες, / αἵ θ’ ὑπονέμονται γυναῖκας μωρὰς ἂμ πεντόγκιον / ἀργύριον, ἄλλαι δὲ λίτραν, ταὶ δ’ ἀν’ ἡμιλίτριον / δεχόμεναι, καὶ πάντα γινώσκοντι † τῶ λόγω.

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used, what register it may have belonged to, or whether it may have been meant to provide an element of linguistic humour of some sort. Such a comment on Sicily’ s difficult condition in the past might perhaps suggest that πέποσχα is elevated language, but this assumption remains doubtful28. While the Etymologica only say that πέποσχα was used by Epicharmus, the entry devoted to πέποσχα in Photius’ Lexicon attests that this form was used by some Doric authors, including Stesichorus (π 614 Th.): πέποσχα· Δωριέων τινὲς τούτῳ κέχρηνται· ὧν καὶ Στησίχορός ἐστιν (= Stes. fr. 261 PMGF = fr. 317 Finglass) peposcha: some of the Doric authors used this form, among whom also Stesichorus. The reference to τινες who used πέποσχα makes it a possible inference that, via his sources, Photius may have been aware of the occurrence of πέποσχα in Epicharmus. This lexicographical piece of information about πέποσχα in Stesichorus is not supported by any evidence for the use of this or a similar form in Stesichorus’ surviving fragments. Some scholars have even doubted that Stesichorus actually ever used πέποσχα, but it is unclear whether such doubt is warranted29. At any rate, if one accepts the possibility that Stesichorus did make use of πέποσχα, this piece of information also casts some light on the use of πέποσχα in Epicharmus. The indirect evidence for πέποσχα in Stesichorus is proof that such a new perfect form was admissible for use even in higher poetry, and as a consequence, πέποσχα in Epicharmus should not automatically be treated as a neologism of lower register, justified by the comic context. In conclusion, therefore, there are two possibilities. On the one hand, since πέποσχα was used in lyric poetry, it may have been a (parodic?) poeticism in Epicharmus. On the other hand, it may well be the case that πέποσχα had simply become standard in Sicilian Doric, and as such it may have been an unmarked form in both Stesichorus and Epicharmus. In the light of

28

29

It is obviously difficult to find a perfectly equivalent passage to this, but, to give one example, a comparable comment on past misfortunes is provided by Men. Perik. 124–26, and here the language is not marked or especially elevated. Cassio 1997, 208 (followed by Willi 2008, 68) argued that since πέποσχα is identical to πέπονθα as far as prosody is concerned, and so these two proved metrically interchangeable forms, it may be the case that πέποσχα had been inserted in later Sicilian editions of Stesichorus’ poems qua a Sicilian poet, to enhance the Sicilian element of his language. However, Davies–Finglass 2014, 592–93 object that we really do not have any evidence in support of such a conclusion, and we may therefore accept the possibility that Stesichorus did make use of πέποσχα. Further, although the evidence for the ancient grammatical treatment of πέποσχα is limited to Photius and the Etymologica, πέποσχα is actually presented as tout court Doric rather than a specifically Sicilian form.

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the available evidence, the latter option perhaps seems more balanced, although it cannot be proved conclusively. While the interest of the ancient erudite sources is limited to the occurrences in Stesichorus and Epicharmus, the story of πέποσχα is a much richer one. Namely, even though no other literary occurrence is known beside Stesichorus and Epicharmus, a relatively substantial amount of evidence testifies to the use of πέποσχα in documentary texts spanning from Ptolemaic Egypt to Imperial Asia Minor. Most interestingly, the language of these texts consistently shows elements which belong to the middle and lower layers of the koiné30, a distribution which marks a striking contrast with the use of πέποσχα in a poet of the likes of Stesichorus. An examination of the occurrences of πέποσχα in documentary texts will enable us to put the evidence into perspective, supplementing the diachronic distribution of the occurrences with key diaphasic information. For a start, two instances of πέποσχα occur in Egyptian papyri31. The first is PCairoZenon III 59482 (mid III sec. BC)32, where πέποσχα occurs at l. 18: ὑπόμνημα Ζήνωνι | παρὰ Παθιώφιος. ἐνεύχο|μαί σοι τὴν Ἀπολλωνίου | σ̣ω̣τηρί̣α̣ν, καθάπ̣ερ μοι | [5] ἐπηγγείλω, ἀφει̣ς̣33 τὴν | γυναῖκά μου, ὅπως μὴ | συμβῆι αὐτῆι παραπολέσθαι | ἐν τῶι̣ δ̣εσμωτηρίωι | ἀθύμως διακειμένηι | [10] ἐπὶ τοῖς παιδίοις ἐγώ τε | δύνωμαι πρὸς τῆι ἐργασίαι | γ̣ί̣ν̣ε̣σ̣θ̣αι. […] ὥσπερ οὖν διατελεῖς | πάντας σώιζων καὶ οὐθεὶς | διὰ σοῦ οὐθὲν πέποσχεν ἄτο|πον, καὶ ἐμὲ δεόμενόν σου | [20] ἐλέησον. | εὐτύχει. Memorandum to Zeno from Pathiophis. I implore you for the safety of Apollo­nios34: as you promised, let my wife go, so that it does not happen that she consumes herself lying in prison spiritless for the children and so that I may go to work. […] Just as you always save everyone, and no one has suffered anything unjust from you, have pity on me as I ask you. Do well. Pathiophis, one of Zenon’ s farmers, sent this memorandum to Zenon asking for his wife’ s freedom. The language is not markedly informal, and the memorandum shows some formulaic elements which are fairly typical in texts of this sort35. However, this is a private unofficial document, and its language reflects several features of the lower registers of the koiné. For a start, τὴν | γυναῖκά μου (ll. 5–6) is 30 31 32 33

34 35

For the concept of higher and lower koiné see Cassio 1998, 992–95. Attention to these cases is already drawn by Ucciardello 2014, 556–57. TM 1120. Edgar 1928, 199 suggested reading ἀφεῖναι in place of the participle ἀφείς. Another possibility is reading the imperative ἀφές in place of ἀφείς. Dickey 2016, 261 may be implicitly suggesting this, since she comments on the use of imperative ἀφείς (sic). For this formulaic expression see Schubart 1932, 130–31. See Dickey 2016.

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an example of the enclitic possessive pronoun in place of the possessive adjective, a typical feature of the lower unofficial koiné and most likely a feature of the spoken language36. Another linguistic detail to compare πέποσχα with is ἐνεύχομαι (ll. 2–3), which before late antique and Byzantine times only occurs in literary sources in a passage of Herodas (6,45–48): (ΜΗΤ.) ἢ τί τἀβρά σοι ταῦτα; ἐνεύχομαι, Κοριττί, μή μ’ ἐπιψεύσῃ, ἀλλ’ εἰπὲ τὸν ῥάψαντα. (ΚΟΡ.) μᾶ, τί μοι ἐνεύχῃ; Κέρδων ἔραψε. Metro: “What is this delicacy of yours (sc. Coritto’ s βαυβών)? I implore you, Coritto, don’ t deceive me, but tell me the one who stitched it.” Coritto: “Ah, why do you implore me? Cerdon stitched it.” (Transl. Cunningham 2002, 251) The form ἐνεύχομαι is otherwise completely absent from literary texts, and in Herodas too it is very likely to be a colloquialism37; such a conclusion is also strengthened by the contextual use of ἐπιψεύδομαι38. The evidence from papyri and inscriptions nicely supplements this conclusion about ἐνεύχομαι and provides a fruitful ground for discussion. That is to say, ἐνεύχομαι is fairly common in documentary texts from Egypt between the 3rd century BC and the late Imperial 36 37

38

In classical Attic and the higher koiné one would have expected τὴν ἐμὴν γυναῖκα. See also Kaczko 2016, 418. See Cunningham 1971, 168. Di Gregorio 2004, 173 argues that ἐνεύχομαι is a “voce solenne” used for comic purpose, in the sense that, since this verb is typically used for supplications to deities, it is funny that it is used in a conversation about a βαυβών. Although one can agree that the supplication may be funny and ironic in the light of the matter that is under discussion, the choice of ἐνεύχομαι need not be part of this comic strategy (e. g. as it would have been the case if Herodas had used elevated poetic language in this context), and a likelier conclusion is that Cunningham is right in suspecting that ἐνεύχομαι, which is common in unofficial and everyday texts, is chosen as a strategy of linguistic mimesis. The verb ἐπιψεύδομαι is attested once in Xenophon and Aristotle, and then beside this passage and an isolated occurrence in Apollonius Rhodius it only surfaces again in Imperial literature. In the passage of Herodas, the compound has basically the same value of ψεύδομαι (see Groeneboom 1922, 187, LSJ9 s.vv. ψεύδω B.III and ἐπιψεύδομαι IV). Headlam–Knox 1922, 301 argue that ἐπί means ‘further’, i. e. in addition to ψεύδομαι at l. 17, but this suggestion is made less likely because at l. 17 Metro is not actually lamenting that Koritto is lying, but rather she is making a general request not to lie; hence, μή μ’ ἐπιψεύσῃ at l. 46 cannot mean “don’ t lie to me any further”. Metro’ s tone is emphatic (in that Koritto has just been complaining of her friends’ untrustworthiness, and Metro has to make the question again), and so the compound verb is more likely chosen in order to strengthen the request (cf. also μηδὲ τοῦτό με ψεύσῃ at l. 86).

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period39, as well as in one inscriptional epigram40. As far as Ptolematic papyri are concerned, ἐνεύχομαι is common in unofficial texts containing prayers to gods and supplications to superiors, as is also was the case with Pathiophis’ memorandum to Zenon. As a consequence, although ἐνεύχομαι is only attested from Hellenistic times onwards and never made its way into the literary language or the higher official koiné, it was common in unofficial texts as early as the 3rd century BC, and so it probably belonged to the middle and lower layers of the koiné. The second papyrus documenting the use of πέποσχα is PSchubart 41 (II sec. AD)41. Due to its very poor state of preservation I quote only the immediate context (fr. d, col. iii, ll. 4–10): 5

10

]ν· ἐπιγεινώσκου[σι ].. καὶ τ[.]λ̣ο̣[ ] κατέλειπεν ἀμνη [δ]ιὰ τὸ πεποσχέναι ]..ραις νεότητος ]ε̣ω̣ς̣[…]ε̣συ̣νει̣ς̣ ἑ]τεροιωθῆι οὐ … they understand … left … because of suffering … of young age … would not be changed …

It is likely that this papyrus may preserve some kind of literary text, though we remain in the dark about its nature. Schubart suggested that it is a fictitious letter42, but no complete sentence can be reconstructed, and what remains is largely uninformative43. However, some of the few available pieces of evidence regarding the language of this text are of some interest, since they allow us to conclude that πέποσχα is used together with forms which are either confined to later texts or which occur in Attic and the higher koiné only in very technical writings. For a start, διαυγάζεσθαι (fr. a, col. ii, l. 9) is attested only once in the Hellenistic higher koiné of Polybius (3.104,5) and once in a technical author such as Philo of Byzantium (Belop. p. 57,27 Thevenot); then, it is documented in Imperial litera39

40 41 42 43

I limit myself to the evidence from the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC (see further DGE s.v. ἐνεύχομαι). Papyri: PIandZen 50, PCairoZenon III 59421 and 59462 and IV 59623 and 59628. Inscriptions: IG XII,3 330 (Thera), SEG IX 7 (Cyrene). IMEGR 83 = GVI 1680 (Egypt, II–I BC). PBerol deperd. 3 = dub. fr. 365,46 CGFP = MP3 2898 = TM 59726 = LDAB 830. Limited evidence in support of this might be δι’ ἐπιστολῶ̣[ν (fr. a, col. ii, l. 3) and Φίλερως παντ[ὶ ε]ὔφρενι [sic Schubart] χαίρειν (fr. a, col. ii, l. 8). Schubart’ s supplement Ἐπί]χαρμος τ̣η̣ ε[ at l. 68 is contradicted by Maehler’ s reading ] ̣ἁρμοστῇ ε[ (ap. Luppe 1980, 234 ad no. 365), which excluded the presence of a chi. Schubart probably came up with his supplement inspired by the occurrence of πεποσχέναι.

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ture, predominantly in technical and Christian writings. The same holds true for its derivates διαύγασμα and διαυγασμός. Further, ἑ]τεροιωθῆι (fr. d, col. iii, l. 10) is only paralleled in Classical times in Herodotus, but starting from the 4th century ἑτεροιόω also occurs in medical treatises (the corpus Hippocraticum, Galen, etc.), philosophical (Epicurus, pseudo-Aristotle, etc.) and grammatical writings. We may then conclude that while the Ionic dialect of Herodotus admitted the use of ἑτεροιόω in the literary language already in the 5th century, in Attic and koiné texts this word was used only as a technical term. The same conclusion is suggested by the analysis of ἑτεροῖος, the base of deadjectival ἑτεροιόω, which is also documented first in Herodotus and then in Plato and Aristotle before it surfaces again in late antique texts. Beside the evidence from papyri, πέποσχα also appears in two confession inscriptions from Imperial Asia Minor44. The language of these inscriptions is very informal, even more so than in the papyri. The analogic perfect πέποσχα is paralleled by a number of other linguistic pieces of evidence which show that the language of these inscriptions is indeed the lower koiné. The first inscription providing evidence for πέποσχα is SEG XXXV 1269 (Lydia, 118/119 AD)45: ἔτους σγʹ, μ(ηνὸς) Ἀπελλαίου λʹ, Ἀμύνταν πεποσχότα ζεύξαντα ὑπὸ Μηνὸς Τιάμου καὶ τῆς Ἀναείτις κεχαρισμένον εἶναι Μηνὶ Ἀξιττηνῷ καθίσε ἀφίδρυσμα. In the year 203 (i. e. 118 AD), on the 30th day of Apellaion, (sc. Amyntas confesses that) Amyntas, being ill for having yoked (sacred beasts?)46, was forgiven by Men Tiamos and Anaeitis, (and so) he set up a dedication to Men Axittenos. The interpretation of this inscription presents a number of difficulties47. The syntax is a little clumsy, as shown by the juxtaposition of the participles πεποσχότα and ζεύξαντα and the abrupt change from the confession (Ἀμύνταν […] κεχαρισμένον εἶναι) to the record of the dedication (Μηνὶ Ἀξιττηνῷ καθίσε ἀφίδρυσμα), without any connective to join the two sentences. Even more so than the lower koiné, this is 44 45 46 47

I leave aside a detailed discussion of these inscriptions, for which I refer to the secondary literature which is quoted in the footnotes. See also Manganaro 1985 and Petzl 1994, 84–85. See Manganaro 1985, 202. My translation differs in several points from those in Manganaro 1985, 203 and Petzl 1994, 85 (to which I refer the reader for further discussion).

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an element which reminds one of the spoken language rather than a written text, which is no surprise in a text which is presented as a confession. On a lexical level, a distinctive feature of later Greek is κεχαρισμένον εἶναι “to be forgiven”, which is paralleled in the Gospels and other Christian writings, but not in texts which use more standard or Atticising Greek48. A similar case can be made for ἀφίδρυσμα “dedication”. Like its cognate forms ἀφιδρύω, ἀφίδρυμα, and ἀφίδρυσις, these are later substitutes of forms connected with Attic (καθ)ιδρύω, and they are only documented in (late) Hellenistic and Imperial times; and when they do occur in literary texts, these are texts which do not generally aim at using a cultivated language (e. g. Strabo)49. The second inscription documenting the use of πέποσχα is IMT Kaikos 932 (1st–2nd century AD)50:

5

Μείδων Μενάνδρου κρατῆρα ἐπόει ἐπὶ τοῦ Διὸς τοῦ Τρωσου καὶ οἱ διάκονοι ἄθυτα ἐφάγοσαν καὶ ἀπεμάκκωσεν αὐτὸν ἐπὶ μῆνας τρεῖς καὶ παρεστάθη αὐτῷ εἰς τοὺς ὕπνους, ἵνα στήλην στήσας ἐπιγράψῃ ἃ πέποσχεν καὶ ἤρξατο τότε λαλεῖν. Meidon, son of Menander, had a drinking party in the sanctuary of Zeus Trosu, and the attendants (sc. of Menander) ate food without making a sacrifice. And he (sc. Zeus) made him (sc. Meidon) silent for three months and then came to him in his sleep, in order that he (sc. Meidon), having set up a stele, would write what happened, and then he (sc. Meidon) began to speak (again).

One may easily notice the syntactical shifts and changes of subject, especially in the first six lines, and the dominance of parataxis (almost at the expenses of intelligibility). On the morphological level, the ending -σαν in ἐφάγοσαν, very common in koiné Greek51, is part of the general shift from the thematic to the sigmatic aorist which culminates in Modern Greek52. As for the lexical usage, 48 49 50 51 52

See Manganaro 1985, 201. On this use of χαρίζω see further LSJ9 s.v. χαρίζω II.4, Lampe s.v. χαρίζω II, and BDAG s.v. χαρίζομαι 3. See LSJ9 s.vv. In the case of ἀφιδρύω, one should point out that this applies to its use with the meanings ‘make statues’ and ‘set up (sc. a statue)’. See Petzl 1994, 1–2. See Dieterich 1898, 241–42, Gignac 1981, 345, and Horrocks 2010, 143–44. See Blass–Debrunner 1997, 138–40.

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the idiom κρατῆρα ποιεῖν “celebrate a drinking party” is paralleled in other local inscriptional texts53, while ἀπομακκόω “to make silent” (hapax) goes back in some way to Attic μακκοάω “to be stupid”54. These examples form papyri and inscription show that over a very long period of time, spanning from the 3rd century BC to the 2nd AD, the analogic perfect πέποσχα belonged in texts whose language can be easily identified with the middle and especially with the lower registers of the koiné. Important evidence in support of this conclusion is a passage of Apollonius Dyscolus (Pron. GG II,1 p. 27,26 Schneider): ἡ αὐχένος παράλογός ἐστιν, ἀλλ’ ὄνομα· τὸ πέποσχα ἡμάρτηται, ἀλλὰ ῥῆμα. The genitive auchenos is irregular, but it is a noun. The form peposcha is wrong, but it is a verb. While commenting on the peculiarities of τις among Greek pronouns, Apollonius adds two examples in order to show that the existence of linguistic irregularities is unexceptional, these examples being the genitive αὐχένος and the perfect πέποσχα. As regards the former, even though Apollonius does not spell it out, it is most likely that the expected genitive of αὐχήν would have been **αὐχῆνος, since the grammatical doctrine is that the names which end with -ην always retain -η- in the stem, whereas those ending with -μην change -η- into -ε-55. The situation with πέποσχα is especially interesting. In order to strengthen his case, Apollonius mentions this analogic perfect as evidence for a form which, though explicitly treated as wrong (notice Apollonius’ use of ἡμάρτηται, while αὐχένος was only described as παράλογος), nevertheless does exist. It is most likely that Apollonius is appealing to his own and his readers’ experience of the use of πέποσχα in the spoken language, and consequently, despite not approving of its use, does acknowledge its existence. It is time to sum things up. The documentation for the distribution and uses of πέποσχα in literary and documentary texts provides a very wide range of evidence

53 54

55

Cf. Robert–Robert 1970, 437–38 and Petzl 2019, 49–50. Chaniotis 1995, 328 takes ἀπομακκόω in the Lydian inscription with the meaning ‘to stupefy’, but since Meidon says that, after he set up the inscription, he was able to talk again, it seems reasonable to take ἀπομακκόω to mean ‘to make silent’. The explanation for exceptional αὐχένος one usually finds in grammatical sources is that the full form of αὐχήν is actually **αὐχμήν, as demonstrated by the fact that the τράχηλος is αὐχμηρός. See further Theod. Can. nom. GG IV,1 p. 18,7–11 Hilgard, Choer. In Theod. can. nom. GG IV,1 p. 264,7–12 Hilgard, Orion p. 612,25 Sturz, and Et. Gen. α 1432 Lasserre–Livadaras.

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in diachronic, diaphasic, and diatopic terms56. The use of πέποσχα both in archaic Sicilian lyric poetry, at one end of the spectrum, and in Imperial inscriptions from Asia Minor, at the other end of the spectrum, is quite puzzling. How are we to account for this contrasting distribution? Three alternative interpretations come to mind. The first possibility is that the analogic perfect πέποσχα was created in Sicilian Greek first, where it became a standard form to be used in literary texts too, and then from Sicily it found its way into the koiné. If so, the register of πέποσχα will have been perceived as very different in the Hellenistic koiné than it was the case in archaic and classical Sicily: that is to say, while a lyric poet of the likes of Stesichorus could use πέποσχα, authors who used the higher koiné did not admit of its use. Presumably, since πέποσχα would have had spread via the spoken language, it was not perceived as dignified enough to be used in literary texts. Given the lack of evidence for πέποσχα in archaic and classical times outside Sicily, there is no hard evidence against this first interpretation. Secondly, one cannot rule out the possibility that πέποσχα may be polygenetic, i. e. it may have developed in Sicilian Greek first and then independently in the spoken koiné. The process of analogy explaining the creation of πέποσχα as an alternative to πέπονθα is very intuitive, which makes it likely enough that the same development may have happened independently at different times and in different places. After all, an analogic remodelling such as the one in πέποσχα is well paralleled: take, for example, cases such as the perfect λέλογχα from λαγχάνω57 or (παρ)λέλονβα from λαμβάνω58. If one accepts this possibility, no direct continuity should then be envisaged between the use of πέποσχα in Stesichorus and Epicharmus, on the one hand, and in Hellenistic and Imperial documentary texts, on the other hand. Rather, the same innovation would have happened separately in each case, though with different outcomes as regards the register that πέποσχα belonged to59. 56

57

58 59

We have no direct evidence for the diastratic distribution of πέποσχα. The evidence from papyri and inscriptions would seem to point to its use among more humble layers of society, and one might suspect that this reflects the actual distribution of the use of πέποσχα. However, Apollonius’ remark invites cautious reflection, and one might ask whether Apollonius too could have been using a form such as πέποσχα in everyday informal conversation. In classical times, λέλογχα is mostly poetic, but notice λελόγχασι in Hdt. 7.53,2 (the only occurrence of the perfect of λαγχάνω in Herodotus). From Hellenistic times it is also used in prose texts. The earliest known occurrence of λέλογχα in prose is in a decree from Entella (see IGDS no. 206 [mid 3rd century BC], l. 27 συνλελογχότες). The subjunctive παρλελόνβηι occurs in IC I xvii 2, B,2 (2nd century BC). To pick just one example, the analogic spreading of the dative ending -εσσι in the consonant stems of the athematic declension is a typically polygenetic development documented in different dialects (as regards Sicilian Greek, see Mimbrera 2012a, 210 and Mimbrera 2012b, 231–32).

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A third possibility must also be taken into consideration. Let us leave aside for a moment the evidence for πέποσχα in Stesichorus and Epicharmus. If one considers the occurrences in papyri and inscriptions, it is evident that πέποσχα regularly occurs in texts written in the lower unofficial koiné. Therefore, since we do not have any comparable informal texts which date back to earlier times than the 3rd century BC, one might consider the possibility that πέποσχα may actually have already been in use in the spoken language in pre-Hellenistic times, but that it simply remains unattested because, due to its register, it was not used in literary texts and inscriptions. Besides, the perfect πέπονθα itself is exceedingly rare to find in inscriptional texts of any time and place; the only epigraphic occurrence of πέπονθα before Imperial times is an inscriptional epigram, and so once again a text whose language would never have admitted of πέποσχα anyway60. As a consequence, even though πέποσχα is never attested outside Sicily in archaic and classical times, this is not in itself sufficient proof that πέποσχα did not exist; rather, it may well have existed as a sub-standard form, with the result that it was never used in the written record before resurfacing in Hellenistic and Imperial unofficial texts. On this last view, the use of πέποσχα in Stesichorus and Epicharmus would prove nothing except that this perfect already existed in archaic and classical times and that, in Sicily, it was admitted into the standard language and thus into literature. On this basis, Photius’ desciption of πέποσχα as a Dorism should be taken as evidence that the only literary sources that ancient erudition had access to and which provided evidence for the use of πέποσχα were Stesichorus and Epicharmus, but this does not mean that πέποσχα was an intrinsically Sicilian Doric form. We can make a similar case for the treatment of κόλαφος in ancient lexicographical sources61. In other words, the positive evidence for πέποσχα in Sicilian Doric should not be treated as an indication that it was a regionalism, nor should the lack of evidence for πέποσχα in other dialects before the lower koiné be taken to prove that this form was altogether absent from these dialects. Due to the limited available documentation, one cannot make a strong case for accepting one of these options. In any event, a nuanced appreciation of the distribution of πέποσχα in post-classical texts is fruitful, in that it shows that the register that πέποσχα belonged to may have had serious consequences on limiting the available evidence for this form before Hellenistic and Imperial times. 4. A handful of short uninformative fragments survive from Epicharmus’ Γᾶ καὶ Θάλασσα (“Land and sea”). The title is unparalleled. It may be the case that this play originally featured a topical confrontation between land and sea62. Many take it that land and sea may have been personified; hence, editors usually print the 60 61 62

See CEG II, no. 727,2 (mid 5th century BC). See above § 2. One may think of Theoc. 11 (esp. l. 62 ὡς εἰδῶ, τί ποχ’ ἁδὺ κατοικεῖν τὸν βυθὸν ὔμμιν).

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title with two capitals. Alternatively, representatives of land and sea may have sponsored their case63; the confrontation between a countryman and a fisherman has been suggested64, a good comparison being Sophron’ mime Ὡλιεὺς τὸν ἀγροιώταν65. Further possibilities can be explored. Since according to fr. 29 K.–A. this play featured a detailed fish-based banquet, the confrontation between land and sea might have been the subject of dinner talk. Whatever the form of the opposition between land and sea, a likely possibility is that the object was whether the land or the sea benefits mankind the most66. Alternatively, the confrontation may be between those who eat fish and those who do not, a parallel being the countryman who does not eat fish in Antiph. fr. 127 K.–A. The fragments of Γᾶ καὶ Θάλασσα are all quoted as evidence for some type of food, but one of these provides some interesting material for linguistic study. Here is the text of the fragment (Epich. fr. 27 K.–A.): κἀστακοὶ γαμψώνυχοι And lobsters with crooked pincers Ath. 3.105b τὸν δ’ ἀστακὸν οἱ Ἀττικοὶ διὰ τοῦ ο ὀστακὸν λέγουσι, καθάπερ καὶ ὀσταφίδας. Ἐπίχαρμος δὲ ἐν Γᾷ καὶ Θαλάσσᾳ φησίν· κἀστακοὶ γαμψώνυχοι. (Ath. epit. 2.1 p. 21,19 Peppink Ἐπίχαρμος δὲ γαμψωνύχους φησὶ τοὺς ἀστακούς. hinc Eust. In Il. 1196,15 γαμψώνυχες δὲ [sc. ἀστακοί] κατὰ Ἐπίχαρμον.)

The adjective γαμψώνυχοι attracted consideration. Since γαμψῶνυξ is widely documented in Greek poetry as an epithet of birds67, it has been inferred that Epicharmus’ parodic strategy is applying γαμψώνυχοι to the lobsters’ crooked pincers rather than the birds’ talons, as one would have expected; on this basis, it has also been suggested that Epicharmus may have the Homeric formula αἰγυπιοὶ γαμψώνυχες in mind68. Although this interpretation may sound quite simple at first, there is scope for us to call it into question, suggesting a different interpretation based on additional lexicographical data. The fact that Epicharmus used γαμψώνυχος rather than γαμψῶνυξ has attracted little attention, and scholars take γαμψώνυχος on an equal footing with 63 64

65 66 67 68

See Kaibel 1899, 94, Pickard-Cambridge–Webster 1962, 272, and Kerkhof 2001, 131. See Ael. NA 13.4 ἀκούσαις δ’ ἂν ἁλιέων καὶ ἰχθύων τινὰ καλλιώνυμον οὕτω λεγόντων. […] εἰσὶ μὲν οὖν οἳ καί φασιν αὐτὸν ἐδώδιμον, οἱ δὲ πλείους ἀντιλέγουσιν αὐτοῖς. οὐ ῥᾳδίως δὲ αὐτοῦ μνημονεύουσιν ἐν ταῖς ὑπὲρ τῶν ἰχθύων πανθοινίαις, ὧν τι καὶ ὄφελός ἐστι, ποιητῶν θεμένων σπουδὴν εἰς μνήμην ἔνθεσμον· Ἐπίχαρμος μὲν ἐν Ἥβας Γάμῳ [ = fr. 64 K.–A.] καὶ Γᾷ καὶ Θαλάσσᾳ [ = fr. 29 K.–A.] καὶ προσέτι Μούσαις [vid. fr. 88 K.–A.], Μνησίμαχος δὲ ἐν τῇ Ἰσθμιονίκῃ [ = fr. 5 K.–A.]. See further Hordern 2004, 168. For instance, the speaker in fr. 21 K.–A. could be saying that the sea, unlike the land, does not produce grapes. See also Kaibel 1899, 94. See Finglass 2018, 530–31. See Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 1996, 28 and Willi 2008, 176.

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γαμψῶνυξ69. Further, it has eluded attention so far that the adjectives γαμψώνυχος and γαμψῶνυξ are fairly common in technical literature70, where they are used not only for birds71, but also for a variety of land animals with crooked claws. A passage of Aristotle testifies to this wider use of γαμψώνυχος/γαμψῶνυξ than just birds (HA 517a 30): τῶν δ᾿ ἐχόντων ὄνυχας […] τὰ μέν ἐστιν εὐθυώνυχα, ὥσπερ ἄνθρωπος, τὰ δὲ γαμψώνυχα, ὥσπερ καὶ τῶν πεζῶν λέων καὶ τῶν πτηνῶν ἀετός With reference to animals that possess nails […] some have straight ones (e. g., man), others crooked or curved ones (an example from walking animals is the lion, from flying ones, the eagle). (Transl. Peck 1965, 199–201) There is clearly no reason for thinking that Aristotle’ s passage is parodic. The only conclusion to draw is that in zoological literature, γαμψώνυχος/γαμψῶνυξ is a descriptive adjective, which may then be used for any animal with crooked talons and claws, whether birds (as it is more often the case, also in technical texts) or not (lions and other land animals)72. Plutarch too makes a similar use of γαμψώνυχος/ γαμψῶνυξ for quadrupeds with crooked claws (Quaest. conv. 670c): τὸν λέοντα τῷ ἡλίῳ συνοικειοῦσιν, ὅτι τῶν γαμψωνύχων τετραπόδων βλέποντα τίκτει μόνος, κοιμᾶται δ’ ἀκαρὲς χρόνου καὶ ὑπολάμπει τὰ ὄμματα καθεύδοντος They associate the lion with the sun because it, alone of quadrupeds that have claws, bears young that can see at birth, sleeps only for a moment, and has eyes that gleam in sleep. (Transl. Clement–Hoffleit 1969, 355) In the light of these passages, it is a very appealing conclusion that in Epicharmus too γαμψώνυχος may not aim at all to parody the use of γαμψῶνυξ in poetry as an epithet of birds, but rather even though the occurrence in Epicharmus antedates the one in Aristotle by at least a century, it may well be the earliest known attesta69

70 71 72

Dindorf (ap. Lorenz 1864, 223) and Lesi 1975–1977, 83–84 recommended emending the transmitted reading γαμψώνυχοι into the second-class adjective γαμψώνυχες, so as to restore the poeticism in Epicharmus (this emendation is accepted by RodríguezNoriega Guillén 1996, 27). The reading γαμψώνυχες in Eustathius could prima facie support this emendation, but it is more likely the case that the reading in Eustathius is a trivialisation of the less common form into its more famous poetic equivalent. Besides, we have many reasons to accept non-poetic γαμψώνυχοι (see further the discussion above). The alternative forms γαμψῶνυξ and γαμψώνυχος freely alternate in Aristotle. On γαμψώνυχοι as a category of birds in ancient zoologic literature see Beddall 1957, 130. See also Arist. HA 503a 30 ἔχει (sc. the chameleon) δὲ καὶ ὀνύχια ἐπὶ τούτων ὅμοια τοῖς τῶν γαμψωνύχων.

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tion of the descriptive use of γαμψώνυχος for any animal which has crooked talons or claws or pincers. The fact that Epicharmus uses the metaplasm γαμψώνυχος, a more ‘normalised’ and productive declination pattern than received γαμψῶνυξ, plays certainly a role in all this. Rather than taking κἀστακοὶ γαμψώνυχοι as a case of epic parody, then, it is a more likely option that since ἀστακός may be used for both the crustacean with pincers (i. e. lobsters, ital. astice) and for the crustacean without pincers (i. e. spiny lobster, ital. aragosta), the additional information provided by the adjective is to identify the species that is being referred to; hence, γαμψώνυχος is not a poetic ornamental epithet, but rather it provides a relevant piece of information. Such a use of descriptive adjectives is fairly common in Epicharmus; a number of comparable compound adjectives are used for describing fish species, and one should not assume that these are parodic forms either73. To pick two instructive examples, one may compare the case of γαμψώνυχος with the shared used in Epicharmus and later zoological literature of the adjectives τραχυδέρμων and ὀπισθόκεντρος74. The conclusion we should draw is that these compound adjectives are simply used for providing a precise description of the physical characteristics of fishes and not with a view to heighten the tone of the passage or to make a parody of epithets in epic poetry75. A concrete possibility is that Epicharmus’ parodic target was the language of gastronomy, which typically requires the use of descriptive adjectives for identifying the different species. It is not unlikely that Epicharmus may be using zoologic terminology with a view towards making fun of a general interest in gastronomy among his audience76. Sicilian Greeks were notorious for gluttony, and although this may have been more of a cliché than a real fact, Syracuse was the home city of Mithaecus, who at some point in the (late?) 5th century BC wrote the first known cookery book of antiquity77. A final remark. Beside the occurrence of γαμψώνυχος in Epicharmus, γαμψῶνυξ too does not always seem to be an element of parody when it occurs in

73 74

75 76

77

A list is provided by Willi 2008, 176 n. 42 (who also argues against a parodic interpretation of these forms). The adjective τραχυδέρμων in Epich. fr. 52 K.–A. is paralleled in Arist. fr. 209 Gigon = fr. 294 Rose (ap. Ath. 7.305d), while ὀπισθόκεντρος in Epich. fr. 59 K.–A. is paralleled (to name but a few occurrences) in Arist. HA 490a 17, 532a 11 and 22, 532b 12, and 683a 7. See also Willi 2008, 176. Considerable attention to fish, and more generally to food, is certain for Epicharmus, and it does not only depend on the selection made by the sources quoting passage from his plays (see esp. Epich. frr. 29 = 64 K.–A.). See Hill–Wilkins 1996.

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a comedy. Even though a parodic intent in the use of γαμψῶνυξ at Ar. Av. 1306 is possible78, this does not seem to be the case at Av. 35979: 355

360

(ΠΕΙΣ.) πῶς γὰρ ἂν τούτους δοκεῖς ἐκφυγεῖν; (ΕΥΕΛ.) οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως ἄν. (ΠΕΙΣ.) ἀλλ’ ἐγώ τοί σοι λέγω ὅτι μένοντε δεῖ μάχεσθαι λαμβάνειν τε τῶν χυτρῶν. (ΕΥΕΛ.) τί δὲ χύτρα νώ γ’ ὠφελήσει; (ΠΕΙΣ.) γλαῦξ μὲν οὐ πρόσεισι νῷν. (ΕΥΕΛ.) τοῖς δὲ γαμψώνυξι τοισδί; (ΠΕΙΣ.) τὸν ὀβελίσκον ἁρπάσας εἶτα κατάπηξον πρὸ σαυτοῦ.

Peisetaerus: “But how do you expect to get away?” Euelpides: “I’ ve no idea.” Peisetaerus: “Well, I’ ll tell you what we should do: stand and fight, (indicating the luggage) and take up some of those kettles!” Euelpides: “What good will a kettle do us?” Peisetaerus: “It’ ll keep the owls off us.” Euelpides: “But what about those with the hooked talons there?” Peisetaerus: “Grab a skewer and plant it in front of you.” (Transl. Hender­son 2000, 67) Peisetaeurus and Euelpides are about to be attacked by the birds and make themselves ready to resist the assault. From a stylistic point of view, it seems likely here that the adjective γαμψῶνυξ is unmarked, both in the sense that it does not serve as an element of parody of the language of poetry (no other indication of parody can be detected throughout this passage), and in that it is used as the collective designation for all the birds which menace to fall upon Peisetaeurus and Euelpides, not just birds of prey (which do have crooked talons)80. The passage of Birds, then, is a clear indication that, depending on the circumstances, γαμψῶνυξ too could be simply descriptive, without the need for it to be a poetic or a technical term. 5. The scholia to Aristophanes’ Wasps and the Suda attest to the use by Epicharmus of the expression Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα ‘Sybaritic sayings’ (Epich. fr. 222 K.–A., from an unidentified play): Schol. (V) Ar. Pac. 344b Holwerda (συβαρίζεται) πεποίηται ἢ παρὰ τὰ Συβάρια ἐπιφθέγματα, ἅπερ ἔστι παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ, ἢ παρὰ τὴν τῶν Συβαριτῶν τρυφήν.

78 79 80

See Dunbar 1995, 645, who notices that the use of τρόπος (to indicate a way of line) + adjective is a poetic construction. These passages of Aristophanes’ Birds are the only two known occurrences of γαμψῶνυξ in Greek comedy as a whole. See also Dunbar 1995, 274.

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(συβαρίζεται) is created either from Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα (‘Sybaritic sayings’), which occurs in Epicharmus, or from Συβαριτῶν τρυφή (‘Sybaritic luxury’). Sud. σ 1271 A. (codd. AGFVM) Συβαριτικαῖς καὶ Συβαρικαῖς […] καὶ Συβαρίζειν, τὸ τρυφᾶν, ἢ τὸ θορυβεῖν. καὶ Συβάρεια (Συβάρια FV) ἐπιφθέγματα (ἀποφθέγματα GFVM) παρ’ Ἐπιχάρμῳ. Συβαριτικαῖς and Συβαρικαῖς […] And Συβαρίζειν meaning ‘live luxuriously’ or ‘make noise’. And Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα (‘Sybaritic sayings’) occurs in Epicharmus. These sources evidently go back to the same materials81. Due to the use of the extremely rare adjective Συβάρεια82, it is most likely that the expression Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα is a quotation (however manipulated) from Epicharmus’ text83. Sybaritic tales are described by the scholia to Aristophanes’ Birds as short and concise stories with humans as their characters84. The only two examples known to us are told by Philocleon in Aristophanes’ Wasps, at ll. 1427–31 and 1435–4085. It is unclear whether these two stories are real Sybaritic stories, or whether they are Aristophanes’ own86. Whatever the case, this does not stand in the way of taking them as examples of how a Sybaritic story may have looked like to a 5th-century audience. The common element is that both stories end with a witty comment in response to someone’ s comments or actions87. 81

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The Suda famously has a special place in the history of Aristophanes’ text, and it also draws massively from the same sources as the scholia to Aristophanes (see Dickey 2007, 29). This is the only known occurrence in literary and paraliterary texts. I wish to discuss in a future paper the reading Συβάριος in Agorà XXI, D no. 6 (early 4th century BC). For a mostly aporetic discussion of Epicharmus’ fragment see Lupi 2019, 116–20. See schol. Ar. Av. 471b Holwerda (VM9Γ) τῶν δὲ μύθων οἱ μὲν περὶ ἀλόγων ζῴων εἰσὶν Αἰσώπειοι, οἱ δὲ περὶ ἀνθρώπων Συβαριτικοί. εἰσὶ δέ τινες οἱ τοὺς βραχεῖς καὶ συντόμους λέγουσι Συβαρίτιδας (VM9, Συβαρίτας Γ, Συβαριτικούς Meineke), καθάπερ Μνησίμαχος ἐν Φαρμακοπώλῃ (= Mnesim. fr. 6 K.–A.). For an account about Sybaritic stories, with a collection of ancient sources and modern bibliography, see Mastellari 2020, 448–49. The Sybaritic stories are introduced as a form of λόγος ἀστεῖος by Bdelycleon at Vesp. 1259. We are not told in what play the Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα were mentioned nor the dramatic context, but a possibility is that, like in Aristophanes’ Wasps, these Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα were connected with a symposiastic context. See MacDowell 1971, 294 (who believes that the two Sybaritic stories in Wasps “are not genuine examples”) and Biles–Olson 2015, 448 (who do not take a strong position, but evaluate positively the possibility that MacDowell may be right). To my mind, Vesp. 1435–40 sounds the more suspicious (notice the oddly long final maxim). The one at ll. 1427–31 is a proverbial saying of unknown origin that is also attested independently from the short story around it (see MacDowell 1971, 316–17).

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Editors of Epicharmus have long been sceptical about the reading ἐπιφθέγματα in the Aristophanic scholium and manuscript A of the Suda. Some have looked with favour at the alternative reading ἀποφθέγματα of manuscripts GSVM of the Suda88. In more recent times, the last two editors of Epicharmus print ἐπιφθέγματα without further comment, though they also record the variant reading ἀποφθέγματα89. The main reason for this scepticism is that ἐπίφθεγμα is extremely rare a word (no other occurrence is documented in classical times) and when it does occur, it is usually attested with a specialised meaning, while ἀπόφθεγμα is already common in the 5th and 4th century BC, and so it would be easy to assume that Epicharmus too used ἀπόφθεγμα. However, beside the fact that it is more straightforward to take ἀπόφθεγμα as the lectio facilior in the manuscripts of the Suda, some further arguments support the possibility that Epicharmus did use ἐπιφθέγματα. For a start, from its earliest occurrences ἐπιφθέγγομαι is commonly attested with the meaning ‘say (after)’ and ‘say (in addition)’. Beside a passage in Aeschylus’ Choephoroi regularly recorded in modern lexica90, the same holds true for two passages of Plato91. When it comes to deverbal ἐπίφθεγμα, such a semantic nuance would be perfect to describe a feature of Sybaritic stories, the witty conclusive remark. Take one of the examples in Aristophanes’ Wasps (ll. 1427–31): ἀνὴρ Συβαρίτης ἐξέπεσεν ἐξ ἅρματος, καί πως κατεάγη τῆς κεφαλῆς μέγα σφόδρα· ἐτύγχανεν γὰρ οὐ τρίβων ὢν ἱππικῆς. 1430 κἄπειτ’ ἐπιστὰς εἶπ’ ἀνὴρ αὐτῷ φίλος· “ἔρδοι τις ἣν ἕκαστος εἰδείη τέχνην.” A man from Sybaris fell out of a chariot, and somehow he got his head seriously injured. It happens he wasn’ t an experienced driver. And then a friend of his stood over him and said: “Let each practice the craft he knows” (Transl. Henderson 1998, 401) What prevents us from assuming that Epicharmus used ἐπιφθέγματα referring to the maxims which close the anecdotes? For instance, one may compare this with 88 89 90 91

See Polman Kruseman 1834, 117–18, Welcker 1844, 315, Lorenz 1864, 277–78 (ad Epich. B. Ἄδηλα fr. 61 Lorenz), Kaibel 1899, 129, and Olivieri 1946, 102. See Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 1996, 170 and Kassel–Austin 2001, 131. Aesch. Ch. 456–57 (ΟΡ.) σέ τοι λέγω, ξυγγενοῦ πάτερ φίλοις. / (HΛ.) ἐγὼ δ’ ­ἐπιφθέγγομαι κεκλαυμένα. In LSJ9 s.v., the meaning of ἐπιφθέγγομαι in Plat. Crat. 383a 7 and Soph. 257c 2 is given as “simply, utter, pronounce”, but in both passages of Plato the underlying idea is actually that of adding something or saying something in addition. The one possible case of ἐπιφθέγγομαι with the simple meaning ‘utter’ might occur in the Getty Hexameters (side A, col. ii, l. 5), but the fragmentary context makes it difficult to be certain.

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Teramenes’ sarcastic ἀποφθέγματα92. In such a case, rather than ‘Sybaritic stories’ (i. e. Συβαριτικοὶ λόγοι or μῦθοι, as described at Ar. Vesp. 1259 and schol. Ar. Av. 471b), the expression used by Epicharmus may well have been ‘Sybarite maxims’ or ‘Sybarite remarks’, an obvious parallel being the ἀποφθέγματα Λακωνικά. Secondly, modern lexica are very selective in the documentation they collect for ἐπίφθεγμα93, and they fail to record that this use of ἐπίφθεγμα ‘maxim’ and ‘saying’ is concretely attested in later Greek94: Orig. Libri X in Cant. Cant. fragm. p. 141,29 Baehrens (= Procop. MPG vol. 87.2 p. 1560,18) τὸ πολυθρύλητον δὲ παρ’ Ἕλλησιν ἐπίφθεγμα προείληπται παραδοθὲν τῷ σοφῷ Σολομῶνι, τό “γνῶθι σαυτόν” The famous maxim among the Greeks, “know yourself ”, is prefigured (sc. in the Song of songs), being received from Solomon the wise95. Joh. Chrys. Hom. 3.2,50 ὅταν δὲ τὸ πλέον τῆς ὁδοῦ προέλθωμεν καὶ μαρανθῇ τὰ τῆς προθυμίας ἡμῖν, τὰ δὲ τῆς δυνάμεως ἡμῶν λήξῃ, μέλλωμεν δὲ καταπίπτειν, τότε ἡμῖν ὁ προφήτης εὐκαίρως παρίσταται, καθάπερ βακτηρίαν τινὰ τὸ ἐπίφθεγμα τοῦτο ὀρέγων καὶ λέγων· “εἰς τὸ τέλος μὴ διαφθείρῃς”. When we have done the most part of the way and the willingness dies out to us, our strength comes to an end and we are about to fall down, then the Prophet (sc. David) stands beside us at the right time, reaching out this maxim like a staff and saying: “To the end, do not destroy”96. 92 93

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See Xen. Hell. 2.3,56. The meanings of ἐπίφθεγμα that are recorded in LSJ9 s.v. are “refrain” (curiously, in the entry to ἐπιφθέγγομαι no mention is made of ἐπιφθέγξασθε in Call. H. 6,2 = 118) and “interjection” (this is by far the more widely attested use of ἐπίφθεγμα). Similar information is provided in Bailly s.v. and GE s.v. To my knowledge, the passage of John Chrysostom is recorded only in Rocci s.v. (under the meaning “rimbrotto, minaccia”). In Porph. Quest. Hom. 2.447,96, ἐπίφθεγμα means ‘epithet’ (Porphyry is commenting on the αἰγίς being called ἐρεμνή in Hom. Il. 4.167), and this use too is unrecorded in modern lexica. Commenting on LXX Cant. 1.8 ἐὰν μὴ γνῷς σεαυτήν, ἡ καλὴ ἐν γυναιξίν, ἔξελθε σὺ ἐν πτέρναις τῶν ποιμνίων καὶ ποίμαινε τὰς ἐρίφους σου ἐπὶ σκηνώμασιν τῶν ποιμένων, Origenes takes ἐὰν μὴ γνῷς σεαυτήν as a prefiguration of the Delphic maxim. Origen’ s original commentary is lost, and beside this quotation in Procopius we also have access to Origen’ s text via Rufinus’ Latin translation (Comm. in Cant. p. 141,19 Baehrens unius ex septem, quos apud Graecos singulares in sapientia fuisse fama concelebrat, haec inter cetera mirabilis fertur esse sententia, qua ait: “scito te ipsum” vel “cognosce te ipsum”. quod tamen Solomon, quem praecessisse omnes hos tempore et sapientia ac rerum scientia in praefatione nostra docuimus, ad animam quasi ad mulierem sub comminatione quadam loquens dicit etc.). See the title of LXX Psalm. 56, 57, 58, and 72.

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Syr. In Arist. Met. p. 122,33 CAG VI,1 τοὺς γὰρ ὑποδεξαμένους μὲν παρ’ Ὀρφέως τὰς θεολογικὰς ἀρχὰς τῶν νοητῶν καὶ νοερῶν ἀριθμῶν, ἐπὶ πλεῖστον δὲ αὐτὰς προαγαγόντας καὶ τὴν ἄχρι τῶν αἰσθητῶν ἐπικράτειαν αὐτῶν ἀναφήναντας καὶ πρόχειρον ἔχοντας ἐπίφθεγμα τὸ “ἀριθμῷ δέ τε πάντ’ ἐπέοικε” πῶς οὐκ ἄτοπον περὶ τὰ σώματα μόνον καὶ τοὺς συνόντας τοῖς σώμασιν ἀριθμοὺς διατετριφέναι λέγειν; For those who accept from Orpheus the divine principles of intelligible and intellectual numbers, promoting them to the highest degree and revealing their control down to the sensible things and having always at hand the maxim “everything resemble the number”, how is it not paradoxical that they waste time talking only about the bodies and the numbers connected with the bodies? In addition to these passages, ἐπίφθεγμα ‘saying’ and ‘maxim’ is still attested in Byzantine times97. These later occurrences are instructive in that, for a start, they suggest that there is nothing odd about ἐπίφθεγμα meaning ‘maxim’ or ‘saying’ already in Epicharmus. Further, it is possible that, in the intervening centuries between Epicharmus and late antiquity, the use of ἐπίφθεγμα to mean ‘saying, maxim’ may have existed throughout, even though it is overshadowed in the standard language by the ‘correct’ opposition between the specialised use of ἐπίφθεγμα to mean ‘interjection’, very frequent in grammatical and lexicographical texts, and the more common use of ἀπόφθεγμα to mean ‘maxim, saying’. 6. The examination of these four exemplary cases allows for the following concluding remarks. The discussion of κόλαφος and πέποσχα has shown that occurrences of rare words in ‘dialectal’ authors should not necessarily be treated ipso facto as evidence that these were actually ‘dialectal’ forms. Against a predominantly diachronic and diatopic approach, I have argued that isolated forms may actually be thought of 97

See Theod. Stud. Epist. 521,17 προσήκει σοι καὶ τὰ τοῦ ἀοιδίμου Ἰὼβ ἐπιφθέγματα· πατὴρ ἐγενόμην ὀρφανῶν, ποὺς δὲ χωλῶν, παντὶ δὲ ἀνθρώπῳ ἠνέῳκταί μου ἡ θύρα καὶ ὅσα τούτοις συνεπόμενα and Theolept. Philad. Epist. ad Iren. Bas. 2, l. 104 ἔχε κατὰ νοῦν τοῦ ἐν ἀσκηταῖς περιβοήτου ἁγίου Ἀρσενίου τὸ ἐπίφθεγμα· οὗτος ἀνακτώμενος τὴν ἑαυτοῦ προθυμίαν καὶ εἰς μνήμην ἑαυτὸν ἄγων τοῦ πρὸς τὴν ἀναχώρησιν ἐν ἀρχῇ θερμοῦ ζήλου, ὑπεφώνει καθ’ ἑαυτὸν συνεχῶς· Ἀρσένιε, δι’ ὃ ἐξῆλθες; ἐξέχου δηλονότι, Ἀρσένιε, τῆς ἀγαθῆς προθέσεως δι’ ἣν τοῦ κόσμου ἀπέστης καὶ πρὸς τὸν προτεθέντα σοι σκοπὸν βάδιζε (on Arsenius see Constantinides-Hero 1994, 99). Notice that the only passage mentioned in LBG s.v. is Theod. Stud. Epist. 509,11 καὶ ἔοικας τὸ τοῦ Ταντάλου παθεῖν, εἰ καὶ μυθικώτερον τὸ ἐπίφθεγμα, ἐν μέσαις πηγαῖς δίψῃ τηκόμενος, ἀκοαῖς μόναις, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ὀφθαλμοῖς ὑπολαβὼν τὴν τῆς μητρὸς κοίμησιν, but the translation of ἐπίφθεγμα as “Ausspruch, Sentenz” that is given in this lexicon is not quite accurate, in that ἐπίφθεγμα has the extended meaning of “story” or “tale”.

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as being part of a linguistic continuum that has simply remained uncharted due to the colloquial register that these forms belonged to. On this basis, we should be very careful in taking at face value the statements of ancient grammarians and lexicographers who qualify these forms as koineisms or dialectalisms. Often, it is likely that, since the documentary evidence used by ancient lexicographers was mostly limited to literary sources, they may have been mistaken in treating the few available occurrences of a form, or the absence of such a form, as evidence for judging about its linguistic pedigree98. The use of γαμψώνυχος and ἐπίφθεγμα in Epicharmus should probably be placed on an equal footing with the occurrences and uses of these forms in later, or even much later, texts. Thus, one should be prepared to accept the possibility that Epicharmus provides the first occurrences of a word or expression centuries before it surfaces again in surviving texts. Not only does this conclusion have a bearing on the literary interpretation of specific fragments, but it also invites us to substantially reconsider, for instance, previous attempts at negating the authenticity of the so-called fragments ex Alcimo on the grounds that they testify to the earliest known occurrences of a word or a semantic nuance or a combination of particles99. These twin sets of conclusions complement each other in more than one way, and while they give us a sense of how limited our knowledge of the Greek language is, especially before Hellenistic times, they also invite us to a more nuanced appreciation of fragmentary sources, ancient linguistic doctrines, and Greek vocabulary as a whole. Bibliography Adams 2003 = J. N. Adams, Bilingualism and the Latin Language, Cambridge 2003. Bailly = A. Bailly, Le grand Bailly. Dictionnaire grec-français, Paris 2000. BDAG = W. F. Arndt–W. Bauer–F. W. Gingrich–F. W. Danker, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, Chicago 20003. Bechtel 1917 = F. Bechtel, Die historischen Personennamen des Griechischen bis zur Kaiserzeit, Halle 1917. Beddall 1957 = B. G. Beddall, “Historical notes on avian classification”, Systematic Zoology 6 (1957), 129–136. Biles–Olson 2015 = Z. P. Biles–S. D. Olson, Aristophanes. Wasps, Oxford 2015. Blass­–Debrunner 1997 = F. Blass–A. Debrunner, Grammatica del greco del Nuovo Testamento. Nuova edizione di F. Rehkopf. Edizione italiana a cura di G. Pisi, Brescia 19972.

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I have discussed comparable cases in Favi 2017, 100 and 132–36. See Kerkhof 2001, 67 and 73–74. A refutation of such attempts is in Favi 2020, 202–203, 218–19, and 251–52.

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Bloomer 2015 = W. M. Bloomer, Corporal punishment in the ancient school, in W. M. Bloomer (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Education, Chichester 2015, 184–198. Cassio 1977 = A. C. Cassio, Aristofane. Banchettanti (Δαιταλῆς). I frammenti, Roma 1977. Cassio 1997 = A. C. Cassio, Futuri dorici, dialetto di Siracusa e testo antico dei lirici greci, in A. C. Cassio (ed.), Kata diàlekton. Atti del III Colloquio Internazionale di Dialettologia Greca, AION 19 (1997), 187–214. Cassio 1998 = A. C. Cassio, La lingua greca come lingua universale, in S. Settis (ed.), I Greci. Storia, cultura, arte e società. Vol. 2/III, Torino 1998, 991–1013. Cassio 2002 = A. C. Cassio, The Language of Doric Comedy, in A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy, Oxford 2002, 51–83. Cassio 2012 = A. C. Cassio, Intimations of Koine in Sicilian Doric: the Information Provided by the Antiatticist, in Tribulato 2012, 251–264. Cassio 2014 = A. C. Cassio, Lessico ‘moderno’ nei testi greci antichi. Storie di continuità e discontinuità, in C. Carpinato–O. Tribulato (eds.), Storia e storie della lingua greca, Venezia 2014, 35–49. Chaniotis 1995 = A. Chaniotis, Illness and Cures in the Greek Propitiatory Inscriptions and Dedications of Lydia and Phrygia, in A. H. J. F. Horstmanshoff–P. J. van der Eijk–P. H. Schrijvers (eds.), Ancient Medicine in its Socio-Cultural Context. Volume II, AmsterdamAtlanta 1995, 323–344. Clement–Hoffleit 1969 = P. A. Clement–H. B. Hoffleit, Plutarch. Moralia. Volume VIII, Cambridge (MA)-London 1969. Constantinides-Hero 1994 = A. Constantinides-Hero, The Life and Letters of Theoleptos of Philadelphia, Brookline (MA) 1994. Cunningham 1971 = I. C. Cunningham, Herodas. Mimiambi, Oxford 1971. Cunningham 2002 = J. Rusten–I. C. Cunningham, Theophrastus, Characters. Herodas, Mimes. Sophron and other Mime Fragments, Cambridge (MA)-London 2002. Curbera 2013 = J. Curbera, Simple names in Ionia, in R. Parker (ed.), Personal names in Ancient Anatolia, Oxford 2013, 107–143. Curbera 2016 = J. Curbera, “Lexicographica et onomastica Graeca”, Philologus 60 (2016), 251–262. Davies–Finglass 2014 = M. Davies–P. J. Finglass, Stesichorus. The Poems. Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Cambridge 2014. Delehaye 1910 = H. Delehaye, Acta Sanctorum (Novembris). Tomus III, Brussels 1910. DELG = P. Chantraine, Dictionnaire etymologique de la langue grecque, Paris 20092. DELL = A. Ernout–A. Meillet, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue latine, Paris 1959. Dettori 2009 = E. Dettori, “Due Epicharmea”, Eikasmos 20 (2009), 133–137. DGE = Diccionario griego-espanol. Redactado bajo la dirección de F. R. Adrados, Madrid 1989. Dickey 2007 = E. Dickey, Ancient Greek Scholarship. A Guide to Finding, Reading, and Understanding Scholia, Commentaries, Lexica, and Grammatical Treatises, from their Beginnings to the Byzantine Period, Oxford 2007. Dickey 2016 = E. Dickey, Emotional Language and Formulae of Persuasion in Greek Papyrus Letters, in E. Sanders–M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart 2016, 237–262. Dieterich 1898 = K. Dieterich, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der griechischen Sprache von der hellenistischen Zeit bis zum 10. Jahrhundert n. Chr., Leipzig 1898. Di Gregorio 2004 = L. Di Gregorio, Eronda. Mimiambi (V–VIII), Milano 2004. Dunbar 1995 = N. Dunbar, Aristophanes. Birds, Oxford 1995.

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EDG = R. S. P. Beekes, Etymological Dictionary of Greek I–II, Leiden 2010. Edgar 1928 = C. C. Edgar, Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du musée du Caire. Zenon papyri. Vol. III. Nos. 59298–59531, Le Caire 1928. Ellis Hanson–Green 1994 = A. Ellis Hanson–M. H. Green, “Soranus of Ephesus: Methodicorum pinrceps”, ANRW 37.2 (1994), 968–1075. Erbse 1950 = H. Erbse, Untersuchungen zu den attizistischen Lexica, Berlin 1950. Favi 2017 = F. Favi, Fliaci. Testimonianze e frammenti, Heidelberg 2017. Favi 2020 = F. Favi, Epicarmo e pseudo-Epicarmo (frr. 240–297). Introduzione, traduzione e commento, Göttingen 2020. Finglass 2018 = P. J. Finglass, Sophocles. Oedipus the King. Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Cambridge 2018. Fraenkel 1912 = E. Fraenkel, Geschichte der griechischen Nomina agentis auf -τηρ, -τωρ, -της (-τ-). Zweiter Teil, Straßburg 1912. Fedriani 2015 = C. Fedriani, “L’ uso del greco in Plauto: un tassello sociolinguistico nella rappresentazione dell’ identità”, SSL 53 (2015) 91–108. GE = The Brill Dictionary of Ancient Greek. Edited by F. Montanari. English Edition edited by M. Goh and C. Schroeder. Under the auspices of the Center for Hellenic Studies, Harvard University, Leiden-Boston 2015. Gielen 2018 = E. Gielen, Physician versus Physician: Comparing the Audience of On the Constitution of Man by Meletios and Epitome on the Nature of Men by Leo the Physician, in P. Bouras-Vallianatos–S. Xenophontos (eds.), Greek Medical Literature and its Readers: From Hippocrates to Islam and Byzantium, London 2018, 153–179. Gignac 1981 = F. T. Gignac, A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Times. Volume II. Morphology, Milano 1981. Greenfeld 2000 = R. P. H. Greenfeld, The Life of Lazaros of Mt. Galesion. An Eleventh-century Pillar Saint, Washington 2000. Groeneboom 1922 = P. Groeneboom, Les Mimiambes d’ Hérodas I–VI avec notes critiques et commentaire explicatif, Groningue 1922. Headlam–Knox 1922 = W. Headlam–A. D. Knox, Herodas. The Mimes and Fragments, Cambridge 1922. Henderson 1998 = J. Henderson, Aristophanes. Clouds, Wasps, Peace, Cambridge (MA)London 1998. Henderson 2000 = J. Henderson, Aristophanes. Birds, Lysistrata, Women at the Thesmo­ phoria, Cambridge (MA)-London 2000. Hill–Wilkins 1996 = S. Hill–J. Wilkins, Mithaikos and Other Greek Cooks, in H. Walker (ed.), Cooks and other people. Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 1995, Totnes 1996, 144–149. Hordern 2004 = J. H. Hordern, Sophron’ s Mimes. Text, Translation, and Commentary, Oxford 2004. Horrocks 2010 = G. Horrocks, Greek. A History of the Language and its Speakers, Chichester 2010. IGDS = L. Dubois, Inscriptions grecques dialectales de Sicile. Contribution à l’ étude du vocabulaire grec colonial, Rome 1989. Jüthner 1942 = J. Jüthner, “Paidotribes”, RE 18 (1942), 2389,12–2396,39. Kaibel 1899 = G. Kaibel, Comicorum Graecorum Fragmenta I, Berolini 1899 (19582, ed. K. Latte). Kaczko 2016 = S. Kaczko, La koiné, in A. C. Cassio (ed.), Storia delle lingue letterarie greche, Milano 20162, 385–423.

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Karakasis 2005 = E. Karakasis, Terence and the Language of Roman Comedy, Cambridge 2005. Kassel–Austin 2001 = R. Kassel–C. Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci. Vol. I. Comoedia Dorica, mimi, phlyaces, Berolini-Novi Erboraci 2001. Kerkhof 2001 = R. Kerkhof, Dorische Posse, Epicharm und Attische Komödie, MünchenLeipzig 2001. Lambertz 1907 = M. Lambertz, Die griechischen Sklavennamen, Wien 1907. Lampe = G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford 1961. LBG = Lexikon zur byzantinischen Gräzität besonders des 9.-12. Jahrhunderts. Band I (A–K). Erstellt von E. Trapp unter Mitarbeit von W. Hörandner, et alii, Wien 1994–2001, Band II/1.2 (Λ–Ω). Erstellt von E. Trapp unter Mitarbeit von S. Schönauer, et alii, Wien 2005–2017. Lesi 1975–1977 = R. Lesi, “Note ad Epicarmo”, MCr 10–12 (1975–1977), 83–90. Lorenz 1864 = A. O. F. Lorenz, Leben und Schriften des Koers Epicharmos: nebst Fragmentensammlung, Berlin 1864. Lowe 1991 = J. C. B. Lowe, “Prisoners, Guards, and Chains in Plautus, Captivi”, AJPh 112 (1991), 29–44. LSJ9 = Greek-English Lexicon, compiled by Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, revised and augmented throughout by Sir Henry Stuart Jones with the assistance of Roderick McKenzie and with the cooperation of many scholars. With a revised supplement, Oxford 1996. Lupi 2019 = E. Lupi, I pericoli dell’ eudaimonia. La rappresentazione di Sibari nelle testimonianze letterarie di V–III secolo a. C., Freiburg i.Br.-Berlin-Wien 2019. Luppe 1980 = W. Luppe, “Literarische Text unter Ausschluss der christlichen”, APF 27 (1980), 233–250. MacDowell 1971 = D. M. MacDowell, Aristophanes. Wasps, Oxford 1971. Manganaro 1985 = G. Manganaro, “La dedica di un aphidrysma di Men Axittenos del 118 d. C.”, ZPE 61 (1985), 199–203. Marrou 1956 = H. I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity. Translated by G. Lamb, London 1956. Mastellari 2020 = V. Mastellari, Calliade – Mnesimaco. Introduzione, Traduzione e Commento, Göttingen 2020. Matthaios 2014 = S. Matthaios, Greek scholarship in the imperial era and late antiquity, in F. Montanari–S. Matthaios–A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’ s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship. Volume 1. History, Disciplinary Profiles, Leiden-Boston 2014, 184–296. Mimbrera 2012a = S. Mimbrera, Sicilian Greek before the Fourth Century BC, in Tribulato 2012, 191–222. Mimbrera 2012b = S. Mimbrera, The Sicilian Doric Koina, in Tribulato 2012, 223–250. Olivieri 1946 = A. Olivieri, Frammenti della commedia greca e del mimo nella Sicilia e nella Magna Grecia. I. Frammenti della commedia dorica siciliana, Napoli 19462. Olson 2017 = S. D. Olson, Eupolis. Testimonia and Aiges – Demoi (frr. 1–146). Translation and Commentary, Heidelberg 2017. Papaioannou 2008–2009 = S. Papaioannou, “What’ s in a Name? The Real Identity of Palinurus in Plautus’ Curculio”, CJ 104 (2008–2009), 111–122. Peck 1965 = A. L. Peck, Aristotle. History of Animals. Books I–III, Cambridge (MA)-London 1965. Petzl 1994 = G. Petzl, Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens, Bonn 1994.

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Petzl 2019 = G. Petzl, Sardis. Greek and Latin Inscriptions. Part II. Finds from 1958 to 2017, Cambridge (MA)-London 2019. Pickard-Cambridge–Webster 1962 = A. W. Pickard-Cambridge–T. B. L. Webster, Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy, Oxford 19622. Poccetti 2012 = P. Poccetti, Language Relations in Sicily. Evidence for the Speech of the Σικανοί, the Σικελοί and Others, in Tribulato 2012, 49–94. Polman Kruseman 1834 = H. Polman Kruseman, Epicharmi fragmenta, Harlem 1834. Robert–Robert 1970 = J. Robert–L. Robert, “Bulletin épigraphique”, REG 83 (1970), 362– 488. Rocci = L. Rocci, Vocabolario greco–italiano. Con la collaborazione di G. Argan, E. Mazzotti, A. Porcelli, B. Pulcini, V. Raimondi, Roma 2011. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 1996 = L. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén, Epicarmo de Siracusa: testimonios y fragmentos, Oviedo 1996. Russel 2001 = D. A. Russel, Quintillian. The Orator’ s Education. Books 6–8, Cambridge (Mass.)-London 2001. Schubart 1932 = W. Schubart, “Griechische Briefe aus Ägypten”, Die Antike 8 (1932), 113– 137. Shipp 1979 = G. P. Shipp, Modern Greek Evidence for the Ancient Greek Vocabulary, Sydney 1979. Tammaro 2013 = V. Tammaro, “Marginalia comica”, Eikasmos 24 (2013), 113–118. Theodoridis 1989 = C. Theodoridis, “Drei neue Fragmente des Grammatikers Apion”, RhM 132 (1989), 345–350. Tribulato 2012 = O. Tribulato (ed.), Language and Linguistic Contact in Ancient Sicily, Cambridge 2012. Ucciardello 2014 = G. Ucciardello, review of C. Theodoridis, Photii Patriarchae Lexicon. Vol. III: Ν – Φ, Berlin 2013, CW 104 (2014), 555–557. Welcker 1844 = F. G. Welcker, Epicharmos, in F. G. Welcker, Kleine Schriften I, Bonn 1844, 271–356. Wilhelm 1906 = A. Wilhelm, “Alt- und Neugriechisches”, JÖAI 9 (1906), 277–278 (= A. Wilhelm, Kleine Schriften, II/1, Leipzig, 1984, 259–260). Willi 2008 = A. Willi, Sikelismos. Sprache, Literatur und Gesellschaft im griechischen Sizilien (8.–5. Jh. v. Chr.), Basel 2008. Zanker 2009 = G. Zanker, Herodas. Mimiambs, Oxford 2009.

Ioannis M. Konstantakos

The Märchenkomödie in Classical Athens: Fragments, Pictures, Contexts

Keywords: Aristophanes, Crates, origins of comedy, fairy-tale, vase-paintings The many beginnings of Attic comedy In August 1983 Jorge Luis Borges came to Athens for the first time and stayed at the Hotel Grande Bretagne, in the centre of the city. On his first morning there, at daybreak, Borges was proffered the following dream, which he later narrated in his miscellaneous travel book Atlas: he saw that he was standing in front of a row of books, filling a long library shelf. It was a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Borges took down a volume at random and looked up the entry for ‘Coleridge’; the text of the entry had an end but no beginning. He then looked up the word ‘Crete’; this lemma also concluded but did not begin. Then he found the entry on chess, and at that point the dream suddenly shifted. Borges saw himself sitting on an elevated stage in a Greek amphitheatre, which was filled to capacity with an attentive audience. He was playing chess with his father, who was dressed up in ancient Persian attire and was impersonating the false king Artaxerxes, the usurper of the Achaemenid throne. Borges moved a pawn; his antagonist made no movement but, by an act of magic, he erased one of Borges’ pieces. This procedure was repeated several times. When Borges woke up, he told himself: “I am in Greece, the place where everything began, assuming that things, as opposed to the entries in the encyclopaedia of the dream, have indeed a beginning”1. Ancient Greek comedy, as a typical product of the Hellenic spirit, has not only one but several beginnings. In true Borgesian style, the earliest one of them is impossible to fix to a specific date. This first and nebulous beginning represents the moment that might be called ‘the birth of comedy’, in other words the emergence of a recognizable form of dramatic performance from the background of boisterous comastic rituals, obscene celebrations of fertility and Dionysian revels2. 1

2

Jorge Luis Borges, “Atenas”, in the collection Atlas; Borges 1984, 37; Borges 1989, 419. On this complex literary dream and its erudite allusions see Irwin 1993. Concerning Borges’ visit to Greece see Sifakis–Vagenas–Borges 1985; Kalokyris 2007, 21–28, 34–36. On the birth of comic drama from such primordial rituals see the surveys of PickardCambridge 1962, 132–87; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 207–97; Carrière 1979, 17–25; Handley 1985, 362–67; Csapo–Slater 1994, 89–101; Rusten 2006; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 7–38; Depew 2007; Rothwell 2007, 6–37, 213–27; Storey 2010, 179–84; Rusten 2011, 16–18, 45–58. See also other reconstructions proposed by Herter 1947; Pohlenz 1965,

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Ancient tradition associates a doubtful name with these fuzzy origins of the comic genre: Sousarion, son of Philinus, an impresario variously presented in the sources as a native of Attica or of the neighbouring region of Megara. From the Hellenistic period onwards, Sousarion was regularly supposed to have invented comedy and to have produced the first comic play at the deme of Icarion in north-east Attica3. Although no genuine texts survive from that initial phase of comic dramaturgy, a number of Attic black-figure vase-paintings, dated approximately from the mid-sixth to the early fifth century BC, are often associated with it by modern scholars4. The paintings depict snapshots from merry spectacles with music and dance, in which the participants are dressed up as various kinds of animals, birds and marine creatures, and also as dwarfs, armed warriors and other figures of the folk imagination. In most cases the performers are accompanied by a piper who plays the aulos. His presence indicates that the illustrated spectacle is not merely a spontaneous celebration of carnival or the ancient equivalent of a bal masqué, but rather a proper performance which involves song and dance and presupposes some degree of artistic design and preparation5. It is also noteworthy that the performers portrayed on these monuments are elaborately disguised into the various characters or creatures they impersonate; they wear full-length fancy costumes and sometimes specially constructed masks or headgear. They are clearly playing roles in a show. The elements of impersonation, costume and role-playing constitute the core of the concept of drama, as it has been diachronically perceived and defined in western culture. The presence of these elements in the aforementioned painted scenes – the very fact that the participants are acting out in costume the parts of other personages, different from the performers themselves – indicates that the illustrated performances were dramatic in essence. One may choose to style them ‘proto-comic’ or ‘pre-comic’, and may connect them with kōmos phenomena or with forms of lyric and dithyrambic song; the terminology would not matter much in the present author’ s view. Whatever the performances are called in

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497–510; Sifakis 1971, 15–22, 78–102, 110–13, 122–24; Reckford 1987, 443–98; Seeberg 1995; Csapo 1997; Bierl 2001, 300–61; Csapo 2013; Csapo 2015. The ancient testimonia on Sousarion have been collected by Kassel–Austin 1989, 661–65 and Bagordo 2014b, 185–206. For discussion see also Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 183–87; Piccirilli 1975, 141–50; Kerkhof 2001, 38–50; Rusten 2006, 42–44, 59–60; Ornaghi 2016, 3–243; Csapo–Wilson 2019, 445–54. See Bieber 1961, 36–37; Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 151–60; Pohlenz 1965, 499; Webster 1970, 14–15, 20–21, 93–94; Sifakis 1971, 73–93, 121–25; Trendall–Webster 1971, 20–24; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 259–65; Green 1985; Green 1991, 21–29; Green 1994, 28–34; Schwarz 2002; Rusten 2006, 44–56; Rothwell 2007, 28–80, 227–47; Green 2010, 71–75; Storey 2010, 182; Rusten 2011, 17, 52–53, 57–58; Hughes 2012, 17–19, 85–88, 107–109, 178–79, 262–63; Compton-Engle 2015, 110–25, 171–73. Cf. Green 1991, 27; Schwarz 2002, 255; Steinhart 2004, 20–22; Rothwell 2007, 38, 44–45, 58, 62–63, 79–80; Hedreen 2013, 179.

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our present-day scholarly parlance, it is clear that they include the fundamental constituents of drama6. These vase-paintings constitute, therefore, the first visual records of a recognizable form of comic play in ancient Greece – that is, a type of composition which dramatised some kind of story-pattern or narrative situation (however rudimentary) and employed a number of performers to impersonate the characters7. As pointed out by some experts, if Sousarion’ s figure is based on a historical kernel or a factual equivalent, this is the kind of show he must have produced8. Not too long afterwards comes the second beginning of Greek comedy; this is marked by the official introduction of the performance of comic plays into the City Dionysia, the established and state-run dramatic festival of Athens. This event can be set to a definite date, the spring of 486 BC, which results from a combination of epigraphic evidence with information provided by the Byzantine encyclopaedic lexicon of the Suda9. Although it is not the natural birth of comedy, it represents at least the birth certificate of the comic genre, drafted and validated by the Athenian state. There is scant information about the comic poets who competed at the festivals of that early age. A few titles of plays and brief fragments are recorded for Magnes and Chionides, the leading figures of that generation10. Other poets, who were active during the same period, have practically perished from the records, leaving behind bare names (Euxenides, Alcimenes, Euphronius, Myllus) or even

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Regarding the proto-dramatic nature of these performances, see above, n. 4. Other scholars tend to doubt the connection of these scenes with nascent drama and prefer to view them as depictions of simple festive processions (kōmoi) or forms of choral lyric such as dithyramb: see Carrière 1979, 19–20; Csapo–Slater 1994, 53, 93–94; Csapo 2003, 86–90; Steinhart 2004, 8–11, 20–26, 29–31; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 22–24; Hedreen 2007, 160–63, 185–86; Osborne 2008, 397–406; Kowalzig 2013, 35–46; Hedreen 2013, 178–87; Csapo 2015, 87–91, 106. A middle position, recognizing both the dramatic dimension of the scenes and their affinities with lyric performance, is advocated by Rusten 2006, 52–54; Rothwell 2007, 28–80; Compton-Engle 2015, 110–25. I cannot agree with scholars who argue that these vase-paintings do not suggest narrative (e. g. Osborne 2008, 401–406; Csapo 2015, 88, 106). The situations depicted by the painters are peculiar and sometimes extremely odd (exotically dressed Negroid men mounted on ostriches, armed warriors riding dolphins, men in fancy clothing walking on stilts, men standing upside down etc., see below). Such strange arrangements presuppose some kind of story, which would explain the background and meaning of the idiosyncratic image. See Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 187; Rusten 2006, 44, 49, 53–54; Rothwell 2007, 14; Rusten 2011, 17, 57; Hughes 2012, 17–18, 108. See IG II2 2318 and 2325,39ff.; Suda χ 318 (Chionides test. 1 K.–A.); Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 189–90; Rusten 2006, 37–38, 56–58; Olson 2007, 383–84; Millis–Olson 2012, 5–8, 24–26, 156–63; Hughes 2012, 18, 82–83; Bagordo 2014a, 29–34. On the works of these poets see the commentary of Bagordo 2014a, 24–70 and Bagordo 2014b, 76–112.

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less; in some cases only gaps or a few damaged letters on inscriptions are the sole remaining trace of their existence11. Very little, if any, of the work of these early dramatists can have found its way to the Alexandrian library. Even Aristotle did not possess solid knowledge about them12. He only notes that their productions were artless and defective in terms of μύθους ποιεῖν (Po. 1449a38–b9); in other words, these authors had not yet mastered the craft of constructing a sustained and complex plot13. Perhaps their dramas were still largely primitive and subliterary, improvised to a considerable degree and not fully written down as scripts. Little survived to reach Alexandria because little would have existed in written form in the first place. This observation leads to the third beginning of Attic comedy: the development of a highly literary and artistically advanced form of comic drama, the emergence of comedy as an aesthetic creation of great poetic demands and intellectual weight, far above popular improvisation and folksy entertainment. This important metamorphosis seems to have occurred in the decade of 450 BC, when a new generation of comic writers made their debuts. Thanks to the literary transformation of the comic genre, the authors of this age are much better attested in terms of textual remains and informative testimonia. The key figures among them were Crates and Cratinus, who may deservedly be regarded as the first self-conscious and sophisticated literary artists of the Attic comic theatre. These are also the earliest Athenian comic authors that Aristotle had substantial knowledge of, having presumably studied their scripts14. With regard to literary history and aesthetic experience, this is the real incipit of Athenian comedy. Aristotle also remarks that these pioneers of literary comedy learned the craft of μύθους ποιεῖν, the fabrication of well-constructed plots, from Sicilian drama (Po. 1449b5–9). The prime exponent of Sicilian theatrical writing in the early fifth century was of course Epicharmus. Today, after the illuminative researches of scholars such as Albio Cesare Cassio and Andreas Willi, the old-school agnosticism regarding the influence of Epicharmean drama on Attic comedy cannot be seriously maintained15. It should not be doubted that Epicharmus’ scripts became 11

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See Geissler 1969, 1–2, 10, 16; Olson 2007, 16–17, 382–84; Biles 2011, 116–17; Millis– Olson 2012, 8–12, 25, 156–63, 166; Bagordo 2014a, 11–12, 99–104; Bagordo 2014b, 80–82, 120–24. Cf. Norwood 1931, 15–18; Stoessl 1974, 239–42; Bowie 2000, 318–19; Olson 2007, 2, 16–18, 26; Biles 2011, 117–19; Storey 2014, 95–97; Bagordo 2014a, 25–27, 33–36, 51–55; Bagordo 2014b, 76–77, 80, 90, 94–95; Bianchi 2017, 42. Aristotle’ s judgement should not be taken to mean that these poets’ plays lacked a narrative dimension altogether and did not present on stage any kind of connected story; cf. above, n. 7. Cf. Bonanno 1972, 41–47; Kerkhof 2001, 173–77; Quaglia 2005, 110–11. Concerning Epicharmus’ impact on Attic comedy see especially Cassio 1985, 38–43; Willi 2015, 109–17, 136–45. See also Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 285–88; Bonanno 1972, 46–52; Konstantakos 2015, 76–78; the survey of earlier bibliography in Wüst 1950,

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known to Athens during the earlier part of the fifth century, probably in the 470s and 460s, in the context of the cultural exchanges between Athens and Syracuse, which were initiated by the tyrant Hieron. The imported Sicilian texts must have been passionately studied by the small theatrical guild of Athens. It may be imagined that they especially inspired the young and rising comic poets, who were forming their artistic personalities at that time, a little before the middle of the fifth century. Under the influence of Epicharmus’ elaborate and stylish dramas, the theatrical coterie of Cratinus, Crates and their comrades transformed Attic comedy into a first-rate aesthetic phenomenon. It is easy to detect what kinds of theme and material may have been taken over from Epicharmean drama by the enterprising Athenian authors. Mythological burlesque, the humorous ethography of everyday life and the comedy of characters were the mainstays of Epicharmean poetics16. All these thematic areas were also keenly cultivated by the Attic playwrights from the mid-fifth century onwards, from Crates and Pherecrates to Phrynichus, Plato Comicus and Theopompus17. Cratinus added another important dimension to the comic dramaturgy of his time: this was the sustained political invective, the pungent satire against the leaders of the Athenian people, the large-scale treatment of public affairs, which permeated the plot and the intellectual content of the play18. The orientation of comedy towards the great issues of politics and public ideology, as initiated by Cratinus, was bound to enjoy a great appeal in the turbulent years of Periclean and post-Periclean democracy. Many poets took up and keenly cultivated the political and satirical element, above all Aristophanes and Eupolis, the most famous representatives of the genre of political comedy at the

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337–40 and Kerkhof 2001, 51–55; and the recent summary of the discussion by Perrone 2019, 23–24, 36–41. Kerkhof 2001, 133–77 remains sceptical with regard to the extent of the Epicharmean influence, but does not deny that Epicharmus’ scripts were known and studied by the poets of fifth-century Athens. On Epicharmus’ dramatic output and its themes see the basic studies of PickardCambridge 1962, 230–88; Kerkhof 2001, 51–177; Willi 2008, 119–92; Willi 2012; Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 2012; Willi 2015. See also Wüst 1950, 349–64; Carrière 1979, 191–207; Casolari 2003, 19–22, 47–59, 205–209; Bosher 2014, 83–88. On mythological comedy in the fifth century see the overviews of Bowie 2000; Casolari 2003, 61–112, 209–10, 249–62; Marsh 2020; see also Hofmann 1976, 72–137; Handley 1985, 370–73; Muth 1992, 84–133; Rosen 1995. On the comedy of characters and the portrayal of everyday life see Cantarella 1969, 332–34; Gil 1974, 76–82; Handley 1985, 391–98; Urios Aparisi 1996–1997; Ceccarelli 2000; Henderson 2000; Henderson 2002; Quaglia 2003, 255–60. Cf. Henderson 2015 on all these types of comic play. That Cratinus was essentially the initiator of full-scale political comedy in the Attic theatre is a well established notion in modern research: see e. g. Cantarella 1969, 328–32; Carrière 1979, 41–43, 209; Rosen 1988, 37–41; Edwards 1993, 97–98, 100–107, 115; Sommerstein 2004, 157; Olson 2010, 40–41, 60–62; Bertelli 2013, 106–10; Storey 2014, 96–99, 110–11; Henderson 2015, 152–53.

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twilight of the fifth century. The public streak could also be combined with the other themes of comic writing, the ones inspired from the Epicharmean models. From Cratinus onwards, mythological travesty, the comedy of characters or the humorous portrayal of everyday experience were regularly used by comic poets as base materials, on which to build their criticism of Athenian public life and of its prominent figures. From the Dionysalexandros and the Nemesis to the Knights, the Wasps and the Kolakes, many examples of this process may still be studied19. Fairy-tale and early comic performances in Attica Apart from the types of material mentioned above, there was also another vast source of subject-matter which nourished many Attic comic plays, down to the end of the Old Comedy period. This thematic tendency was not inherited from Sicilian comedy, like myth burlesque, social types or the situations of everyday life; there is nothing relevant in the extensive remains of Epicharmean drama. Neither was this kind of material introduced by an innovative master of the mature age of comic dramaturgy, in the way that political satire was inaugurated by Cratinus. Rather, this particular range of themes was present in the Attic comic imagination from the very beginning, already from the first extempore performances that grew out of the primitive comastic rituals. This type of stuff seems to have represented the authentic local variety of humorous drama in Attica, the genuine folk background of Athenian comic produce, before the advent of any exterior influence or the innovations of strong poets. It was the peculiar contribution of the native Attic spirit to the thematic repertoire of comedy. This indigenous Attic ingredient was the fantastic and fairy-tale material, the kind of plot that was based on magical motifs and story-patterns drawn from the popular imaginary: the world of talking animals and objects of supernatural power, of wondrous lands and marvellous travels, of heroes that rise to heaven and descend to the underworld in the course of their extraordinary quest, in one phrase, the stuff that dreams are made on. Tadeusz Zielinski named this genre of comic writing Märchenkomödie, “fairy-tale comedy”20. This home-grown 19

20

On Cratinus’ use of mythological burlesque as a vehicle for political satire see below, n. 111. Aristophanes and Eupolis applied the same technique in order to politicize the materials of domestic and character comedy; see below, nn. 112 and 113, and Konstantakos 2020b, 8–9. Zielinski 1885. For other studies of the fairy-tale and magical elements of Old Comedy (mostly in Aristophanes) see Radermacher 1967, 37–47; Harriott 1985, 119–24; Reckford 1987, 89–120; Sifakis 1992; Davies 2004; Konstantakos 2019a. Zielinski’ s approach has come under heavy criticism, especially with regard to his reconstructions of various fragmentary plays. Nonetheless, the term Märchenkomödie in itself has been taken over in modern scholarship, to indicate a kind of comic drama largely based on the exploitation of fairy-tale narrative patterns and fabulous material. See e. g. Gatz

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Attic concept dominates the storyline of almost every Aristophanic play from the Acharnians to the Plutus. Already before Aristophanes, it had enjoyed decades of cultivation on the Athenian stage at the hands of accomplished masters. But its primal roots can be traced further back to the rudimentary comic spectacles which are illustrated on the Attic vase-paintings of the sixth and early fifth century. As seen above, this group of monuments is inspired by the informal and largely improvised performances of the ethelontai (cf. Arist. Po. 1449b1–2), which must have taken place for many decades before the official introduction of comedy into the programme of the state festival. Most of the scenes depicted on these vases draw on the repository of folk imagination and magical Märchen. Talking and humanized animals, the perennial figures of fantastic folktales, appear on many of the surviving specimens. On an oenochoe of the British Museum, dating from 500–490 BC, two dancing performers are dressed up as birds, with feathered uniforms, long wings and large crests on their heads (Image 1). The two performers may in fact stand for a larger Chorus in bird costumes, as a kind of visual abbreviation or synecdoche, in accordance with the conventions of ancient vase-painting and the limitations of space on the surface of the vase21. A similar spectacle is portrayed on an amphora in Berlin from approximately the same period. In this case, the two performers are walking in procession behind the piper and are both covered in ankle-length cloaks; but their cock’ s crests and wattles are visible (Image 2)22. This latter snapshot probably depicts the moment in which the Chorus first entered the space of the performance, guided by the aulos-player. The long overcoats would have served to cover and hide the dancers’ costume from the spectators’ eyes, so as to create a feeling of wonder, anticipation and elementary suspense. Shortly after their entry, the Chorus-men would have thrown away their cloaks and revealed their disguise, beginning their performance with a calculated stroke of surprise. In spite of the rudimentary character of these early performances, the basic dramatic virtues of suspense, coup de théâtre and play with the audience’ s expectations seem to have been present23. The personages portrayed on these vases are doubtless meant to be human-voiced birds, who would sing their lyrics to the piper’ s accompaniment. They would presumably chant an account about them-

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1967, 118–19; Sifakis 1992, 136–38; Ceccarelli 1996, 109; Farioli 2001, 56–57, 220; Davies 2004, 28; Rusten 2014, 44. London, British Museum, B 509, by the Gela painter. See Bieber 1961, 36–37; PickardCambridge 1962, 152; Sifakis 1971, 74–75, 86, 122, 124; Trendall–Webster 1971, 22; Green 1985, 101, 104, 108–12; Green 1994, 30–31; Rothwell 2007, 52–58, 235–38; Hughes 2012, 86, 179; Compton-Engle 2015, 120–21, 172. Berlin, Antikensammlung, F 1830. See Bieber 1961, 36–37; Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 152; Sifakis 1971, 74–75, 86, 122, 124; Green 1985, 101–102, 105; Rothwell 2007, 53–58, 235–38; Hughes 2012, 86–87, 179; Compton-Engle 2015, 117–20, 172. Cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 152; Sifakis 1971, 86–88, 92–93, 124; Rothwell 2007, 53–54; Hughes 2012, 87, 179; Compton-Engle 2015, 117–20, 127–29.

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selves, describing or commenting on their life and identity24. They may have been the heroes of some fairy story or fable set in the avian kingdom, like the Chorus and characters of Aristophanes’ Birds. Another amphora of the Museum of Berlin, dated around 540–530 BC, depicts three men in a row who are costumed as horses, with equine masks on their heads, coloured bodices and large tails. Each one of them carries on his shoulders a rider dressed as a warrior, with a corselet and crested helmet (Image 3)25. The human faces of the performers who impersonate the horses are clearly visible under the equine masks. This fact, in combination with the overall arrangement of the scene, suggests that the horses were speaking characters and might even have engaged in dialogue with their riders. It does not seem likely that the men impersonating the horses remained silent and that all the singing and recitation were carried out by the riders. If the horses were not to speak and interact with their riders or with other characters of the production, why should they have been performed by disguised men? Small effigies of horses, held by the performers or tied around their waists, would have sufficed in that case26. An important element of fantasy may thus be traced in this performance. The magical horse, which speaks with a human voice and converses with its master, helps him in his quest and his heroic labours, warns him at critical moments and offers him valuable advice, is a common story-pattern in fairy-tales, especially in the European tradition27. This supernatural motif has very old roots in antiquity. In the Iliad it is used to a profoundly tragic effect, when Achilles’ divine horse 24

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Cf. Sifakis 1971, 93. It must not be doubted that the performances illustrated on these vase-paintings included songs and lyrics together with the dances. One of the paintings, which depicts armed hoplites riding on dolphins (a red-figure psykter by Oltos, dating from ca. 510 BC and kept at New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1989.281.69), actually has the words ΕΠΙ ΔΕΛΦΙΝΟΣ inscribed next to the mouth of each one of the dolphin riders; evidently, these words were part of the performers’ song. See Sifakis 1971, 74, 88–90, 122, 124–25; Trendall–Webster 1971, 24; Green 1985, 101–102; Green 1994, 32–33; Schwarz 2002, 251–53, 255; Rusten 2006, 49–50; Hedreen 2007, 160; Rothwell 2007, 58–59, 238; Hughes 2012, 86; Hedreen 2013, 182, 186–87; Csapo 2015, 106; Compton-Engle 2015, 111–16. Berlin, Antikensammlung, F 1697, attributed to the Painter of Berlin 1686. See Bieber 1961, 37; Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 153–54; Sifakis 1971, 73, 87–88, 121, 124; Trendall–Webster 1971, 20–21; Green 1985, 100–101, 112; Green 1994, 28–29; Rusten 2006, 44–46; Hedreen 2007, 160–63; Rothwell 2007, 37–45, 227–31; Hughes 2012, 86; Hedreen 2013, 178–80; Compton-Engle 2015, 111–14, 171. Generally on this kind of representation see Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 16–17; Green 1991, 26–27; Rothwell 2007, 62–63, 240; Green 2010, 73–74; Hughes 2012, 87–88. The Chorus of Aristophanes’ Knights may have been staged in this way; see Sommerstein 1981, 4; Rothwell 2007, 142–43, 267. See e. g. Köhler 1898, 330–34, 467–69, 542–43; Bolte–Polívka 1913–1932, II 140–42, 273–78, III 18–34, 97–108; Thompson 1955–1958, I 381–82, 396–97, 443, 520, IV 25 (motifs B133, B133.1, B133.2, B133.3, B141.2, B141.2.1, B210.1, B211.1.3, B521.1.1,

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acquires a voice and prophesies the hero’ s imminent death (19.399–423). In the comic performance, on the other hand, the folktale pattern of the warning or counselling horses must have been employed in the context of a happier and more optimistic adventure. A remarkable skyphos in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, dating from ca. 490–480 BC, depicts on one side an extraordinary spectacle of six characters who are mounted on ostriches (Image 4). The men wear long and exotic-looking tunics, decorated with stripes and blotches; they carry sticks and their faces have apparently Negroid features (note the snub noses and thick lips)28. Between the ostrich-riders and the piper stands another figure, a very short and bearded man. He is clearly a performer of a different order than the riders’ Chorus, an individual impersonator of a particular role, in other words a primordial hypokritēs, a precursor of the theatrical actor29. Because of his small stature, this figure is often identified as a dwarf or a pygmy30. This is indeed the most plausible interpretation, both in pictorial terms and with regard to the content and the thematic parallels of the scene; the pygmies tally with the other exotic and especially African elements of the picture, as will transpire below. The two oblong upright swellings or bulges, which are discernible on the dwarf ’ s head, are doubtless tufts of hair, combed in such a way as to stand upwards31. They do not resemble small horns, and hence the figure is unlikely to represent a satyr, a silen or the god Pan32. Besides, the short man bears none of

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C495.1, J171.1); Scherf 1995, 297–301, 637–42, 790–93, 864–68, 1291–94; Uther 2004, I 198–200, 308–13 (tale types 314, 530, 531, 533). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 20.18. See Bieber 1961, 37; Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 152–53; Sifakis 1971, 73–74, 87–88, 91–93, 121; Green 1985, 103, 110; Csapo–Slater 1994, 96–97; Schwarz 2002, 253–55; Rusten 2006, 46–49; Rothwell 2007, 71–73, 244– 46; Hughes 2012, 87–89, 109–10, 124, 179, 267; Csapo 2015, 88–89; Compton-Engle 2015, 111–15, 171. See Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 153; Sifakis 1971, 73–74, 91–93; Trendall–Webster 1971, 22; Green 1985, 103; Green 1991, 22; Rothwell 2007, 71, 244–45; Hughes 2012, 19, 89, 109–10, 124, 179, 267; Compton-Engle 2015, 171. He cannot be the exarchōn of the Chorus (Csapo–Miller 2007a, 22–23; Csapo 2015, 88–89): the leader of a Chorus of ostrich-riders should also be a man mounted on an ostrich and having the same or similar appearance. The small man is obviously different from the unified group facing him and must therefore belong to a distinct class or category. See Bieber 1961, 37; Sifakis 1971, 91–93; Dasen 1993, 170; Steinhart 2004, 21; Rusten 2006, 47; Rothwell 2007, 71, 244–45; Hughes 2012, 109, 267; cf. Csapo 2015, 88. Cf. Sifakis 1971, 91; Rothwell 2007, 71, 244–45; Hughes 2012, 109, 267. The design and the lines of these protrusions on the short man’ s head are exactly the same as the lines drawn on the hair of the pipe-player, who is standing behind the dwarf in the same picture. They also very much resemble the lines drawn on the short man’ s beard. This is argued by Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 153, 159; Webster 1970, 20; Trendall– Webster 1971, 22; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 23; Csapo 2015, 88–89. If the short fellow is so identified, the scene would turn into a kind of myth burlesque, concerning perhaps the

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the other typical characteristics of the satyrs or Pan: he has no tail, no goat’ s legs and no animal features whatsoever. By contrast, he is well dressed in a draped and decorated chitōn or himation; he is not naked, as a satyr or Pan would normally be expected to appear. In view of these considerations, the scene presents a notable accumulation of exotic motifs. The ostrich was a bird endemic in Africa, Arabia and the surrounding countries of the Middle East. The riders seem to have Negroid physical characteristics and their tunics are decorated in an outlandish manner. As for the small man, the fabulous tribe of the Pygmies formed part of the Greek mythical imagination at least since the Homeric and Hesiodic age; the mythical Pygmies were envisaged as a dwarf-like population of very small stature and were located at the edges of the world, particularly in the extreme south or more specifically in the interior of Africa33. Early ethnographical and geographical accounts about inland Africa agree with this old fable, even though they do not use the name of Pygmies. As Herodotus reports (4.43), the Persian nobleman Sataspes, at the time of King Xerxes, attempted to circumnavigate Africa and spent many months sailing southward, past the Pillars of Heracles; upon his return, he narrated a marvellous tale about a tribe of savage men of very small stature, dressed in palm-leaf raiments, whom he had supposedly encountered alongside the African coast, at the furthest south he managed to reach34. Regardless of its veracity, Sataspes’ report must have circulated during Xerxes’ reign, probably in the late 480s or the 470s, and would thus have been only slightly later than the approximate dating of the Boston skyphos. Furthermore, Herodotus mentions the account of some audacious explorers from the tribe of the Nasamonians on the North African coast (2.32). Equipped with many provisions, these adventurers crossed the Libyan desert, until they discovered a village of

33

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exotic adventures of Pan or of Dionysus and his satyric retinue in Africa or in the East. However, the difficulties set out above tell against such an interpretation. Nonetheless, see Palmisciano 2014, 116–22 regarding the notional and iconographical affinities between pygmies and satyrs; cf. also Dasen 1993, 185–86; Hoffmann 1997, 27–31, 35. The Iliad (3.3–7) places the people of the Pygmies near the stream of the Ocean and clearly implies that they are situated at the outer south of the earth; the cranes are said to invade the Pygmies’ land “when they flee winter and horrible rain”, which indicates a flight southwards (cf. Strab. 1.2,28). Cf. similarly Hes. fr. 150,9–19 M.–W. (Pygmies coupled with black people, Ethiopians and Libyans); Hecataeus, FGrHist 1 F 328; Arist. Hist. Anim. 597a4–9 (placed near the sources of the Nile in the south of Egypt); Call. Aet. fr. 1,13–14 Pf. (connected with Egypt). On the other hand, Ctesias (fr. 45,21, 45f Lenfant) and later sources situate the Pygmies in India; but this Far Eastern milieu does not fit with the usual habitat of the ostriches. See Ballabriga 1981; Colin 1990a; Dasen 1993, 173–88; Dasen 1994; Hansen 2002, 45–49; Allovio 2010, 77–86. On Sataspes’ report, its sources and its historical validity see Klotz 1937; Hennig 1944, 133–37; Desanges 1978, 29–33; Colin 1990b; Asheri–Lloyd–Corcella 2007, 612–13; Bichler 2011, 319–22.

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small black people, of less than middle height, situated somewhere in Central Africa next to a river full of crocodiles. The date of this expedition probably also falls in the early fifth century, around the same time as the vase-painting35. Collectively, therefore, the ostriches, the Negroid riders and the dwarfish man point towards an African setting36. The comic performance illustrated on the Boston skyphos draws its subject-matter from another area of fantasy: the wondrous lands situated at the distant edges of the world and their strange inhabitants and sights37. This theme has a conspicuous presence in the fantastic storytelling of all peoples and periods; it is often combined with a quest which obliges the hero to undertake a distant journey38. In the Greek comic tradition this kind of fictitious travel story is usually connected with the figure of the boastful soldier, ambassador or traveller; such characters fill the comic stage with their imaginary tales of the marvellous places they have seen in the course of their adventures. The earliest extant examples are the extravagant ambassadors of Aristophanes’ Acharnians (ll. 65–125), who report on the fabulous golden mountains and the other riches of the Persian Empire; and a comparable character in Pherecrates’ Persians (fr. 137 K.–A.), who gives a utopian description of Persia as a culinary paradise. The theme will persist also in the fourth century, when analogous fantastic travelogues are found in the plays of Ephippus (Geryones, fr. 5 K.–A.; Peltastes, fr. 19 K.–A.) and Timocles (Icarian Satyrs, frr. 15–17 K.–A.)39. The other side of the same skyphos at the Boston Museum represents a row of armed warriors, equipped with military chlamydes, spears and helmets, who ride on dolphins (Image 5)40. Very similar scenes, with Choruses of armed soldiers mounted on dolphins, are reproduced on several other contemporaneous Attic vases, spanning the period from ca. 510 to ca. 480 BC41. Various interpretations have been proposed as to the meaning of these pictures. Some experts invoke the 35 36 37 38

39 40 41

See Hennig 1944, 127–32; Carpenter 1956; Lloyd 1976, 134–39; Desanges 1978, 177–83; Liverani 2000, 511–13. Cf. Sifakis 1971, 91–92; Hughes 2012, 109. Cf. Green 2007, 104; Green 2010, 74. From Odysseus and the saga of the Argonauts to the Alexander Romance and the travel novels of Antonius Diogenes and Lucian, examples abound in Greek literature. See Rohde 1914, 184–262; Bianchi 1981; Romm 1992; Aerts 1994; Fusillo 1994, 167–73. For the presence of the theme in folktales, legends and fantastic narratives worldwide see von Koppenfels 1981; Campbell 2004, 63–233; Kaushal 2004; Eco 2013; Konstantakos 2019c, 34–38. On the travel narratives of comic braggarts see Konstantakos 2016, 126–28; Konstan­ takos 2020a. See Sifakis 1971, 73–74, 87–88, 121; Trendall–Webster 1971, 22; Green 1985, 103, 110; Schwarz 2002, 253–55; Rusten 2006, 46–49; Rothwell 2007, 60, 239. See Sifakis 1971, 74, 88–90, 122–25; Trendall–Webster 1971, 23–24; Green 1985, 101–103, 107–109; Lissarrague 1990, 115–18; Green 1994, 32–34, 180; Schwarz 2002; Csapo 2003, 86–90; Rusten 2006, 49–54; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 22; Rothwell 2007,

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context of the symposium as the main hermeneutical key; after all, the imagery of dolphins, in various forms and combinations, is very common on Greek sympotic vases42. Nevertheless, the sympotic world in itself does not easily provide a scenario or story-pattern, which should underlie the dramatic spectacle and offer a meaningful frame of reference for the performance. In particular, the presence of the armed soldiers on the marine creatures is a most peculiar sight, which points to a specific fictive situation and a corresponding storyline, not to generalized revelry and convivial merrymaking. The images should rather be considered as illustrations of one or more particular narratives about humans who voyage on dolphins. Many scholars search for parallel cases in the Greek mythical and legendary tradition. The famous anecdote of the musician Arion, first narrated by Herodotus (1.23–24), is often adduced in this connection43. As the story goes, Arion was thrown into the sea by pirates, but was miraculously salvaged by a dolphin and rode on the dolphin’ s back until he disembarked at cape Taenarum. It should be noticed, however, that the dolphin-knights of the vase-paintings are armed hoplites, not musicians; they carry shields and weapons, not lyres or kitharai44. In addition, the vase-paintings do not show an individual rider but many soldiers gathered together in a row or a phalanx; they look like a veritable army of sea-warriors, who are riding their dolphin steeds in order to attack or invade an enemy target45. Other legends which are sometimes invoked (Phalanthus and his companions who founded Taras, Melicertes, Theseus, Dionysus and the pirates transformed into dolphins) also do not fit the particular details of the images46.

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44 45 46

58–71, 74–77, 238–44; Green 2010, 73–74; Hughes 2012, 86–87, 263, 275–76; Kowalzig 2013, 35–46; Hedreen 2013, 182–87; Compton-Engle 2015, 120, 172; Miccolis 2017, 94. See Lissarrague 1990, 115–20; Csapo 2003, 78–90; Steinhart 2004, 20–21; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 18; cf. also Kowalzig 2013, 35–46; Hedreen 2013, 178–94. See Bieber 1961, 37; Sifakis 1971, 89–90; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 259; Lissarrague 1990, 118; Csapo–Slater 1994, 94; Rusten 2006, 53–54; Csapo–Miller 2007a, 18, 22; Hedreen 2007, 161–62; Kowalzig 2013, 31–35, 44–45; Hedreen 2013, 182–83. Cf. the criticism of Trendall–Webster 1971, 23; Schwarz 2002, 256; Csapo 2003, 89; Rothwell 2007, 66. For the comparison to a phalanx cf. Kowalzig 2013, 38–46. On Phalanthus see Rothwell 2007, 58, 66–70; Hughes 2012, 86–87, 263. He is indeed portrayed as a warrior with a shield on ancient coins; he and his companions fought against the natives in South Italy (Paus. 10.10.6–7) and must therefore have carried armour and weapons in their journey. However, the ancient account only mentions that Phalanthus himself was saved and carried by a dolphin (Paus. 10.13.10); there is no reference to his companions in this context. In addition, there is the question of the relevance of this narrative for the Athenian public. Why should a local Tarentine legend interest the audience of Archaic Athens so much as to become the subject-matter of a proto-comic performance? Cf. Trendall–Webster 1971, 23 and Schwarz 2002, 256, who note further points of criticism. The other, even less likely models are surveyed by Sifakis 1971, 90, 125; Rothwell 2007, 64–66, 241–42. Melicertes is another lone

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On the other hand, it is possible to imagine a range of fantastic scenarios, which would explain this curious spectacle. The soldiers might be a division of Athenian cavalry who have been paradoxically charged with a naval expedition and accomplish it in a marvellous way, by applying their riding talents to the creatures of the sea47. In a more ‘fairy-tale’ story-pattern, they might represent the troops of the king of the sea, mounted on suitable marine chargers and dispatched by their master to patrol the sea realm or wage war against an enemy, in the waters or on the shore. The Nereids, perhaps the most emblematic group of sea-goddesses in the Greek imaginarium, are often pictured on dolphins in vase-paintings, reliefs and other monuments from the fifth century onwards; the same image may have been exploited verbally or scenically already in Aeschylus’ Nereids48. The warriors may be viewed as a related imaginary conception of Attic proto-comedy: a band of emissaries or representatives of the world of the sea – in essence, a transposition of the mythical idea of the dolphin-riding Nereids to the male sphere49. Folktales and legends from around the world offer parallels for the narrative situation suggested above, the army of the sea which is sent on a military mission. A comparable story occurs in one of the Jātakas, a large group of ancient Buddhist biographical legends, which recount the lives of the Buddha’ s former incarnations and incorporate much folk material and fairy-tale patterns. The narrative is set in the world of the Nāgas, the fabulous snake-demons of Indian mythology, who have their kingdom at the bottom of the sea. The king of the Nāgas asks to marry the daughter of the ruler of the city of Benares, but his proposal is refused; the Nāga king then sends up his army to invade and attack the city50. In a famous Chinese folktale, which has often been dramatized in the repertoire of classical Chinese opera, a mermaid fairy holds sway over a particular sea. When the Eight Immortals attempt to cross her sea without permission, the fairy dispatches her army of fishes, shrimps and crabs to do battle with the intruders. One of the

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dolphin-rider without connections to the military; the same holds true of other mythical, legendary or anecdotal figures (Theseus, Enalus, Coeranus, various boys loved by dolphins). Dionysus’ pirates were themselves metamorphosed into dolphins, but did not mount on them. This is proposed by Trendall–Webster 1971, 23. Schwarz 2002 suggests that the warriors are the souls of mythical heroes, such as Menelaus and Achilles, who are being trans­ ported by the dolphins to the Islands of the Blessed. In that case, the scenario would have been based on another fruitful mythical and imaginary story-pattern, the journey to the otherworld, which was also destined to enjoy great popularity in mature Attic comedy (see Melero 2000; Silva 2012–2013). See Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 16–19; Barringer 1995, 20–23, 30–44, 96–98, 116, 135–36, 141–50; Icard-Gianolio–Szabados 1992, 786, 790–93, 797, 809–13, 816–22; Schwarz 2002, 260–62. Cf. Webster 1970, 29; Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 16. See Cowell 1907, 83–86.

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Immortals is captured by the sea troops in this battle. In the end, a host of celestial warriors comes to help the Immortals defeat the fairy’ s marine army51. Lucian, who often drew on the popular tales of his Syrian homeland for his fictional creations52, presents analogous imaginary conceptions in his fantastic novel, the True Histories. In the first book the narrator and his companions travel to the moon and are brought before its king, Endymion (1,10ff.). The king of the moon has an army of men, the Hippogypoi, who are mounted on large vultures (1,11–15). He is involved in a long war against Phaethon, the king of the sun, whose troops consist of warriors astride gigantic flying ants (Hippomyrmēkes) and archers who ride huge mosquitoes (Aerokōnōpes, 1,12, 1,16). These amusing fantastical armies are modelled on the same imaginative pattern as the phalanx of the dolphin-riding soldiers of the sea; the only difference is that in Lucian’ s novel the sky and the flying creatures of the air are substituted for the water and its marine animals. Later in the same book the heroes return to earth and encounter another wondrous spectacle in the sea: giant warriors, fully armed, sail on moving islands, which they guide on the water like war ships, using long cypresses instead of oars. Moving on these ship-islands, the gigantic soldiers wage naval battles against each other (1,40–42). In this case, the marvellous army belongs again to the world of the sea, like the dolphin-knights, but uses a different kind of vehicle. A similar fairy-tale scenario may have provided the background for the early performances of the dolphin-riders. Other Archaic Attic vase-paintings of the same category may also indicate fantastic situations, motifs of magical folktale and figures drawn from the popular imaginary. Two images show Choruses of dancers travestied as bulls, with bull masks and tails; in one of the images they also wear spotted animal costumes. They have been identified as Minotaurs or personified river-gods53. Mixed beings of this kind, which combine human and animal characteristics, are extremely common in the mythology and the folk imagination of the Greeks and other ancient peoples. Specimens also appeared on the stage of Old Comedy54. The title of Pherecrates’ Myrmēkanthrōpoi suggests crossbreeds with mixed features of men and ants55. The Chorus of old dicasts in Aristophanes’ Wasps wear stings and probably have also other waspish traits in their appearance56; Peisetaerus and Euelpides, in the 51 52 53

54 55 56

See Ye 2008, 75. See Coulter 1926, 39–44; Anderson 2000, 103–19, 133–44, 190–92; Konstantakos 2019b, 298–300. Black-figure hydria, ca. 520 BC, London, British Museum, B 308; and black-figure cup, ca. 500 BC, Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, 1971.903. See Webster 1970, 21; Green 1985, 101–103, 112; Green 1991, 29; Steinhart 2004, 23–25; Rothwell 2007, 36, 45–52, 231–35; Hughes 2012, 86, 179; Hedreen 2013, 179. Cf. Rothwell 2007, 75–77, 91–92. See Norwood 1931, 161–62; Quaglia 2003, 263–69; Rothwell 2007, 121–22, 259; Franchini 2020, 129–31. See Rothwell 2007, 107–17, 256–57.

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second part of the Birds, grow feathers and are metamorphosed into a wondrous amalgam of man and bird (ll. 649–55, 801ff.). On another vase a row of five men, exotically dressed in fancy coloured tunics and corselets and long pointed hats, are walking on stilts. They may impersonate giants (another favourite creature of fairy-tale) or strangers from an alien country57. In the latter case, the performance might have exploited the familiar theme of extraordinary foreign lands and their weird populations. Finally, a skyphos of ca. 480 BC shows a group of old men who are standing on their heads58. It has been proposed that these represent the legendary people of the antipodes of the earth, who were reputed to live in an inverted world and go about in an upside-down position59. Once again the marvels of the edges of the world would have provided the subject-matter. After the introduction of comic performances into the City Dionysia, the first generation of comic poets who competed in the state festival persisted with these fantastic themes. The fragments that survive under the names of Magnes and Chionides are scant, uninformative and even dubious60. A few testimonia and play titles, nonetheless, offer hints about the subject-matter of their comic fictions. Magnes had a propensity for animal Choruses and characters. According to the résumé of his career, as given in the parabasis of Aristophanes’ Knights (ll. 520–25), Magnes brought on stage birds that flapped their wings, frogs in dyed green costumes and buzzing insects. These creatures presumably formed the speaking and singing Choruses of Magnes’ comedies; this is how the passage was explained already by the Alexandrian scholiasts of the Knights61. The tradition of animal fairy57

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Black-figure amphora by the Swing Painter, ca. 540–530 BC, Christchurch, New Zealand, James Logie Memorial Collection, University of Canterbury, 41/57. See Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 153; Webster 1970, 15; Sifakis 1971, 78, 122; Trendall– Webster 1971, 21; Green 1985, 100–101, 112; Steinhart 2004, 10–11; Rusten 2006, 46; Rothwell 2007, 30, 33; Hughes 2012, 54, 86, 276. Black-figure skyphos, Thebes, B.E. 64.342. See Trendall–Webster 1971, 23; Green 1985, 102, 106; Green 1991, 22–23; Steinhart 2004, 10; Rothwell 2007, 30–31; Hughes 2012, 86, 179; Compton-Engle 2015, 117–19. See Green 1985, 102. For the idea of the Antipodeans standing upside down cf. Plat. Tim. 63a; Lucr. 1.1057–64; Plut. Mor. 924a; Plin. Nat. Hist. 2.161. The authenticity of the texts attributed to Magnes and Chionides was doubted already by ancient scholars: Ath. 4.137e, 9.367f, 14.638d, 14.646e. See Bagordo 2014a, 51–55, 65; Bagordo 2014b, 90, 94; and above, n. 12. See Ar. Eq. 522–24: πάσας δ’ ὑμῖν φωνὰς ἰεὶς καὶ ψάλλων καὶ πτερυγίζων / καὶ λυδίζων καὶ ψηνίζων καὶ βαπτόμενος βατραχείοις / οὐκ ἐξήρκεσεν (“although he had produced every kind of sound for you, twanging the lyre, flapping wings, speaking Lydian, buzzing like a gall fly and dyeing himself frog-green, he did not last”). Schol. ad Eq. 522a: ψάλλων· τοὺς Βαρβιτιστὰς ἂν λέγοι· δρᾶμα δέ ἐστι τοῦ Μάγνητος. […] πτερυγίζων δὲ ὅτι καὶ Ὄρνιθας ἐποίησε δρᾶμα· ἔγραψε δὲ καὶ Λυδοὺς καὶ Ψῆνας καὶ Βατράχους. ἔστι δὲ χρώματος εἶδος τὸ βατράχειον· ἀπὸ τούτου καὶ βατραχὶς ἱμάτιον. […] τὸ ψηνίζων δὲ εἶπεν ὡς πρὸς τοὺς Ψῆνας ἀναφέρων. Cf. Bagordo 2014b, 82–84, 88–89.

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tales, which had nurtured the primitive Attic comic shows, was thus continued62. On the other hand, Magnes also presented a comedy with a Chorus of Lydians (cf. Ar. Eq. 523). Chionides similarly wrote a play entitled Persians or Assyrians. These works might have taken up the stories of exotic adventures, distant countries and outlandish populations – the kind of subject-matter that was exploited in the fantastic extravaganza of the ostrich-riders, perhaps also in the performances of the fancy-dressed stilt-walkers and the upside-down Antipodeans63. The mature Märchenkomödie, from Crates to Archippus The plots of the Märchenkomödie become more tangible for us after the 450s, when Attic comedy developed into a literary and sophisticated form of art. From this time onwards, the textual fragments and testimonia of the lost plays become more substantial and allow some insight into their subject-matter and storylines, occasionally also into particular comic episodes. From among the poets of the earliest literary phase, who began their theatrical careers around the middle of the fifth century, Crates in particular seems to have had a strong penchant for fairy-tale materials. Aristotle called Crates “the first maker of universal stories and plots” in Attic comedy (Po. 1449b7–9); Aristophanes praised his “extremely intelligent inventions” (Eq. 539). Many of these celebrated stories and inventions belonged to the world of the magical and the fantastic. If Crates’ output had been preserved intact, he might rank today as one of the grand masters of grotesque fantasy, on a par with Lucian, Rabelais or Terry Gilliam. Crates’ most emblematic work of this type was the Beasts (Θηρία), in which the animals of the title must have formed the Chorus. A series of fragments survive from this comedy (frr. 16–19 K.–A.)64, which are evidently connected with each other and refer to the same thematic sphere; they may well belong to the

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Cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 154, 191–93; Sifakis 1971, 76–77; Wilkins 2000a, 341–42; Rothwell 2007, 52, 57, 80, 102–107, 117–20, 132–35, 255–58, 263–64; Storey 2010, 182, 185–86; Csapo 2013, 69–70; Bagordo 2014b, 84, 89, 103, 110; Compton-Engle 2015, 123–24; Henderson 2015, 149. Cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 157; Sifakis 1971, 78; Bowie 2000, 319; Green 2007, 104; Rothwell 2007, 33–34, 226; Hughes 2012, 18; Bagordo 2014a, 27, 50; Bagordo 2014b, 97–102. On the theme and material of Crates’ Thēria see mainly Zielinski 1885, 20–22, 57–59; Norwood 1931, 147–50; Baldry 1953, 53–54; Bonanno 1972, 29, 51–54, 85–101; Carrière 1979, 256–63; Ceccarelli 1996, 119–21; Farioli 1999, 21–37, 54–59; Wilkins 2000a, 341, 347–48; Pellegrino 2000, 55–69; Ceccarelli 2000, 453–55, 464, 466; Ruffell 2000, 481–83, 498; Farioli 2001, 12–15, 57–74, 196–97; Olson 2007, 100–101; Rothwell 2007, 123–26, 259–60; García Soler 2009, 203–204; Konstan 2012; Konstan 2014, 287–88; Perrone 2019, 98–121.

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same broader episode of the play65. As transpires from the text, the beasts fluently spoke the human language and communicated with men. A process of mutual transactions and negotiations seems to have been conducted between the tribe of the animals and certain representatives of the human race. In one substantial fragment (fr. 16 K.–A.) a character promises to establish a paradisiacal utopia of abundance and automatic production; food will be cooked on its own, while the tables and the other utensils of the kitchen will move and act on their own accord, in order to supply meals. (A.) So no one is going to own a male or female slave, and an old man is going to do all his work himself? (B.) Certainly not, because I shall make everything capable of moving itself. (A.) How will this help them? (B.) All the household equipment will come of its own accord, whenever someone shouts: “Table! Set yourself beside me! And get yourself ready with no help! Knead, my little grain-sack! Pour some wine, ladle! Where is the cup? Go wash yourself! Get up on the table, barley-cake! The cook-pot should already have been pouring out the beets. Fish! Get over here!” “But I am not roasted on the other side yet”. “Then turn yourself over, baste yourself and sprinkle on some salt!” (Transl. Olson 2007, 427, adapted.)

The interlocutor who forecasts this extraordinary culinary fairyland is most probably the Chorus of the beasts or a representative of them66. Another related passage (fr. 17 K.–A.) extends the concept of magical automatism to the domain of the bathroom and the luxuries of personal healthcare. Hot running water will spontaneously channel itself into the bathtubs; the paraphernalia of the toilet and the boudoir will arrive willingly to serve the needs of men. Perhaps the speaker of these promises is again a personage who belongs to or is connected with the Chorus of the marvel-working beasts of fr. 16 K.–A.67. 65 66

67

See Whittaker 1935, 186–87; Bonanno 1972, 85–89, 97; Carrière 1979, 259; Farioli 1999, 21–36; Ceccarelli 2000, 453–55, 464; Farioli 2001, 57–72. See Zielinski 1885, 20–22; Norwood 1931, 147–48; Baldry 1953, 54; Bonanno 1972, 88– 89; Ceccarelli 2000, 454; Rothwell 2007, 125–26; Perrone 2019, 103–104; cf. Konstan 2012, 16. Alternatively, it has been proposed that the words come from the lips of an ally or collaborator of the beasts’ Chorus, for example, a mythical hero or patron god who protects the animals, or a human who has taken their side, like Peisetaerus in the Birds. See Carrière 1979, 258–59; Ceccarelli 1996, 119; Farioli 1999, 25–28, 35; Ceccarelli 2000, 454; Farioli 2001, 60–63, 72; Perrone 2019, 103–105. See however fr. 19 K.–A., which is analyzed immediately below. Athenaeus (6.268a) states that fr. 17 K.–A. is spoken by a personage who “holds a discourse in opposition to” the promulgator of culinary automatism in fr. 16 K.–A. (ὁ τὸν ἐναντίον τούτῳ παραλαμβάνων λόγον φησίν). But he may be confused or mistaken; the two quotations are composed in different metres (fr. 16 K.–A. in iambic tetrameters,

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Ioannis M. Konstantakos But consider the other side. For in turn I shall provide hot baths for my people, straight from the sea on columns, just like at the House of Healing, so that it will flow into everyone’ s bathtubs. The water will say “Turn me off now, people”, and immediately there will arrive on its own a jar full of perfume, a sponge and sandals. (Transl. Storey 2011, I 219, adapted.)

In the fantastic world of Crates’ comedy, the animals or their patrons must have been equipped with supernatural powers, which they would employ so as to achieve these miracles of abundance and animation68. The talking beasts which possess magical powers and use them to help the hero in his tasks are a perennial motif in the popular imaginary and a key concept in fairy-tale narratives, from the Central European Märchen of the Brothers Grimm to the exotic universe of the Arabian Nights69. Often the magical animal provides his human protégé with treasures, unlimited food supplies or other circumstances of plenty in a miraculous manner70. To cite only a few examples, in a fairy-tale of the Brothers Grimm (Kinder- und Hausmärchen no. 19, “The fisherman and his wife”, ATU type 555) the marvel-working fish successively brings forth for the hero a magnificent castle, a kingdom, an empire and even the papacy, all of them accompanied with the concomitant riches and human servants. In a story of the Arabian Nights a poor fisherman of Baghdad fishes up a magical monkey, which brings him extraordinary good fortune, so that he catches enormous loads of fish and amasses a lot of money71. In an Indonesian folktale three orphan sisters catch a miraculous bird, which lays for them great quantities of cooked rice and fish every day72. The magical beasts of Crates’ comedy would similarly provide their human partners with a miraculously created abundance of luxuries. However, the negotiation between men and animals involves a price to pay for these extraordinary marvels. In another excerpt of comic dialogue (fr. 19 K.–A.) the beasts or their representative require that humans must henceforward abstain

68 69 70

71 72

fr. 17 K.–A. in iambic trimeters) and might come from the lips of the same character in different parts of the scene. Note that the introductory formula of fr. 17 K.–A. (ἀλλ’ ἀντίθες τοι, “but contrast this”) need not signify the beginning of a discourse opposed to the tirade of fr. 16 K.–A. It may simply introduce a response to a preceding objection. See Norwood 1931, 148–49; Baldry 1953, 54; Bonanno 1972, 86–89; Carrière 1979, 258–59, 261; Ceccarelli 2000, 454; Pellegrino 2000, 63–64; Rothwell 2007, 260; cf. the overview in Farioli 1999, 27; Farioli 2001, 62–63; and Perrone 2019, 109–10. Cf. Farioli 2001, 58, 68–69, 72; Perrone 2019, 103. See e. g. Thompson 1955–1958, I 374–95, 441–43; Uther 2004, I 296–98, 308–14, 317, 322–26, 395 (tale types 511, 530, 531, 532*, 535, 537, 545A*, 552, 554, 555, 739*). See e. g. Thompson 1955–1958, I 374, 376–78, 391–93, 447, 458–59 (motifs B100.2, B103–B103.7.1, B108, B110–B119.2, B182.1.1, B184.2.1.3, B531, B580, B581, B583); cf. Farioli 2001, 69. See Burton 1885, 145–55, 185–89. See Dixon 1916, 237–38, 339.

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from the consumption of animal meat. This is presumably forwarded as a prerequisite or a necessary stipulation in the context of a mutual agreement for the common life of animals and men in the future. (A.) Also you may boil cabbages and roast fresh and salted fish, but keep your hands away from us. (B.) So, as you say, we won’ t be eating meat from the market any more? We won’ t be making any meat pies or sausages? (Transl. Storey 2011, I 219, adapted.)

In this passage the first speaker clearly identifies himself with the animals, speaking in the first person plural (l. 2, ἡμῶν δ’ ἄπο χεῖρας ἔχεσθαι), as if he is himself an edible creature in danger of being slain and eaten by men73. This strengthens the impression that the speakers of frr. 16 and 17, who promise the marvellous utopia of automatism, also belong to or represent the Chorus of the beasts. Abstinence from animal flesh – in other words, the protection and inviolability of the animals’ life – will be the sacrifice that humans will have to make in return for the dreamlike life of bliss they are promised74. The deal seems fair enough, even though the human negotiator of fr. 19 K.–A. protests because, like a good bloody Greek, he finds it hard to relinquish his taste for tripe and offal-sausage. Crates’ play is permeated by the fantasy of the speaking animals which express themselves in human voice and language, effectively intervene in the world of men, converse and collaborate with the human heroes. Crates takes up and develops the basic theme which had nourished the proto-comic performances of Archaic Athens and the pioneering Dionysian comedies of Magnes. Apart from this old favourite material of the Märchenkomödie, the remains of the Thēria also include other well-known ingredients of magical fairy-tales. Firstly, the paradisiacal world promised in frr. 16 and 17 involves the miraculous enlivenment of inanimate objects, such as pieces of furniture and common utensils of the kitchen and the bathroom; these are imagined to come alive and spontaneously perform their functions in the service of men. The table will set itself for dinner and the vases of the kitchen will move of their own accord; the grain-sack will knead the dough, the ladle will pour wine, the wine-cup will wash itself, the cook-pot will boil the beets and pour them out (fr. 16,4–8 K.–A.). The vase of perfume, the sponge and the sandals will move on their own and come to their master, while he will be taking his bath (fr. 17,6–7 K.–A.). Even the water is imagined to acquire voice and instruct people to stop its flow, when the bathtub is filled (fr. 17,5 K.–A.). It is unknown whether this wonderful vision was only narrated or actually materialized on stage in a later scene of the play, after the 73 74

Cf. Zielinski 1885, 20–21; Farioli 1999, 31; Farioli 2001, 67. Cf. Baldry 1953, 54; Ceccarelli 1996, 120; Farioli 1999, 30–31; Ceccarelli 2000, 455, 464; Pellegrino 2000, 57–58; Farioli 2001, 58, 66–68; Rothwell 2007, 125; Perrone 2019, 99, 119–20.

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eventual establishment of the comic utopia. Even in the extant fragments, the conception of live and moving objects is very picturesquely visualized75. This is an emblematic motif of the popular imaginary. In magical fairy-tales inanimate things are regularly portrayed as living creatures which act and move of their own will; sometimes they even speak and behave like human beings and perform characteristic activities of men. This marvellous phenomenon may be engineered in a number of ways in the context of the narrative. The objects may be bewitched by a wizard or by another character with extraordinary powers, and thus acquire the attributes of life as a result of the magical spell. Alternatively, the animation of material items may be supposed from the outset to be an inherent characteristic of the fantastic universe of the story, on the same fictional level as e. g. talking animals or other supernatural motifs. Very often the enlivened objects of folktales belong to the category of common household utensils, as happens also in Crates’ fantastic world; they are vessels and tools of the kitchen and the cupboard, the storeroom and the housewife’ s shed – from needle, broom, dustpan, brush, distaff and spindle to teapot, bucket, knives, forks, spoons, jugs and dishes76. In particular, the tales concerning animals and their adventures frequently tend to incorporate animated objects as characters and factors of the plot. Since the animals are shown speaking and acting like men in these narratives, the phenomenon can be easily extended to material things which are involved in the same adventures. In these fantastic fictions the usual distinctions of ordinary reality between live creatures and inorganic matter, between humans, beasts and lifeless things, are transcended; all beings interact and participate in a pantheistic creation of the imagination77. This fairy-tale motif also has old roots in the imaginary traditions of the ancient world. In Greek myths the divine craftsman Hephaestus and the extraordinary inventor Daedalus fabricate wonderful artefacts, into which they instill the miraculous power of self-movement and automatic function78. In literary fairytales of magic and fantasy, such as those narrated by Lucian (Philops. 33–36) and 75

76

77 78

On the animated objects in the Thēria see Poeschel 1878, 392–93; Zielinski 1885, 22, 59; Bonanno 1972, 178; Farioli 1999, 29–30; Pellegrino 2000, 23–24, 60–61, 68–69; Farioli 2001, 65–66; Pellegrino 2006, 181–83; García Soler 2009, 204–205; Melero 2009, 67, 76; García Soler 2012, 321–22; Konstan 2012; Konstan 2014, 287–88; Duranti 2015, 131, 141–43, 146–47, 150; Perrone 2019, 104. There is a vast quantity of such folktales, coming from every corner of the world; see e. g. the stories cited in von Hahn 1864, 74, 106, 253, 267, 342; Bolte–Polívka 1913–1932, I 75–79, 227, II 438–40, III 355; Thompson 1955–1958, II 277–95, III 261 (motifs D1600–D1649, F1025–F1025.2.1); Uther 2004, I 73, 132–33, 334–35, 346–48 (tale types 90, 210, 565, 585, 591); cf. Demerson 1981, 542–44. Cf. Reckford 1987, 78, 90, 99. See Hom. Il. 18.373–77, 417–21, 468–73; Od. 7.91–94; Simon. PMG 568; Plat. Euthphr. 11d, Men. 97d; Arist. Pol. 1253b35–38; cf. also Od. 8.557–63. The parallel is noted by many students of Crates’ comedy; see the references above, n. 75.

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Apuleius (Met. 2.32–3.18), wizards and witches cast spells over household items, causing them to become alive, roam about and perform various tasks. Personified objects which speak and behave like human beings are also a standard ingredient of ancient fables, both in the classical Aesopic tradition and in its Near-Eastern cognates and forerunners79. This age-old fantastic concept was picked up by the authors of the Attic Märchenkomödie and was exploited also in other dramas, after Crates’ seminal work. In a scene of Eupolis’ Chrysoun Genos (“The Golden Race”) a character points to a loaf of cheese which is walking off towards the water, clothed in its rind, presumably to be washed on its own before being eaten or stored (fr. 299 K.–A.). This amusing spectacle may have been presented live on stage by an actor or an extra, who would represent the cheese in a suitable costume80. In the famous episode of the dogs’ trial in Aristophanes’ Wasps a number of kitchen utensils (bowl, pestle, cheese-grater, brazier, kettle and other cooking pots) appear at Philocleon’ s domestic court as witnesses for the defence (ll. 936–39, 962–66); they take their places in the court, wait for their turn to give evidence, and one of them (the cheese-grater) actually takes the witness stand and is cross-examined and interrogated by the defendant’ s representative. These animated vessels may also have been amusingly portrayed by extras suitably disguised in picturesque costumes; they would resemble grotesque and gigantic kitchen pots walking around and gesticulating, like the analogous figures in present-day cartoons81. Returning to Crates’ Thēria, the main speaker of fr. 16 K.–A. forecasts a society of gastronomic plenty, in which culinary goods will be available in profusion and ready to be consumed, without any need for labour on the part of mankind. Fr. 18 K.–A. (“having a life of pleasure and property in abundance”) doubtless pertains to the description of the same paradisiacal kind of existence82. This thematic strain has striking similarities with a famous utopian construct of medieval and later European folklore and popular storytelling: the so-called ‘land of Cockaigne’ or, in its mouth-filling German version, the ‘Schlaraffenland’. This is a fantastic otherworld in which nature itself undertakes the functions of the cook and the pastry-maker. The forces and elements of nature produce automatically a great abundance and variety of cooked foodstuffs. In international folk tradition the fic79

80 81

82

See the Aesopic fables 270 and 368 Perry (296 and 280 Hausrath), 378 Perry (Babr. Myth. 193 Crusius) and 438 Perry (Ar. Vesp. 1435–40); and an old oriental parable of ca. 1400 BC, preserved in a bilingual Hittite and Hurrian composition (Neu 1996, 80–83; Hoffner 1998, 70). See Zielinski 1885, 58, 66; Ruffell 2000, 490, 501; Storey 2003, 269; cf. Olson 2016, 468–71. Cf. MacDowell 1971, 19, 254–55; Duranti 2015, 142–45. More generally on this comic motif cf. Baldry 1953, 59; Carrière 1979, 260; Ruffell 2000, 501; Konstan 2012, 13, 17; Duranti 2015. See Farioli 1999, 30; Farioli 2001, 66; Perrone 2019, 115–17.

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tions of this type often take the form of simple humorous stories, jests (Schwänke) or lying tales (Lügenmärchen), which describe the imaginary universe with burlesque exuberance. On the other hand, the depiction of Cockaigne may also be inserted into the narrative of a voyage and become a traveller’ s tale, a fabulous wonder encountered in a faraway, extraordinary land at the outskirts of human experience83. The portrayal of such cornucopian paradises became common in Attic fairytale comedies during the last decades of the fifth century84. A long series of excerpts from plays on the theme of Cockaigne is cited by Athenaeus (6.267e–70a), but there is no reason to assume that his list is exhaustive. The same fantastic conception was doubtless exploited also in other Attic comedies, not included in Athenaeus’ anthology85. The image of the otherworld could be introduced into the comic plot in a variety of ways. In Pherecrates’ Metallēs (“Miners”, fr. 113 K.–A.) the utopia of trenchermen was discovered in the realm of the dead by some diggers in the mines of Laurium, who delved too greedily and too deep, like Tolkien’ s dwarves, and reached down to Hades. In other comedies the marvellous place of plenty was located in a faraway country, such as the wondrous Persia (Pherecrates’ Persians, fr. 137 K.–A.), the voluptuous South-Italian town of Thurii (Metagenes’ Thuriopersians, fr. 6 K.–A.) or the mythical isle of the Sirens (Nicophon’ s Sirens, frr. 21, 22). Its description was placed on the lips of a foreigner or a traveller coming from the distant land and reporting on its marvels. The theme of Cockaigne was thus combined with the modes and patterns of the imaginary travelogue, which was a staple of the Attic Märchenkomödie from its earliest stages. On the other hand, Telecleides in his Amphiktyones (fr. 1 K.–A.) and Cratinus in his Ploutoi (frr. 172, 175, 176 K.–A.) set the Schlaraffenland in a golden age of the distant past and describe it as a fond recollection of a long-lost, primeval state of bliss. Crates seems to reverse this latter pattern, when he presents the utopian society as a promise and a prophecy for the future, instead of a reminiscence of time past. In all these comic fantasies emphasis is placed on gastronomic hedonism. The mainstay of the descriptions is the plethora of ready-made delicacies and their unhampered consumption by the fortunate inhabitants of the magical land. 83

84

85

On this fantastic concept in the international narrative tradition see Ackermann 1944; Cocchiara 1956, 141, 159–87, 248–50; Kenner 1970, 69–82, 171–72; Cioranescu 1971; Demerson 1981; Cocchiara 1981, 55–69, 143–47, 177–81, 212; Müller 1984; Richter 1984; Kasper 1992–1993; Hansen 2002, 378–92. There is abundant bibliography on these comic portrayals of Cockaigne. See Baldry 1953; Langerbeck 1963; Gatz 1967, 116–21, 201, 206; Cantarella 1969, 331–36; Kenner 1970, 72–78; Morocho Gayo 1977; Carrière 1979, 88–90, 255–69; Bertelli 1982, 520–23; Zimmermann 1983, 59–62; Mainoldi 1989, 251–58; Ceccarelli 1996; Ruffell 2000; Pellegrino 2000; Wilkins 2000c, 109–30; Farioli 2001, 10­–15, 27–137, 187–233; Melero 2006; Pellegrino 2006; García Soler 2009; Melero 2009; García Soler 2012; Pellegrino 2013, 13–17, 61–70; Bagordo 2013, 18–21, 43–104; Orth 2014, 379, 408–34. Cf. Ceccarelli 1996, 131–35.

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It is noteworthy that many individual motifs and descriptive elements recur in most of the preserved fragments, either in the same form or with small variations. Identical or closely akin visions of abundance and natural generation of foodstuffs are included again and again in the comic discourses of different authors. Collectively, all these elements compose a standard repertoire of culinary topoi, which become the building blocks for the construction of the fairy-tale utopia. Apparently, the comic dramatists freely borrowed motifs and images from each other, and each one of them elaborated, expanded or diversified these elements in his own peculiar way86. This cluster of recurrent and interconnected imaginary motifs helps to understand most vividly that the Attic Märchenkomödie was essentially an art of themes and variations. For example, the rivers and streams of the utopian world are filled with meat soup or wine. Steaming sausages and slices of meat lie on their banks, instead of pebbles or shells. Baked loaves of bread vie with each other to be eaten. Fishes cover themselves in flour and jump willingly into the frying pan. Roasted birds fly around and thrust themselves into the open mouths of the eaters. Chitterlings and stewed cuttlefishes hang from the branches of the trees like ripe fruit. Grilled fishes swim in the rivers. The rain is made of pea-soup; the snow is barley flour. And whenever someone eats one of these items, this is automatically replenished and doubled in quantity. Many of these motifs resurface later, in an almost identical form, in the European folktales about Cockaigne or in popular chapbooks of the Renaissance and the Baroque period87. This is one of the most genuine components of magical fairy-tale which have been received into ancient comedy. Crates was a seminal figure in the history of the Märchenkomödie and exercised considerable influence on the later practitioners of the genre. The echo of his Beasts is heard more than a decade later in Aristophanes’ Birds (414 BC)88. Even after a full quarter of a century, the impact of Crates’ fantasy is still felt in Archippus’ Fishes89, the last masterpiece of Attic animal comedy, produced shortly 86

87 88 89

This phenomenon is often noted; see e. g. Baldry 1953, 55–60; Gatz 1967, 117–21; Ceccarelli 1996, 124, 129–30, 132, 138–39, 155; Pellegrino 2000, 31, 62, 79, 92–93, 103, 119, 121, 130–31, 136, 139–40; Wilkins 2000c, 113–14, 119; Ruffell 2000, 483–86, 498–99; Melero 2006, 133–34, 137–38; Pellegrino 2006, 180, 190–91; Melero 2009, 75; García Soler 2012, 320–22; Pellegrino 2013, 15–16, 68–70; Bagordo 2013, 18–19, 53–54, 61–73; Orth 2014, 411, 417, 420–26. The same practice of intertextual borrowing and repetition characterizes later the large corpus of European chapbooks and poems about the land of Cockaigne; see Poeschel 1878, 422–23; Ackermann 1944, 79, 92–96; Cocchiara 1956, 159; Müller 1984, 14–24, 57, 74, 95, 98, 108, 126–28, 135; Kasper 1992–1993, 262, 276. Cf. Ackermann 1944, 79, 140; Cocchiara 1956, 181–84; Gatz 1967, 118; Müller 1984, 13, 16; Hansen 2002, 380, 383, 390. See Kenner 1970, 74; Ceccarelli 1996, 120, 139; Farioli 1999, 21, 54–59; Ceccarelli 2000, 460; Farioli 2001, 71–72, 196–97. See Farioli 1999, 48, 54–59; Farioli 2001, 168, 191–92; Miccolis 2017, 97–98.

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after 403 BC90. Several fragments of the Fishes have been preserved, mainly thanks to Athenaeus who had a special interest in this play (7.329c), and allow some insight into the main premises and situations of the plot91. The fishes of the sea found a new city or society of their own, like Aristophanes’ birds and Crates’ beasts92, and undertake the various public offices, administrative functions and hieratic positions of the state. The distribution of state posts is based on wordplays involving the name of the corresponding fish species; the fish names are correlated with homophonous words which signify appropriate human tasks, social functions and qualities. For example, the bogue is called βόαξ in Greek, which phonetically resembles the word βοή, “shout, cry”; this fish is therefore appointed a public herald (fr. 16 K.–A.). The saupe (σάλπης) is associated with the word σάλπιγξ, “trumpet”, and assumes the service of the trumpeter (fr. 16 K.–A.). The dogfishes, γαλεοί, are nearly homonymous with a Sicilian clan of diviners, the Galeoi or Galeōtai; hence they are proclaimed seers and prophets of the sea (fr. 15 K.–A.). The grouper, ὀρφώς, brings to mind Orpheus and the Orphics; thus he serves as priest of a certain god (fr. 17 K.–A.). The gilthead, χρύσοφρυς, has the Greek word for gold embedded in his name; as a result, he becomes a priest of Aphrodite, the goddess standardly designated as “golden” (χρυσέη) in ancient poetry (fr. 18 K.–A.)93. In general, the fishes’ society was organized according to the model of the democratic polis of Athens. In one passage (fr. 14 K.–A.) the fish characters discuss the election of public officials (πραγμάτων ἐπιστάτας, “overseers of state affairs”), who may be chosen by democratic vote, disqualified through a process of scrutiny (ἀποδοκιμάζειν), and then re-elected – like fishes that are caught, thrown back to the sea and fished up again94. In the assembly of this marine city the orators

90

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92

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On the date of the Fishes see Geissler 1969, 66–67; Csapo 1994, 40; Farioli 1999, 38; Farioli 2001, 157; Storey 2012, 2; Miccolis 2017, 100, 203. Eucleides, the Athenian eponymous archon of 403/2 BC, is mentioned as “having exercised the archonship” in the past (Εὐκλείδην τὸν ἄρξαντα, fr. 27 K.–A.). On the other hand, the politician Anytus, who is mocked in the play (fr. 31 K.–A.), was exiled from Athens after 397. The comedy should therefore belong, at the latest, to the early 390s. On Archippus’ play see Zielinski 1885, 40–41, 71–72; Lawler 1941; Willis 1991, 337; Csapo 1994; Farioli 1999, 37–59; Wilkins 2000a, 345–47, 351–52; Wilkins 2000b; Farioli 2001, 156–74; Rothwell 2007, 126–30, 260–62; Pace 2008; Storey 2012, 2, 6–19; Miccolis 2017, 92–211. Cf. Farioli 1999, 38–41, 54–59; Wilkins 2000b, 529; Farioli 2001, 71–72, 157–60, 165–70, 189–92, 228; Rothwell 2007, 127–28, 260–61; Pace 2008, 122–23; Storey 2012, 6–9; Miccolis 2017, 99. On these puns see Csapo 1994, 40–44; Farioli 1999, 40–43, 53; Farioli 2001, 160–64, 173–74; Pace 2008, 123; Storey 2012, 7–8, 10; Miccolis 2017, 95–96, 99, 102–103, 113–36. See Farioli 2001, 158–59; Rothwell 2007, 127; Miccolis 2017, 95, 105–13.

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addressed the people with the salutation ἄνδρες ἰχθύες (fr. 30 K.–A.), as though they were members of a democratic Ecclesia95. The fishes of Archippus’ play also enter into negotiations and agreements with the human race, like the animals of Crates’ comedy. More particularly, they make a treaty with the Athenians, in which the two parties agree to mutually restore to each other whatever property of the other party is held by each one of them (fr. 27 K.–A., ἀποδοῦναι δ’ ὅσα ἔχομεν ἀλλήλων). In this context, the Athenians undertake to hand over to the fishes a number of more or less famous personalities of Athens whose names or nicknames are taken from fishes or other creatures of the waters. Because of their marine appellations, these people are considered as properly belonging to the world of the fishes96. The treaty obviously presupposes a conflict or war between the fishes and the Athenians, like the war between the birds and the Olympian gods in Aristophanes’ play, which also ends with a parley leading to a mutual agreement97. Possibly as part of the same pact, the fishes require the surrender of certain men of Athens who have caused great harm to the fish population. One of them is the notorious glutton Melanthius, who had a passion for consuming fish; he is given up to the fishes to be eaten by them in retaliation (fr. 28 K.–A.). Another passage (fr. 23 K.–A.) voices a strong complaint against the fishmonger Hermaios, who violently skins and disembowels various fishes in order to sell them in his shop. Professionals of this class may also have been included in the group of enemies demanded by the fishes as targets of punishment and revenge98. 95 96

97

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Cf. Farioli 1999, 47–48; Wilkins 2000a, 346; Farioli 2001, 168; Miccolis 2017, 96, 109, 199–202. The punning list consists of the Θρᾷτται (“Thracian women”, presumably female slaves or hetairai, but also the name of a fish, the shad); a flute-girl called Atherinē (“sandsmelt”); a woman named Sēpia (“Mrs. Cuttlefish”), wife of a certain Thyrsos; a group of men designated as Trigliai (“red mullets”); Eucleides, the former eponymous archon of Athens, included here because his name contains the word κλεῖδες, i. e. choice morsels from the shoulders of the tuna (thus “Eucleides” could be taken to mean “the tunny with the nice shoulder meat”); the family of the Korakiōnes from the deme of Anagyrous, whose name recalls the κορακῖνος (“castagnole” or “meagre”); a man from Salamis called Kōbios (“goby”, a word that was actually used as a personal name in Classical Athens); and a minor official called Batrachos (“frog” and also “monkfish”, another well-documented personal name in ancient Greece). See Farioli 1999, 50–53; Wilkins 2000a, 346, 351–52; Farioli 2001, 170–73; Rothwell 2007, 127, 261; Pace 2008, 113, 122–26; Storey 2012, 8–9; Miccolis 2017, 180–90. Cf. Zielinski 1885, 40; Lawler 1941, 142; Willis 1991, 337; Csapo 1994, 41; Farioli 1999, 37–39, 52, 56; Wilkins 2000a, 345–46; Farioli 2001, 157–58, 168–69, 189–90; Rothwell 2007, 127–30; Pace 2008, 123; Storey 2012, 6–8; Miccolis 2017, 95–99, 180. Cf. Csapo 1994, 41; Farioli 1999, 44–49; Wilkins 2000a, 346; Farioli 2001, 164–67; Rothwell 2007, 126–27, 261; Pace 2008, 123–25; Storey 2012, 7, 9–10; Miccolis 2017, 95, 97–99, 142–43, 151–60, 190–94. Fr. 20 K.–A. (“when you were eating fat bonitos”)

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Archippus developed in his play the funny and paradoxical idea of speaking fishes to the utmost degree. This humorous conception had also been exploited in earlier comedies, albeit peripherally or in passing, as a brief gag or a momentary comic effect. Already in Crates’ Beasts the character promising a future utopia of automatism imagined, among other marvels, a half-baked fish which protests and holds a conversation with the cook, while it is fried in the pan (fr. 16,9–10 K.–A.). In this case the talking fish was simply introduced in a narration, as a small humorous detail of the fantastic prediction, and its words were reported by the speaker. In Pherecrates’ Myrmēkanthrōpoi, on the other hand, the same paradoxical phenomenon may have been presented on stage as a live spectacle. The Myrmēkanthrōpoi was apparently a travesty of the Greek myth of the Deluge, in which Deucalion and Pyrrha, the Greek pair of survivor heroes, must have played some role99. In a fragment from a dialogue (fr. 117 K.–A.) a character addresses another personage and exclaims with surprise: “What nonsense are you speaking? And yet they say that a fish does not possess a voice at all”. Such a statement implies that the addressee is a fish who has just pronounced some words and provoked the speaker’ s amazement. The scenic arrangement thus presupposes a talking fish visible before the characters on stage; this could have been represented by a regular actor or by an effigy to which voice would have been given through ventriloquism. Possibly the episode involved Deucalion, who would be drifting in his arc on the waters, after the great flood. He would catch a fish from the water and would hardly believe his ears, when this creature suddenly spoke in a normal human voice100. But when the whole earth has been covered by water, who else except fishes remains to talk to? The comic effect of these scenes is produced from the absurd inversion of the natural order. Fishes are proverbially voiceless, and their muteness was a catchword in antiquity; proverbial phrases such as ἀφωνότερος ἰχθύων or ἄφωνος ὥσπερ ἰχθύς were widespread in Greek popular parlance, and synonymous epithets (e. g. ἄναυδος or the poetic μυνδός) are regularly attributed to fishes by ancient authors101. Thus, the appearance on stage of a talking fish was a bold stroke of fantasy: a live contradiction in terms, a proverbial impossibility that has come true, an adynaton scenically materialized and visibly enacted in front of the

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may be addressed precisely to a gluttonous fish-eater (opsophagos) like Melanthius, who is accused by the fishes for his crimes or threatened with punishment. See Norwood 1931, 161–62; Whittaker 1935, 182; Dover 1966, 41; Kassel–Austin 1989, 161–67; Urios Aparisi 1996–1997, 79; Quaglia 2003, 263–92; Storey 2011, II 477; Franchini 2020, 131–70. See Norwood 1931, 161; Quaglia 2003, 269–71; cf. Zielinski 1885, 28–29. See e. g. Aesch. Pers. 577–78; Soph. Aj. 1297, fr. 762 R., fr. 1072 R.; Call. fr. 533 Pf.; Lyc. Alex. 1375; Luc. Ind. 16, JTr. 35, Pisc. 51; Ath. 7.308b–c; Artem. 2.14 (p. 128,20–129,3 Pack); Sext. Emp. Adv. Math. 2.18; Apost. 13.45 (CPG II 585); Them. Or. 21, 261b–c; cf. Konstantakos 2003, 104–107; Wilkins 2000b, 535; Quaglia 2003, 269–71; Rothwell 2007, 145.

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spectators’ eyes. Archippus exploited this fabulous idea with fullness and consistency, transforming it into a real coup de théâtre. In Crates it had been merely an incidental reference; in Pherecrates it was apparently a brief gag limited to an individual episode. In Archippus’ work, however, the idea of the speaking fishes was expanded into a fully-fledged comedy and must have provided the material for the entire dramatic plot102. Once again it can be perceived how the art of the Athenian Märchenkomödie was a craft of variations on such traditional themes. In general, all these fairy-tale comedies, from the Archaic improvised performances to Crates, Pherecrates and Archippus, exploited the mechanisms of incongruity and inversion, the poetics of the topsy-turvy and the grotesque, the humorous image of a mundus inversus103. The animals of land and sea were shown performing actions and tasks that were incompatible with their natural qualities. The mute fishes acquired voices and talked. They undertook various kinds of work that required loud and high-sounding speech, from public crier and officiating priest to orator and debater in the assembly. The fishes now captured the gluttons and sellers which used to lay hands on them before. Furthermore, the irrational beasts conducted very rational negotiations and forwarded most sensible arguments. The quarry and domestic animals, which would normally end up in the oven or the casserole, now came to dominate over the households and the kitchens of men. The reversal of the natural order is a core motif in folktales from all around the world, especially in the humorous genre of the ‘lying tales’ or Lügenmärchen. In this type of folk narrative many particular instances of reversal are accumulated into a long sequence; like small coloured pebbles placed next to each other, they gradually form the absurd mosaic of a mundus inversus, in which the laws of nature and the terms of reality have been turned upside down. In the European popular tradition the fantastic country of the Cockaigne or Schlaraffenland is often described in this manner, as a place in which carnival and fools’ day last all year long. The two relevant tales in the collection of the Brothers Grimm (nos. 158, “Das Märchen vom Schlauraffenland”, and 159, “Das Dietmarsische Lügenmärchen”) offer typical examples104. The spirit of these tales oscillates between the side-split102 103 104

Cf. Wilkins 2000a, 346–47; Wilkins 2000b, 535; Rothwell 2007, 126; Pace 2008, 123; Miccolis 2017, 93. See Farioli 1999, 17–21, 38, 45–50, 54–59; Pellegrino 2000, 28–36; Farioli 2001, 12–14, 72–74, 156–60, 164–70, 188–97, 226–39; Miccolis 2017, 97–98. See e. g. tale no. 158: “In the time of Schlauraffen I went there, and saw Rome and the Lateran hanging by a small silken thread, and a man without feet who outran a swift horse, and a keen sharp sword that cut through a bridge. There I saw a young ass with a silver nose which pursued two fleet hares, and a lime tree that was very large, on which hot cakes were growing. There I saw a lean old goat which carried about a hundred cart-loads of fat on his body, and sixty loads of salt. Have I not told enough lies? There I saw a plough ploughing without horse or cow; and a child of one year threw four millstones from Ratisbon to Treves, and from Treves to Strasburg; and a hawk swam

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ting fantasies of Rabelais and the grotesque visions of Hieronymus Bosch. They are set in an alternative world in which Sancho Panza would become governor, Pulcinella would be minister of finances and Mikhail Bakhtin would be the official intellectual and spokesman of the status quo. Aristophanes’ Birds and the meaning of the Märchenkomödie In the foregoing sections an overview has been offered of the main themes, comic techniques and aesthetic effects of the Attic Märchenkomödien, in so far as these elements can be discerned from the fragmentary textual remains of the lost plays and the visual evidence. One important issue remains to be discussed, regarding the intellectual aspects and the ideological tenor of these dramas. Did the fairytale comedies of the Athenian stage offer anything else, in terms of thought and ideology, beyond the amusement of carnivalistic fantasy? Most importantly, did they entail satire or criticism of public issues of the polis? According to Aristotle’ s famous statement (Po. 1449b5–9), Crates avoided personal invective and concentrated on creating inventive plots of universal interest. Much the same thing is asserted with regard to Pherecrates by a very credible and solid treatise on the history of comedy, the Prolegomenon de Comoedia III Koster (ll. 29–31), which doubtless draws on excellent Alexandrian scholarship105. These statements were written by connoisseurs who had access to the collective literary production of ancient comedy; they must not be disregarded. But should they be taken to indicate that the plays of fairy-tale comedy were pure divertissements,

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over the Rhine, which he had a perfect right to do. There I heard some fishes begin to make such a disturbance with each other, that it resounded as far as Heaven; and sweet honey flowed like water from a deep valley at the top of a high mountain, and these were strange things. There were two crows which were mowing a meadow; and I saw two gnats building a bridge, and two doves tore a wolf to pieces; two children brought forth two kids; and two frogs threshed corn together. There I saw two mice consecrating a bishop, and two cats scratching out a bear’ s tongue. Then a snail came running up and killed two furious lions. There stood a barber and shaved a woman’ s beard off; and two sucking-children bade their mother hold her tongue. There I saw two greyhounds which brought a mill out of the water; and a sorry old horse was beside it, and said it was right. And four horses were standing in the yard threshing corn with all their might, and two goats were heating the stove, and a red cow shot the bread into the oven” (transl. Hunt 1884, 229–30). Many other folktales of the same type, from various peoples, are cited by Bolte–Polívka 1913–1932, III 244–58; Cocchiara 1981, 143–86; Uther 2004, II 494–96 (tale types 1930 and 1935). Koster 1975, 8: ἐζήλωσε Κράτητα, καὶ αὖ τοῦ μὲν λοιδορεῖν ἀπέστη, πράγματα δὲ εἰσηγούμενος καινὰ ηὐδοκίμει γενόμενος εὑρετικὸς μύθων. On this treatise and its value see Nesselrath 1990, 45–51, 56–57, 174–75; Urios Aparisi 1996–1997, 77–78; Quaglia 2005, 99–100, 108–11.

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without any relation to the main concerns of contemporary Athenian society or politics at large? It is impossible to pronounce a definitive judgment on the plays of Crates and Pherecrates, since most of their text is lost and there is no certainty as to the exact date of their production and the historical circumstances of the time. Nevertheless, some conclusions about the ideological dimensions and broader political meaning of the Märchenkomödie can be drawn from a masterly specimen of this genre that happens to survive intact. This is Aristophanes’ Birds, another staged tale of talking animals, which provides, both chronologically and thematically, a felicitous link between Crates’ Beasts and Archippus’ Fishes. The Birds contains no extensive personal invective against political leaders, apart from a few peripheral jokes; neither does the plot concentrate on important public affairs of the polis. On the surface, the Birds seems to conform perfectly to the description given by Aristotle for the plays of Crates and by the Alexandrians for those of Pherecrates. Nonetheless, I do not think that anyone today would subscribe to the interpretation of this comedy as a piece of pure fantasy, unrelated to the historical and political circumstances of Athens, such as was advocated mostly by Anglo-Saxon scholars of an earlier generation106. Under the imaginary materials of the Birds, satirical allusions to the Athenian reality of the time can be easily detected. Nephelokokkygia, the fantastic city of the birds in mid-air, is in essence a projection of the radical and imperialistic Athens onto the heterotopia of the aerial realm. The legislation and institutions of the birds’ polis are inverted forms, modifications or distortions of the laws and constitutional regulations of the Athenian empire. Officiating priests and sycophants, inspectors and envoys of the Boulē, politicians that propose decrees – in short, all the familiar functionaries of the Athenian political and social reality vie for a place in the new state, and Peisetaerus has a hard time to keep them away107. Poets, scientists, musicians, orators and other celebrities of contemporary Athens rush to the city of the birds and require admission108. The political situation in the new polis does not differ much from that of late fifth-century Athens. Peisetaerus, the prevailing statesman, guides the dēmos of the birds, but meets with the opposition of some reactionary individual birds, which are condemned to death and executed on the roasting spits109. The fantastic world replicates the turbulent political strife of democratic Athens. 106 107 108 109

See e. g. Whitman 1964, 167–99; Dunbar 1995, 2–5; MacDowell 1995, 222–28. See Av. 864–93, 959–91, 1021–55, 1410–68. See Av. 905–55, 992–1020, 1271–312, 1372–409. See Av. 627–37, 1225–312, 1531–765. On the analogies between Nephelokokkygia and Athens see Newiger 1957, 86–91; Whitman 1964, 197–99; Zimmermann 1983, 69–72; von Möllendorff 1995, 184–87; Konstan 1995, 34–44; Henderson 1997, 136; Zimmermann 1998, 149–50; Flashar 2000, 315–20; Asper 2000, 13, 17–18; Jay-Robert 2007, 184–87; Corbel-Morana 2012, 195–205.

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The very plan of the creation of this aerial utopia entails conspicuous satirical allusions to the historical circumstances of Athens. The comedy was performed while the Sicilian expedition was in full progress; the Athenian dēmos, carried away by Alcibiades’ grandiose plans, expected no less than to conquer the entire western Mediterranean by means of the greatest military and naval force that had ever been launched by a Greek city-state. The phantasmagorical polis of the birds, which finally subdues the gods and the men and triumphantly dominates over the universe, looks like a magnificent and grotesque parody of the irrepressible ambitions of Athenian imperialism. The winged citadel, suspended between heaven and earth and founded on the void, becomes the symbol of the unquenchable cupidity and the wondrous madness of the Athenian people under the leadership of the radical demagogues, which are slightly masqueraded under the dream-like veil of fairy-tale110. On the other hand, the Birds is evidently not a political ‘allegory’ – that is, the type of scenario in which the characters and plot elements correspond, on a one to one basis, to personalities and incidents of Athenian public life. This kind of sustained topical symbolism was a well-exploited technique in the satirical comedies of Cratinus and his disciples. In Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros and Nemesis the mythical protagonists, Dionysus or Zeus, stood for the great Pericles; the Trojan War was a transparent symbol of the Peloponnesian War; and many other ingredients of the storyline of these two comedies corresponded to historical events or factors of the war, factions of the Athenian people or persons of Pericles’ environment111. Aristophanes adopted this metaphorical technique in his own political plays. In the Knights the city of Athens is represented as a private house; the people of the city are collectively personified as the master of this oikos, the old cantankerous Demos; the politicians are turned into slaves of Demos’ household; and Cleon, the chief demagogue, is the arch-butler112. The hilarious episode of the domestic trial in the Wasps (ll. 835–1008) is an even better example of folktale material (an animal fable about two rival dogs) which is invested with straight110

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For such political and historicist readings of the Birds see Arrowsmith 1973; Katz 1976; Schwinge 1977, 52–55; van Looy 1978; Zimmermann 1983, 66–72; Corsini 1987; von Möllendorff 1995, 183–92; Zimmermann 1998, 144–52; Flashar 2000; Newiger 1996, 330–40; Henderson 1997; Ambler 2012; cf. also Konstan 1995, 29–44, 175–79; Slater 1997; Asper 2000; Corbel-Morana 2012, 195–207. On the political symbolisms of the mythical plot in these plays of Cratinus see most notably Schwarze 1971, 6–40; Rosen 1988, 49–55; Casolari 2003, 78–112, 122–25; Storey 2006; Sifakis 2006, 26–29, 36–43; Wright 2007; Bakola 2010, 81–102, 168–73, 220–24, 253–72, 285–304; Henderson 2012; Bianchi 2016, 198–301; Bianchi 2017, 23–28, 116–20. On the central scenic metaphor of the Knights see Newiger 1957, 11–49; Kraus 1985, 114–24, 141–43; MacDowell 1995, 83–93, 103–107; Reinders 2001, 63–65, 168–203. Cratinus’ influence on the allegorical technique of the Knights is highlighted by Ruffell 2002, 150–55.

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forward political allegorization. The conflicting dogs, Kyon and Labes, reflect two prominent Athenian statesmen, the demagogue Cleon and the general Laches; the trial reworks in a burlesque manner the confrontation between these two leading figures in the political arena of Athens in the late 420s113. There is no such mechanical, one-way political allegory in the Birds; no specific symbolic correspondences can be traced between ingredients of the play and figures or events of Athenian history. Peisetaerus is not an incarnation of Alcibiades or of any other politician of the time. The subdued gods do not represent the Sicilians or the Spartans, whom Athens was trying to vanquish. The construction of the citadel in the air and the embargo against Olympus do no not reproduce the landing of the Athenian troops in Sicily or the battles on the plains of the island. In fact, the Sicilian expedition is never mentioned in the text. No element of the script entails an obligatory reference to an external reality of the spectators’ world, outside the confines of the dramatic fiction. The Birds, therefore, is better read as a kind of open parable, rather than as a straightforward political allegory. The mythopoeia of this comedy is an autonomous construct of the imagination, a complete and self-existent secondary world114, which does not need reference to external coordinates of meaning. However, behind this self-reliant fantastic creation, one may discern – if one wishes to, and on one’ s own responsibility – a general connection with the historical circumstances of Athens at that time. The play may be interpreted as a caricature of the demonic nature of the Athenian dēmos and their unquenchable thirst for conquest. It seems to express a deeper suspiciousness of the comic poet towards the transformation of Athens into an imperialistic power115. The script of the comedy neither confirms nor excludes this hermeneutical key. Like the Delphic god of Heraclitus, the comic author neither speaks nor conceals but gives signs – and these signs enable the audience to read his zoological fantasy in political terms. The same fundamental ambiguity distinguishes the best works of fantastic literature at all periods. Tolkien’ s Middle Earth, for example, is an autonomous secondary world, invented to its tiniest details as a parallel universe, without reference to our own reality. Nevertheless, many of its elements can be plausibly 113

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On symbolisms and allegory in the trial of the dogs see Taillardat 1965, 405–406; Harriott 1985, 146–49; Thiercy 1986, 111; Reinders 2001, 226–32; Biles–Olson 2015, lii–lvi. On the concept of the ‘secondary world’ in fantastic literature – an autonomous fictional universe, sub-created by the author, which follows its own proper rules and is independent from the world of reality – see the seminal essay by J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories (Tolkien 1983, 109–61). See Arrowsmith 1973, 128–56; Katz 1976, 376–81; van Looy 1978, 181–85; Zimmermann 1983, 72; von Möllendorff 1995, 189–92; Newiger 1996, 336–40; Ambler 2012, 200–206; Corbel-Morana 2012, 200–207. For a different appreciation see Henderson 1997, who argues that Aristophanes’ attitude towards the Sicilian expedition was positive and not negative or suspicious; cf. Asper 2005, 8–19.

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correlated to the dark historical conditions that prevailed while Tolkien was composing his novels. In the Hobbit the vagrant tribe of the dwarves, who have been forcibly deprived of their homeland and struggle to take it back, recalls the Jewish people and the Zionist movement of the mid-war period. The dragon Smaug, who devastates the countryside with his flames and amasses tons of gold only to lie down and sleep on it, may be read as a metaphor of greedy capitalism – pointing to the industrial destruction of the physical environment and the oligarchs who accumulate so vast quantities of wealth that they could never spend it in an entire lifetime. In the Lord of the Rings the evil Sauron and the beastly hordes of the Orcs bring to mind the ferocious Nazi troops, which were overrunning Europe116. To the end of his life, Tolkien refused to publicly endorse such symbolisms, although in his private correspondence he does not display complete aversion towards them117. The clever and attentive reader of the tales of Middle Earth, in any case, finds these interpretations hard to resist. The Attic Märchenkomödien perhaps maintained a similar connection to the social and historical reality of Classical Athens. The authors of comic fantasy, such as Crates, Pherecrates and Archippus, set about to fabricate self-standing secondary worlds, such as animal realms, fish cities and lands of Cockaigne, which had an independent fictional existence in the space-time of the imaginary. At the same time, these sub-created worlds might also function as broad and overarching parables for the ‘here and now’ of the audience in the Athenian polis. The comedies on the theme of Schlaraffenland and culinary utopianism have often been read in this way, as satirical representations which involve criticism of important social issues, such as slavery and luxury, the division of work, the misery of the working classes and the distribution of wealth in ancient society118. 116

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For such interpretations of Tolkien’ s fictions see e. g. Carpenter 1977, 189–90; Shippey 2000, 161–74; Weidner 2002; Chism 2003; Brennan Croft 2004, 16–72; Drout 2007, 7, 83–85, 108–109, 165–67, 294–95, 364–66, 410–11, 454–56, 509, 536–38, 698–700, 714–17; Brackmann 2010; Ruud 2011, 215–16, 380–81; Vaninskaya 2014, 358–63; Brennan Croft 2014; Donnelly 2018. See e. g. Tolkien 1981, 41, 66, 78, 120–21, 229, 262. Cf. Carpenter 1977, 189–90, 202– 203, 225; Shippey 2000, 161–64; Drout 2007, 6–8, 631, 698, 717; Holmes 2014, 140–41, 161–64. See Cantarella 1969, 334; López Eire 1984, 172–74; Melero 2006; García Soler 2009, 202, 205; cf. Pellegrino 2000, 32–36; Farioli 2001, 216–39; Konstan 2012. More generally, Perrone 2019, 17–19 and Perrone 2020 offers valuable overviews of the social and political issues which are traceable in Crates’ remains. Some scholars even argue that the comic visions of Cockaigne in these dramas are meant to parody and ridicule the propaganda and the imperialistic hopes of Athenian populist democracy, especially the Periclean ideology of naval empire. The extravagant descriptions of supernatural gastronomic plenty would function as burlesque exaggerations of Pericles’ political programme, which aimed at providing abundant supplies of goods for Athens through domination at sea and maritime trade. See Langerbeck 1963, 194–200; Ceccarelli 1996;

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Analogous hypotheses may be advanced with regard to the animal plays dis­cussed in this essay. If Crates’ Beasts was produced in the first years of the Archi­damian War, as several scholars propose119, the idealized life of automatism and plenty, which is promised by the magical animals, would serve as an ironic counterpoint to the dire circumstances of war-afflicted Athens. The destruction of the agricultural produce of Attica by the Spartan invaders and the shortage of foodstuffs in the beleaguered city would make the beasts’ utopian proposal of self-loaded tables sound extremely attractive. The idea of warm water spontaneously channelled into the bathtubs would also be tempting at a time when the farmers of Attica were regularly obliged to live as war refugees behind the city walls, mostly in squalid shacks, immersed in filth and sweat during the hot Athenian summer120. On the other hand, if Crates’ comedy was produced earlier than the war, in the 430s, it would have coincided with the great economic bloom of the Periclean age, the acme of Athenian naval domination and commerce, when the city market was flooded with all kinds of luxurious goods from the extensive territories of Athenian hegemony. In that case, the utopian scenario of the Beasts might be read as a critique of the hedonistic and consumerist tendencies which grew among the Athenian population at that time121. Archippus’ Fishes, on the other hand, was produced shortly after the fall of the Thirty Tyrants and the restoration of Athenian democracy. The foundation of the new polis of the fishes might be perceived as a parable for the laborious re-establishment of the democratic regime, in the arduous conditions after the military defeat of Athens122. The script also contains jokes about passionate fish-eaters, whom the Athenians are required, according to the treaty, to hand over to the fishes, so that they may be punished for the harm they have caused to the fish population. Such jests might sound ominous in a city which was painfully recovering from a bloody oligarchic coup, and in which discussions were made about the punishment or amnesty of the members of the Thirty. I wonder how much

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but see the criticism of Farioli 2001, 221–25, and cf. already Bonanno 1972, 53–54 and Fauth 1973, 59–61. Ath. 6.267e–70a, quoting from a series of comedies on the Cockaigne theme, claims to cite the plays in chronological order. Crates’ Thēria is placed between Cratinus’ Ploutoi and Telecleides’ Amphiktyones (6.267e–68a). The former can be dated with much probability ca. 436–429 BC (Pellegrino 2000, 46; Bianchi 2017, 30–33); the latter falls roughly between 435 and 426 BC, but is more likely to have been staged after the beginning of the Peloponnesian War (Pellegrino 2000, 72; Bagordo 2013, 13, 46–47). On the basis of this data, Crates’ play may be broadly allocated between 435 and 426 BC, but most scholars agree that it probably belongs to the early 420s. See the methodical and documented discussion of Perrone 2019, 100; see also Geissler 1969, xii; Bonanno 1972, 29–30; Pellegrino 2000, 56; Farioli 2001, 47–48, 57. Cf. Ceccarelli 1996, 147–48; Pellegrino 2000, 36; Pellegrino 2006, 193–94, 202. See Rothwell 2007, 125; cf. Perrone 2019, 99–100. Cf. Farioli 1999, 50; Farioli 2001, 170.

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time separates the performance of the Fishes from ‘revenge trials’ such as that of Eratosthenes, or indeed the infamous process against Socrates. It has also been proposed that the clash and treaty between the fishes and Athens entails historical allusions to the Athenian thalassocracy, which had been painfully shattered by the recent destruction of the Athenian fleet at Aegospotami and the defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War123. The aggressiveness and victorious attitude of the fishes, as reflected in their stipulations, might recast into a more palatable, fabulous form the unbearable historical realities of the time, such as the Spartan victory and the loss of Athens’ dominion over the sea. It is not possible to progress further, since so much of the text of these plays has been lost. Nevertheless, it seems that the Attic Märchenkomödie, like the most memorable and rewarding creations of fantastic fiction, was not merely a literature of escape. Apart from entertaining inventions of fancy, the Athenian fairy-tale comedies also offered reflections on contemporary society and the major issues of the polis, couched in the form of an imaginative fable or parable. Especially in conditions of crisis and public anxiety – for example, the hardship-ridden beginning of the Archidamian War, the tense atmosphere of the Sicilian expedition or the arduous recovery of the polis from humiliating defeat – it may be easier for the poet to use such fictional constructs in order to speak indirectly and metaphorically about issues that are too painful to satirize in an overt manner. These are the words of the Modern Greek poet George Seferis, another great fabulator who lived through most of the ordeals of the Greek nation in the past century124: And if I speak to you in parables and fables, this is that you may listen to them with greater sweetness, and the horror cannot be talked about because it is alive because it is speechless and continues to advance and drips during day, drips into sleep, μνησιπήμων πόνος.

Bibliography Ackermann 1944 = E. M. Ackermann, Das Schlaraffenland in German Literature and Folksong. Social Aspects of an Earthly Paradise, with an Inquiry into Its History in European Literature, Chicago 1944. Aerts 1994 = W. J. Aerts, Alexander the Great and Ancient Travel Stories, in Z. von Martels (ed.), Travel Fact and Travel Fiction. Studies on Fiction, Literary Tradition, Scholarly Discovery and Observation in Travel Writing, Leiden-New York-Köln 1994, 30–38. Allovio 2010 = S. Allovio, Pigmei, europei e altri selvaggi, Bari 2010.

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See Farioli 1999, 49–50; Farioli 2001, 170; Storey 2012, 6; Miccolis 2017, 97. George Seferis, The Last Station (1944), translated by Kimon Friar (1951, 162).

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Pellegrino 2006 = M. Pellegrino, “Persia e ‘utopia carnevalesca’ nella commedia greca”, Studia Philologica Valentina 9 (2006), 177–207. Pellegrino 2013 = M. Pellegrino, Nicofonte. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Fragmenta Comica 15), Heidelberg 2013. Perrone 2019 = S. Perrone, Cratete. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Fragmenta Comica 2), Göttingen 2019. Perrone 2020 = S. Perrone, Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case, in A. Lamari–F. Montanari–A. Novokhatko (eds.), Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama, BerlinBoston 2020, 347–362. Piccirilli 1975 = L. Piccirilli, Μεγαρικά. Testimonianze e frammenti, Pisa 1975. Pickard-Cambridge 1962 = A. Pickard-Cambridge, Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy (rev. T. B. L. Webster), Oxford 19622. Pickard-Cambridge 1968 = A. Pickard-Cambridge, The Dramatic Festivals of Athens (rev. J. Gould–D. M. Lewis), Oxford 19682. Poeschel 1878 = J. Poeschel, “Das Märchen vom Schlaraffenlande”, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Deutschen Sprache und Literatur 5, n. 2 (1878), 389–427. Pohlenz 1965 = M. Pohlenz, Kleine Schriften, ed. H. Dörrie, vol. II, Hildesheim 1965. Quaglia 2003 = R. Quaglia, “Topoi della commedia greca antica e innovazione mitologica nella produzione di Ferecrate. Il caso dei Μυρμηκάνθρωποι”, AFLB 46 (2003), 253–295. Quaglia 2005 = R. Quaglia, “Studi su Ferecrate: I. Vita, opere, μῦθοι. II. Gli Ἄγριοι: un commento ai frammenti”, AFLB 48 (2005), 99–170. Radermacher 1967 = L. Radermacher, Aristophanes’ “Frösche”. Einleitung, Text und Kommentar, ed. W. Kraus, Graz 1967. Reckford 1987 = K. J. Reckford, Aristophanes’ Old-and-New Comedy. Six Essays in Perspective, Chapel Hill-London 1987. Reinders 2001 = P. Reinders, Demos Pyknites. Untersuchungen zur Darstellung des Demos in der Alten Komödie, Stuttgart-Weimar 2001. Richter 1984 = D. Richter, Schlaraffenland. Geschichte einer populären Phantasie, Köln 1984. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 2012 = L. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén, On Epicharmus’ Literary and Philosophical Background, in Bosher 2012, 76–96. Rohde 1914 = E. Rohde, Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, Leipzig 19143. Romm 1992 = J. S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought. Geography, Exploration, and Fiction, Princeton 1992. Rosen 1988 = R. M. Rosen, Old Comedy and the Iambographic Tradition, Atlanta 1988. Rosen 1995 = R. M. Rosen, Plato Comicus and the Evolution of Greek Comedy, in G. W. Dobrov (ed.), Beyond Aristophanes. Transition and Diversity in Greek Comedy, Atlanta 1995, 119–137. Rothwell 2007 = K. S. Rothwell, Nature, Culture, and the Origins of Greek Comedy. A Study of Animal Choruses, Cambridge 2007. Ruffell 2000 = I. Ruffell, The World Turned Upside Down: Utopia and Utopianism in the Fragments of Old Comedy, in Harvey–Wilkins 2000, 473–506. Ruffell 2002 = I. Ruffell, “A Total Write-Off. Aristophanes, Cratinus, and the Rhetoric of Comic Competition”, CQ 52, n.1 (2002), 138–163. Rusten 2006 = J. Rusten, “Who ‘Invented’ Comedy? The Ancient Candidates for the Origins of Comedy and the Visual Evidence”, AJPh 127, n. 1 (2006), 37–66. Rusten 2011 = J. Rusten (ed.), The Birth of Comedy. Texts, Documents, and Art from Athenian Comic Competitions, 486–280, Baltimore 2011.

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Rusten 2014 = J. Rusten, In Search of the Essence of Old Comedy: From Aristotle’ s Poetics to Zieliński, Cornford, and Beyond, in Fontaine–Scafuro 2014, 33–49. Ruud 2011 = J. Ruud, Critical Companion to J. R. R. Tolkien. A Literary Reference to His Life and Work, New York 2011. Scherf 1995 = W. Scherf, Das Märchenlexikon, München 1995. Schwarz 2002 = G. Schwarz, “Selige Helden. Überlegungen zur Darstellung bewaffneter Delphinreiter”, JÖAI 71 (2002), 251–263. Schwarze 1971 = J. Schwarze, Die Beurteilung des Perikles durch die attische Komödie und ihre historische und historiographische Bedeutung, München 1971. Schwinge 1977 = E.-R. Schwinge, “Aristophanes und die Utopie”, WJA 3 (1977), 43–67. Seeberg 1995 = A. Seeberg, From Padded Dancers to Comedy, in A. Griffiths (ed.), Stage Directions. Essays in Ancient Drama in Honour of E. W. Handley, London 1995, 1–12. Shippey 2000 = T. A. Shippey, J. R. R. Tolkien. Author of the Century, London 2000. Sifakis 1971 = G. M. Sifakis, Parabasis and Animal Choruses. A Contribution to the History of Attic Comedy, London 1971. Sifakis 1992 = G. M. Sifakis, “The Structure of Aristophanic Comedy”, JHS 112 (1992), 123–142. Sifakis 2006 = G. M. Sifakis, “From Mythological Parody to Political Satire: Some Stages in the Evolution of Greek Comedy”, C&M 57 (2006), 19–45. Sifakis–Vagenas–Borges 1985 = G. M. Sifakis–N. Vagenas–J. L. Borges, Ο Μπόρχες στην Κρήτη, Athens 1985. Silva 2012–2013 = M. de Fátima Silva, “O Hades e a pólis: o tema utópico da catábase”, Kléos 16–17 (2012–2013), 13–45. Slater 1997 = N. W. Slater, Performing the City in Birds, in Dobrov 1997, 75–94. Sommerstein 1981 = A. H. Sommerstein, The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. II: Knights, Warminster 1981. Sommerstein 2004 = A. H. Sommerstein, Harassing the Satirist: The Alleged Attempts to Prosecute Aristophanes, in I. Sluiter–R. M. Rosen (eds.), Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, Leiden-Boston 2004, 145–174. Steinhart 2004 = M. Steinhart, Die Kunst der Nachahmung. Darstellungen mimetischer Vorführungen in der griechischen Bildkunst archaischer und klassischer Zeit, Mainz 2004. Stoessl 1974 = F. Stoessl, “Die Anfänge der Theatergeschichte Athens”, GB 2 (1974), 213–250. Storey 2003 = I. C. Storey, Eupolis. Poet of Old Comedy, Oxford 2003. Storey 2006 = I. C. Storey, On First Looking into Kratinos’ Dionysalexandros, in L. Kozak–J. Rich (eds.), Playing Around Aristophanes. Essays in Celebration of the Completion of the Edition of the Comedies of Aristophanes by Alan Sommerstein, Oxford 2006, 105–125. Storey 2010 = I. C. Storey, Origins and Fifth-Century Comedy, in Dobrov 2010, 179–225. Storey 2011 = I. C. Storey, Fragments of Old Comedy, vol. I–III, Cambridge (MA)-London 2011. Storey 2012 = I. C. Storey, “Angling in Archippos. The Webster Lecture 2008–09”, BICS 55, n. 2 (2012), 1–19. Storey 2014 = I. C. Storey, The First Poets of Old Comedy, in Fontaine–Scafuro 2014, 95–112. Taillardat 1965 = J. Taillardat, Les images d’ Aristophane. Études de langue et de style, Paris 19652. Thiercy 1986 = P. Thiercy, Aristophane: fiction et dramaturgie, Paris 1986. Thompson 1955–1958 = S. Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk-Literature, vol. I–VI, Bloomington 1955–1958. Tolkien 1981 = J. R. R. Tolkien, The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, ed. H. Carpenter, London 1981.

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Tolkien 1983 = J. R. R. Tolkien, The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, ed. C. Tolkien, London 1983. Trendall–Webster 1971 = A. D. Trendall–T. B. L. Webster, Illustrations of Greek Drama, London 1971. Urios Aparisi 1996–1997 = E. Urios Aparisi, “Old Comedy Pherecrates’ Way”, Ítaca 12–13 (1996–1997), 75–86. Uther 2004 = H.-J. Uther, The Types of International Folktales. A Classification and Bibliography Based on the System of Antti Aarne and Stith Thompson, vol. I–III, Helsinki 2004. Vaninskaya 2014 = A. Vaninskaya, Modernity: Tolkien and His Contemporaries, in Lee 2014, 350–366. van Looy 1978 = H. van Looy, Les “Oiseaux” d’ Aristophane: essai d’ interprétation, in J. Bingen–G. Cambier–G. Nachtergael (eds.), Le monde grec. Pensée, littérature, histoire, documents. Hommages à Claire Préaux, Bruxelles 1978, 177–185. von Hahn 1864 = J. G. von Hahn, Griechische und albanesische Märchen, Leipzig 1864. von Koppenfels 1981 = W. von Koppenfels, “Mundus alter et idem. Utopiefiktion und menippeische Satire”, Poetica 13 (1981), 16–66. von Möllendorff 1995 = P. von Möllendorff, Grundlagen einer Ästhetik der Alten Komödie. Untersuchungen zu Aristophanes und Michail Bachtin, Tübingen 1995. Webster 1970 = T. B. L. Webster, The Greek Chorus, London 1970. Weidner 2002 = B. N. Weidner, “Middle-Earth: The Real World of J. R. R. Tolkien”, Mythlore 23, n. 4 (2002), 75–84. Whitman 1964 = C. H. Whitman, Aristophanes and the Comic Hero, Cambridge (MA) 1964. Whittaker 1935 = M. Whittaker, “The Comic Fragments in Their Relation to the Structure of Old Attic Comedy”, CQ 29, n. 3–4 (1935), 181–191. Wilkins 2000a = J. Wilkins, Edible Choruses, in Harvey–Wilkins 2000, 341–354. Wilkins 2000b = J. Wilkins, Athenaeus and the Fishes of Archippus, in D. Braund–J. Wilkins (eds.), Athenaeus and His World. Reading Greek Culture in the Roman Empire, Exeter 2000, 523–535. Wilkins 2000c = J. Wilkins, The Boastful Chef. The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy, Oxford 2000. Willi 2008 = A. Willi, Sikelismos. Sprache, Literatur und Gesellschaft im griechischen Sizilien (8.–5. Jh. v. Chr.), Basel 2008. Willi 2012 = A. Willi, Challenging Authority. Epicharmus between Epic and Rhetoric, in Bosher 2012, 56–75. Willi 2015 = A. Willi, Epicharmus, the Pseudepicharmeia, and the Origins of Attic Drama, in Chronopoulos–Orth 2015, 109–145. Willis 1991 = W. H. Willis, “Comoedia Dukiana”, GRBS 32, n. 4 (1991), 331–353. Wright 2007 = M. Wright, “Comedy and the Trojan War”, CQ 57, n. 2 (2007), 412–431. Wüst 1950 = E. Wüst, “Epicharmos und die alte attische Komödie”, RhM 93, n. 4 (1950), 337–364. Ye 2008 = T. Ye, Historical Dictionary of Chinese Theatre, Lanham 2008. Zielinski 1885 = T. Zielinski, Die Märchenkomödie in Athen, St. Petersburg 1885. Zimmermann 1983 = B. Zimmermann, “Utopisches und Utopie in den Komödien des Aristophanes”, WJA 9 (1983), 57–77. Zimmermann 1998 = B. Zimmermann, Die griechische Komödie, Düsseldorf 1998.

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Image 1: Black-figure oenochoe, ca. 500–490 BC, by the Gela painter. London, British Museum, B 509. Piper and two performers dressed up as birds. Reproduced by kind permission of the British Museum.

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Image 2: Black-figure amphora, ca. 500– 490 BC. Berlin, Antikensammlung, F 1830. Piper and two performers dressed up as birds. © bpk / Antikensammlung, SMB / Johannes Laurentius.

Image 3: Black-figure amphora, ca. 540–530 BC, attributed to the Painter of Berlin 1686. Berlin, Antikensammlung, F 1697. Piper and performers dressed up as horses and cavalrymen. © bpk / Antikensammlung, SMB / Johannes Laurentius.

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Image 4: Black-figure skyphos, ca. 490–480 BC. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 20.18 (side A). Gift of the heirs of Henry Adams. Chorus scene: piper, small-sized man and performers riding on ostriches. Photograph © 2021, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Image 5: Black-figure skyphos, ca. 490–480 BC. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 20.18 (side B). Gift of the heirs of Henry Adams. Chorus scene: piper and performers riding on dolphins. Photograph © 2021, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Angela M. Andrisano

Una testimonianza comica a proposito delle coreografie di Cinesia (Ar. Ran. 366)*

Parole chiave: Aristofane, Cinesia, Ècate, danza, ditirambo. Le battute mordaci che Aristofane lancia contro i contemporanei rappresentano spesso ‘frammenti’ difficili da leggere e interpretare, non solo all’ interno del contesto circoscritto della singola commedia, ma a volte anche dell’ intera produzione giunta a noi. Ancora più arduo e spesso impraticabile è il percorso per ritornare dalla caricatura, che assume generalmente tratti paradossali e iperbolici, al ritratto reale del politico, del filosofo, dell’ artista e così via, soprattutto in assenza, come nel caso del ditirambografo Cinesia, attivo tra V e IV sec., di una produzione poetica, musicale, coreografica, necessarie a tracciarne l’ identità1. La commedia antica rappresenta una delle fonti più ardue da decodificare per costruire anche solo parzialmente una microstoria, e forse non è inutile ripetere un’ ovvietà facile da dimenticare: ogni battuta nata per far ridere, accompagnata da intonazione, gesto, movimento scenico, e dunque destinata a perenne variazione nel tempo, ha sempre e solo la funzione di una lente deformante. Nelle Rane questa deformazione2 viene ulteriormente amplificata dal fatto che nell’ Ade, dove si svolge l’ azione, albergano figure umbratili, mostri, animali gracidanti, divinità ctonie. Cinesia, com’ è noto, non è un personaggio di questa commedia come lo era stato negli Uccelli, in cui aveva calcato la scena (Av. 1372–1409), bollato da Pisetero come philyrinos3: un komodoumenos ridicolizzato *

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La nuova proposta di interpretazione del passo aristofaneo era stata presentata nella relazione Su alcune caratteristiche dei cori ditirambici: appunti per un profilo “storico” di Cinesia, in occasione dell’ incontro seminariale La coralitat a la cultura grega (Barcelona, 19–20 maggio 2011), di cui non sono stati pubblicati gli Atti. In questa sede la questione viene ripresa e discussa con ulteriori argomenti. Per tutte le testimonianze relative a Cinesia si veda l’ equilibrato e imprescindibile commento di Ieranò 1997 (in particolare pp. 308–18, 365–66) e relativa bibliografia. Per l’ origine ateniese, probabile motivo della particolare aggressività dei comici nei suoi confronti, cf. Ieranò 2013, 382–83; Fearn 2013, 136 n. 14. Si vedano a questo proposito Tammaro 2006, Andrisano 2011 e relative bibliografie. Le citazioni aristofanee seguono il testo di Wilson. Si veda, a ribadire sempre per via di metafora l’ esilità della sua produzione con il riferimento iperbolico a tratti corporei significanti, Plat. Com. fr. 200,3 K.–A. καλάμινα σκέλη φορῶν, che Dunbar 1995 ad Av. 1379 traduceva opportunamente “having legs like reeds”. Ma credo siano ugualmente da segnalare gli altrettanto feroci qualificativi in incipit di verso (σκελετός, ἄπυγος) per cui si veda infra pp. 150–51. Per una disamina del passo in relazione a Stil und Form des neuen Dithyrambos rinvio a Zimmermann 1992, 119–21. Su questa linea, anche

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iperbolicamente4 come “inconsistente” poeta dal piede “storto” (v. 1379 kyllos)5, in realtà attivo ed apprezzato per una ventina d’ anni e vincitore ad un concorso ditirambico ateniese (IG II² 3028)6. Nelle Rane viene semplicemente evocato ben due volte con il noto sarcasmo aristofaneo: la pointe (v. 366) contro il ditirambografo, evidentemente facile da cogliere per il pubblico contemporaneo, viene letta in modo insoddisfacente dagli interpreti moderni, che non riescono ad evidenziarne la rilevanza comica e la conseguente funzione drammaturgica7. Rileggiamone il contesto per tentare di comprendere il nostro ‘frammento’. Il coro degli Iniziati, la cui centralità performativa consiste in un gioco variegato di canto e danza comici, rappresenta il privilegio ottenuto nell’ Ade da coloro che, oltre a vivere in modo semplice8 ed eticamente irreprensibile, hanno imparato a distinguere la vera arte da quella che non lo è attraverso una sorta di iniziazione metaforica: rappresentano il punto di vista di un commediografo che procedeva non senza autoironia. Gli Iniziati in versione buffonesca sono infatti sensibilmente votati alla venerazione delle Muse9 oltre che naturalmente a quella di Dioniso-

4

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in relazione al passo di Platone comico, Fiorentini 2010, 251–52, Power 2013, 247, Franklin 2017, 169. Oltre a Dunbar 1995 ad loc. si veda Ford 2013, 318–22 e relativa ampia bibliografia. Sul ruolo del kykliodidaskalos ad Atene, nonché sul passo degli Uccelli cit., vedi ora anche Ieranò 2013, 368–69. Per una possibile allusione metrica – e di conseguenza coreografica – si vedano Zanetto 1987, Dunbar 1995, Totaro in Mastromarco–Totaro 2006 ad loc. Mi sembra molto probabile la ridicolizzazione di danze circolari stravaganti. Cf. Ieranò 1997, 334 e 366 per la nota fonte platonica in cui Cinesia viene citato a proposito della teatrocrazia (Gorg. 501e–502a). Per il contesto ateniese, il generale apprezzamento del pubblico per i ditirambografi e la contesa delle tribù per poter scegliere Cinesia come didaskalos, si veda ancora Ieranò 2013, 378–80. A questo proposito rinvio alle puntuali osservazioni di Zimmermann (2017a, 30–34 e relativa bibliografia) in merito alla Personifikation e metaphorische Dramatisierung della commedia aristofanea. Il riferimento agli “stracci” di cui sono vestiti ha una valenza pregnante (Ran. 404–408), per cui si veda Andrisano 2000, 14–15 e n. 32. I costumi degli attori dovevano essere fatti di tessuti scadenti come quelli della povera gente, più facilmente attratta dai culti iniziatici in virtù delle promesse ultraterrene. Trovo meno convincente che la battuta autoreferenziale del coro abbia a che fare con le difficoltà economiche dei coreghi di quell’ anno di crisi (Stanford 19632, Del Corno 1985 ad loc.). Per la religiosità misterica collettiva e popolare si vedano Kowalzig–Wilson 2013a, 20–22. Per le Muse, accompagnatrici di Dioniso, e per Dioniso, inventore degli agoni scenici, rinvio alla testimonianza di D.S. 4.5.

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Iacco10 e di Demetra e possono contestualmente scherzare e dire cose serie11. Il drammaturgo si diverte così a propagandare, con humor nero tipico di tempi bui, il proprio nostalgico quanto graffiante manifesto, secondo cui etica ed estetica sono inscindibili12. Dioniso peraltro, in qualità di divinità del teatro, è arbitro infallibile, anche se si dimostrerà in grave difficoltà quando dovrà scegliere tra i due tragediografi concorrenti e, sceso all’ Ade per riportare sulla terra il prediletto Euripide, riprenderà, come è noto, Eschilo per il bene della città13. Anche il percorso catabatico14 del dio risulta in definitiva, secondo un comico rovesciamento di ruoli, una sorta di ‘iniziazione’ volta a valorizzare la tradizione aurea del teatro tragico di fronte all’ affermarsi del pensiero sofistico e delle eclatanti e spettacolari novità degli ultimi anni, messe in campo dalle sperimentazioni musicali ed orchestiche dei cori ciclici15, nonché dalla tragedia di Euripide e di Agatone. Il verso di cui ci occuperemo è declamato dal coro all’ interno di una lunga parodo ritmicamente varia (vv. 316–459), che, oltre a dare spazio all’ intervento in trimetri giambici di Santia e Dioniso (vv. 337–39)16, alterna al canto lirico17

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Sulla poliedricità della figura di Dioniso nella commedia, e per l’ invocazione a Iacco (vv. 316–52), si vedano almeno Del Corno 1985 e Totaro in Mastromarco–Totaro 2006 ad loc. e relative bibliografie, Dover (1993, 61–62) e, da ultimo, Ford 2011. Si tratta dei notissimi vv. 389–90 che caratterizzano il manifesto poetico aristofaneo: καὶ πολλὰ μὲν γελοῖά μ’ εἰ- / πεῖν, πολλὰ δὲ σπουδαῖα. Rinvio a proposito della questione almeno a Zimmermann 2010, 125–29, Andrisano 2010, 11 e Andrisano 2011, XII e XXV–VI con relativa bibliografia. Cf. Andrisano 2011 e relativa bibliografia per gli aspetti metateatrali della commedia e la relazione tra gli assunti critici aristofanei e alcune posizioni ormeggiate dalla Poetica aristotelica. La ridicola discesa di Dioniso all’ Ade è giocata sulla parodia della catabasi mitica intrapresa dal dio per riportare sulla terra la madre Semele, oltre che da quella di natura drammaturgica ai danni delle ‘tragedie dell’ Ade’, per cui si veda infra p. 157 e n. 52. Si veda da ultimo, a proposito delle catabasi dionisiache e delle relative fonti (schol. Lyc. Alex. 212, Paus. 2.37,5, Hyg. Astr. 2.5), Guidorizzi 2009, I 205–206. La versione che prospetta la discesa all’ Ade del dio attraverso un tuffo nel lago di Lerna o nel lago Alcionio, eccezionalmente senza fondo, conferma come l’ elemento acquatico sottolineasse il passaggio, lo stadio intermedio tra la realtà terrena e la diversa condizione sotterranea. Per l’ immaginario degli antichi relativo a questo ineludibile transito, si vedano le peculiari considerazioni antropologiche di Spina 2020 a proposito della famosa Tomba del tuffatore (Paestum). Per gli aspetti contestuali, pragmatici e di genere del ditirambo tradizionale in relazione a Pindaro e Bacchilide, nonché al culto ateniese di Dioniso, si veda Calame 2013. Trivialmente inneggianti agli aspetti gastronomici del sacrificio per le due dee, Demetra e Persefone, notoriamente legate a Iacco nel rito. Nell’ evocare autoreferenzialmente la propria choreia (vv. 316–53), gli Iniziati non si astengono dal sottolinearne le caratteristiche gradevoli (vv. 334–35 χαρίτων πλεῖστον

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tetrametri anapestici catalettici18 di tipo parabatico (vv. 354–71), con cui gli Iniziati intimano silenzio e allontanamento a chi per ragioni diverse – a partire dai politici corrotti spinti dagli interessi personali e dimentichi del bene della città, contrabbandieri e colpevoli di ridimensionamento a proprio vantaggio delle spese per i poeti – non potrebbe mai far parte del coro di privilegiati che nell’ Ade si è conquistato la luce19 e i boschetti di mirto dove poter danzare al suono dell’ aulo20. Lo spettacolo – suggerisce il poeta anticipando un manifesto atto a colpire una serie di bersagli privilegiati – non è ricevibile da un pubblico incolto che gode di battute facili senza avere esperienza dei riti delle nobili Muse, senza conoscerne le danze (v. 356 ἢ γενναίων ὄργια Μουσῶν μήτ’ εἶδεν μήτ’ ἐχόρευσεν), né da chi è privo di purezza di cuore ed esperienza di pratica misterica (v. 355 ὅστις ἄπειρος τοιῶνδε λόγων ἢ γνώμην μὴ καθαρεύει), a partire dall’ ‘iniziazione estetica’ e quindi dall’ apprezzamento della tradizione comica più accreditata, segnalata attraverso il famoso richiamo al grande Cratino (v. 357 μηδὲ Κρατίνου τοῦ ταυροφάγου γλώττης Βακχεῖ’ ἐτελέσθη)21. Segue, a questo punto, l’ aggressione all’ anonimo quanto riconoscibile Cinesia, respinto dal coro (per empietà?), che così recita (v. 366): ἢ κατατιλᾷ τῶν Ἑκαταίων κυκλίοισι χοροῖσιν ὑπᾴδων “… oppure imbratti i tempietti di Ècate di sterco mentre canta e accompagna i cori ciclici”22.

18 19 20

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ἔχουσαν μέρος, ἁγνήν, / ἱερὰν ὁσίοις μύσταις χορείαν), pur senza dimenticarne il movimento scomposto (v. 331 akolastos), ma consacrato all’ onore del dio. Pronunciati probabilmente in recitativo dal Corifeo, per cui si veda Del Corno 1985, 173, Dover 1993, 239 e relativa bibliografia. Si veda a questo proposito Funaioli 1993. La battuta di Eracle anticipa il cambio di scena e l’ entrata del coro. Si tratta della famosa didascalia implicita che evoca musica e danza, luce e verzura (vv. 154–57): ἐντεῦθεν αὐλῶν τίς σε περίεισιν πνοή, / ὄψει τε φῶς κάλλιστον ὥσπερ ἐνθάδε, / καὶ μυρρινῶνας καὶ θιάσους εὐδαίμονας / ἀνδρῶν γυναικῶν καὶ κρότον χειρῶν πολύν. La metafora iniziatica, utilizzata ad evocare l’ educazione artistica, affida al grande Cratino l’ epiteto tradizionale di Dioniso, per cui si veda per lo meno Totaro in Mastromarco–Totaro 2006 ad loc. e da ultimo Tammaro 2017 ad loc., che opportunamente ridimensiona le precedenti schermaglie polemiche da parte di Aristofane nei confronti del comico più anziano. Condivisibile, a proposito di questo elogio, l’ osservazione di Judet de la Combe 2012, 215, per il quale “la blâme comique, par l’ élaboration poétique qu’ il réclame, est souvent une sorte de reconnaissance et d’ hommage”, a conferma dell’ iperbole deformante come strumento di comicità. La traduzione in versi è quella di Tammaro 2017, 37. Lo studioso annota, secondo il parere di alcuni commentatori, che potrebbe trattarsi anche di “offerte che a tale dea erano portate nei trivii” (p. 136).

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Questa menzione scoptica appare isolata, ma a ben vedere è contigua alla sequenza spettacolare di un prologo variamente articolato, in cui, come ho cercato di mostrare altrove, la derisione delle performances del nuovo ditirambo era stata sferrata dal nostro Comico attraverso la mimesi di una danza scomposta e degradata, eseguita da animali (il coretto delle rane), o della mostruosa danza a solo di Empusa23, essere infernale terrificante appena incontrato e superato da un Dioniso oltremodo impaurito e dal servo Santia. Nel verso di cui ci occupiamo troviamo infine la menzione indiretta di Ècate24, del cui seguito infernale Empusa faceva parte. Ne andrà indagato il collegamento con il popolare kykliodidaskalos25 Cinesia, un innovatore, che risulterebbe da questa battuta diarroico ed empio26. 23 24

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Si vedano rispettivamente Andrisano 2002 e Andrisano 2010. La dea arriva in Grecia dall’ Oriente, probabilmente dalla Caria. Divinità ‘minore’, in qualche modo ancillare, tuttavia le sue pertinenze, funzioni, attributi sono molteplici e ambivalenti come quelle di una dea primigenia, cui il prevalere di Zeus conserva ambiti importanti d’ azione. Rinvio per un efficace ritratto di Ècate a Guidorizzi 2009, I 637–38, che ne prospetta la poliedrica identità di divinità benevola di origine esiodea, “protettrice di adunanze, tribunali, assemblee […] ministra di Demetra […]” e di “dea notturna commessa alla sfera lunare, collocata nel regno sotterraneo di Ade e Persefone”. Protettrice dei trivi – uno dei suoi epiteti è notoriamente enodia, cui è associata la sua immagine tricorpore (Zografou 2016, 45–80) – è allo stesso tempo patrona di pescatori e marinai. Se ci si affida all’ analisi dei numerosissimi epiteti, diligentemente presi in considerazione ed allineati negli ultimi studi, si ottiene conferma della rilevanza di una dea primordiale, titanica, invocata e venerata da ogni strato della popolazione e in aree molto vaste. Rinvio in particolare a Zografou (2010) e alla esaustiva, recente monografia di Carboni (2015, 31ss.) con relativa ampia bibliografia. Il saggio in questione ha il merito di proporre la minuziosa analisi di innumerevoli fonti, non solo iconografiche, utili a confermare la poliedricità di questa antica divinità femminile, distinguendone gli aspetti di divinità ctonia, protagonista di pratiche iniziatiche, dalle altre diverse pertinenze. La studiosa precisa opportunamente che in qualità di divinità ctonia Ècate presiede ai crocicchi, punti critici, immaginati come rifugio di creature mostruose e di fantasmi – si tratta pur sempre di una dea della notte che ha accesso al regno dei morti –, dall’ altra si presenta come divinità benevola che sovrintende i punti liminali e di transizione (nascite, matrimoni, morti), cf. Carboni 2014. Sulla ambigua corrispondenza tra coro ciclico e ditirambo, anche se epigraficamente la dizione ‘cori ciclici’ è attestata in relazione alle Dionisie ateniesi, cf. Ieranò 1997, 234–38; Ieranò 2013, 368–69; Ceccarelli 2013, 165. Le fonti relative agli aspetti fisici, etici, intellettuali di Cinesia, tra cui l’ ateismo derivante dalla formazione sofistica del ditirambografo, pur di epoche e tradizioni diverse e difficilmente utili a ricostruire una biografia attendibile, vengono puntualmente analizzate da Franklin 2017 anche per l’ interpretazione di questo passo e nel tentativo di comprendere, superando “the uniformly negative picture presented by Aristophanes and his colleagues” (p. 164), quella che lo studioso non esita a definire in conclusione una “elusive figure” (p. 213). In realtà gli stessi tratti negativi sono spesso comuni a più personaggi di ruolo, formazione e profilo analoghi e dunque risultano caricaturali. Lo studioso sembra dare forse eccessivo credito all’ opinione secondo cui i ditirambografi

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Ad oggi le interpretazioni del criptico passaggio risultano poco persuasive: il ditirambografo è peraltro identificabile nel verso in questione per via degli scolî ad loc.27, ma anche perché già precedentemente negli Uccelli, come abbiamo visto, ma anche successivamente nelle Ecclesiazuse, veniva beffeggiato ancora da Aristofane, nonché da altri comici28: il suo probabile successo e il gradimento da parte del pubblico non potevano che destare rivalità nei drammaturghi contemporanei, destinati a deriderlo e/o in qualche modo ad emularne le novità musicali ed orchestiche. Aristofane lo rappresenta infatti come individuo diarroico29 – un marchio indelebile anche a distanza di anni30. Questo tratto era associato probabilmente

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sarebbero stati legati a quegli ambienti intellettuali potenzialmente trasgressivi e disponibili a offendere i valori della tradizione (pp. 183–84). Che così commentano a proposito del verso a partire da τῶν Ἑκαταίων : τῶν τῆς Ἑκάτης μυστηρίων. (RV) τοῦτο δὲ εἰς Κινησίαν τὸν διθυραμβοποιόν· οὗτος γὰρ ᾄδων κατετίλησε τῆς Ἑκάτης. R. Κινησίαν τὸν διθυραμβοποιὸν κωμῳδεῖ, ὃς εἰσήνεγκεν ἐν δράματι τὴν Ἑκάτην καὶ κατετίλησεν αὐτῆς. ἢ ἐπειδὴ ἠρυθρίασε ποίημα γράψας εἰς Ἑκάτην. (VΘM)〚ἢ κατατιλᾷ: Ἤγουν ἀσεβῶς διάκειται περὶ τὰ τῆς Ἑκάτης ἀγάλματα, ὅτε πανηγυρίζει. Κινησίας δὲ τοῦτο πεποίηκε.〛—ἢ κατατιλᾷ τῶν Ἑκαταίων, ἤτοι κατὰ τῶν ἀγαλμάτων τῆς Ἑκάτης κόπρον ἐκκρίνει διάρρυτον, τουτέστι ὑγρὰν, ὑπᾴδων τοῖς χοροῖς κυκλίοις ἤγουν λυρικοῖς ποιήμασιν. (Vict.). Il v. 366 delle Rane veniva anche citato nello schol. ad v. 153, per cui vedi infra n. 33, preceduto da ἦν δὲ καὶ τὸ σῶμα ὀκνηρὸς καὶ κατεσκελετευκώς. δοκεῖ δὲ καὶ κατησχημονηκέναι τοῦ τῆς Ἑκάτης ἀγάλματος. Si veda supra, a proposito di Platone comico, n. 3. Per il Cinesia di Strattide si vedano Orth 2009, 100–109, Fiorentini 2017, 90–114 e relative bibliografie. È interessante a questo proposito registrare un’ annotazione di Hp. Morb. Sacr. 1,87–89 (ἢν δὲ καὶ τῆς κόπρου τι παρέῃ, ὃ πολλάκις γίνεται ὑπὸ τῆς νούσου βιαζομένοισιν, Ἐνοδίου πρόσκειται ἡ προσωνυμίη. “a chi lascia andare le feci, cosa che capita spesso a chi è vinto dalla malattia, viene attribuito il soprannome di Enodio”). Ippocrate nello smentire, a proposito del cosiddetto morbo sacro (epilessia e sindromi analoghe), la causa trascendente, frutto della superstizione, riporta una serie di false credenze in relazione ai sintomi più ricorrenti. Nel caso di una facile evacuazione delle feci (cf. anche 7,26 ἡ δὲ κόπρος ὑπέρχεται ὑπὸ βίης πνιγομένου), veniva considerata responsabile Enodia, divinità infernale, identificata con Ècate o con Persefone. Questo dato, finora non emerso in relazione all’ interpretazione del gioco comico ai danni di Cinesia, mette in luce l’ associazione simbolica tra escrementi copiosi e mondo infero. E d’ altronde la diarrea è sintomo che aggiunto al deperimento fisico (φθίσις) può portare alla morte. Si veda, a questo proposito, per lo meno Hp. Coac. 428,2–3 καὶ ὅσοισι φθισικοῖσιν ἐπιγίνονται διάρροιαι, θνήσκουσιν che conferma le osservazioni di Fiorentini 2010 (cit. a n. 3). In Eccl. 329–30 la battuta del Vicino ai danni di Blepiro (οὔτι που / Κινησίας σου κατατετίληκεν;) è giocata nuovamente sulle qualità evanescenti del ditirambografo ‘uccello’ e sulle conseguenti ‘produzioni’ escrementizie, icasticamente riassunte dallo stesso composto espressionistico (κατα-τετίληκεν) utilizzato per Ran. 366, che le reifica attraverso la visualizzazione di una traiettoria verticale. Per la derivazione giambica del lemma rinvio a Hippon. fr. 73,3 W.2 = 73,3 Deg.2 (ὤμειξε δ’ αἷμα καὶ χολὴν ἐτίλησεν),

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alla sua magrezza scheletrica31, una caratteristica corporea utile a canzonarne non certo e non solo il fisico infelice. Tra gli sciagurati respinti dal coro verrebbe, dunque, annoverato chiunque si comporti come il ditirambografo Cinesia, così noto – abbiamo detto – da poter essere messo alla berlina senza menzionarne l’ identità. In realtà, a ben vedere, il personaggio era appena stato bollato da una battuta sarcastica di Dioniso, perché responsabile di aver apportato innovazioni alla pirrica tradizionale32 attraendo seguaci criticabili quanto lui (v. 153 τὴν πυρρίχην τις ἔμαθε τὴν Κινησίου)33. Avrebbe potuto, perciò, integrare perfettamente, secondo il dio, scanzonato dop-

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in cui il verbo semplice è usato indubitabilmente in senso proprio. Degani (2007, 33) traduceva: “pisciò sangue e cacò bile”. Si veda al proposito anche Wright (2012,121) che osserva come “the joke at Assemblywomen 326–30 does seem to depend on a stronger sense that Cinesias’ poetry really is shit”. Per il nesso magrezza-diarrea si veda, per esempio, Hp. Aff. 25,1–3 διάρροια δὲ ἡ μακρὴ ὅταν ἔχῃ, διαχωρέει πρῶτον μὲν τὰ ἐσιόντα ὑγρὰ, ἔπειτα φλέγμα· καὶ ἐσθίει μὲν ἐπιεικῶς, ὑπὸ δὲ τῆς πολλῆς διαχωρήσιος ἀσθενὴς καὶ λεπτὸς γίνεται. La λεπτότης, la cui valenza fisica (“magrezza”) si traduce (probabilmente per quel pubblico) in ‘scarsità’ sul piano intellettuale – per cui cf. già Hom. Il.10.226 ἀλλά τέ οἱ βράσσων τε νόος, λεπτὴ δέ τε μῆτις – connota per traslato in Ar. fr. 156,11 K.–A. le speranze degli Ateniesi, mal riposte nel ditirambografo Cinesia, umbratile come i suoi compagni Sannirione e Meleto (a questo proposito si veda infra n. 43 e Wright 2012, 137). Per la categoria della λεπτότης, declinata anche come futilità e inconsistenza delle disquisizioni socratiche e sofistiche, si veda Imperio 1998, 113–17. Per la testimonianza di Ateneo (12.551d ἦν δ’ ὄντως λεπτότατος καὶ μακρότατος ὁ Κινησίας, εἰς ὃν καὶ ὅλον δρᾶμα γέγραφεν Στράττις) rinvio a Orth 2009, 266, Fiorentini 2010, 251 e Fiorentini 2017, 104–105. Si veda a questo proposito la condivisibile osservazione di Lawler (1950, 84–85), puntualmente citata da Dover 1993 ad loc., secondo cui l’ espressione aristofanea “pyrrhikhe of Kinesias” si sarebbe potuta leggere come allusione “to strained movements in his choreography for dithyrambic choruses”. Sull’ associazione ad Atene di cori pirrici e ditirambici, si veda Ieranò (1997, 238 e n. 23) che, tuttavia, ipotizza (p. 310 e n. 14) che “danzare la pirrica”, detto da Aristofane in riferimento a Cinesia, “potrebbe semplicemente significare “fare il matto” (come pyrrichizon in Plut. Sulla 13,3)”. È infatti probabile che i movimenti concitati delle sue coreografie, atti anche a giocare sul suo nome da parte di Aristofane e dei comici, facessero pensare alla pirrica. Di qui la particolare ‘pirrica di Cinesia’. Si veda in Franklin (2017, 212 n. 200) il riferimento alle fonti antiche che, a partire da schol. Plat. Resp. 394c, definiscono il ditirambo κεκινημένος. Lo schol. ad loc. recita: Κινησίας διθυραμβοποιός· ὃς ἐποίησε πυρρίχην. ἢ ὅτι ἐν τοῖς χοροῖς πολλῇ κινήσει ἐχρῆτο. La spiegazione dello scolio appare convincente. Aristofane avrebbe reso comicamente parlante il nome di Cinesia, così come aveva imposto lo stesso nome al marito di Mirrina (senza nessun riferimento certo al ditirambografo, intravisto tuttavia da Maas 1921, 481) per attivare questa volta un gioco a sfondo sessuale. Veniva citato nella stessa annotazione al v. 153 anche il v. 366 di cui ci occupiamo, preceduto dal commento sulla ‘scostumatezza’ del personaggio incriminato (ἦν δὲ καὶ τὸ σῶμα ὀκνηρὸς καὶ κατεσκελετευκώς. δοκεῖ δὲ καὶ κατησχημονηκέναι τοῦ τῆς Ἑκάτης ἀγάλματος), per cui si vedano LSJ9 s.v. κατασχημονέω.

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pio del drammaturgo, la lista di ‘peccatori’ immersi nello sterco dell’ Ade. L’ aveva sciorinata Eracle, che non aveva risparmiato critiche anche agli estimatori di un pessimo tragediografo come Morsimo (v. 151). Di qui la possibilità per il dio del teatro di rilanciare, stigmatizzando l’ attività del ditirambografo. Ma se Cinesia era appena stato motteggiato come sperimentatore di una nuova pirrica (apprezzata dagli incolti? Da chi non aveva esperienza di vera ‘iniziazione’ ai riti delle Muse?), perché ora colpirlo come empio, però nuovamente tirando in ballo la sua attività di kykliodidaskalos? Quale in realtà la sua ‘colpa’ o probabilmente il difetto abituale, data la funzione ascrivibile al tempo presente34 che segnala il suo agire (κατατιλᾷ τῶν ῾Εκαταίων)? Quella di ‘imbrattare di sterco’, di ‘smerdare’ gli Hekataia. Tradurremmo provvisoriamente “le cose di Ècate”. Non un episodio isolato quindi, ma un atto di empietà reiterata, associato a quello altrettanto abituale di accompagnare con musica e canto i cori ciclici (ὑπᾴδων35)? Avremmo a che fare, insomma, con un ditirambografo diarroico ed empio – è Cinesia che si vuol motteggiare! – che nei propri spettacoli musicali avrebbe ­lasciato alla danza il ruolo protagonistico, a differenza degli ὑπορχήματα classici in cui era protagonista il canto e la danza lo accompagnava. Il coro degli Iniziati bandirebbe, dunque – ma non sorprende e può quasi apparire pleonastico – chi, come Cinesia, si macchiasse di colpe verso una dea sotterranea cui pertiene un culto iniziatico: ma perché? Gli interpreti, forse non senza insoddisfazione, ma con il sostegno di un passo delle Vespe (v. 804 ὥσπερ Ἑκατεῖον πανταχοῦ πρὸ τῶν θυρῶν) e di quel materiale scoliografico e lessicografico che equipara τὰ Ἑκαταῖα agli agalmata della dea36, 34

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Il riprovevole comportamento viene espresso tramite un tempo presente (κατατιλᾷ) così come presente è il participio che segnala la prevalenza della danza nei suoi spettacoli, mentre altri comportamenti, ugualmente stigmatizzati dal coro, sono espressi con un aoristo (vv. 356–57 μήτ’ ἐχόρευσεν, / μηδὲ […] ἐτελέσθη) con la evidente intenzione di assegnarli ad un’ unica occasione. Per la valenza di “accompaniment” insita nel composto (per cui rinvio a LSJ9 s.v.), attestata fin da Hom. Il. 18.570, si veda ancora Ran. 874 (ὑμεῖς δὲ ταῖς Μούσαις τι μέλος ὑπᾴσατε). La battuta è di Dioniso che sollecita il coro ad accompagnarlo nella preghiera con un canto alle Muse che verrà puntualmente eseguito: il dio paradossalmente prega per poter giudicare μουσικώτατα l’ agone tra i due tragediografi. Un passo più tardo (Luc. Salt. 30) mette ancor meglio in luce l’ azione sussidiaria espressa dal termine in questione: πάλαι μὲν γὰρ αὐτοὶ καὶ ᾖδον καὶ ὠρχοῦντο· εἶτ’ ἐπειδὴ κινουμένων τὸ ἆσθμα τὴν ᾠδὴν ἐπετάραττεν, ἄμεινον ἔδοξεν ἄλλους αὐτοῖς ὑπᾴδειν. Il commento di Luciano, utile a comprendere l’ evoluzione di una più antica performance corale (ditirambica?) in cui i danzatori non cantano, perché impossibilitati dall’ affanno causato dal movimento, ma danzano accompagnati da musica e canto, appare una chiosa di Ran. 366. Dover 1993 ad loc., rinviando a Ran. 874, Call. H. 4,304–306, H. 3,242–43, osservava infatti: “this must mean singing while the chorus danced, Kinesias being a composer-performer”. Nello scolio al v. 153 veniva anche citato in riferimento a Cinesia il v. 366 di cui ci occupiamo con la seguente annotazione: ἦν δὲ καὶ τὸ σῶμα ὀκνηρὸς καὶ κατεσκελετευκώς.

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accettano che di empietà si tratti, di pratiche sacrileghe, cioè, a danno delle statue (o dei tempietti) di Ècate che proteggevano case o trivi. Commentano in questo senso con poche e sottili divergenze e con una serie di rinvii ad altri passi aristofanei che ne giustifichino l’ univoca interpretazione37. Traducono tutti in modo simile38. Tammaro, che ho preso ad esempio supra, scioglie opportunamente nell’ endiadi “canta e accompagna” la densità del composto ὑπᾴδων. Il nesso tra le due azioni (‘smerdare’ e ‘accompagnare col canto’) rimane, tuttavia, dubbio e ambiguo. La sintassi del verso impedisce che il participio (necessariamente privo di articolo) abbia solo funzione identificativa, qualificando le scelte artistiche del poeta. Sembra piuttosto motivare l’ abituale comportamento ‘diarroico’ e quindi deturpante del personaggio: “oppure chi imbratta di sterco […], quando canta/se canta/poiché canta e accompagna i cori ciclici”. Se diamo uno sguardo complessivo alle fonti, per cui rinvio a Ieranò 1997, possiamo notare che le caratteristiche del poeta si possono ridurre sostanzialmente: 1. all’ innovazione musicale e allo sperimentalismo del nuovo ditirambo; 2. agli aspetti fisici e patologici (magrezza e sindrome diarroica); 3. all’ ateismo e all’ empietà. Sono tratti comuni pressoché a tutte le testimonianze su Cinesia, anche le più tarde, probabilmente influenzate dalla caricatura dei comici. L’ accusa di empietà39, di cui anche il nostro verso offrirebbe testimonianza, sarà semplicemente da collegare ad un ateismo esibito e noto tra i sofisti contemporanei oppure

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δοκεῖ δὲ καὶ κατησχημονηκέναι τοῦ τῆς Ἑκάτης ἀγάλματος. Si veda Hesych. ε 1258 L. ἑκάταια· τὰ πρὸ τῶν θυρῶν Ἑκάτης ἀγάλματα. τινὲς δὲ τὰ ἐν τριόδοις. La forma proparossitona ἑκάταια è attestata anche in Plutarco. Per hekataion o hekateion, come termine usato dagli autori moderni per indicare le raffigurazioni triplici della dea, cf. Carboni 2015, 33 n. 152. Oltre al succitato passo delle Vespe, in cui Wilson stampa, a differenza di Ran. 366, la v.l. Ἑκατεῖον degli scolî dell’ ed. Aldina (chiedendosi se si tratti di congettura di Musuro), cf. Lys. 64 (τἀκάτιον R : θοὐκάτειον Bentley, Wilson), in cui il termine assumerebbe secondo la congettura di Bentley la valenza di agalma. A questo passo rinvia Totaro in Mastromarco–Totaro 2006, 599 a proposito del culto femminile di Ècate, altra faccia di Artemide. Come il passo delle Ecclesiazuse citato supra n. 30. Si vedano per lo meno Van Daele in Coulon–Van Daele 1928, Paduano 1981, Del Corno 1985, Dover 1993, Sommerstein 1999, Henderson 2002, Marzullo 2003, Mastromarco in Mastromarco–Totaro 2006, Judet de la Combe 2012. Su questa linea ancora di recente Power 2013, 249 (‘shits on the shrines of Hecate’ with own dithyrambs). Sommerstein 1999 ad loc., tuttavia, oltre a ipotizzare che le offerte per Ècate (coll. Pax 594–97) fossero state trovate imbrattate e che di conseguenza ne fosse disceso il gioco comico in riferimento alla diarrea di Cinesia (ancora presente in Eccl. 329–30) e alla sua empietà (Ran. 153) – ma in quest’ ultimo passo si censura semmai il suo ardito sperimentalismo – riteneva in via alternativa che il passaggio potesse riferirsi ad un poema di Cinesia giudicato irrispettoso per la dea o il suo rito (cf. n. 27 schol. ad loc. ἢ ἐπειδὴ ἠρυθρίασε ποίημα γράψας εἰς Ἑκάτην. VΘM). Ieranò (1997, 311–12) osservava come “alcuni aspetti della polemica contro Cinesia sembrerebbero sfuggire a una piena comprensione” e intravedeva – correttamente a

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ad azioni concrete? E perché a danno proprio di Ècate? Al di là di questo passo delle Rane non c’ è fonte che circoscriva una simile circostanza. Credo perciò che verosimilmente la sindrome diarroica rappresenti un elemento metaforico giocato a fini scoptici sulla corporeità, su una magrezza40, molto probabilmente reale, da cui trarre doppi sensi, paradossi e ogni espediente retorico atto a colpire e a far ridere41. Significativo a questo proposito è il fr. 156 K.–A. (test. Ath. 12.551a) del Geritade, una commedia composta a ridosso delle Rane42 e rappresentata quando già il panorama artistico ateniese era ormai quasi un deserto: le battute iniziali del frammento prospettano una analoga catabasi. Anche questa volta, secondo il testimone, una spedizione presso i morti deve probabilmente consultare qualche drammaturgo degno di questo nome ([…] πρέσβεις ὑπὸ τῶν ποιητῶν φησιν εἰς Ἅιδου πέμπεσθαι πρὸς τοὺς ἐκεῖ ποιητὰς […]). Gli inviati scelti pomposamente in ecclesia sono i rappresentanti delle tre forme di spettacolo agonale: nell’ ordine (di importanza?) il commediografo Sannirione, il tragediografo Meleto e il ditirambografo Cinesia (vv. 8–10), definiti da Ateneo tutti e tre ‘magri’ (καὶ Ἀριστοφάνης δ’ ἐν Γηρυτάδῃ λεπτοὺς τούσδε καταλέγει)43. La loro esilità artistica e le loro fisio-

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mio avviso – nella stessa fama di asebeia “una conseguenza della condanna della sua anomia in campo musicale”. Vedi supra n. 29. Lisia (fr. 53 Thalheim, test. Ath. 12.551a–d e 21.20) si esprimeva nel primo caso in termini di anomia e nel secondo faceva riferimento ad un processo per asebeia, ma senza alcun riferimento ad un episodio simile all’ interpretazione corrente del passo aristofaneo. Si veda su questa linea anche Orth 2009, 118. Per la più accreditata proposta di datazione al 409/408 a. C. (Kuiper, Geissler, Mazon, Gelzer) e per le altre ipotesi (408/407 a. C. Usener, 406 a. C. Kaibel) rinvio a Dettori 1994, 230–31 n. 6. A questo proposito vedi anche supra n. 31. Così recita il frammento (vv. 1–10): (A.) καὶ τίς νεκρῶν κευθμῶνα καὶ σκότου πύλας / ἔτλη κατελθεῖν; (B.) ἕνα † δ’ ἀφ’ ἑκάστης τέχνης / εἱλόμεθα κοινῇ γενομένης ἐκκλησίας, / οὓς ᾖσμεν ὄντας ᾁδοφοίτας καὶ θαμὰ / ἐκεῖσε φιλοχωροῦντας. (A.) εἰσὶ γάρ τινες / ἄνδρες παρ’ ὑμῖν ᾁδοφοῖται; (Β.) νὴ Δία / μάλιστά γ’. (A) ὥσπερ Θρᾳκοφοῖται; (B.) πάντ’ ἔχεις. / (Α.) καὶ τίνες ἂν εἶεν; (Β.) πρῶτα μὲν Σαννυρίων / ἀπὸ τῶν τρυγῳδῶν, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν τραγικῶν χορῶν / Μέλητος, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν κυκλίων Κινησίας. Con una domanda retorica dall’ andamento paratragico (si veda Eur. Hec. 1, puntualmente segnalato dagli editori) il personaggio (A.) si interroga con ironica incredulità sull’ audace autore di una presunta catabasi (vv. 1–2in.). L’ interlocutore (B.) (vv. 2ex.–5in.) espone il progetto surreale con iperbolica serietà. La sua spalla deve stare al gioco e istituisce pertanto una similitudine realistica atta a far ridere gli spettatori (“ma questi ‘girovaghi dell’ Ade’ sono simili ai ‘frequentatori della Tracia’?”). Lo scopo della missione all’ Ade non si evince dal testo, né è specificato dal testimone. Nell’ apparato di Kassel–Austin si legge: “ipsi poetae legatos de suo numero electos ad inferos misisse finguntur, non tam opinor de emendanda arte Aeschylum aliosve antiquiores consulturi quam quaesituri quis inter vivos principem locum tenere videatur vel recentiores num antiquis poetis inferiores putandi sint”.

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nomie umbratili – non a caso sono tratteggiati come ᾁδοφοῖται44 – consentono la battuta mordace dell’ interlocutore più sprezzante (A.) (vv. 11–13): (Α.) ὡς σφόδρ’ ἐπὶ λεπτῶν ἐλπίδων ὠχεῖσθ’ ἄρα. τούτους γάρ, ἢν πολλῷ ξυνέλθῃ, ξυλλαβὼν ὁ τῆς διαρροίας ποταμὸς οἰχήσεται. Speranza ‘esile’ quella degli Ateniesi che fanno affidamento su altrettanto inconsistenti “inviati speciali”. Un fiume di sterco45 in piena travolgendoli (ξυλλαβὼν) continuerebbe il suo corso (οἰχήσεται): nemesi invocata e appropriata alla leptotes, non solo fisica, di Cinesia e delle altre due figure. Sulla scena Aristofane rappresentava con tutta evidenza la loro magrezza fisica come reificazione di qualità drammaturgiche di poca sostanza. Tornando alle Rane (vv. 89–91), Aristofane se la prendeva già con i poetastri del momento. Eracle si stupiva del progetto nostalgico quanto assurdo di Dioniso, proponendogli, non senza sarcasmo, la moltitudine corrente di ragazzotti, improvvisati tragediografi, più ciarlatani di Euripide. Dioniso, ben più sarcasticamente, lo fronteggiava stigmatizzandoli con il termine etico di λωβηταί (v. 93), “corruttori” in senso metaforico. Di chi? Di nessuno in modo diretto, ma dell’ arte (τέχνης) e potenzialmente – aggiungeremmo – degli spettatori: peccatori meritevoli dell’ Inferno. E infatti, presenze umbratili (questa mi sembra la valenza prima46 di ᾁδοφοῖται, i “frequentatori dell’ Ade”), spariscono subito: “conquistano il coro una sola volta” (vv. 94–95 ἃ φροῦδα θᾶττον, ἢν ἅπαξ χορὸν λάβῃ, / μόνον προσουρήσαντα τῇ τραγῳδίᾳ)47. Il dio del teatro usa una metafora incisiva, ine44

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La definizione caricaturale di ‘frequentatori dell’ Ade’ gioca sul loro aspetto evenescente e cadaverico, che richiama in primis gli eidola della catabasi odissiaca, in particolare il φοιτᾶν di Achille (Od. 11.539–40 ψυχὴ δὲ ποδώκεος Αἰακίδαο / φοίτα μακρὰ βιβᾶσα κατ’ ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα), ma anche probabilmente le tematiche dei loro spettacoli (vedi infra p. 157). Si veda anche Orth 2009, 117. Si veda Dover (1993, 209), che ad Ran.145 annotava: “comedy cannot resist adding σκῶρ, ‘shit’, disagreeably spelt out as ‘the river of diarrhoea’”. La pointe insita in Θρᾳκοφοῖται, la fulminea similitudine istituita dal personaggio (A.), utile ad un brusco ritorno alla realtà concreta, può a mio avviso contemplare il riferimento a una diversificata pletora di personaggi attratti per motivi diversi dalla terra lontana e semibarbara. Dettori (1994, 232–35) intende che il possibile riferimento ai seguaci dei culti estatici di Dioniso, Orfeo, Zalmoxis, escluda un attacco di natura politica. Io credo invece che lo possa affiancare e, se non diretto ad Alcibiade in particolare (nota manoscritta di Kaibel, ripresa da Kassel–Austin ad loc.), possa più genericamente riferirsi alla pratica di chi si rifugiava o passava lungo tempo in Tracia, con presunte finalità diplomatiche, in realtà con obiettivi meno nobili: un comportamento già censurato ad esempio in Ach. 136, con riferimento a Teòro (ΘΕ. χρόνον μὲν οὐκ ἂν ἦμεν ἐν Θρᾴκῃ πολύν), ma si veda anche v. 602. Alla lezione dei codici (μόνον […] ἅπαξ) preferisco la soluzione di Meineke (ἅπαξ […] μόνον), adottata da ultimo da Wilson. Diversamente, ad es., Mastromarco in

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quivocabile. Denuncia con linguaggio triviale, evocatore di bassa corporalità, il loro repentino fallimento e il relativo discredito del pubblico più avveduto: questi incompetenti “sono solo capaci di pisciare sulla tragedia”48! Quest’ altra metafora escrementizia permette di dare una risposta meno ­azzardata al dubbio sollevato in merito all’ agire di Cinesia, valutando se davvero l’ immagine coprolalica del v. 366 si riferisca ad un fatto reale. Credo che si tratti anche nel caso dell’ inequivoco katatilan (“smerdare”, “imbrattare di sterco”) di una metafora, utile a censurare comicamente lo sperimentalismo del ditirambografo, che con le proprie coreografie ‘degradava’ l’ ambito sacro ad Ècate, mettendo in scena danze ‘infernali’49, il cui stile evocava forse quelle in onore della dea, ma riproposte in modo nuovo, irrituale, sia musicalmente che orchesticamente: un oltraggio privo di conseguenze concrete sugli hekataia, intesi come “statue” o “tempietti”50. Se è possibile immaginare che già le danze in onore di

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Mastromarco–Totaro 2006 ad loc. (“scompaiono presto, se solo ottengono un coro, dopo aver pisciato una sola volta sulla tragedia”). Ma il relativo commento di Totaro (ibid., 571 n. 21) mette ugualmente in luce “l’ impotenza creativa dei poetastri, contrapposta alla fertilità creativa del buon poeta […] (cfr. i vv. 96–97 dove i termini γόνιμον e γενναῖον esprimono, appunto, la naturale capacità del buon tragediografo di generare poesia): sull’ immagine comica dell’ orinare e, in particolare sulla sua valenza poetologica in questo passo, vd. Henderson, Maculate Muse, pp. 50, 176, 194”. Da ultimo Tammaro 2017, seguendo Meineke, traduce: “spariscono in un attimo, una volta / che sian riusciti ad ottenere il coro, / bravi solo a pisciar sulla tragedia” e commenta (p. 133, n. 20): “l’‘orinare’ segnala la loro impossibilità di ‘fecondare’ la tragedia, a differenza dei poeti gónimoi, ‘abili a generare’, ‘potenti’, ‘creativi’, ‘autentici’”. Dover 1993 ad v. 95 sottolineava la personificazione della tragedia e richiamava quella della commedia (Ar. Eq. 517) e della musica (Pherecr. fr. 155 K.–A.). Anche l’ italiano presenta notoriamente la stessa metafora volgare, cf. Dizionario Treccani on line (http://www.treccani.it/vocabolario/): “pisciare sopra qualche cosa, non tenerla in considerazione, disprezzarla e sim. (anche, in frasi volg., riferito a persona: io ci piscio sopra!)”. Per la tradizionale spettacolarità dei cori ciclici, intrattenimento “degno di allietare finanche nell’ Aldilà delle Isole dei Beati”, accanto agli spettacoli teatrali e alle audizioni musicali, Ieranò (1997, 237 e n. 20) citava opportunamente [Plat.] Ax. 371 b–d. Ma è da citare inoltre in merito alle predilezioni di Cinesia per luce e tenebre, comicamente enfatizzate, la sua dichiarazione di poetica in Ar. Av. 1388–90 (τῶν διθυράμβων γὰρ τὰ λαμπρὰ γίγνεται / ἀέρια καὶ σκότι’ ἄττα καὶ κυαναυγέα / καὶ πτεροδόνητα), per cui si veda anche Franklin (2017, 169–70, 174–76), che sottolinea “his professional dithyrambic interest in celestial and subterrestrial matters”. Per questa interpretazione di Ran. 366 si veda supra, pp. 152–53 e n. 38. La tradizione lessicografica che arriva a Suda κ 823 ha conservato un’ ipotesi alternativa, su cui mi sono basata, e generalmente trascurata. Lo schol. vet. ad loc. presenta in alcuni codici anche questo commento: Κινησίαν τὸν διθυραμβοποιὸν κωμῳδεῖ, ὃς εἰσήνεγκεν ἐν δράματι τὴν Ἑκάτην καὶ κατετίλησεν αὐτῆς. ἢ ἐπειδὴ ἠρυθρίασε ποίημα γράψας εἰς Ἑκάτην (VΘM). Per l’ uso di δρᾶμα, che segnala un’ affinità morfologica più che genetica tra ditirambo e tragedia, si veda Ieranò 1997, 180–81 e n. 66. Non concordo con

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Ècate51 fossero solite rappresentare la realtà dell’ Ade, i nuovi cori ciclici di Cinesia, in onore di una divinità liminale e contigua a Dioniso, agli occhi di un detrattore saranno apparsi eccessivi e perciò metaforicamente ‘indemoniati’. La Poetica aristotelica (1455b–56a,2–3 Kassel) cita una serie di tragedie, o meglio un quarto gruppo, di non facile definizione (τὸ δὲ τέταρτον †οης†, οἷον αἵ τε Φορκίδες καὶ ὁ Προμηθεὺς καὶ ὅσα ἐν ᾅδου). Alcuni editori stampano, in luogo del testo tra croci che si attiene alla lettura dei codici, la congettura ὄψις di Bywater (1898, 26), e ipotizzano che alle prime tre tipologie di tragedia (1. πεπλεγμένη, a trama complessa con peripezia e riconoscimento; 2. παθητική, giocata sulla sventura; 3. ἠθική, costruita sui caratteri dei personaggi) se ne affiancasse una quarta tutta ‘spettacolo’, esemplificata da Forcidi, Prometeo e da tragedie che si svolgevano nell’ Ade52. Di queste le Rane e il Geritade dovevano costituire la parodia. Parallelamente e a maggior ragione i cori ciclici del nuovo ditirambo avranno messo in scena situazioni analoghe. Dunque, se il contesto si può ricostruire in questi termini, saremmo di fronte nel caso di Ran. 366 ad un attacco

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Franklin (2017, 196), che ritiene che Aristofane avesse in mente “a specific dithyrambic performance [il corsivo è dello studioso in questione] that somehow brought together EKATAIA – the identity of which remains to be determined – and some intentional ‘act’ of defecation, even if this was only a dramatic representation of some sort”. Lo studioso ritiene inoltre che lo spettacolo di Cinesia avesse caratteristiche comiche e buffonesche (pp. 204 e 211), ma dal contesto delle Rane aristofanee non sembra possibile evincere nessun dato a sostegno dell’ ipotesi. Peraltro le feste della dea dovevano essere spesso allietate da danze, come è dato di capire attraverso fonti anche iconografiche. Molteplici sono le rappresentazioni della divinità che si accompagna alle Cariti (al cui culto era associata sull’ Acropoli): le dee della bellezza e della danza avrebbero il controllo degli ingressi come avveniva ad Eritre e ad Argo (Paus. 7.5,9, 2.17,3–4). Ma si vedano anche quelle in movimento (frontone del Partenone) o con himation svolazzante (scultura frontonale di Eleusi) in probabile riferimento all’ anodos di Kore/Persefone (Carboni 2015, 28, 32, 54–55, 109, 149, 163ss. etc.). Nell’ Inno omerico a Demetra Ècate è personaggio secondario e accessorio (Càssola 1975, 469–70, Zanetto 1996, 217), ma la sua presenza appare necessaria a ribadirne nell’ occasione della performance uno degli attributi fondanti (v. 440): è la dea che unica sente le grida della fanciulla rapita “dall’ antro” (v. 25) in cui risiede e che diverrà propolos di Persefone, incaricata di accompagnarne i passaggi tra Ade e terra, tra la realtà acquatica e oscura, suo habitat privilegiato, e quella terrestre della stagione primaverile. Per le feste in onore di Ècate, attestate da consistente materiale epigrafico, si veda ancora Carboni (2015, 85) con rinvio anche a Strab. 14.2,25,3–5. Se la congettura opsis non tradisce il pensiero originale di Aristotele in proposito alla quarta tipologia di tragedia, ci troveremmo di fronte a τὸ τέταρτον con trama lineare, visivamente accattivante per via di canti corali in cui cominciavano a prevalere una nuova musica e nuove coreografie a danno della pregnanza del testo poetico. Che questa tendenza inaugurata dai cori ciclici del ditirambo venga in qualche modo ormeggiata dai cori tragici e parodiata da quelli comici, è possibile verificarlo nelle partiture delle tragedie euripidee, nonché delle commedie aristofanee. Si veda a proposito della danza nella Poetica il saggio chiarificatore di Zimmermann 2017b e relativa bibliografia.

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iperbolico rivolto a un personaggio di successo, magro, umbratile, scheletrico. Le caratteristiche fisiche, secondo un abituale espediente retorico, vengono utilizzate per disprezzarne la produzione artistica, poeticamente esile e priva di incisività, equiparata ad una sindrome diarroica53, a qualcosa di schifoso, inconsistente e turpe in senso estetico, che squalifica per comico paradosso54 perfino una dea infernale come Ècate/Enodia, nonostante il suo habitat. La dea greco-orientale, acquatica e metamorfica, una e trina – incarna e anticipa la nozione di trinità – che si assimila ad altre divinità femminili55, come tutte le dee legate all’ elemento liquido56, è anche una divinità danzante, in movimento, che condivide la leggerezza, la scioltezza, il guizzo di pesci57, grandi e piccoli. Come Dioniso e Demetra, è dea dei misteri, la cui iniziazione prevede notoriamente la pratica della danza, come ricorderà Luciano (Salt. 15)58: orchestes per eccellenza è d’ altronde Dioniso stesso (Salt. 22,6–9)59, ma già in Ran. 404 veniva invocato 53 54

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Questa nozione si conferma negli usi figurati del verbo διαρρέω, cf. LSJ9 s.v. Nell’ immaginario greco caratteristiche del mondo sotterraneo dovevano essere il buio e il fango, integrati dallo sterco come ad es. nella visione comica aristofanea. Abbiamo citato supra, n. 29, Hp. Morb. Sacr. 1,87–89, in cui veniva ricordato il soprannome Enodio attribuibile ai diarroici. Per la prima raffigurazione di Ècate tricorpore (430–420 a. C.) ad opera di Alcamene (Paus. 2.30,2) rinvio a Carboni 2015, 28. Notoriamente assente in Omero, Ècate fa la sua apparizione in Esiodo dove il mare già appare come uno degli habitat della dea (Th. 411–13). Questa timè che la collega al mare, le assegna un ruolo nella genealogia di Scilla, il mostro già odissiaco, di cui appare madre in Apollonio Rodio (4.827–29). Gli scenari marini in cui si muovono questi esseri primordiali si articolano in spelonche, antri marini (cf. Od. 12.80), in cui le ninfe acquatiche generano monstra come Scilla: in perenne movimento. I dodici piedi di Scilla si muovono, infatti, tutti e vorticano sott’ acqua “invisibili” (v. 89). C’ è tuttavia un aspetto del mostro che ci conferma la natura notturna, acquatica, “mediatrice” della madre (vv. 93–94): per metà è immersa nelle profondità della grotta, ma proietta le teste fuori dall’ orrendo baratro. Anche Scilla, dunque, è un essere che esperisce due elementi, che vive a metà tra acqua e aria, buio e luce. Per i rari sacrifici a base di pesce in onore della dea si veda Carboni 2016, e per il riferimento alle triglie, contigue per paretimologia alla sua triplicità, anche Chariclid. fr. 1 K.–A. ἐῶ λέγειν, ὅτι τελετὴν οὐδεμίαν ἀρχαίαν ἔστιν εὑρεῖν ἄνευ ὀρχήσεως, Ὀρφέως δηλαδὴ καὶ Μουσαίου καὶ τῶν τότε ἀρίστων ὀρχηστῶν καταστησαμένων αὐτάς, ὥς τι κάλλιστον καὶ τοῦτο νομοθετησάντων, σὺν ῥυθμῷ καὶ ὀρχήσει μυεῖσθαι. ὅτι δ’ οὕτως ἔχει, τὰ μὲν ὄργια σιωπᾶν ἄξιον τῶν ἀμυήτων ἕνεκα, ἐκεῖνο δὲ πάντες ἀκούουσιν, ὅτι τοὺς ἐξαγορεύοντας τὰ μυστήρια ἐξορχεῖσθαι λέγουσιν οἱ πολλοί. Non è dato tuttavia inferire dalle affermazioni di Luciano che la metafora aristofanea che definisce il comportamento di Cinesia alluda alla rivelazione dei misteri attraverso la danza (Franklin 2017, 185 e n. 97). Dioniso “sottomette” e seduce addirittura intere popolazioni “attraverso l’ arte della danza” (καὶ ταύτῃ τῇ τέχνῃ χρώμενος ὁ Διόνυσος, φασίν, Τυρρηνοὺς καὶ Ἰνδοὺς καὶ Λυδοὺς ἐχειρώσατο καὶ φῦλον οὕτω μάχιμον τοῖς αὑτοῦ θιάσοις κατωρχήσατο).

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dagli Iniziati come Iacco “amico dei cori” (  Ἴακχε φιλοχορευτά, συμπρόπεμπέ με). Ecco perché le coreografie mimetiche di Cinesia, accompagnate da una musica più complessa, evidentemente ricche di nuove sequenze e quindi scomposte se paragonate a quelle delle danze tradizionali, sarebbero offensive e deturpanti nei confronti dei rituali della dea, perché probabilmente anche evocatrici di danze iniziatiche. Come gli scholia vet. ad loc. avevano in qualche modo suggerito, ta hekataia possono far riferimento senza troppa difficoltà a situazioni (riti, feste, agoni) connesse alla divinità, forse non propriamente i misteri (τῶν τῆς Ἑκάτης μυστηρίων RV), ma più semplicemente le occasioni festive in suo onore, denominate in modo analogo a quelle di Ermes o di Atena (  Ἕρμαια, Παναθήναια), in alternativa a ta hekatesia per necessità prosodica60. Letto in questo modo, il passo delle Rane (v. 366) si fa semplicemente beffe in modo triviale della professionalità del ditirambografo, a partire dai suoi tratti somatici e dalle potenziali sindromi che vi si potevano associare o da cui era concretamente affetto. Se è così, verrebbe altresì anticipata dal drammaturgo la boutade presente nell’ agone tra le due star, arbitrato in scena da Dioniso. Aristofane affida, infatti, ad Eschilo la parodia delle monodie di Euripide, dei “notturni” che non tralasciano di menzionare Ècate (vv. 1361–64 σὺ δ’, ὦ Διός, διπύρους ἀνέχουσα / λαμπάδας ὀξυτάτας χεροῖν Ἑκάτα). Si tratta di una modalità di composizione che per le caratteristiche metriche, lessicali e musicali, doveva mettere in evidenza la nota seduzione del tragediografo per le sperimentazioni del nuovo ditirambo. Alcune testimonianze ci permettono di immaginare canti corali tragici ad invocazione della dea come quelli di Eschilo (fr. 388,1–2 R. δέσποιν’ Ἑκάτη, τῶν βασιλείων / πρόδρομος μελάθρων’), danzati compostamente anche se in modo originale (è nota la fama di Eschilo a questo proposito), e le nuove coreografie61 di personaggi come Cinesia, in cui il canto, non più protagonista, funge da accompagnamento alla danza che diviene centrale nello spettacolo. Non a caso il personaggio veniva definito da Strattide choroktonos (fr. 16 K.–A.)62, molto probabilmente in virtù di uno stravolgimento del coro ciclico63, dell’ esilità contenutistica dei suoi canti di accompagnamento (ὑπᾴδων), della musica virtuosistica e della 60

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Per simile formazione aggettivale derivata da nomi di divinità e indicante le relative feste, se declinata al neutro plurale preceduto da articolo, rinvio all’ elenco di Polluce 1.37,1–7 (  Ἕρμαια, […] Παναθήναια, ma… Ἑκατήσια). Tuttavia si veda Soph. fr. 734 R. τὰς Ἑκαταίας μαγίδας δόρπων (teste Poll. 6.83,6). Per l’ alternanza ἑκάταιος/ἑκατήσιος lo schol. vet. Vesp. 804a 1 recita: ὥσπερ Ἑκάταιον: τὸ Ἑκατήσιον λεγόμενον· τῇ προσῳδίᾳ. Cf. Csapo 2008, 286 a proposito della contiguità tra ditirambo e linguaggio, immagini, danze dei misteri da un lato, e dall’ altro i mimetismi delle nuove coreografie. Rinvio a Orth 2009, 111–12 e Fiorentini 2017, 100–103 per le perplessità nei confronti delle testimonianze relative ad una responsabilità diretta di Cinesia nell’ abolizione della coregia. Questa è l’ interpretazione di Fiorentini (2009, 173–80), che condivido. Su questa linea anche Franklin 2017, 211.

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‘mostruosità’ delle figure mimetiche64, tali da essere evocate sulla scena comica con metafora coprolalica: un orrore e un insulto per una divinità danzante65! Bibliografia Andrisano 2000 = A. M. Andrisano, “Sapph. fr. 57 V. Una rivale priva di stile”, MCr 32–35 (1997–2000), 7–23. Andrisano 2002 = A. M. Andrisano, Empusa nome parlante (Aristoph. Ran. 288ss.), in A. Ercolani (ed.), Spoudaiogeloion. Form und Funktion der Verspottung in der aristophanischen Komödie (Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Friburgo 5–7 luglio 2001), Stuttgart-Weimar 2002, 273–297. Andrisano 2010 = A. M. Andrisano, Il coro delle rane (Aristoph. Ran. 209–68): non solo musica!, in G. Petrone–M. M. Bianco (eds.), Comicum choragium. Effetti di scena nella commedia antica, Palermo 2010, 9–31. Andrisano 2011 = A. M. Andrisano, Ritmo, parola, immagine: termini chiave della ricerca teatrologica. A proposito dell’ agone delle Rane aristofanee, in A. M. Andrisano (ed.), Ritmo, parola, immagine. Il teatro classico e la sua tradizione, “La Biblioteca di DeM” 1 (2011), XI–XXXIII (http://dionysusexmachina.it/). Bywater 1898 = I. Bywater, Aristotelis De arte poetica liber, Oxonii 1898. Calame 2013 = C. Calame, The Dithyramb, a Dionysiac Poetic Form: Genre Rules and Cultic Contexts, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 332–352. Càssola 1975 = F. Càssola, Inni Omerici, Milano, 1975. Carboni 2014 = R. Carboni, Ecate e il mondo infero. Analisi di una divinità liminare, in I. Baglioni (ed.), Sulle Rive dell’ Acheronte. Costruzione e Percezione della Sfera del Post Mortem nel Mediterraneo Antico, vol. II (L’ Antichità Classica e Cristiana), Roma 2014, 39–51. Carboni 2015 = R. Carboni, Dea in limine. Culto, immagine e sincretismi di Ecate nel mondo greco e microasiatico (TAF 17), Rahden/Westf. 2015. Carboni 2016 = R. Carboni, Unusual Sacrificial Victims: Fish and Their Value in the Context of Sacrifices, in P. A. Johnston–A. Mastrocinque–Sophia Papaioannou (eds.), Animals in Greek and Roman Religion, Proceedings of the Symposium Grumentinum (Potenza, 5–7 June 2013), Newcastle upon Tyne 2016, 255–279. Ceccarelli 2013 = P. Ceccarelli, Circular Choruses and the Dithyramb in the Classical and Hellenistic period. A Problem of Definition, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 153–170. Coulon–Van Daele 1928 = V. Coulon, Aristophane. Les Tesmophories. Les Grenouilles, IV, texte établi par V. C. et trad. par H. Van Daele, Paris 1928. Coulon–Judet de La Combe 2012 = V. Coulon–P. Judet de La Combe, Aristophane. Les Grenouilles, Paris 2012.

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Si veda Franklin 2013, 234. Cf. Orph. H. 1.1–3 in particolare per gli epiteti “marina” (v. 2 εἰναλία) e “baccheggiante con le anime dei morti” (v. 3 ψυχαῖς νεκύων μέτα βακχεύουσα), che la accostano rispettivamente a Poseidone e Dioniso. Rinvio per la traduzione e il commento dell’ Inno a Ricciardelli 2000, 13 e 235–36.

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Csapo 2008 = E. Csapo, Star Choruses: Eleusis, Orphism, and New Musical Imagery and Dance, in Revermann–Wilson 2008, 262–290. Degani 2007= E. Degani, Ipponatte. Frammenti, Introduzione, traduzione e note di E. D. Premessa di G. Burzacchini. Aggiornamenti di A. Nicolosi, Bologna 2007. Del Corno 1985 = D. Del Corno, Aristofane. Le Rane, Milano 1985. Dettori 1994 = E. Dettori, “Una proposta per Aristoph. fr. 156, 7 K.–A.”, GIF 46 (1994), 229–235. Dover 1993 = K. Dover, Aristophanes. Frogs, Ed. with Introd. and Comm., Oxford 1993. Dunbar 1995 = N. Dunbar, Aristophanes. Birds, Oxford 1995. Fearn 2013 = D. Fearn, Dithyramb and the Athenian Empire, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 133–152. Fiorentini 2009 = L. Fiorentini, “Modalità esecutive del nuovo ditirambo: Cinesia ­choroktonos in Stratt. fr. 16 K.–A.”, AOFL IV.2 (2009), 163–180. Fiorentini 2010 = L. Fiorentini, “Cinesia, i comici, Eroziano (PMG 776)”, AOFL 5.2 (2010), 250–255. Fiorentini 2017 = L. Fiorentini, Strattide. Testimonianze e frammenti, Bologna 2017. Ford 2011 = A. L. Ford, Dionysos’ many names in Aristophanes’ Frogs, in R. Schlesier (ed.), A different God? Dionysos and Ancient Polytheism, Berlin 2011, 343–356. Ford 2013 = A. L. Ford, The Poetics of Dithyramb, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 313–331. Franklin 2013 = J. C. Franklin, ‘Songbenders of Circular Choruses’: Dithyramb and the ‘Demise of Music’, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 213–236. Franklin 2017 = J. C. Franklin, ‘Skatabasis’. The Rise and Fall of Kinesias, in A. Gostoli (ed.), Poeti in Agone. Composizioni poetiche e musicali nella Grecia antica, Turnhout 2017, 163–221. Funaioli 1993 = M. P. Funaioli, “Osservazioni sulla drammaturgia delle Rane. La tenebra dell’ Ade, Eracle e i Centauri, Palamede e la macchina del volo”, Dioniso 63 (1993), 343–356. Guidorizzi 2009 = G. Guidorizzi, Il mito greco, voll. I–II, Milano 2009. Henderson 2002 = J. Henderson, Aristophanes. Frogs. Assemblywomen. Wealth, Cambridge (MA)-London 2002. Ieranò 1997 = G. Ieranò, Il ditirambo di Dioniso. Le testimonianze antiche, Pisa-Roma 1997. Ieranò 2013 = G. Ieranò, ‘One who Fought over by all the Tribes’: The Dithyrambic Poet and the City of Athens, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 368–386. Kowalzig–Wilson 2013 = B. Kowalzig–P. Wilson (eds.), Dithyramb in Context, Oxford 2013. Kowalzig–Wilson 2013a = B. Kowalzig–P. Wilson, Introduction: The World of Dithyramb, in Kowalzig–Wilson 2013, 1–28. Imperio 1998 = O. Imperio 1998, La figura dell’ intellettuale nella commedia greca, in A. M. Belardinelli–O. Imperio–G. Mastromarco–M. Pellegrino–P. Totaro (eds.), Tessere. Frammenti della commedia greca: studi e commenti, Bari 1998, 41–130. Lawler 1950 = L. B. Lawler, “Limewood Cinesias and the Dithyrambic dance”, TAPhA 81 (1950), 78–88. Maas 1921 = P. Maas, “Kinesias”, RE 11.1 (1921), 479–481. Marzullo 2003 = B. Marzullo, Aristofane. Le commedie, Roma 2003. Mastromarco–Totaro 2006 = G. Mastromarco–P. Totaro, Commedie di Aristofane, vol. II, Torino 2006. Orth 2009 = C. Orth, Strattis: Die Fragmente. Ein Kommentar, Berlin 2009. Paduano 1981 = G. Paduano, Aristofane. Lisistrata, Milano 1981.

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Power 2013 = T. Power, Kyklops Kitharoidos: Dithyramb and Nomos in Play, in Kowalzig– Wilson 2013, 237–256. Revermann–Wilson 2008 = M. Revermann–P. Wilson (eds.), Performance, Iconography, Reception: Studies in Honour of Oliver Taplin, Oxford 2008. Ricciardelli 2000 = G. Ricciardelli, Inni orfici, Milano 2000. Sommerstein 1999 = A. H. Sommerstein, The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 9, Frogs, ed. with trans. and notes, Warminster 1996 (1999 repr. with corrections). Stanford 19632 = W. B. Stanford, Aristophanes. The Frogs (Ed. Intr. Comm.), London 19632. Spina 2020 = G. Spina, Il segreto del Tuffatore. Vita e morte nell’ antica Paestum, Napoli 2020. Tammaro 2006 = V. Tammaro, Poeti tragici come personaggi comici in Aristofane, in E. Medda–M. S. Mirto–M. P. Pattoni (eds.), ΚΩΜΩΙΔΟΤΡΑΓΩΙΔΙΑ. Intersezioni del tragico e del comico nel teatro del V secolo, Pisa 2006, 249–261. Tammaro 2017 = V. Tammaro, Aristofane. Le Rane, Intr., nuova trad. e note, Bologna 2017. Wilson 2007 = N. G. Wilson, Aristophanis Fabulae, voll. I–II, Oxonii 2007. Wright 2012 = M. Wright, The Comedian as Critic. Greek Old Comedy and Poetics, London 2012. Zanetto 1987 = G. Zanetto, Aristofane. Gli Uccelli, intr. e trad. di D. Del Corno, Milano 1987. Zanetto 1996 = G. Zanetto, Inni Omerici, Milano 1996. Zimmermann 1992 = B. Zimmermann, Dithyrambos. Geschichte einer Gattung, Göttingen 1992. Zimmermann 2010 = B. Zimmermann, La commedia greca. Dalle origini all’ età ellenistica, ed. italiana a c. di S. Fornaro, Roma 2010. Zimmermann 2017a = B. Zimmermann, Personifikation und metaphorische Dramatisierung in der aristophanischen Komödie, in G. Mastromarco–P. Totaro–B. Zimmermann (eds.), La commedia attica antica. Forme e contenuti, Lecce 2017, 25–36. Zimmermann 2017b = B. Zimmermann, “Tanz im griechischen Drama”, Internationales Jahrbuch fur Hermeneutik 16.2 (2017), 30–45 (trad. it. in DeM 10 [2019] 106–121, https://dionysusexmachina.it). Zografou 2010 = A. Zografou, Chemins d’ Hécate. Portes, routes, carrefours et autre figures de l’ entre deux, Paris 2010. Zografou 2016 = A. Zografou, Des dieux maniables. Hécate & Cronos dans les Papyrus magiques grecs, Paris 2016.

Antonis K. Petrides

Menander’ s Leukadia A Re-Examination of the Fragments and a New Chapter in the Play’ s Modern Reception*

Keywords: Menander, Turpilius, Sappho, Phaon, Leucas, Kyriakos Charalambides Introduction This paper offers a thorough re-examination of all the fragments, testimonies and clues regarding Menander’ s lost play Leukadia – scraps of varied ­provenance (papyrus fragments, citations in later authors, a Latin adaptation by Sextus Turpilius, and a mosaic in the House of Menander in Mytilene), which speak for a play popular throughout antiquity. Regrettably, for all that this evidence can offer, we can only enjoy tantalising but scattered glimpses into Leukadia’ s plot, characters and themes. In later times, after the loss of Menander’ s script, a Nachleben for the play was secured mostly by fr. 1 Aust. (cited by Strabo), a system of eight anapaestic dimeters, itself rare in Menander, relating the love story of Sappho and Phaon. This ill-fated affair of the celebrated poetess did not form part of Leukadia’ s plot per se but seems to have operated as its ‘mirror’, that is, as a paradigmatic narrative backdrop functioning in the same way that tragic narratives routinely do in the comedy of Menander. A new chapter in the reception of the SapphoPhaon story – and of Leukadia – was recently written by the Greek-Cypriot poet Kyriakos Charalambides (1940–). His poems “Sappho in Leucas” (Quince Apple, 2006) and “Sappho (in the waves of Leucas)” (The Disk of the Sun and the Moon, 2017) respond to the traditional account with a counter-Menandrian (implicitly also, counter-Ovidian) version of the incident at the White Rock of Leucas. The poems are analysed in the second part of this paper. A. Menander’ s Leukadia (“Girl of Leucas”): The Remainder of a Play The main sources of information for the reconstruction of Menander’ s Leukadia are the following: – Direct paradosis (papyrus fragments). POxy 4024, first published by Parsons (1994), preserves what most scholars believe are the first ten lines of the play. * Thanks are due to my doctoral student, Mrs. Penelope Strati, an expert on the work of Kyriakos Charalambides, for her invaluable remarks on the second part of this paper. Dr Maria Pavlou also made useful suggestions.

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Arnott’ s Loeb edition (1996) also includes POxy inv. 50 4B 30H (5) (= Adesp. Com. 1127 K.–A.; see §3.2.1); however, the evidence for the relation of this fragment to Leukadia was described as “circumstantial” already by its editor princeps (Handley 1979) and the fragment is omitted from the latest edition of the play (Austin 2012). – Indirect paradosis. Austin (2012) includes ten book fragments, of which eight were already ascribed to the play by Körte–Thierfelder (1959, 98). Only fragments 1 (cited by Strabo, six anapaestic dimeters, which may have come right after the lines preserved by POxy 4024)1, fr. 6 (cited by Photius) and probably fr. 8 (from Zenobius) provide workable clues to the plot. The rest are mostly lexicographical (the sources are: Choeroboscus, fr. 2; Olympiodorus, fr. 3; and the Scholia to Aristophanes’ Acharnians, fr. 10). It is uncertain whether fr. 9* (Hsch. λ 157) comes from Menander’ s play, as the ascription Λευκαδίᾳ is the result of emendation. Fr. 7 (from Servius in Verg. Aen. 3.279) provides the ostensibly erroneous information that Menander’ s play mentioned a temple of Venus in Leucas built by Phaon, probably an inference from a relevant passage in Turpilius (see below)2. – Iconographical sources. Among the mosaics excavated in the so-called House of Menander in Mytilene there is a panel depicting a scene from Leukadia3. Unlike the rest, this panel indicates neither the act of the play4 nor the names of the characters involved. To quote the description of the panel provided by the mosaic’ s editores principes, “there are three actors on the scene. The one in the centre, wearing a crown, extends a palm branch at the direction of the figure on the left. The one on the right, standing farther back, is also crowned. Apart from these, a small figure appears by the right border of the panel” holding an unidentified object. – The Leucadia of Turpilius: Nineteen book fragments, all but one (fr. 12 R.3) deriving from the Latin grammarian Nonius Marcellus (4th or 5th c. AD), constitute what remains from the Leucadia of Turpilius5 (henceforth Leuc. as opposed to Leuk. for Menander’ s play). There is little doubt that the play is an adaptation of Menander’ s Leukadia, not Diphilus’ Sappho or other plays6. The fragments, which offer provocative, albeit ambiguous, clues to the plot, are analysed in Section 3 of this paper. 1 2 3 4 5 6

Arnott (1996) prints this as a fact, but Austin’ s caution is more advisable. Cf. Austin’ s comment and Wilamowitz 1913, 26. Charitonidis–Kahil–Ginouvès 1970, 55–57 and table 7. Based on this, the mosaic’ s publishers assumed that the scene may derive from the prologue. This seems unlikely. The fragments are edited by Ribbeck 1898, 113–18, and Rychlewska 1971. Translation in Italian and commentary is provided by Traina 2013. See also Rychlewska 1963. See §3.1.1.2. The Sappho of Diphilus (frr. 70–71 K.–A.) thematized Sappho’ s heterosexual affairs with the poets Archilochus and Hipponax; no such trace is evident in

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In what follows I discuss the fragments and testimonies on Menander’s Leukadia, commenting on what can be gleaned as regards the play’s space, dramatis personae and Plotinus. The clues are divided into three categories: certain and ambiguousconjectural. 1. Space (scenic, extrascenic, diegetic) 1.1. Certain: 1.1.1. Setting: The plot unfolds on the island of Leucas, more specifically at Cape Lefkatas, near the precipitous cliff of the great White Rock (Λευκάτας)7 associated with the legend of Sappho and Phaon and the former’ s famous leap. The environs are majestic and far removed from the usual urban spaces of New Comedy. The stage of Plautus’ Rudens, set at the temple of Venus of Cyrene outside the town, offers the closest parallel8. The publishers of the Mytilene mosaic see a depiction of the play’ s rustic setting in the lines of green at the feet of the three figures. 1.1.1. Skene: The central door of the skene building represents the temple of Apollo Lefkatas9. The Temple’ s Attendant (§2.1.2) enters from this door. 1.1.2. Extrascenic space. Apart from Sappho’ s Leap, Apollo’ s holy spring lies also in the extrascenic space, close to the temple (τουτὶ πλησίον | ἱ̣ε̣ρ̣[ὸν θεοῦ ῥεῖ ν]ᾶμα, ll. 6–7 Aust.). 1.2. Ambiguous – Conjectural: 1.2.1. The cliff and probably Apollo’ s spring, as well, may (but need not) be visible to the audience by way of skēnographia. 1.2.2. Were any other buildings represented on the skene? We cannot say. The Rudens and the Dyskolos show that private houses which were not literally speaking adjacent to a place of worship (itself situated in a remote location) could still be represented on stage. 2. Dramatis personae: 2.1. Certain: Five characters can be identified with relative certainty: a character called “Little Child” (Παιδίον), who may or may not be the same as Turpilius’ Dorcium; the

7 8 9

Turpilius’ Leucadia. Plays entitled Sappho featuring or mentioning the ancient poetess were also written by Antiphanes (frr. 194–95 K.–A.), Ephippus (fr. 20 K.–A.), Amipsias (test. 2 K.–A.), Amphis and Timocles (titles only). Plato Comicus wrote a Phaon (frr. 188–98 K.–A.). The affair between Sappho and Phaon was also mentioned by Cratinus (frr. 369–70 K.–A.). A survey of this and other instances of Sapphic reception in comedy and elsewhere is provided by Georgiou Giannikou 2010. Strab. 10.2,8. Cf. Fraenkel 2007, 319. The temple, excavated by W. Dörpfeld in 1905 (see Dörpfeld 1927, 271–74), is situated on modern-day Akrotiri, on the south western tip of the island facing Cephalonia. A lighthouse now stands on its foundations. See Fig. 1.

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Ζάκορος, the attendant of Apollo Lefkatas’ temple; a young man in love; an old man; a slave. 2.1.1. Παιδίον (“Little Child”). Scholars reasonably assume that Paidion is a young girl, although the Greek text provides no secure evidence for establishing the character’ s gender. The gender specification seems implicitly to be based on three factors: (a) correlating this παιδίον with Dorcium of Turpilius’ Leucadia, fr. 16 R.3; (b) noting a correspondence between this scene and other similar New Comedy vignettes in which a young girl is instructed to fetch water from a spring (Dyskolos, Rudens, etc.); (c) assuming that Παιδίον is the young woman illustrated on the right of the Mytilene mosaic. The possibility that Παιδίον (which could also be rendered as “little slave”) is a protatic character facilitating the exposition cannot be discounted completely. The fact that Paidion wanders alone in the frightful wilderness and that she is on a mission to fetch water from a spring (like the girls in Rudens, Knemon’ s daughter or even Electra in Euripides’ play) make one think of a quasi-servile or otherwise humble social status. Menander, Philemon and others wrote comedies titled Παιδίον10 (Turpilius also wrote a Paedium), in which, many theorise, Paidion was a hetaira’ s nom de guerre11. 2.1.1.1. Is the Paidion of Leukadia a hetaira, too (or a young trainee hetaira later discovered to be a citizen and graduating to citizen marriage)? See §3.2.7. 2.1.1.2. Is Paidion the “girl of Leucas”? See §2.2.1. 2.1.1.3. Is Paidion the young woman represented on the Mytilene Mosaic (§2.1.3)? 2.1.1.4. Dorcium. A girl named Dorcium is mentioned by Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 16 R.3. There Dorcium is despondent but she is consoled by another character, who “forgives the past” and urges her to cheer up (ante facta ignosco: mitte tristitatem, Dorcium). 2.1.1.4.1.1. Is Dorcium the same as Παιδίον? The name Dorcium (Δόρκιον) translates as “little gazelle”. In Ter. Ph. 152 it belongs to a female slave12. In Asclepiades, AP 12.161 (= 20 G.–P.) and most probably in Alexis’ play of that title, too, a Δορκίς is a hetaira13. 2.1.1.4.1.2. If Turpilius’ Dorcium is a hetaira, too, does she live in Leucas or did she find herself there one way or another? The first possibility would suggest that the brothel she stayed/worked in was one of the stage houses. 2.1.1.4.1.3. If a hetaira Dorcium is indeed very young (like Paidion), is she under the tutelage of a lena? 10 11 12 13

There are also comedies titled Παιδάριον, but these may refer to newborn infants rather than to adolescents the age of Leukadia’ s Παιδίον. Auhagen 2009, 88. A Δορκάς is a female servant also in Lucian, Dial. Meretr. 9. Auhagen 2009, 61: “[…] wählt Alexis einen der typischen Hetärennamen, die oft von Tierarten abgeleitet werden”.

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2.1.1.4.1.4. Does she belong to that category of trainee hetairai who are still ‘pure’? This possibility squares well with a plot pattern in which Dorcium’ s true identity is revealed and she is reconciled with her family (and her lover); cf. §3.2.7. 2.1.2. Ζάκορος (“Temple Attendant”). Menander mentions a male ζάκορος in Dis Exapaton, fr. 4 Aust. Photius, ζ 7, who cites the Dis Ex. fragment together with Leuk. fr. 6 Aust., glosses ζάκορος as νεωκόρος, but the former is likely to have been “more honourable” than the latter (LSJ9 s.v.), practically equivalent to the ἱερεύς: Hyperides, fr. 178 J., speaks of the hetaira Phryne as an ὑποφῆτιν καὶ ζάκορον Ἀφροδίτης; Plutarch also, Cam. 30,3, of ἱερεῖς καὶ ζάκοροι θεῶν. 2.1.2.1. Is Ζάκορος the central figure of the Mytilene mosaic? It would be surprising if she were not14, dominating the scene as she is with her large presence, her distinctive costume, complete with a crown of leaves, and the palm branch she is brandishing at the direction of the old man on the left. 2.1.3. A young woman. In every New Comedy play a young female is involved in a love affair, whether she is an active participant of the plot or not. Such a figure must be represented on the right-hand side of the Mytilene mosaic15. The young woman is on a smaller scale compared to the two figures to her left, probably because she is standing slightly in the back. She, too, like the central figure, is wearing a ritual crown, which suggests that she is also associated with the temple and/or she is participating in the ceremony being conducted (§3.1.5). Her most meaningful gesture is that she is removing a veil that covers her head (see §3.2.7). 2.1.4. A young man. At least one young man is the romantic protagonist in every New Comedy play. Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 12 R.3, presents a male lover who experiences severe distress because his erotic feelings are unrequited. This must be the same as the person “wandering around with insanity showing on his face” (Turp. Leuc. fr. 13 R.3: vultu vecordi vagas)16. On the contrary, this man cannot certainly be identified with the young man of Turp. Leuc. frr. 1 and 3 R.3 or with that of Turp. Leuc. fr. 6 R.3, who is himself pursued by

14

15 16

Georgiou Giannikou (2010, 284), based on perceived similarities between the Mytilene mosaic and the depiction of the Leap in the Pythagorean Basilica in Porta Maggiore in Rome, believes that the central figure is the god Apollo. This is highly unlikely given that such prominent gods as Apollo do not appear anywhere else in New Comedy, and that outside expository prologues like Pan’ s in Dyskolos. Georgiou Giannikou (2010, 284) identifies this figure with the Ζάκορος. vultu vecordi is Ribbeck’ s reading in the second edition of the fragments. In the third edition he prints the variant tumultu, which modern editors reject.

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a woman and abhors her touch17. It is probable that the love entanglements in this Menandrian play are more complex than in others. See §3.1.3. 2.1.5. An aged man (a πάππος rather than a slave). The presence of an older man in the play is securely attested by the Mytilene mosaic. The figure stands on the left of the panel. His most distinctive features are white hair and wrinkles, which obviously speak for the man’ s age, as well as a very wide mouth orifice, which led some interpreters of the mosaic to think – mistakenly, I believe – of a slave18. It must be noted that in Imperial times, that is, by the time of the mosaicist rather than Menander, πάππος masks, too, had developed more exaggerated, even grotesque features, approximating those of the slave masks19. For a hypothesis on the role of this old man in the scene depicted by the Mytilene mosaic see §3.2.7. 2.1.5.1. Is the old man of the Mytilene mosaic the same as the caries, the ‘old withered person’, being kissed by a girl in Turp. Leuc. fr. 4 R.3, to the speaker’ s abhorrence (ei perii! uiden ut osculatur cariem? num hilum illa haec pudet? “oh, I am lost! Do you see how she kisses the old fart? Is she ashamed of this at all?”)? 2.1.5.2. Why is this old person being kissed? Are we in the presence of an ‘unseemly’ love affair (pudet) or is the relationship between the two different? Could the kissing party be privy to information that the shocked speaker of the fragment is not – for example that they are relatives (father and daughter)? Cf. §3.1.4.2, §3.2.7. 2.1.5.3. Is the caries an old man at all? Rychlewska (1971, ad loc.) prints illum instead of hilum, preserving the paradosis and assuming that the person being kissed is an old woman (the Ζάκορος?) rather than a man. 2.1.6. A slave. Webster and Ferrari identify the figure on the left of the Mytilene mosaic as an old slave – but see §2.1.5 (with n. 19). A slave of indeterminate 17

18 19

ne me attigas! apage aufer / manum. Heia quam ferocula est! (“Do not touch me! Go away, keep your hands off! Goodness, how savage is she!”). Bothe, followed by Ribbeck, would split these lines to two speakers giving the first half (ne me…manum) to a woman and the second (heia!…est) to a man; cf. Ribbeck 1962, xxxvi: [the man] “atrociter repulsus heia quam ferocula est! inquit ut in Casina v. 710 Olympio obsecro ut valentula est!”. This is possible but need not be right. If we assume that the speaker is one and the same, then it is again a young man spurning a woman, rejecting her attempts to touch him. Ferrari 2004, 141, following Webster 1974, 151. Cf. MINC3, 10: “In the course of the first century BC begins a marked assimilation to slave masks. The bridge of the nose tends to vanish, the mouth is enlarged and shaped like a slave’ s with a fringe of corkscrew curls below. […] Thus, as Webster observed, costume is a safer distinction than masks between slaves and old men when we reach Late Antiquity. We may now add the criterion of complexion which tends to be yellow for the old men [NB. as is the complexion of the Mytilene figure we discuss] by contrast with the yellow-brown of slaves”.

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gender (but see §2.2.2) is certainly the speaker of Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 18 R.3, which repeats the comic motif of slaves stealing food or drink from their masters. The slave is sheepishly asking whether “the people of this place here” (istic) would forgive “these minor mistakes” (eas minoris noxias), for example when one steals wine from their master, as one is wont to do (erum si forte, quasi alias, uini tago). istic probably places the slave at a double remove: he/she is both of a different ethnicity and now (dis)placed in an unfamiliar social milieu (i. e. Leucas). 2.2. Ambiguous – Conjectural: 2.2.1. Who is “The Woman/Girl of Leucas”? Does the title denote one person or more than one (as in Terence’ s Andria)? If one, is this the Ζάκορος, in which case the title would function like Samia (denoting an older female character instrumental to the development of the plot)? Or is it a young girl, in which case a plot pattern of anagnorisis and/or reconciliation could unfold? Notably, arriving at the promontory of Leucatas (ll. 1–10 Aust.), Paidion is awed by the environs, who are clearly alien to her (§1.1.1), as is the Ζάκορος (ἥτις εἶ ποτε, 4). The least complicated explanation of these lines is that Paidion has arrived at the place from abroad and thus she cannot be the “woman of Leucas” – unless we assume that by way of recognition she is eventually discovered to hail from the island. Cf. §3.2.7. 2.2.2. ‘Phrux’: A male “Phrygian” is mentioned by Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 2 R.3. A hostile observer, who watches him approaching, sees excessive baldness in the Phrygian’ s gait and wishes him ill: viden tu Phrugis incessum? quam est confidens! di istunc perduint. One can only wonder if this is the same slave as the speaker of Turp. Leuc. fr. 18 R.3 2.2.3. The young man’ s family (his father?)? On the young man, see §2.1.4. Cicero, citing the discontinuous fragments now comprising Turp. Leuc. fr. 12 R.3, reports that “even the young man’ s family” considers him to have lost his mind (hic insanus uidetur etiam suis). We cannot be sure whether any member of this family had a speaking part in the play. 2.2.4. A  mute character (κωφὸν πρόσωπον)? On the far right of the Mytilene Leukadia panel, as the first publishers describe it, “appears a very small figure, which one wonders if it is perched on a base or simply recessed. His/her face is pink and purple, with the usual black elements, obviously very schematic, and a little yellow for the hairstyle; a short tunic, blue green in tone, reveals his/her pink legs, bordered with purple on the right. The character holds in front of him/her an object whose limited dimensions make interpretation very difficult: we recognise, at the top, a yellow triangular element surrounded by black, surmounting a white quadrangular element striated by two black vertical lines”20. The marginal position and 20

Charitonidis–Kahil–Ginouvès 1970, 56 (my translation).

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the significantly smaller scale of this figure suggest that this is a mute character (κωφὸν πρόσωπον), perhaps a slave. Webster believed it is a statue of Apollo21. Ferrari, who asserts that the figure is maskless, thinks of the habitual auletes accompanying the scene musically22. 2.2.4.1. The object in the figure’ s hands is even harder to pinpoint. The editores principes think of (a) a theatre mask, (b) a musical instrument, (c) a model of the temple of Apollo symbolically suggesting the play’ s setting, or (d) a vase used in the god’ s cult23. See §3.2.7 for a new hypothesis. 3. Plotlines: 3.1. Certain: 3.1.1. The play’ s opening scene (Lines 1–10 and Men. Leuk. fr. 1 Aust.). Paidion visits the temple of Apollo in Leucas on a mission to fetch water from the god’ s holy spring. Paidion’ s water fetching mission seems inextricably connected with the steep cliff (κλισμός) of the Leucatas promontory since the first thing that Paidion asks the Temple Attendant concerns the cliff ’ s exact whereabouts. The Paidion’ s tone has a whiff of urgency about it (μῆτερ φιλτάτη / ἄκουσον, ll. 7–8). The Attendant’ s answer interrupts Paidion’ s question in the middle of a relative clause (ἵνα τοὺς –), which seems to refer to actions associated with the cliff. The interruption is motivated by the fact that the Attendant does not need further information to understand what her interlocutor is asking. 3.1.1.1. There are two possibilities as to what Paidion might have wanted to add. The first concerns the legend that leaping from the cliff relieved lovers from the pangs of desire. The second is a local custom of Leucas exercised at the annual festival of Apollo. Both are referred to by Strabo in 10.2,9: ἔχει δὲ τὸ τοῦ Λευκάτα Ἀπόλλωνος ἱερὸν καὶ τὸ ἅλμα τὸ τοὺς ἔρωτας παύειν πεπιστευμένον· “οὗ δὴ λέγεται πρώτη Σαπφώ” ὥς φησιν ὁ Μένανδρος [fr. 1 Aust.]. ὁ μὲν οὖν Μένανδρος πρώτην ἁλέσθαι λέγει τὴν Σαπφώ, οἱ δ᾿ ἔτι ­ἀρχαιολογικώτεροι Κέφαλόν φασιν ἐρασθέντα Πτερέλα, τὸν Δηιονέως. ἦν δὲ καὶ πάτριον τοῖς Λευκαδίοις κατ’ ἐνιαυτὸν ἐν τῇ θυσίᾳ τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀπὸ τῆς σκοπῆς ῥιπτεῖσθαί τινα τῶν ἐν αἰτίαις ὄντων ἀποτροπῆς χάριν, ἐξαπτομένων ἐξ αὐτοῦ παντοδαπῶν πτερῶν καὶ ὀρνέων ἀνακουφίζειν δυναμένων τῇ πτήσει τὸ ἅλμα, ὑποδέχεσθαι δὲ κάτω μικραῖς ἁλιάσι κύκλῳ περιεστῶτας πολλοὺς καὶ ­περισώζειν εἰς δύναμιν τῶν ὅρων ἔξω τὸν ἀναληφθέντα. [The promontory of Leucatas] contains the temple of Apollo Leucatas, and also the ‘Leap’, which was believed to put an end to the longings of love. “Where Sap21 22 23

MINC2, 300. Georgiou Giannikou 2010, 284, thinks additionally of Phaon. Ferrari 2004, 142. So, too, Ferrari 2004, 143.

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pho is said to have been the first”, as Menander says, [fr. 1 Aust.]. Now although Menander says that Sappho was the first to take the leap, yet those who are better versed than he in antiquities say that it was Cephalus, who was in love with Pterelas the son of Deïoneus. It was an ancestral custom among the Leucadians, every year at the sacrifice performed in honour of Apollo, for some criminal to be flung from this rocky look-out for the sake of averting evil, wings and birds of all kinds being fastened to him, since by their flattering they could lighten the leap, and also for a number of men, stationed all round below the rock in small fishing-boats, to take the victim in, and, when he had been taken on board, to do all in their power to get him safely outside their borders. (Transl. Jones 1928)

3.1.1.2. Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 11 R.3 (miseram terrent me omnia: Maris scopuli, sonitus, solitudo, sanctitudo Apollinis, “poor me, everything frightens me: the cliffs of the sea, the din, the loneliness, the sanctity of Apollo”) seems to evoke the entrance monologue of Paidion: Ἄπολλον, εἰς [οἷο]ν ­κατῳκίσθης τ­ όπον. / ἅπαντα πέτρα καὶ θάλαττ᾽ ἔστιν κ[άτω / ἰδεῖν ­φοβερά τ̣[ι]ς. Edward Fraenkel had already noticed the similarity with the entrance monologues of the two girls in Plautus’ Rudens24. 3.1.2. A song (or chant) about Sappho’ s Leap. Most probably in response to Paidion’ s question, the Temple Attendant sings (perhaps rather chants, §3.1.2.2) about the legend of Sappho and Phaon. Completing her concise recapitulation of the legend, the Temple Attendant asks for holy silence to deliver a prayer to Apollo. A votum is also mentioned in Turp. Leuc. fr. 17 R.3 (see §3.1.5). 3.1.2.1. The Temple Attendant is not forthcoming about the motives of Sappho’ s leap. ῥῖψαι (“she flung herself ”) could indicate both erotic desperation (Phaon’ s attribute, ὑπέρκομπος, “arrogant”, implies that he had been eschewing Sappho’ s erotic hunt, θηρῶσα, for some time) or a jump for different, salutatory reasons. Thus, room is allowed for both outcomes of the traditional story, suicide and healing. The version of healing, which seems intimately connected with Apollo, is the first implied by Ovid (Her. 15,162–72). In her letter to Phaon, Ovid’ s Sappho reveals that she was instructed by a Naias to jump into the Leucadian sea in order to free herself from her longing like Deucalion’ s jump freed him from his burning passion for Pyrrha (igne levatus erat, l. 170). This, the Naias specifies, “is the law of the place” (hanc legem locus ille tenet, l. 171). Ovid’ s Sappho even prays to Amor to place wings under her body, “lest she dies and brings reproach to the Leucadian waters” (ne sim Leucadiae mortua cri-

24

Fraenkel 2007, 319. Compare Rud. 215: algor, error, pavor: me omnia tenant; 205: ita hic sola solis locis compotita sum; hic saxa sunt, hic mare sonat; 227: neque magis solae terrae solae sunt.

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men aquae, l. 180)25. Ovid’ s Sappho, of course, knows that the jump might kill her (Her. 15,185–94), and in the end she couches the jump in clearly suicidal terms: if Phaon does not mean to return, let him tell her so at least in a letter so that she “seeks her fate in the Leucadian sea” (ut mihi Leucadiae fata petantur aquae, l. 220). 3.1.2.2. Song or recitative? It is likelier that we are dealing with an anapaestic dimeter system delivered in recitative rather than with sung verse. Ferrari (2004, 147) notes the absence of Doric elements in the language and the regularity in keeping the median dieresis. The latter is accompanied, one should add, by an equally undifferentiated movement κατὰ συζυγίαν. In favour of the recitative theory are also (a) the lack of mixture with other metres (a prime distinguishing mark of sung anapaests) and (b) the presence of a catalectic clausula (τέμενος πέρι Λευκάδος ἀκτῆς). The strict synaphea between the verses is a feature of both recitative and melic anapaests26. 3.1.2.3. It is out of the question that in either Menander’ s or Turpilius’ plays the story of Sappho and Phaon lay in the foreground of the plot27. The story is mentioned by Ζάκορος as characteristic of the place where the plot unfolds. However, the story speaks of unrequited love inspiring desperate actions, and as we have seen, Turpilius’ Leucadia involved a man driven mad by desire (§3.1.3). 3.1.2.3.1. Is the story of Sappho’ s Leap the foil (or the mirror) of a plot in which a distraught lover (a man? a woman?) seeks remedia amoris in Leucas (like Sappho)? I would consider this as nearly certain given the common tendency of New Comedy to project its everyday situations to mythological (indeed tragedic) or legendary narratives: New Comedy plots are frequently “the mirrors of stories”28. 3.1.3. Unrequited love. In Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 12 R.3, a young man is acting insanely in love29 to the effect that even his family considers him to be out of his mind30. He displays tragic pathos31. He invokes the help of the gods Apollo 25

26 27 28 29 30 31

That the jump is not intended to kill but to heal seems to be implied also in the Leucadian custom related by Strabo, where wings are also fastened to the men who jump and to the whose bodies are recovered to be saved from death “to the extent that this is possible” (§3.1.1.). The systems of melic (sung) and recitative anapaests are described by Dale 1968, 47–64. This theory, propounded by Welcker 1863 and Ribbeck 1898, was decisively refuted by Wilamowitz 1913, 33–42. I expound on the topic in Petrides 2014a, 49–82. Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72: sin autem est aliquis amor, ut est certe, qui nihil absit aut non multum ab insania, qualis in Leucadia est. Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72: hic insanus uidetur etiam suis. Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72: at quas tragoedias effecit!

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and Neptune decrying their lack of concern for his plight32. He specifically retracts his prayer to Venus indirectly accusing the goddess of being inimical to his cause. Most interesting is his prayer to the winds (is this man expecting to travel by sea to Leucas33? If so, is he expecting to find there his beloved or solace in Sappho’ s Leap?). Bits and scraps of this amorous delirium are quoted disapprovingly by Cicero (Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72–73), who considers such an attitude a prime example of the evils of libido. In the second passage (heu me infelicem! – sanusne es, qui temere lamentare?, “oh, how unfortunate I am – are you really sane, you who laments with such a temerity?”) Traina (2013, ad loc.) places a dicolon after infelicem supposing that another character chastises the young man for his behaviour. This, however, can easily be a self-exhortation of the kind that characters utter as they try to recompose themselves, like Demeas’ in Sam. 326–27 (ὦ ταναὸς αἰθήρ, ὦ—τί, Δημέα, βοᾷς, / τί βοᾷς, ἀνόητε;) and elsewhere. 3.1.4. A lover’ s spat. In Turpilius, Leuc. frr. 1 and 3 R.3, contrary to fr. 12 R.3, it is a man that spurns the feelings of a woman. Specifically, a woman pursues a man whom she had despised before and complains about his negative reaction. fastidiet evokes a feeling of strong disgust (L.–S., s.v.). 3.1.4.1. The situation in Turp. Leuc. fr. 6 R.3 is more difficult to decipher, not least because of the textual uncertainty. All editors follow Bothe in reading the fragment as a dialogue between a woman, who violently rejects a man’ s touch, and a man, who accuses the woman of being “savage”: ne me attigas! apage, aufer manum. :: heia quam ferocula est! This is logical but it need not be right. If we accept that the speaker is one and the same, then this fragment, too, squares with the situation of a man spurning a woman, rejecting her attempts to touch him and thus with a vehemence appropriate to the verb fastidire. 3.1.4.2. We cannot presuppose that fastidit of Turp. Leuc. frr. 1 and 4 R.3 denotes a situation in which erotic feelings are unrequited. New Comedy provides blueprints for other scenarios, such as the scenario of misunderstanding, which would create interesting comic or melodramatic complications. For example, we know of New Comedy siblings separated at a young age and reunited later in life without (both) being aware of their true identities. Leucas is one of those remote places in which one of the siblings could have ended, e. g. as a result of a shipwreck or abduction or for other reasons (e. g. being given to adoption because they were orphaned or because their parents were destitute). It is conceivable that the female character’ s 32

33

Turp. fr. 12,1–2 R.3: si quidem sit quisquam deus, / cui ego sim curae; cf. Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72: at id erat deis omnibus curandum, quem admodum hic frueretur uoluptate amatoria. Cicero, to be sure, seems to give a ‘cosmic’ interpretation to the young man’ s reference to the winds: mundum totum se ad amorem suum subleuandum conuersurum putat.

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effusion of love, which was not romantic, was mistaken as such by a bewildered male character (cf. §2.1.5.2). Menander’ s Perikeiromene provides an example in which a sister hugs a man whom she knows to be her brother but who ignores his true identity himself. 3.1.4.3. Three further uncertainties blur this plotline: (a) is the couple involved in both situations the same or does the play comprise a double love plot? (b) Is this young woman Dorcium and is her tristitia due to the stance of the young man in Turp. Leuc. frr. 1 and 3 R.3? (c) Is the female speaker of Turp. Leuc. fr. 11 R.3 the same as the woman (or women) mentioned in frr. 1 and 3? 3.1.5. A religious ceremony. In Men. Leuk. fr. 6 Aust. the Temple Attendant is urged by somebody to “put the fire on” (ἐπίθες τὸ πῦρ ἡ ζάκορος); that is, to make preparations for a burned Offering on the temple altar. Austin gives the rest of the surviving verse (οὑτωσὶ καλῶς) to the same unidentified speaker, whereas Arnott, less cautiously, invents a dialogue between Ζάκορος and her interlocutor (ΖΑ. οὑτωσί; :: καλῶς). But why and by whom would an experienced temple attendant need instruction? A similar, though indirect exhortation for preparations is mentioned in Turpilius, fr. 17 R.3. In Turpilius’ case, the plot must be far along: a votum has already been answered and the person (a woman) who “has the duty” to make the preparations must put “even more effort” into them: etiam amplius illam apparare condecet, / quandoquidem uoti condemnata est (“now it is fitting that she makes even greater preparations, since her wish has been granted”). It is not unlikely that the ceremony reflected by Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 17 R.3, is different than the one in Menander, Leuk. fr. 6 Aust. 3.1.5.1. Why does the mosaicist choose to depict this particular scene of the play? What kind of (central) event does it involve? See §3.2.7. 3.2. Ambiguous – Conjectural: 3.2.1. Does POxy inv. 50 4B 30H (5) (= Adesp. Com. 1127 K.–A.) belong to Menander’ s Leukadia? It would take an adventurous man to assert as much with the conviction of Arnott’ s. In what looks like an expository dialogue between two women (τάλαν, l. 10, is mostly used by females), there are references to travelling to a foreign land with specific local customs (τοὐπιχώριον, l. 13), to someone being blown off course by a storm (ὑπ᾽ ἀνέμου τινός, l. 11), and to a person who displays excessive erotic behaviour (ὡς ἐρωτικόν, l. 10). Hints of these are present in Leukadia, but they are also traditional elements of New Comedy plots34. The mention of a “big rock” (μεγάλην πέτραν, l. 12) could be a specific reference to Menander’ s play, but not necessarily so. There are no clues either in Menander or Turpilius for a

34

Even more boldly, Gaiser (1980) argued for the Συναριστῶσαι.

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young man named Kleinias (l. 17) or for a possible erotic rivalry between a father and a son (ll. 6–7). 3.2.2. An incident of threatened incense? In Turp. Leuc. fr. 10 R.3, a speaker35 addressing a young man in love, delivers the following line: veritus sum, ne amoris causa cum illa limassis caput (“I feared that love could have caused you to rub your head with hers”, i. e. kiss her). The speaker cannot be identified, but his ‘fear’ denotes personal stake. Two kinds of prohibition would render such a fear reasonable: adultery or incest. We have no indications of the former, but the latter is recurring, for instance, in anagnorisis plots. The speaker could know that the woman is the man’ s sister. The past tenses (“feared”, “could have caused”) would imply that this danger is now gone. Are the speaker’ s words a sigh of relief following an anagnorisis? See further in §3.2.7. 3.2.3. An escape or a pursuit? In Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 14 R.3, a boat crew is ordered to accelerate: hortari coepi nostros ilico / ut celerent lembum (“I urged our people to drive the boat faster”). The speaker is not identifiable, but hortari would befit better a male figure of authority, who is in command of the ship. A lembus (λέμβος) is “a small fast-sailing vessel” (L.–S. s.v.), so this does not look like a regular journey by ship but more like a quick getaway. Are these people escaping from some kind of danger or are they themselves chasing somebody (who has run away? who has fled having stolen something precious, perhaps a girl? who are themselves in danger?)? 3.2.4. A shipwreck? In Turpilius, Leuc. fr. 15 R.3, an unidentifiable speaker wishes they were “sitting now by a great big fire!” (utinam nunc apud ignem aliquem magnum adsidam!). Fraenkel (2007, 319) compares Plaut. Rud. 531–32, spoken by the pimp Labrax: ut fortunati sunt fabri ferrarii, qui apud carbones adsident: semper calent (“How lucky are blacksmiths, who sit near the coals: they are always warm”). Why would somebody wish they could be warm? Is it because they are shipwrecked and cold like Labrax? 3.2.5. An impoverished individual? Fragments 4 and 5 Aust. of Menander’ s Leukadia, both cited by Stobaeus, are gnomic utterances. The first is a condemnation of beggars: ὅστις ὑπέχει χρυσίῳ / τὴν χεῖρα, κἂν μὴ φῇ, πονηρὰ βούλεται (“A man who holds his hand outstretched for cash, plans mischief, even if he does not admit it”). Fr. 5, on the contrary, elevates impoverished individuals to divine status: ἀεὶ νομίζονθ᾽ οἱ πένητες τῶν θεῶν (“The poor have always been considered to be people of the gods”, i. e. protected by the gods). The fragments are cited in distinct sections of Stobaeus’ anthology: fr. 4 in a section περὶ ἀδικίας (Ecl. 3.10,20) and fr. 5 among similar laudations of poverty (περὶ πενίας: πενίας ἔπαινος, Ecl. 4.32,6). Nonetheless, read 35

The paradosis makes the speaker male. In the second edition of Scaenicae Romanorum Poesis Fragmenta, Ribbeck would change the gender to female (reading verita), but in the third edition he reverts to the masculine.

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together, the fragments could be construed as scraps from a dialogue in which an individual shamed for his/her begging responds by implying that helping the poor is a religious obligation. Such allusion to divine protection extended over beggars sounds especially appropriate for a scene unfolding in the vicinity of a temple. 3.2.6. Happy ending. There is no doubt that Menander’ s play, like all comedies, ends happily. What should remain conjectural is whether the “white day” mentioned by Zenobius, an expression synonymous to “happy day” (ἀγαθὴ ἡμέρα, fr. 8 Aust.)36, refers to the turn of events that secures the happy denouement. See further in the next paragraph. 3.2.7. A hypothesis regarding the nature of the scene depicted on the Mytilene mosaic. Any interpretation of the Mytilene scene must remain conjectural. Nevertheless, given that (a) such mosaic panels normally depict scenes of central significance to the play, and (b) that, judging from their animated gestures, the figures on the left and the right are reacting with what can be construed as strong emotion, one could suppose that we are facing a scene of anagnorisis between a father (male figure on the left) and a daughter (young female on the right), similar, for example, to the anagnorisis of Pataikos and Glykera in Perikeiromene. The anagnorisis could be facilitated by the central figure (which must be the Ζάκορος), who possesses (and now divulges) new information about the girl. In this scenario, the figure on the far right is indeed a mute and the mysterious item she/he is holding is a container storing the tokens of the anagnorisis. The fact that the young woman is standing farther back compared to the old man and the older woman could imply that she is the subject of their spirited conversation, but she is not partaking in it actively until perhaps later in the scene, when she unveils her face. This unveiling could represent that final disclosure of her true identity. 3.2.7.1. A scenario of anagnorisis would square well with the hypothesis of thwarted incest propounded in §3.2.2. B. Herstory: Kyriakos Charalambides, Sappho in Leucas (Quince Apple, 2006) A new chapter in the reception of Menander᾽s Leukadia was written in 2005 by the Greek-Cypriot poet Kyriakos Charalambides (1940–), who included the poem Sappho in Leucas (Σαπφώ εν Λευκάδι) in his collection Quince Apple

36

Cf. Eup. fr. 182 K.–A. (Phot. λ 218 Th., Suda λ 322 A.): λευκὴ ἡμέρα· ἡ ἀγαθή, καὶ ἐπ᾽ εὐφροσύνῃ.

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(Κυδώνιον Μήλον, 2006)37. Despite the myriad accounts of the story in western literature38, Charalambides had few modern Greek forerunners: such thematic ‘prurience’, a hunt for virgin poetic fields and viewpoints, is a defining trait of his œuvre. Among the scarce Modern Greek versions of the Sappho-Phaon story that availed themselves to Charalambides, the most celebrated was Ioannis Gryparis’ (1870–1942) Sappho (included in Beetles and Terracottas, 1919). Less well-known are two poems that Aristotelis Valaoritis (1824–1879), a native of Leucas himself, wrote in his youth, Lefkatas and Hymn to Lefkatas. Oblique references to the Phaon story are traceable also in Dionysios Solomos’ Sappho (1798–1857), a poem written in Italian. But even these left little or no imprint on Charalambides’ text. The Cypriot poet turns directly to Menander – not without some parallel glances to Ovid:

37

38

Charalambides 2006, 38 = 2019, 573. Charalambides included three more Sapphothemed poems in Quince Apple: “An epitaph for two moons” (Charalambides 2006, 118 = 2019, 621), “Sappho in the middle of the night” (Charalambides 2006, 119 = 2019, 621) and “Sappho in Sparta (A 3rd-c. AD mosaic)” (Charalambides 2006, 38 = 2019, 572). The collection Desire comprises a poem with a Sapphic title (fr. 135 Camp.), Ὄραννα χελίδω [sic] (Charalambides 2012, 21 = 2019, 648–9). Finally, “Sappho (in the waves of Leucas)”, published in The Disk of the Sun and the Moon (Charalambides 2017, 38 = 2019, 756), the ‘double’ of “Sappho in Leucas” inasmuch as it also refers to the myth of Sappho’ s drowning in the Ionian Sea, is discussed briefly at the end of this paper. A cursory mention of Sappho is made in the poem “Vasiliki” also from The Disk of the Sun and the Moon (Charalambides 2017, 39 = 2019, 756–57). Even a summary presentation of the modern literary reception of the Sappho-Phaon story is outside the scope of this paper. Selectively, among the modern versions, one can highlight John Lily’ s Sappho and Phao [sic] (1584); Alexander Pope’ s celebrated translation of Ovid’ s Heroides 15 (1707); the three sonnets by the ‘English Sappho’ Mary Robinson (She endeavours to fascinate him, To Phaon, Bids farewell to Lesbos, 1796); Algernon C. Swinburne’ s On the Cliffs (included in the third series of his Poems and Ballads, 1889); the plays by P. Mackaye (Sappho and Phaon 1907) and L. Durrell (Sappho, 1947); and Erika Jong’ s recent novel Sappho’ s Leap (2003). Outside the English-speaking world, the Sappho by the Austrian playwright Franz Grillparzer (1819) is still being read and staged. General bibliography on the reception of Sappho should include Andreadis 2001, Jay and Lewis 1996 and Prins 1999 (on Sappho in English poetry); and more widely, Rüdiger 1933, DeJean 1989 and Greene 1996. A detailed examination of Sappho’ s fortunes in Modern Greek literature is still a desideratum. An informative if selective survey is offered by Yatromanolakis 2003. On the iconography of Sappho, which includes many pictorial renditions of the Leap, see Stein 1981.

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SAPPHO IN LEUCAS (Transl. A.K. Petrides)39 Menander᾽s Leucadia said as much, that in the lack of Phaon’ s form it was futile still to live; so, off a cliff I cast myself into the embrace of death. New Comedy, I reckon, has no shame, she tampers with everything. What runs through her mind she reveres, the poor thing, as if it’ s fact. How could you convince that from the waves you emerged like a fairy and refound your precious Phaon, you embraced him in burning passion, and dripping oars you dragged him to the palace of Calypso. And how could you convince with one, two three white headbands that your slender body, your black little hair and your eyes to that man’ s tyranny surrendered? A mere slave, I, will drown Menander. I’ ve nothing else to lose when all is said and done, except for the chains of my desire. December 2005

In a career spanning six decades, Kyriakos Charalambides has been a prolific poet, literary translator and essayist. He is widely recognised today as one of the foremost literary personae of post-WWII literature written in Modern Greek. Charalambides’ poetry draws on the long poetic traditions of Greece and Cyprus  – ancient, medieval and modern. It also converses, either directly or via the work of George Seferis and others, with the major exponents of Western modernism, mostly T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. The most salient feature of Charalambides’ work is an intricate play with the Greek language in all its historical phases (classical, Byzantine, and modern), local varieties (Standard and Cypriot Greek), and various literary idiolects (e. g. the language of folk songs, the demotic of Dionysios Solomos, Cavafy’ s irony, the metaphysics of Takis Papatsonis or the bold conceptions of the surrealists). More importantly, Charalambides’ poetry, building on the poet’ s university studies in history and archaeology and his voracious and multifarious readings, assimilates a profound doctrina, which weaves a tangled web of 39

The original Greek is quoted in Appendix 1.

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historical, mythological and literary references. In terms of form, Charalambides’ poetry features tremendous variation, from traditional versification to free verse (or a mixture of the two), from epigrammatic poems to long and multi-levelled poetic compositions, and from historical parables to surrealist imagism. Charalambides’ poems display an abundance of themes and tones, ranging from the metaphysics of his earliest phase to the epic and trag(ed)ic nuances of his post-1974 period. From Metahistory (1995) onwards, Charalambides turns away from national lamentation towards a ‘meta-historical’ and ‘metamythical’ method, whereby he reworks the poetics of major Modern Greek poets, such as Constantine Cavafy, George Seferis and Yiannis Ritsos, into a new poetic paradigm. Scholars postulate a possible new break in Charalambides’ career after 2012. In this latter, still developing phase, Cyprus of history and myth continues to loom large, only now primarily by proxy: the ancient goddess of love, Aphrodite, fundamentally associated with the island, as well as other mythological personages, such as (primarily) Helen of Troy but also Clytemnestra, Penelope and Odysseus, blend the mythopoetics with a fresh strand of metaphysics, now laying stronger emphasis on erotic, theological and eschatological themes40. Charalambides’ interest in Sappho and her love affair with Phaon is, in fact, integral to a general turn in his current poetic phase towards archetypal figures associated with the metapoetics of love (ἔρως), Aphrodite super omnes. In the context of the Phaon story, after all, Sappho and Aphrodite practically con­verge – Aphrodite being the original lover of Phaon. The love story of Aphrodite and Phaon is first attested, as far as we know, in Cratin. fr. 370 K.–A. The story as recounted in pseudo-Palaephatus᾽ Περὶ ἀπίστων 48 (Myth. Gr. iii [2] 69 Festa) could be comedic in origin: τῷ Φάωνι βίος ἦν περὶ πλοῖον εἶναι καὶ θάλασσαν· πορθμὸς ἦν ἡ θάλασσα· ἔγκλημα δὲ οὐδὲν παρ᾿ οὐδενὸς ἐκομίζετο, ἐπεὶ καὶ μέτριος ἦν καὶ παρὰ τῶν ἐχόντων μόνον ἐδέχετο. θαῦμα ἦν τοῦ τρόπου παρὰ τοῖς Λεσβίοις. ἐπαινεῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἡ θεός· Ἀφροδίτην λέγουσι τὴν θεόν· καὶ ὑποδῦσα θέαν ἀνθρώπου γυναικὸς ἤδη γεγηρακυίας, τῷ Φάωνι διαλέγεται περὶ πλοῦ. ταχὺς ἦν ἐκεῖνος καὶ διακομίσαι καὶ μηδὲν ἀπαιτῆσαι. τί οὖν ἐπὶ τούτοις ἡ θεός; ἀμεῖψαί φασι τὸν ἄνθρωπον, καὶ ἀμείβεται νεότητι καὶ κάλλει τὸν γέροντα. οὗτος ὁ Φάων ἐστίν, ἐφ᾿ ᾧ τὸν ἔρωτα αὐτῆς ἡ Σαπφὼ πολλάκις ἐμελοποίησεν. Phaon’ s life revolved around his boat and the sea or, rather, a strait. Nobody ever complained about him, for he was a fair man and accepted money only from the rich. The people of Lesbos admired him for his way of life. The goddess, by whom they mean Aphrodite, approved of this man, so she assumed the appearance of a mortal woman of already advanced age, and spoke with Phaon about a crossing. He quickly carried her over and asked for no compensation. What did the god40

Bibliography on Charalambides is mostly written in Modern Greek. English-language lemmas include Petrides 2014b (where see further references).

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The last sentence might imply that the identification of Sappho with Aphrodite in terms of her love of Phaon could have been Sappho’ s own poetic construc­tion. Sappho in Leucas falls within a specific subcategory of Charalambides’ poems, in which the poetic I, donning various personas, engages in contrarian, indeed agonistic, conversation with an authority of the past (usually, an ancient Greek ­literary heavyweight), whom he/she apostrophises directly or (like here) indirectly. In this engagement, the modern poet takes his ancient colleague to task correcting what he perceives as a skewed version of a story. Often in these ‘agonistic’ poems, the dialogue is triangulated as a second voice, itself ‘receiving’ the same authority of the past, looms in the poem’ s background. Understanding intertextuality as competition is a quintessential element of Charalambides’ poetics. As I noted elsewhere (Petrides 2017, 83–84), in his pivotal collection Dokímin (Athens 2000), Charalambides explicitly likened this relationship to a traditional kind of power game, the titular δοκίμιν, in which the palikária41 of the village proved themselves by racing one another while carrying a huge rock (διτζίμιν). Likewise, the modern poet can only prove his worth if he allows himself to be measured not only against his ancient forefathers (the ‘rock’ of tradition – what George Seferis in Mythistorēma had seen as a heavy marble head burdening his hands) but also against his contemporaries (the other modern poets carrying the same rock)42. Charalambides’ interlocutor – and poetic antagonist – in Sappho in Leucas is Menander: the ancient playwright in his own person but also and as a personification of New Comedy as a genre, whose tendency to “tamper with everything” (όλα τα διαστρέφει) is the root cause of a shamelessly warped43 version of the Sappho-Phaon story having been interpolated into the Leukadia. The poetic I, assuming the persona of Sappho herself (a modern voice is thus implanted into an ancient one), self-presented as a “female slave” (μια δούλη εγώ) – clearly, a slave of the poetic art –, subjects the conventional narrative to fundamental reconfiguration. Charalambides triangulates this conversation, too, by implicating also Ovid’ s Heroides. Unlike Menander, Ovid gave voice to Sappho – but only ostensibly so.

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This is a word of especial cultural baggage, hard to render accurately in English. It connotes the complete collection of attributes valorizing young masculinity in the traditional patriarchal society of the Greek-speaking world. See Petrides 2017, which uses as a case study Charalambides’ agonistic conversation with Aeschylus. The Greek text here runs Η Νέα Κωμωδία θαρρώ δεν έχει το δαίμονά της, which literally rendered means “she fears neither God nor demon”.

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The first stanza of Charalambides’ poem (ll. 1–4) begins by exposing the fallacy of Leuk. fr. 1 Aust. (cf. §3.1.2.1). Sappho, says Menander, flung herself from the White Rock of Leucas into the sea out of erotic desperation; life without Phaon seemed futile. The poetic I fulminates against this version of the story as nothing more than New Comedy reifying her generic prejudices (“What runs through her mind she reveres, / the poor thing44, as if it’ s fact”, ll. 7–8). Charalambides’ Sappho counter-proposes an amended account of the ‘resurgence’ myth. The Leap was not meant to be either suicidal or cathartic (as the Naias suggested to Sappho in Ovid) but empowering. Charalambides’ Sappho resurfaces from the waves “like a fairy” (that is, almost like a Naias herself), free from the constraints of mortality but also all the impositions of patriarchy and the hegemonic discourses represented here by New Comedy. In these discourses female sexuality is streamlined according to fantasies of masculine potency (a man leads a woman to perdition because of his sexual prowess; a woman, lacking self-will, falls prey to bouts of hysteria) and strip women of all agency: women “surrender” to men; they “cast themselves into their embrace” (l. 4). To submit (willingly, it seems) to an overpowering, determining masculine force in whose absence “life is futile” is the ironic plafond of their selfdetermination. Sappho resurfaces from the Leucadian waters completely cleansed of her inheritance as a woman in a man’ s world – but not mindless of the fact that her liberation is not tantamount to the dissipation of patriarchy. “How could you convince” that you are now an active agent who “finds” rather than being found, “embraces” rather than being embraced and “drags” her lover to a place of her own choice45 rather than being dragged by his constant différance to the cliffs of Leucas and her death? “How could you convince” that even surrendering to “that man’ s tyranny” is now liberating because it is an act of choice? This is the point in which Charalambides’ Sappho throws Ovid, too, and the Roman poet’ s own patriarchal narrative (more cunning itself, as it assumes the guise of female discourse) into the fray. The enigmatic line “How could you convince with one, two / three white headbands…” echoes Her. 15,75–76: veste tegor vili, nulum est in crinibus aurum, / non Arabum noster dona capillus habet. Ovid himself harks back to Sappho, fr. 98 (b) V. = Campbell σοὶ δ᾿ ἔγω Κλέι ποικίλαν / οὐκ ἔχω πόθεν ἔσσεται / μιτράν46. In this fragment, Sappho de44 45

46

Η κακομοίρα in Modern Greek connotes sympathy but also ironic disparagement. Charalambides here uses a bold, quasi-Ovidian image: στάζοντας κουπιά (“dripping oars”). Sappho changes into the vessel that transports the couple to her place of choice – that is, of freedom. In Odyssey 5, Calypso declares emphatically to Hermes, 5.141–42, that she cannot provide a ship with oars for Odysseus. On Calypso’ s significance for Charalambides’ poem, see below. Penelope Strati suggests to me a different interpretation, not necessarily exclusive of my own: Charalambides’ μαγνάδι may allude to the Odyssey, specifically Ino’ s magical κρήδεμνον, which saved Odysseus from drowning (Od. 5.333ff.). Most Modern Greek translations of the Odyssey indeed render κρήδεμνον as “μαγνάδι”.

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plores the fact that she cannot provide a decorated headband for her daughter Kleis. Ovid’ s Sappho is clad in mean garments as a gesture of erotic mourning. In Charalambides all this is reversed: the headbands are not to be worn as ornaments to attract the attention of men; their meanness is not an act of self-effacement in the absence of that attention. The simple white headbands are tokens of Sappho’ s renewal; the vilis vestis is what she chooses to adorn her fresh body with, as it is now free from the enforced embellishments of patriarchy, whose only purpose was male gratification. But “how could you convince” that this is the case? That the “mean” white headbands are a symbol of freedom rather than desolation? “How could you convince…”. Such manumission, such “losing of the chains”, Sappho muses wryly, would be as miraculous as surviving the Leap, and thus it is doomed to be forever consigned to the sphere of poetic phantasy. Poetic phantasy, it appears, is another patriarchal device for divesting acts of female selfempowerment of their intimate reality, of transforming into- and revering as fact “what runs through” the masculine mind – a mechanism of constantly authoring the female story. Women plunge to their deaths; they do not resurface. Period. What are the options, if changing your story is unfeasible? Switching to a different story! What do you do if you cannot convince? You stop trying, because “convincing” is itself an act of “surrendering” to the masculine règles du jeu. This is what Charalambides’ Sappho does. Resurfacing into a world that remains obstinately opposed to her right of self-authoring, Sappho hijacks the narrative by assuming a different female identity, a divine one. She “drags” Phaon “to the palace of Calypso”, the immortal Odyssean nymph. In essence, coming out of the Leucadian sea (like Aphrodite came out of the waters of Cyprus), it is as if Sappho emerges from a womb: she experiences a veritable rebirth morphing into Calypso. In other words, Charalambides’ Sappho writes her own story by appropriating a masculine/patriarchal narrative device whereby immortal female figures are invested with all the powers and faculties mortal women are commonly denied. This original twist to the story on the part of Charalambides intertwines the Sappho-Phaon legend with the myth of Odysseus’ seven-year isolation (and sexual servitude) on Calypso’ s island. The Odysseus theme, as mentioned above, constitutes another dominant current in Charalambides’ latest collections. Clearly, the conflation of the Phaon and Odysseus myths is anything but mere lip service to the poet’ s pet themes. Sappho’ s metamorphosis reverses the power dynamics between the two lovers. Sappho is now the active, dominant player. Thus, she is added to the cadre of female historical and mythical figures undergoing an anti-patriarchal makeover in Charalambides’ poetic corpus47. Sappho’ s “infatuation” with Phaon was a voluntary submission to erotic “tyranny” – a freely chosen sexual servitude and as such no servitude at all (for all the ironic “a mere slave, I” at the poem’ s

47

See Petrides 2014b for the example of Clytemnestra.

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close). Sappho’ s desire persists but is now free from the patriarchal “chains”48. Far from drowning herself, Charalambides’ Sappho is bent on drowning Menander by changing history into her-story. Kyriakos Charalambides returns to the theme of Sappho in Leucas in his 2017 collection The Disk of the Sun and the Moon (Ηλίου και Σελήνης Άλως)49. In the poem entitled Sappho (in the waves of Leucas) (Σαπφώ [κύματι Λευκάδος]), written in 2014, Sappho is still immersed in the Leucadian waves. This time, however, her plunge is not a means to an end. She did not dive to kill herself or seek remedia amoris or steal away with her lover. Her new, prima facie paradoxical, longing is to keep experiencing her drowning in a loop, in order to relive, keep reliving, an erotic “embrace” – not of death or any man, but of the sea and its alluring beauty, likened optically and haptically to emerald and satin: SAPPHO (IN THE WAVES OF LEUCAS) (Transl. A.K. Petrides)50 The myth exaggerates: I killed myself, the story goes, on some Phaon’ s account! Who he is I did not learn but only in the embrace of the emerald wave beguiled by its colour that never fades away – and the polytheism of its eyes rips open my heart pushing me to want and crave around its satin constantly to have myself enwrapped and drown again and toss myself again into the divine jaws of allure. 2014

The theme of poetic antagonism is present in the fresh poem, too. This time it is not “Menander” or “Ovid” but “the myth”, generally and impersonally, that has it wrong. The reader is clued in Charalambides’ new approach by the poem’ s parenthetic subtitle, which alludes to a famous Greek-Orthodox hymn sung on Good Friday. The relevant passage refers to the miraculous drowning of the Egyptians after the Splitting of the Sea: Pharaoh, the “tyrannical persecutor”, who had once 48

49 50

In Charalambides’ “I’ ve nothing else to lose […] except for the chains of my desire”, Penelope Strati would see an ironic echo of the closing of the Communist Manifesto: “The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains”. Charalambides 2017, 38 = 2019, 756. The Greek text is quoted in Appendix 2.

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“hidden” the Jews in the effacement of slavery, is now himself hidden under “the waves of the sea” (κύματι θαλάσσης)51. Like the Pharaoh’ s army, in this quasisequel to Sappho in Leucas, Charalambides’ interlocutors, too, have “drowned” – they have been entirely depersonalized, divested of their names and authority over Sappho’ s story. In fact, in the most sweeping renunciation of patriarchal Λόγος one could imagine, anything masculine (narrators, viewpoints, lovers) has “faded away” (ξέβαψε) like a transient external colouring once imposed but now washed by the permanent (and thus divine) Ionian emerald. In Charalambides’ Greek, “alluring beauty” (σαγήνη) and “sea” (θάλασσα) are feminine, “wave” (κύμα) is neutral: the only masculine that remains is μύθος (“myth”), and that in order to be summarily and contemptuously undermined (“exaggerates”). Even Phaon’ s reality, his ever having existed at all, is cast into doubt: he becomes “some Phaon”, himself just an element of doubtful discourse. Sappho’ s story is – has always been – a love affair with Beauty itself. It is her-story not merely by perspective anymore but more essentially because it is subject to her absolute, unmediated and unfailing control. Appendix 1 ΚΥΡΙΑΚΟΣ ΧΑΡΑΛΑΜΠΙΔΗΣ, “ΣΑΠΦΩ ΕΝ ΛΕΥΚΑΔΙ” Το είπε του Μενάνδρου η “Λευκαδία” ότι χωρίς του Φάωνα τη μορφή ανώφελο να ζούσα, κι από βράχο ρίχτηκα στην αγκάλη του θανάτου. Η Νέα Κωμωδία θαρρώ δεν έχει το δαίμονά της κι όλα τα διαστρέφει. Τα που περνάν απ᾽ το μυαλό της ευλαβείται, η κακομοίρα, ωσάν συντελεσθέντα. Και πώς να πείσεις ότι από το κύμα πρόβαλες σαν νεράιδα και ξανάβρες το Φάωνά σου, τον ενηγκαλίσθης παράφορα και στάζοντας κουπιά τον έσυρες στης Καλυψώς το δώμα. Και πώς να πείσεις μ᾽ ένα, δύο, τρία Λευκά μαγνάδια ότι το λιγνό κορμί σου, τα μαύρα σου μαλλάκια και τα μάτια σου σ᾽ εκειού την τυραννία παραδοθήκαν;

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ᾨδὴ α’, Ἦχος πλ. β’, ὁ Εἱρμὸς: κύματι θαλάσσης τὸν κρύψαντα πάλαι, διώκτην τύραννον, ὑπὸ γῆς ἔκρυψαν τῶν σεσωσμένων οἱ Παῖδες.

Menander’s Leukadia Μια δούλη εγώ, το Μένανδρο θα πνίξω. Δεν έχω εξάλλου άλλο τι να χάσω πάρεξ τις αλυσίδες του έρωτά μου. Δεκέμβρης 2005

Appendix 2 ΚΥΡΙΑΚΟΣ ΧΑΡΑΛΑΜΠΙΔΗΣ, “ΣΑΠΦΩ (ΚΥΜΑΤΙ ΛΕΥΚΑΔΟΣ)” Τα παραλέει ο μύθος: αυτοκτόνησα για το χατίρι δήθεν κάποιου Φάωνα! Ποιος είν᾽ αυτός δεν έμαθα παρά στην αγκαλιά του σμαραγδένιου κύματος από το χρώμα του παρασυρμένη που δεν ξεβάφει – κι η πολυθεΐα των οφθαλμών του σκίζει την καρδιά μου ωθώντας με να θέλω και να λαχταρώ τ᾽ ατλάζι του αδιάλειπτα να τυλιχτώ και να ξαναπνιγώ και να ξαναριχτώ στα θεία σαγόνια της σαγήνης. 2014

Figure 1. The promontory of Lefkatas (Akrotíri) in the island of Lefkáda. View from Doukáto. Photo credits: © Nellie Karavia

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Bibliography Andreadis 2001 = H. Andreadis, Sappho in Early Modern England: Female Same-Sex Literary Erotics 1550–1714, Chicago 2001. Arnott 1996 = W. G. Arnott, Menander, vol. II., Cambridge (MA)-London 1996. Arnott 2004 = W. G. Arnott, New Menander from the 1990s, in Bastianini–Casanova 2004, 35–53. Auhagen 2009 = U. Auhagen, Die Hetäre in der griechischen und römischen Komödie, Munich 2009. Austin 2012 = C. F. L. Austin, Menander: Eleven Plays, Cambridge 2012. Bastianini–Casanova 2004 = G. Bastianini–A. Casanova (eds.), Menandro: cent’ anni di papiri. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi. Firenze, 12–13 giugno 2003, Firenze 2004. Campbell 1982 = D. A. Campbell, Greek Lyric: Sappho – Alcaeus, Cambridge (MA)-London 1982. Charalambides 2006 = Κ. Χαραλαμπίδης, Κυδώνιον Μήλον [Quince Apple], Athens 2006. Charalambides 2017 = Κ. Χαραλαμπίδης, Ηλίου και Σελήνης Άλως [The Disk of the Sun and the Moon], Athens 2017. Charalambides 2019 = Κ. Χαραλαμπίδης, Ποιήματα: 1961–2017, Athens 2019. Charitonidis–Kahil–Ginouvès 1970 = S. Charitonidis–L. Kahil–R. Ginouvès, Les mosaïques de la maison du Ménandre à Mytilène, Bern 1970. Dale 1968 = A. M. Dale, The Lyric Metres of Greek Drama, Cambridge 19682. DeJean 1989 = J. DeJean, Fictions of Sappho 1546–1937, Chicago 1989. Dörpfeld 1927 = W. Dörpfeld, Alt-Ithaka: Ein Beitrag zu Homer-Frage. Studien und Ausgrabungen auf der Insel Leukas-Ithaka, Munich 1927. Ferrari 2004 = F. Ferrari, Papiri e mosaici: tradizione testuale e iconografia in alcune scene di Menandro, in Bastianini–Casanova 2004, 127–149. Fraenkel 2007 = E. Fraenkel, Plautine Elements in Plautus (Plautinisches im Plautus), Oxford 2007. Gaiser 1980 = K. Gaiser, “Ein Fragment aus Menanders Synaristosai?”, ZPE 39 (1980), 9–11. Georgiou Giannikou 2010 = Μ. Γεωργίου Γιαννίκου, Η Σαπφώ στην αρχαία ελληνική και την βυζαντινή λογοτεχνία (PhD diss.), University of Ioannina 2010. Greene 1996 = E. Greene (ed.), Re-Reading Sappho. Reception and Transmission, Berkeley 1996. Handley 1979 = E. W. Handley, “Recent papyrus finds – Menander”, BICS 26 (1979), 81–87. Jay–Lewis 1996 = P. Jay–C. Lewis, Sappho through English Poetry, London 1996. Jones 1928 = H. L. Jones, Strabo: Geography, Vol. 5: Books 10–12, Loeb Classical Library 211, Cambridge (MA)-London 1928. Koerte–Thierfelder = A. Koerte–A. Thierfelder, Menander: Reliquiae, Pars II, Leipzig 1959. MΙNC2 = T. B. L. Webster, Monuments Illustrating New Comedy, London 19692. MINC3 = T. B. L. Webster, Monuments Illustrating New Comedy, Revised and enlarged by J. R. Green and A. Seeberg, 2 vols., London 19953. Parsons 1994 = P. J. Parsons, “POxy 4024: Menander, Leukadia?”, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 60 (1994), 42–46 and plate III. Petrides 2014a = A. K. Petrides, Menander, New Comedy and the Visual, Cambridge 2014. Petrides 2014b = A. K. Petrides, “Kyriakos Charalambides and the House of Atreus: four poems”, Logeion 4 (2014), 279–320.

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Petrides 2017 = A. K. Petrides, Dialogising Aeschylus in the poetry of Kyriakos Charalambides, in V. Liapis–M. Pavlou–A. K. Petrides (eds.), Debating with the Eumenides: Aspects of the Reception of Greek Tragedy in Modern Greece, Newcastle upon Tyne 2017, 83–99. Prins 1999 = Y. Prins, Victorian Sappho, Princeton 1999. Ribbeck 1898 = O. Ribbeck, Scaenicae Romanorum poesis fragmenta, Vol. II: Comicorum fragmenta, Leipzig 18983. Ribbeck 1962 = O. Ribbeck, Scaenicae Romanorum poesis fragmenta, Vol. II: Comicorum fragmenta, Hildesheim 1962 (Reprint)52. Rüdiger 1933 = H. Rüdiger, Sappho. Ihr Ruf und Ruhm bei der Nachwelt, Leipzig 1933. Rychlewska 1963 = L. Rychlewska, “De Turpilio eiusque fabulis”, Meander 18 (1963), 375– 391. Rychlewska 1971 = L. Rychlewska, Sextus Turpilius: Fragmenta, Leipzig 1971. Stein 1981 = J. Stein, The Iconography of Sappho, 1775–1875 (Ph. D. diss.), University of Pennsylvania 1981. Traina 2013 = A. Traina, Sesto Turpilio: I frammenti delle commedie, Bologna 2013. Webster 1974 = T. B. L. Webster, An Introduction to Menander, Manchester 1974. Welcker 1863 = F. G. Welcker, “Sappho und Phaon”, RhM 18 (1863), 241–252 (repr. in Kleine Schriften zur griechischen Mythologie, Kunst und Literaturgeschichte, Elbersfeld 1867, 228–242). Wilamowitz 1913 = U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Sappho und Simonides: Untersuchungen über griechischen Lyriker, Berlin 1913. Yatromanolakis 2003 = D. Yatromanolakis, Palimpsests of Sappho in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Greece: An overview, in G. Nagy–A. Stavrakopoulou (eds.), Modern Greek Literature: Critical Essays, New York-London 2003, 166–182.

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This is a reprint of the second edition (Leipzig 1873) comprising a “Corollarium” not included in the third edition.

Elisabetta Lupi

Das 50. Fragment Jacoby des Timaios von Tauromenion bei Athenaios Zitierkontext und Deutung

Keywords: Sybaris, hellenistische Geschichtsschreibung, Felix Jacoby, Deipno­ sophistai, tryphē. 1. Die Deipnosphistai: Segen und Fluch Für die althistorische Forschung zur Geschichte der achäischen polis Sybaris sind die Deipnosophistai Segen und Fluch zugleich. Diese Siedlung an der ionischen Küste Kalabriens wurde 510 v. Chr. von den Krotoniaten besiegt und erlebte bis zu ihrem endgültigen Untergang ein wechselhaftes Schicksal von politischer Abhängigkeit und kurzfristiger Autonomie1. Seit der zweiten Hälfte des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. ist sie als Ort des Überflusses und Übermuts stilisiert worden2. Die Deipnosophistai des Athenaios aus severischer Zeit spielen eine entscheidende Rolle bei der Tradierung dieses Bildes. Im 12. Buch geht Athenaios den Erscheinungsformen der tryphē („Neigung zum Sinnengenuss“) nach und widmet den Sybariten einen langen Abschnitt (518c–22a). Seine Ausführungen enthalten zahlreiche Zitate aus der alten Komödie, aus der hellenistischen Geschichtsschreibung und aus peripatetischen Schriften, welche ausschließlich durch die Deipnosophistai bekannt sind (siehe Tabelle). Zu seinen gewichtigsten Gewährsmännern gehört Timaios von Tauromenion, aus dessen Geschichtswerk Athenaios bei seiner Darstellung der Sitten und Taten der Sybariten ausführlich zitiert. Aufgrund der Herkunft des Autors aus Sizilien ist diesen Fragmenten ein besonderer historischer Wert für die Rekonstruktion der sybaritischen Geschichte zugesprochen worden. Allerdings ist auch diese Auswahl durch das Interesse des Athenaios bestimmt und es ist sein Blick auf den sybaritischen Lebensstil, der unser Bild von Sybaris geprägt hat. Moderne Urteile über die Merkmale der antiken Überlieferung zur Stadt beruhen maßgeblich auf dem von Athenaios überlieferten Material3. Die Einbettung der Belege in den Kontext der fiktiven Gastmahlgespräche stellt die 1

2 3

Zur Geschichte der Siedlung nach der Niederlage gegen die Krotoniaten, siehe Lombardo 1993 und Bugno 1999, 56–132. Mit der Gründung der panhellenischen apoikia Thurioi (444 v. Chr.) endeten die Bemühungen der Sybariten, ihre Autonomie von Kroton wiederzuerlangen. Die Neubürger vertrieben die Sybariten endgültig aus dem Gebiet. Vgl. Ar. Pac. 344; fr. 225 K.–A. Für die Analyse der Textpassagen vgl. Lupi 2019, 120–25, 133–37. Vgl. Ampolo 1993, 213–22.

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althistorische und philologische Forschung vor das schwer zu lösende Problem, zwischen der Perspektive des Athenaios und der seiner Quellen zu unterscheiden. Denn es ist mit Umdeutungen und Anpassungen der Inhalte an den Erzählkontext durch den späteren Autor zu rechnen, wie philologische Untersuchungen der letzten dreißig Jahre gezeigt haben. So hat Delfino Ambaglio in den Zitationen aus vollständig überlieferten Werken wie denen von Herodot, Thukydides und Xenophon, die in den Deipnosophistai zu finden sind, eine Trivialisierung des ursprünglichen Inhalts festgestellt. Jeglicher ursprünglichen politischen Bedeutung entleert, erführen die Textpassagen hier eine Art ‚Verdichtung‘, welche ihren Inhalt auf die bloß antiquarischen Interessen von Athenaios reduziere4. Ambaglio schließt daraus, dass die Herangehensweise von Athenaios durch Unordnung, Zufall und Verzicht auf ein tieferes Verständnis der Texte gekennzeichnet ist5. Auch Christopher Pelling stellt in den Zitaten aus den Historien Herodots in den Deipnosophistai eine Reihe von Ergänzungen und Umdeutungen durch Athenaios fest6. Das Ergebnis ist entmutigend: Während die Eingriffe des Athenaios im Fall von vollständig überlieferten Werken noch erkennbar sind, lässt sich im Fall der nur fragmentarisch erhaltenen Schriften das Ausmaß an Veränderung nicht mehr rekonstruieren7. Das ist ein nicht zu unterschätzendes Problem bei der Rekonstruktion der Ge­schichte der Stadt Sybaris. Schließlich hängt von der Zitationsmethode des Athenaios großenteils unsere Auswertung der hellenistischen Geschichts­schrei­ bung, ihrer Geschichtsvorstellung und insbesondere ihres Umgangs mit der sybaritischen Geschichte ab. In einen neuen Textzusammenhang gestellt, kommt den zitierten Texten ein neuer Sinn zu. So ist gerade umstritten, ob und inwiefern die moralisch gefärbte Erklärung des sybaritischen Unterganges auf Athenaios oder auf seine hellenistischen Quellen zurückzuführen ist. Das hat erhebliche Konsequenzen für die Rekonstruktion der Abhängigkeitsverhältnisse zwischen einzelnen Autoren. Eine Trennung zwischen den beiden Perspektiven ist auch deshalb wichtig, um den historischen Wert der ältesten Zeugnisse zu ermitteln. Im Folgenden geht es um diese methodischen Fragen am Beispiel der Ein­ grenzung und Lektüre des sogenannten 50. Fragments von Timaios von Tauro­ menion8. Es handelt sich dabei um einen langen Abschnitt aus dem 12. Buch der Deipnosophistai (519b–20c), den Felix Jacoby in seiner Fragmentsammlung vollständig Timaios zuschreibt, obwohl der Name des Geschichtsschreibers nur im ersten Absatz vorkommt. Die Passage enthält mehrere Anekdoten über die 4 5 6 7 8

Ambaglio 1990, 64. Ambaglio 1990, 63: „Il modo di lavorare di Ateneo appare condizionato negativamente da elementi quali il disordine, la casualità delle scelte, la rinuncia a capire“. Pelling 2000, 181–88. Pelling 2000, 176, 188–90. Vgl. Olson 2018, 447. Siehe unten Anm. 48. Die Fragmente der griechischen Geschichtsschreiber werden nach der Textausgabe von Felix Jacoby (1923–1958) zitiert.

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Sitten der Sybariten, eine Schilderung des sybaritischen Wohlstandes sowie eine Erläuterung der Ursachen, die zum Untergang der Stadt führten. Das Fragment endet mit einer Notiz über die vollständige Zerstörung von Sybaris, die sich durch mehrere Vorzeichen ankündigte. In Abgrenzung zur älteren Forschung, die dieses Fragment als ein wortwörtliches Zitat von Timaios ansah und daraus narrative Merkmale seines historiographischen Ansatzes ableitete, stellte die jüngste Forschung die Eingrenzung und die Deutung des Fragments sowie seinen repräsentativen Charakter für die hellenistische Geschichtsschreibung infrage. Auf dem Prüfstand stehen nicht nur einzelne Entscheidungen von Jacoby bei der Edition des Fragments, sondern seine methodische Herangehensweise im Allgemeinen. In Anlehnung an diese Debatte soll hier auf die Folgen eingegangen werden, welche die Zitation eines hellenistischen und historiographischen Textes im Rahmen eines kaiserzeitlichen und poikilographischen Werks hat. Mir geht es zum einen um die mögliche Verzerrung des ursprünglichen Inhalts durch Athenaios. Zum anderen möchte ich eine alternative Lektüre des Fragments vorschlagen, welche über philologische Detailfragen hinaus auf den ursprünglichen historiographischen Kern eingeht. Zunächst aber sollen die Standardedition des Fragments in der Sammlung Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (im Folgenden als FGrHist abgekürzt) und seine methodischen Voraussetzungen vorgestellt werden. 2. Die Fragmentedition von Jacoby Athenaios zitiert Timaios an fünf verschiedenen Stellen zur Thematik der Sitten und Taten der Sybariten, vier davon allein im 12. Buch, wo es um die sybaritische tryphē geht. Athenaios schreibt dem Geschichtsschreiber folgende Erzählungen zu (mit Hinweis auf die Fragmentnummer in FGrHist): – eine Anekdote über die geselligen Bräuche der Sybariten (F 47, 1.34c); – ein logos sybaritikos, der sich um den Topos des müßigen Sybariten dreht (F 48, 12.518d); – eine Anekdote über die Vorliebe der Sybariten für Zwerge und maltesische Hunde (F 49, 12.518e–f); – eine Ergänzung der herodoteischen Erzählung über die Brautwerbung für Agariste, Tochter des Tyrannen Kleisthenes aus Sikion, durch eine Beschrei­ bung der Diener im Gefolge des Sybariten Smindyrides (F 9, 12.541b–c; vgl. 12.541b–c). Athenaios erwähnt Timaios darüber hinaus zu Beginn des Textabschnittes, der in FGrHist das 50. Fragment des Geschichtsschreibers bildet. Im Folgenden wird Jacobys Edition des Textes wiedergegeben:

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519b ἐφόρουν δ’ οἱ Συβαρῖται καὶ ἱμάτια Μιλησίων ἐρίων πεποιημένα, ἀφ’ ὧν δὴ καὶ αἱ φιλίαι ταῖς πόλεσιν ἐγένοντο, ὡς ὁ Τίμαιος ἱστορεῖ· ἠγάπων γὰρ τῶν μὲν ἐξ Ἰταλίας Τυρρηνούς, τῶν δ’ ἔξωθεν τοὺς Ἴωνας, ὅτι τρυφῇ προσεῖχον. οἱ δ’ ἱππεῖς τῶν c Συβαριτῶν, ὑπὲρ τοὺς πεντακισχιλίους ὄντες, ἐπόμπευον ἔχοντες κροκωτοὺς ἐπὶ τοῖς θώραξιν, καὶ τοῦ θέρους οἱ νεώτεροι αὐτῶν εἰς τὰ τῶν Νυμφῶν ἄντρα τῶν Λουσιάδων ἀποδημοῦντες διετέλουν μετὰ πάσης τρυφῆς. οἱ δ’ εὔποροι αὐτῶν ὁπότε εἰς ἀγρὸν παραβάλλοιεν, καίπερ ἐπὶ ζευγῶν πορευόμενοι, τὴν ἡμερησίαν πορείαν ἐν ­τρισὶν ἡμέραις διήνυον. ἦσαν δέ τινες αὐτοῖς καὶ τῶν εἰς τοὺς ἀγροὺς φερουσῶν ὁδῶν κατάστεγοι. τοῖς δὲ πλείστοις αὐτῶν ὑπάρχουσιν οἰνῶνες ἐγγὺς τῆς θ­ αλάσσης, d εἰς οὓς δι’ ὀχετῶν τῶν οἴνων ἐκ τῶν ἀγρῶν ἀφειμένων, τὸν μὲν ἔξω τῆς χώρας πιπράσκεσθαι, τὸν δὲ εἰς τὴν πόλιν τοῖς πλοίοις διακομίζεσθαι. ποιοῦνται δὲ καὶ δημοσίαι πολλὰς καὶ πυκνὰς ἑστιάσεις, καὶ τοὺς λαμπρῶς φιλοτιμηθέντας χρυσοῖς στεφάνοις τιμῶσι, καὶ τούτους ἀνακηρύττουσιν ἐν ταῖς δημοσίαις θυσίαις καὶ τοῖς ἀγῶσιν, προσκηρύττοντες οὐκ εὔνοιαν ἀλλὰ τὴν εἰς τὰ δεῖπνα χορηγίαν· ἐν οἷς στεφανοῦσθαι καὶ τῶν μαγείρων τοὺς ἄριστα τὰ παρατεθέντα διασκευάσαντας. παρὰ e Συβαρίταις δ’ εὑρέθησαν καὶ πύελοι, ἐν αἷς κατακείμενοι ἐπυριῶντο· πρῶτοι δὲ καὶ ἀμίδας ἐξεῦρον, ἃς εἰσέφερον εἰς τὰ συμπόσια. καταγελῶντες δὲ τῶν ἀποδημούντων ἐκ τῶν πατρίδων, αὐτοὶ ἐσεμνύνοντο ἐπὶ τῷ γεγηρακέναι ἐπὶ ταῖς τῶν ποταμῶν ­ λιμένου γεφύραις. δοκεῖ δὲ †μετὰ τῆς εὐδαιμονίας αὐτῶν εἶναι, ὅτι ἐκ τῆς χώρας, ἀ τῆς θαλάσσης παρηκούσης, καὶ τῶν καρπῶν σχεδὸν ἁπάντων ὑπὸ τῶν π ­ ολιτῶν καταναλισκομένων†· ὅ τε τῆς πόλεως τόπος καὶ ὁ παρὰ τοῦ θεοῦ χρησμὸς f συμπαροξῦναι πάντας ἐκτρυφῆσαι καὶ ποιῆσαι ζῆσαι ὑπὲρ τὸ μέτρον ἐκλελυμένως. ἡ δὲ πόλις αὐτῶν ἐν κοίλῳ κειμένη τοῦ μὲν θέρους ἕωθέν τε καὶ πρὸς ἑσπέραν ψῦχος ὑπερβάλλον ἔχει, τὸ δὲ μέσον τῆς ἡμέρας καῦμα ἀνύποιστον, ὥστε τοὺς πλείστους αὐτῶν ὑπειληφέναι πρὸς ὑγίειαν διαφέρειν τοὺς πότους(?)9· ὅθεν καὶ ῥηθῆναι, ὅτι τὸν βουλόμενον ἐν Συβάρει μὴ πρὸ μοίρας ἀποθανεῖν οὔτε δυόμενον οὔτε ἀνίσχοντα τὸν 520a ἥλιον ὁρᾶν δεῖ. ἔπεμψαν δέ ποτε καὶ εἰς θεοῦ τοὺς χρησομένους, ὧν ἦν εἷς Ἄμυρις, πυνθανόμενοι μέχρι τίνος εὐδαιμονήσουσι· καὶ ἡ Πυθία ἔφη· Εὐδαίμων, σὺ μὲν αἰεί ἐν θαλίῃσιν ἔσῃ, τιμῶν γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων. εὖτ’ ἂν δὲ πρότερον θνητὸν θεοῦ ἄνδρα σεβίσσῃς, τηνίκα σοι πόλεμός τε καὶ ἔμφυλος στάσις ἥξει. b τούτων ἀκούσαντες ἔδοξαν λέγειν αὐτοῖς τὸν θεὸν ὡς οὐδέποτε παύσοιντο τρυφῶντες· οὐδέποτε γὰρ τιμήσειν ἄνθρωπον μᾶλλον θεοῦ. ἐγένετ’ οὖν αὐτοῖς τῆς τύχης ἡ μεταβολή, ἐπεί τις τῶν οἰκετῶν τινα μαστιγῶν καὶ τοῦτον καταφυγόντα εἰς τὰ ἱερὰ πάλιν ἐμαστίγου· ὡς δὲ τὸ τελευταῖον κατέδραμεν ἐπὶ τὰ τοῦ πατρὸς c αὐτοῦ μνήματα, ἀφῆκεν αἰδεσθείς. ⟦ἐξαναλώθησαν δὲ φιλοτιμούμενοι πρὸς ἑαυτοὺς τρυφαῖς, καὶ ἡ πόλις δὲ πρὸς ἁπάσας τὰς ἄλλας ἡμιλλᾶτο περὶ τρυφῆς⟧. εἶτα μετ’ οὐ πολὺ γινομένων αὐτοῖς σημείων πολλῶν † καὶ ἀπωλείας, περὶ ἧς οὐκέτ’ ἐπείγει λέγειν, διεφθάρησαν.

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519b Die Sybariten trugen ferner Kleidungstücke, die aus Wolle aus Miletos hergestellt waren. Aufgrunddessen kam es zu freundschaftlichen Beziehungen zwischen den Staaten, wie Timaios berichtet; denn sie schätzen von denen, die in Italien wohnten, c die Etrusker, von den Entfernteren die Ioner, weil sie auf Luxus Wert legten. Die Reiter der Sybariten – es waren mehr als fünftausend – gingen im Festzug mit ­gelben Umhängen über ihren Panzern. Im Sommer begaben sich ihre jungen Leute zu den Badestellen der Nymphen am Lusias und verbrachten dort die Zeit in üppigem Luxus. Wenn die Wohlhabenden unter ihnen Aufenthalt auf dem Land nahmen, brauchten sie für die eintägige Reise drei Tage, obwohl sie diese auf Geschirren zurücklegten. d Bei ihnen waren einige der Straße von denen, die aufs Land führten, überdacht. Die meisten von ihnen hatten ihre Weinlager in Meeresnähe. Wenn zu diesen die Weinlieferungen von ihren Landgütern durch Rohrleitungen hingelangt waren, verkauften sie den einen Teil außerhalb des Landes, den anderen beförderten sie auf Schiffe in die Stadt. Auch veranstalten sie öffentlich zahlreiche und dicht aufeinander folgende Festmahlzeiten und ehren diejenigen, die ihren Ehrgeiz in eine prächtige e Ausstattung gesetzt haben, mit goldenen Kränzen und verkünden deren Namen bei den öffentlichen Opfern und Wettkampfveranstaltungen. Dabei erwähnen sie nicht so sehr deren freundliche Bereitschaft wie deren großzügigen Beitrag zu den Festmahlzeiten. Bei dieser Gelegenheit werden auch diejenigen von den Köchen mit Kränzen ausgezeichnet, die das, was verabreicht worden ist, am besten angerichtet haben. Bei den Sybariten wurden auch Badewannen erfunden, in denen sie im Liegen f Schwitzbäder nahmen. Sie hatten auch als erste Nachttöpfe, die sie zu den Trinkgelagen mitbrachten. Sie machten sich über diejenigen lustig, die ihre Heimat verließen, und waren selbst stolz darauf, dass sie auf den Brücken ihrer Flüsse alt geworden waren. Eine wesentliche Ursache für ihren Wohlstand scheint darin zu liegen, dass aus dem Land – da das anliegende Meer keinen Hafen bietet – fast alle 520a Erträge von den Bürgern verbraucht wurden und man nur ganz wenig ausführte, die Lage der Stadt jedoch und der Spruch vom Gott alle dazu anregten, in Völlerei zu leben, und bewirkten, dass sie sich in ihren Lebensgewohnheiten über das Maß hinaus gehen ließen. Ihre Stadt aber ist in einer Senke gelegen, und es herrscht dort im Sommer früh morgens und gegen Abend eine auffallend kühle Temperatur, zu Mittag jedoch unerträgliche Hitze. Daher hat sich bei den meisten die Ansicht b verbreitet, dass das Trinken für die Gesundheit gut ist. So geht der Spruch um, dass derjenige in Sybaris, der nicht vor dem Schicksal bestimmten Ende sterben will, die Sonne weder untergehen noch aufgehen sehen darf. Einst schickten sie aber Leute, von denen einer Amyris hieß, zum Gott, um einen Spruch einzuholen. Sie fragten, bis c zu welchem Zeitpunkt sie in Wohlstand leben würden. Pythia antwortete darauf: „Glücklich und reich, Sybarite, wirst immer du leben in Wohlstand wie auch im Glück, wenn du achtest die ewiglich lebenden Götter. Wenn du jedoch einmal einen der Sterblichen vorziehst dem Gotte, dann werden Krieg dich wie innere Zwietracht bedrängen“.

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Elisabetta Lupi Als sie dieses hörten, kamen sie zu dem Schluss, dass der Gott gesagt habe, sie würden für alle Zeit ihr genussreiches Leben führen; denn sie würden niemals einen Menschen höher achten als einen Gott. Doch es kam über sie die Wende des Glücks, als jemand einen seiner Sklaven auspeitschte und diesen, als er zu der heiligen Stätte geflohen war, wiederum schlug. Als dieser schließlich zum Grabmal des Vaters seines Herrn weiterlief, ließ jener von ihm infolge ehrfürchtiger Scheu ab. Sie hatten sich aber in ihrem gegenseitigen Wettstreit um Geltung bei ihrem üppigen Lebens­ wandel verausgabt, und die Stadt trug gegenüber allen übrigen einen Wett­kampf um die Völlerei aus. Als ihnen dann nach nicht langer Zeit mannigfaltige Zeichen des Niedergangs erschienen (über den zu sprechen besteht keine zwingende Not­ wendigkeit), gingen sie zugrunde10.

Die Edition von Jacoby wurde unverändert in der neuen Ausgabe der Fragmente des Timaios wiedergegeben, welche Craige B. Champion im Jahr 2016 für Brill’ s New Jacoby (im Folgenden als BNJ abgekürzt) vorgelegt hat11. In seiner 2013 erschienenen Monographie über Timaios und die hellenistische Historiographie hat Christopher Baron die Edition der timaiischen Fragmente für BNJ aus eben diesem Grund mit dem folgenden Argument kritisiert: „[W]hen we scroll down through the fragments of Timaeus on BNJ, we are not reading Timaeus; we are reading Jacoby“12. Dem liegt die Feststellung zugrunde, dass die Organisation und Auswahl der Fragmente in FGrHist – und folglich auch in BNJ – Jacobys eigene Auffassung der griechischen Geschichtsschreibung widerspiegelt13. Im Unterschied zu anderen Fragmentsammlungen folgt Jacoby bei der Planung seines Corpus nicht rein katalogischen Prinzipien wie z.B. der alphabetischen Reihenfolge der Namen antiker Autoren, sondern logischen Kriterien14. Die Zeugnisse sind nach Gattung der Schriften angeordnet, wobei Jacoby sechs Kategorien unterscheidet: Genealogie und Mythographie; Chronographie; Ethno­ graphie und Horographie; Antiquarische Geschichte und Biographie; Geo­graphie; Theorie der Geschichtsschreibung. Dieser Plan beruht auf einer evolutionistischen, 9

Zur Korrektheit der tradierten lectio ποταμούς („die Flüsse […] sind“) siehe unten Anm. 76. 10 Übersetzung von Friedrich 2000, 110–12. 11 BNJ ist eine überarbeitete und erweiterte Online-Ausgabe der FGrHist, welche neben einer englischen Übersetzung und einem aktualisierten Kommentar auch neue Lesarten der Fragmente präsentiert. Dies ist aber im Fall der Edition von Timaios nicht geschehen; Champion hat alle Entscheidungen von Jacoby übernommen. 12 Baron 2013, 12. 13 Zur Jacobys Methode und zur Problemstellung der Fragment-Definition siehe Schepens 2000, 4–7, 9–12. 14 Vgl. Luraghi 2001, 5.

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nämlich genealogischen Auffassung der griechischen Geschichts­schreibung. So erklärt Jacoby in seiner Vorrede, dass „der nachlass der einzelnen autoren […] da zusammen steht, wohin ihn das hauptwerk oder seine stellung in der entwicklung der historiographie zu weisen scheint“15. Dass die Fragmente von Timaios zur Kategorie ‚Ethnographie und Horographie‘ gehören, bedeutet daher, dass Jacoby ihnen einen bestimmten Platz in der historiographischen Entwicklung zuweist. Unter ‚Ethnographie‘ versteht Jacoby eine „Nachkommenschaft“ des geographischen Werkes von Hekataios: Während die geographische Literatur einen rein deskriptiven Charakter habe, kennzeichne die Ethnographie eine Erweiterung der topographischen und ethnographischen Schilderung durch „das historische Element“, und zwar die Geschichte der einzelnen Völker. In der hellenistischen Zeit erfahre die Ethnographie eine zweite Erweiterung durch die Annäherung an die griechische Zeitgeschichte, was nach Jacoby vor allem die ethnographischen Schriften über Westgriechenland aus­ zeichnet16. Die Einordnung des Timaios in die Gruppe der Ethnographen setzt daher ein bestimmtes Bild seines Werkes voraus. Es ist unausweichlich, dass dieses Bild die Auswahl und den Umfang der Fragmente beeinflusst. Katherine Clarke weist deshalb mahnend darauf hin, dass die Struktur der Fragmentsammlung die Unterschiede der historiographischen Gattungen eher verschleiert als beleuchtet17. Angesichts solcher methodischen Fragen bezeichnet Baron Jacobys Fragment­ sammlung als „a minefield“18: Jacobys Selektion der timaiischen Fragmente berge die Gefahr in sich, ein verzerrtes Bild des historiographischen Werks zu vermitteln. Champions Edition reduziere diese Gefahr nicht, sondern erhöhe sie sogar, weil BNJ Jacobys Selektion der Fragmente ohne den entsprechenden Kommentar reproduziert. In Anbetracht dessen, dass Jacoby im Rahmen des Kommentars seine Entscheidungen ausführlich erklärt, gelegentlich auch relativiert, seien die Fragmente in BNJ noch stärker aus dem Zitationskontext herausgelöst worden19. Mit der von Baron vorgeschlagenen neuen Lektüre und Begrenzung der Fragmente wird daher auf eine breitere Berücksichtigung des Zitierkontextes Bezug genommen20. Dies betrifft auch das 50. Fragment, das die methodischen Probleme bei der Auswertung fragmentarischer Werke sehr gut verdeutlicht.

15 16 17 18 19 20

Jacoby 1968, vii. Jacoby 1909, 85, 88–96. Clarke 2008, 174. Baron 2013, 9. Baron 2013, 10–11. Baron 2013, 260–65 mit neuen Abgrenzungen und Übersetzungen von T 15; FF 9, 50, 132, 136.

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3. Die philologische Debatte um das 50. Fragment Die fragmentarische Überlieferung des historiographischen Werks von Timaios wirft eine Reihe von methodischen Fragen hinsichtlich Tradierung und Funktion auf. Die philologische Debatte um das 50. Fragment liefert dafür ein treffendes Beispiel. Die philologischen Untersuchungen zur Arbeitsmethode des Athenaios und zu seinem Umgang mit den Quellen haben zu einer Revision der Edition Jacobys geführt. Gestritten wurde um die Herkunft, die Eingrenzung und folglich um die inhaltliche Deutung des Fragments. Mit ‚Herkunft‘ ist hier die Quelle des Zitats gemeint. Gefragt wird nach der direkten bzw. indirekten Überlieferung des hellenistischen Werkes in der Kaiserzeit. Unklar ist, ob Athenaios das Werk teilweise oder ausschließlich als Epitome zur Verfügung hatte. Jacoby hatte keine deutliche Stellung dazu bezogen21. In seinem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten 48–50 liest man: „offenbar breiter exkurs, aus dem Athenaios nur einzelnes und ziemlich unordentlich (wenn nicht sein exzerptor die schuld trägt) aushebt“22. Giuseppe Zecchini vertritt dagegen die These, dass für jedes einzelne Zitat des Timaios eine eigene Entscheidung getroffen werden muss23, und im Fall des 50. Fragments spricht er sich für eine direkte Überlieferung des Textes aus24. Die Frage nach der Herkunft hängt mit der zweiten Frage nach der Eingrenzung des timaiischen Fragments zusammen. Seit Jacobys Edition haben sich zwei Herangehensweisen herauskristallisiert, je nachdem, ob man unter einem Fragment eine inhaltliche oder aber eine bloß grammatikalische Einheit versteht. Zur ersten Position gehört zweifellos Jacobys Herangehensweise. Seine Ent­ schei­dung, dem Geschichtsschreiber den gesamten Abschnitt ab der Erwähnung des Namens ‚Timaios‘ bis zum Zitat von Aristoteles zuzuschreiben, basiert auf einem Ausschlusskriterium: Ihm zufolge kommen weder Phylarchos noch Herakleides Pontikos oder Aristoteles als Autoren der Erzählungen infrage25. Mit dieser Argumentation lehnt Jacoby die These von Georg Kaibel ab, welcher in seiner Edition der Deipnosophistai vom Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts die Reihenfolge

21

22 23 24 25

Bezüglich der timaiischen Zitate bei Dionysios von Halikarnassos schreibt Jacoby 1969, 527 (= FGrHist 566 Kommentar): „[…] Dionys von Halikarnass (der ihn [Timaios] vielleicht schon nicht mehr aus erster Hand kennt).“ Jacoby 1969, 560 (= FGrHist 566 FF 47–50 Kommentar). Zecchini 1989, 175–78. Zecchini 1989, 176, 178. Jacoby 1969, 560 (= FGrHist 566 FF 47–50 Kommentar). Es handelt sich um kein besonders starkes Argument in Anbetracht dessen, dass die Anekdoten um die müßigen Sybariten noch in der Kaiserzeit stetig erweitert wurden.

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der sybaritischen Erfindungen ab dem Paragraph 519e einem anderen Autor als Timaios zugeschrieben hatte26. Auch Zecchini schreibt die Erzählungen über den Müßiggang und den Übermut der Sybariten dem Geschichtswerk des Timaios zu, erweitert jedoch das timaiische Zitat bis zum Paragraphen 521a. Ihm zufolge habe Athenaios die folgenden Zitate von Aristoteles und Charon von Lampsakos aus dem Werk des Timaios entnommen (siehe Tabelle)27. Es ist mindestens in einem Fall nachgewiesen, dass Timaios die Zwischenquelle des Athenaios für die Kenntnis einer aristotelischen Politeia darstellt28. Nino Luraghi teilt die These von Zecchini, schließt aber aus dem timaiischen Fragment das Zitat von Charon aus, das seiner Meinung nach dem assoziativen Gedächtnis des Athenaios zu verdanken ist29. Die aktuelle englischsprachige Forschung beschränkt dagegen das timaiische Fragment auf eine grammatikalische Einheit. Vanessa B. Gorman und Robert J. Gorman betrachten nur den Satz, in dem der Name ‚Timaios‘ unmittelbar vorkommt, als Fragment des Geschichtsschreibers. Die Erläuterung der luxuriösen Sitten bei den Ioniern und Etruskern sowie alle weiteren Erzählungen über die tryphē der Sybariten gingen hingegen auf Athenaios zurück: Diese seien dem späteren Autor allgemein bekannt gewesen30. Gorman und Gorman begründen ihre Ansicht u.a. mit dem Argument, dass in den anderen Fragmenten von Timaios kein weiteres Beispiel für eine solche unkritische Leichtgläubigkeit zu finden sei31. Dass die Eingrenzungsfrage mit dem Gesamturteil der historiographischen Methode von Timaios zusammenhängt, zeigt auch die Kritik von Lisa Hau an Gorman und Gorman. Hau hält deren Position für „overly sceptical“: Weitere Fragmente enthielten noch phantasievollere Details als die Erzählung über die Dekadenz der Sybariten und offenbarten dadurch eine ähnliche Leichtgläubigkeit des Geschichtsschreibers32. Hinter einer solchen Ansicht erkennt man noch das negative Urteil des Polybius über die Unglaubwürdigkeit der Erzählungen des Timaios33. In Anlehnung an Gorman und Gorman plädiert auch Baron für eine Beschränkung des Fragments auf den Satz, in dem Athenaios den Geschichts­ schreiber erwähnt34. Baron schließt jedoch nicht aus, dass auch die folgenden Erzählungen aus dem Werk von Timaios stammen könnten. Aber Timaios hätte, 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34

Kaibel 1962 ad Ath. 12.519e: „παρὰ Συβαρίταις δ’: haec ex novo ut videtur auctore“. Zecchini 1989, 176. So auch Vattuone 1991, 323 Anm. 75. Arist. fr. 554,1 Gigon; FGrHist 566 F 11a (ap. Ath. 6.264 c–d). Vgl. Arist. fr. 601 Gigon; FGrHist 566 F 51 (ap. Ath. 12.523 c–d). Zu Athenaios’ indirekter Kenntnis der aristotelischen Politeiai vgl. Zecchini 1989, 125–29 und Erdas 2009, 588–603. Luraghi 1994, 62 Anm. 19. Gorman–Gorman 2007, 52–53; Gorman–Gorman 2014, 321–22. Gorman–Gorman 2014, 322. Hau 2016, 131. Plb. 12.24 (= FGrHist 566 T 19). Baron 2013, 262–63.

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so Baron, diese Geschichten aus den verschiedensten Gründen erzählen können, ohne dass noch die Möglichkeit bestünde, den ursprünglichen Erzählkontext zu rekonstruieren35. Ferner spiegele die Deutung dieser Geschichten als Zeichen von tryphē lediglich die Auffassung des Athenaios wider. Die Frage nach der Eingrenzung des Fragments betrifft daher auch das Urteil über das Geschichtsdenken des Timaios. Die ‚kürzere‘ Fassung des Fragments führt zur Revision einer etablierten Forschungsposition, welche die tryphē als einen Topos der hellenistischen Geschichtsschreibung zur Deutung politischer Untergänge herausgearbeitet hat36. Umberto Cozzoli hat das 50. Fragment nämlich für ein paradigmatisches Beispiel der kausalen Reihenfolge tryphē– hybris–apōleia gehalten: Die hellenistische Historiographie verstehe die tryphē als Zeichen moralischer Dekadenz sowie als Schritt zum Übermut (hybris) und politischen Niedergang (apōleia)37. Das 50. Fragment bestätigt auch nach Ansicht des Althistorikers Riccardo Vattuone die Funktion der tryphē als Deutungsmuster des geschichtlichen Verlaufs. Dementsprechend diene die tryphē bei Timaios als Argument der historiographischen Rekonstruktion38. Auf der Grundlage ihrer Eingrenzung des Fragments stellen Gorman und Gorman daher eine neue Sicht der hellenistischen Historiographie vor. Die beiden Altphilologen führen den Topos des Untergangs infolge von tryphē auf eine römische Dekadenzvorstellung zurück, die im Laufe des 2.–1. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. entstanden sei39. Unterstützt wird diese These durch eine philologische Untersuchung des Ausdrucks ἐξοκέλλειν εἰς τρυφήν („der tryphē nachgeben“), der im 50. Fragment sowie allgemein im Gesamtwerk des Athenaios vorkommt. Gorman und Gorman konnten nachweisen, dass der Ausdruck Athenaios’ usus scribendi entspricht und dementsprechend seine geschichtliche Auffassung zum Ausdruck bringt40. Auch aufgrund dieser Untersuchungen kommt Baron zu dem Schluss, dass das Werk des Timaios dem Herodots viel ähnlicher sei als bis jetzt angenommen41. Diese Ähnlichkeit bestehe in der gleichartigen Organisation des Materials und in

35

36 37

38 39 40 41

Baron 2013, 263: „Timaeus could have included these anecdotes for a number of reasons and in a number of ways, but we cannot reconstruct that context without substantial, directly preserved stretches of his text“. Zu diesem Topos der Luxuskritik siehe Bernhardt 2003, 233–38. Cozzoli 1980, 143 und Anm. 49. Als typisch für das historische Denken von Timaios gilt nach Cozzoli die Interpretation technischer Fortschritte und Handelsbeziehungen als ein Zeichen von tryphē. Vgl. Lombardo 2002, 53–56. Dieser führt eine solche Deutung des sybaritischen Unterganges auf pythagoreische Propaganda der archaischen Zeit zurück. Vattuone 1991, 324–29. Gorman–Gorman 2014, 326–28. Gorman–Gorman 2007, 41–47; Gorman–Gorman 2014, 213–18. Baron 2013, 235–46.

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der Weitergabe mündlicher Überlieferungen, die nicht vom moralischen Konzept der tryphē geprägt seien42. Die philologische Debatte um das 50. Fragment zeigt also, dass die Berücksichtigung des Zitierkontextes neue Interpretationen von verschollenen Werken ermöglicht43. Auf den Zitierkontext möchte ich im Folgenden noch genauer eingehen, um das 50. Fragment in Athenaios’ Abschnitt über die tryphē der Sybariten einzuordnen. 4. Der Zitierkontext Die Einbettung des Textabschnittes in den narrativen Rahmen der Deipnosophistai verdeutlicht die assoziative Herangehensweise von Athenaios, die nach Christian Jacob die Formen der mündlichen Kommunikation nachahmt44. Der kaiserzeitliche Autor stellt in seinem Dialog mit Timokrates die thematischen Sektionen vor, welche von Spezialisten verschiedener Disziplinen während eines fiktiven Banketts behandelten wurden45. Im Rahmen derselben Sektion unterbricht er ein Thema, um assoziativ weitere Geschichten einzufügen, erwähnt kurz einen Sachverhalt und verschiebt dann dessen Erzählung auf später. Diese assoziative Herangehensweise ist das Ergebnis einer Selektion von Textquellen46, die sich im Werk von Athenaios wie in einer Art „polyphonie“47 zueinander verhalten. Unser Zitat von Timaios folgt einer anekdotischen Überlieferung über die Vorliebe für kleine Geschöpfe (518e–19a). Vorgeführt werden darin Zwerge, Hunde, Affen und Sklaven mit ausdrücklichem Bezug auf Timaios, Ptolemaios VII. Euergetes, den Komödiendichter Eubulos und Athenodoros von Tarsos. Unmittelbar vor unserem Textabschnitt erwähnt Athenaios noch die maltesischen Hunde sowie weitere „nicht-menschliche Wesen“ mit impliziertem Verweis auf das Zeugnis des Timaios über die sybaritischen Sitten (FGrHist 566 F 49), das er kurz vorher bereits zitiert hatte. Diese Bemerkung leitet über in das neue TimaiosZitat (siehe Tabelle). Der Ausdruck ὡς […] ἱστορεῖ (519b) weist auf eine Paraphrase der Quelle hin, wie die Untersuchung von Dominique Lenfant über die Formen der text42 43 44 45 46

47

Vgl. Baron 2013, 46–47, 256–58. Vgl. Schepens 1997, 166–67 Anm. 66 und Schepens 2000, 12–13 über die „‚CoverText‘-Analyse“ als erste Phase der kritischen Arbeit an den Fragmenten. Jacob 2004, 159–63. Über die Struktur des Werkes siehe Wilkins 2000. Vgl. Jacob 2004, 148: „Le texte d’ Athénée est une véritable arche de Noé bibliographique qui nous conserve la mémoire fragmentée d’ une bibliothèque engloutie dans sa plus grande partie: près de 800 auteurs et 2500 œuvres y sont mentionnés […] chiffres que l’ on pourrait comparer à ceux donnés par l’ Oxford Classical Dictionary“. Romeri 2014, 19.

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lichen Wiedergabe in den Deipnosophistai gezeigt hat48. Der Übergang vom Imperfekt zum Präsens im Absatz 519d deutet nach Maria Luisa Gambato auf den Beginn eines wörtlichen Zitats von Timaios hin oder auf das Zitat eines weiteren Autors, den der Geschichtsschreiber in seinem Werk wiedergegeben hatte49. Die Wiedergabe des Orakels über das Schicksal von Sybaris – wenn auch lückenhaft überliefert50 – legt den Schluss nahe, dass Athenaios zumindest an dieser Stelle seine Quelle wörtlich zitiert. Die Erzählung bricht dann abrupt in Paragraph 520c mit einem Verweis auf eine spätere Schilderung der Vorzeichen ab, die auf das Ende von Sybaris (περὶ ἧς οὐκέτ’ ἐπείγει λέγειν) verweisen. Bis der Leser Auskunft darüber erhält, muss er auf die Behandlung der Überlieferungen von Herakleides Pontikos und Phylarchos warten. Diese schließen an die Zeugnisse von Aristoteles und Charon über die Rolle der tanzenden Pferde bei der Niederlage der Sybariten und Kardianer an51. Eine solche Regie ist laut Jacob ein Spiegel der Vorarbeit des Autors. Athenaios habe Exzerpte aus seinen Lektüren angefertigt, die sich zum Speichern, erneuten Lesen und Exzerpieren eigneten: eine Art ‚kompakte‘ Bibliothek, welche die Gelehrsamkeit der Kaiserzeit widerspiegelt52. Unter ‚Zitierkontext‘ lassen sich daher vier Kontextebenen53 subsumieren: die Erzähl- und Darstellungsebene sowie die Argumentations- und die Kommunikationsebene. Mit der Erzähl- und Darstellungsebene sind die Ebenen des fiktiven Erzählers und der fiktiven Handlung gemeint: Das sind bei den Deipnosophistai zum einen der Dialog zwischen Athenaios und Timokrates, zum anderen die Gespräche zwischen den gelehrten Tischgenossen. Die weitere Ebene betrifft den Argumentationszusammenhang, in den das Zitat eingebettet ist. In unserem Fall ist das die Vorstellung der sybaritischen tryphē als Teil des Bankettgesprächs über den Sinnengenuss. Als Zitierkontext lassen sich schließlich der historisch-soziale, der kulturelle und der literarische Rahmen der 48

49 50 51 52 53

Lenfant 2007, 50–51. Am Beispiel der Zitate Herodots in den Deipnosophistai arbeitet Lenfant ein Schema heraus, in dem Zitationsformen (Paraphrase, wörtliches Zitat, Epitome) mit den jeweiligen Formeln der Quellenangabe gekoppelt werden. Sie vertritt hierbei die These, dass Verzerrungen des herodoteischen ‚Originaltextes‘ durch Athenaios eine Ausnahme bilden, und distanziert sich damit von Pelling 2000. Eine neuere Betrachtung dieser Forschungsdebatte findet sich in Olson 2018. Am Beispiel der ‚Fragmente‘ von Herodot, Xenophon und Platon in den Deipnosphistai kommt Olson zu dem wenig erfreulichen Schluss: „The necessary conclusion would nonetheless seem to be that Athenaeus often quotes (and sometimes even paraphrases) his sources more or less accurately – except when he does not“ (448). Gambato 2001, 1291–92 Anm. 5. Vgl. St. Byz. σ 302 Billerbeck–Neumann-Hartmann. Kaibel 1962 ad Ath. 12.521a sieht – möglicherweise zu Recht – die Anekdote über die Faulheit eines Sybariten auf dem Pferd als eine byzantinische Interpolation an. Jacob 2004, 166–67. Vgl. Tischer 2015, 335.

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Kommunikation verstehen, an denen der Autor teilhat: Athenaios’ Werk ist ein Spiegel von Wissen und Wissenspraktiken in der Severerzeit. Der Abschnitt über die sybaritische tryphē ist ein Produkt dieser Gelehrsamkeit. Er zeigt nicht nur, was man über die Stadt wusste und welche Quellen zur Verfügung standen. Der Abschnitt legt auch offen, welche Informationen als erwähnenswert galten und wie sie gelesen wurden. Die Herauslösung des timaiischen Zitates aus dem Zitierkontext kann daher keineswegs den Ursprungskontext wiederherstellen, ganz egal, ob man unter ‚Fragment‘ eine inhaltliche oder grammatikalische Einheit versteht. Jede Fragmentedition bedeutet eine Dekontextualisierung des Textes und gleichzeitig seine „Neukontextualisierung“ im Rahmen einer wissenschaftlichen Kommunikation54. Es ist eher die Betrachtung der jeweiligen Wissenspraktiken, die eine Trennung zwischen dem Kommunikationskontext des Autors und dem seiner Rezeption ermöglicht. Im Folgenden soll dieser Versuch am Beispiel des timaiischen Zitates unternommen werden. Tabelle: Das 50. Fragment im Kontext des Abschnittes über die sybaritische tryphē Deipnosophistai Inhalt 518c „Was muss man noch ausführlich auf die Sybariten eingehen?“ 518c–d Anekdoten über sybaritische Badeanstalten. Zugangsverbot für Handwerker; Verbot, Hähne zu halten 518d Timaios’ Logos sybaritikos über den faulen Sybariten 518d–e Weitere logoi sybaritikoi (aus dem Werk des Timaios?) 518e Beschreibung der prächtigen Gewänder der sybaritischen Knaben 518f Timaios’ Bericht über stilpones und maltesische Hunde in Sybaris 518f–19a Zitat aus dem achten Buch des Ptolemaios über Massinissas Freude an Kindern und dessen Missbilligung all jener, die Affen kaufen 519a Wörtliches Zitat aus der Komödie Chariten des Eubulos: Es sei schöner, einen Menschen aufzuziehen, als eine Gans, einen Sperling oder einen Affen

54

So Tischer 2015, 337.

Fragmentedition

FGrHist 566 F 48

FGrHist 566 F 49 FGrHist 234 F 8

Fr. 114 K.–A.

Elisabetta Lupi

202 519b

519b–20c

519c–d

519d–f

521a

521b–e

521e–22a

Athenodoros’ Bericht über Archytas von Taras und dessen Vorliebe für Sklavenaufführungen während der Mahlzeit Erneute Erwähnung der Vorliebe der Sybariten für maltesische Hunde und „Menschen, die nicht Menschen sind“ Timaios-Zitat. Anekdoten über die Sitten der Sybariten, eine Schilderung des sybaritischen Wohlstandes sowie eine Erläuterung der Ursachen, die zum Untergang der Stadt führten Aristoteles’ Bericht über den Tanz der sybaritischen Pferde während der Schlacht gegen die Krotoniaten Charon aus Lampsakos über den Tanz der Pferde der Kardianer während der Schlacht gegen die Bisalter Anekdote über einen Sybariten auf dem Seeweg von Sybaris nach Kroton: byzantinische Interpolation? Phylarchos über Aufwandsbeschränkungen in Syrakus und über die Luxus-Gesetze in Sybaris; Erzählung über die hybris der Sybariten und Beschreibung der Vorzeichen des sybaritischen Unterganges Herakleides Pontikos über die hybris der Sybariten; Beschreibung der Vorzeichen des sybaritischen Unterganges; Konkurrenz der Sybariten mit Olympia

FGrHist 746 F 3

FGrHist 566 F 50

Fr. 600 Gigon

FGrHist 262 F 1

FGrHist 81 F 45

Fr. 22 Schütrumpf

5. Das 50. Fragment im Kontext Ein Blick auf Jacobys Fragmentedition des Timaios zeigt, dass 23 von 158 (+ 6 zweifelhaften) Fragmenten und 3 von 31 Testimonien aus den Deipnosophistai stammen. Athenaios’ Schrift ist Teil einer langen Rezeptionskette von Timaios’ Geschichtswerk. Bereits unter der Herrschaft des Ptolemaios II. Philadelphos in Alexandria hatte sich das Werk des Geschichtsschreibers als autoritative Schrift über die Verhältnisse im Westen etabliert55. Kallimachos nutzte das Werk für sein thaumasiographisches Buch56. Das kritische Urteil des Polybios über die historiogra55 56

Squillace 2005–2006, 59–60. FGrHist 566 F 46.

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phische Methode des Timaios zeigt, welche Relevanz dieses Werk auch in der Mittleren Republik besaß57. Trotz aller Kritik (Unzuverlässigkeit, mangelnde Urteilskraft, Buchgelehrsamkeit, Lokalpatriotismus) musste Polybios Timaios eine gewisse Kennerschaft hinsichtlich der Kolonie- und Städtegründungen sowie der Stammesverwandtschaften (περὶ τὰς ἀποικίας καὶ κτίσεις καὶ συγγενείας ἀποφάσεων) zugestehen58. Als Quelle für die Mythen und die Topographie des Westens nutzten auch Diodor und Strabon das Werk des Timaios59. Die lange Rezeption hatte offensichtlich ein Bild des Werkes geprägt, das man als „implizierten Prätext“60 bezeichnet. Inwiefern dieser Prätext die ursprüngliche Gestaltung des Werkes widerspiegelt, ist fraglich. Wahrscheinlich ist, dass dieser ‚Prätext‘ die Lektüreart des timaiischen Werkes in der Kaiserzeit beeinflusste. Dies ist im Fall einer indirekten Überlieferung des Gesamtwerks oder von Teilen daraus noch stärker anzunehmen. Es überrascht daher nicht, dass in Jacobys Edition 54 Fragmente ohne Buch­ zahlen (etwa 34 Prozent der Gesamtfragmente) unter den Kategorien‚ Grün­ dungen, Länder und Völker‘ (FF 37–82) sowie ‚Sagengeschichtliches‘ (FF 83–91) eingeordnet werden. Ethnographischer, geographischer und mythischer Inhalt findet sich aber auch unter den Fragmenten mit Buchzahlen (FF 1–36), sodass „ein unverhältnismäßig großer Teil“61 der Fragmente genau solche Themenfelder behandelt. So zählt Timaios zu den wichtigsten Quellen des Athenaios für Gründungsmythen, Riten und Sitten des Westens (Sizilien, Italien und Etrurien). Der Geschichtsschreiber ist auch der Gewährsmann des Athenaios für die tryphē der Italioten (Sybariten, Krotoniaten und Siriten)62. Das Vorwissen des Athenaios hat sicher auch seine Rezeption der Über­ lieferungen über die sybaritischen Exzesse beeinflusst. In der Severerzeit war das Bild von Sybaris als Stadt des Überflusses bereits verbreitet und die sybaritische Geschichte Gegenstand von anekdotischen Erzählungen. Auch Ailianos zeigt ein Interesse für lustige und kuriose Geschichten über die Stadt, die jegliche politische Konnotation verloren haben63. Die Erzählungen über die Sybariten, wie sie in den Deipnosophistai aufscheinen, sind Spiegel einer solchen Gelehrsamkeit, die sich im Anekdotischen ergeht. Die moralisch geprägte Deutung der sybaritischen Geschichte ist aber nichts spezifisch Kaiserzeitliches. Bereits Diodor hatte die Freundschaftsbeziehungen 57 58 59

60 61 62 63

Plb. 12.25c, 26d (= FGrHist 566 T 19). Plb. 12.26d (= FGrHist 566 T 19). Timaios ist eine der Hauptquellen Strabons für das 5. und 6. Buch über Italien und Sizilien, vgl. etwa Lupi 2014, 226–29 über den spezifischen Nutzen des timaiischen Geschichtswerks im Rahmen aitiologischer Erklärungen. Tischer 2015, 336. So Jacoby 1969, 527 (= FGrHist 566 Kommentar). FGrHist 566 FF 44, 50, 51. Ael. NA 16.23; VH 3.43, 9.24, 14.20.

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zwischen Sybariten, Etruskern und Ioniern mit ihrer ähnlichen luxuriösen Lebensweise begründet, wie auch zu Beginn des 50. Fragments zu lesen ist64. Der Vergleich mit Athenaios legt die Vermutung nahe, dass Timaios die Quelle Diodors für diesen Bericht ist65. Zugleich stellt sich die Frage, ob bereits im Geschichtswerk des Timaios eine solche Begründung der Freundschaftsbeziehungen enthalten war. Und dabei kommen wir zum Kontext des zitierten Textes. Wie vorher erwähnt, haben Gorman und Gorman die moralisch geprägte Deutung der Freundschaftsbeziehungen auf Athenaios zurückgeführt und mit dem Argument begründet, dass die metaphorische Konnotation des Verbs ἐξοκέλλειν vor dem 1. Jahrhundert n. Chr. nicht belegt ist66. In Anlehnung an eine herkömmliche Interpretation67 haben sie die These vertreten, dass Timaios an dieser Stelle nur die Handelsbeziehungen zwischen Milesiern, Etruskern und Sybariten herausstellen wollte68. Das oben genannte Fragment Diodors wurde aber in ihrer Interpretation des Textes nicht in Betracht gezogen. Angesichts dieses Fragments ist es aber wohl wahrscheinlich, dass bereits in Timaios’ Werk die Lebensweisen der Milesier, Etrusker und Sybariten eine Rolle gespielt haben69. In meinem Beitrag über den Konsum milesischer Wolle in Sybaris habe ich zu zeigen versucht, dass Timaios’ Fragment zu einem zeitgenössischen Diskurs über den angemessenen Konsum gehört und darin Wertvorstellungen zum Ausdruck kommen70, die bereits bei Herodot und in den Komödien des Aristophanes zu finden sind. Das gilt etwa für das Bild von Ioniern und Milesiern als ‚verweichlicht‘71, das am Tragen des langen ionischen Chitons festgemacht wird72. Auch muss der oben erwähnte logos sybaritikos über den müßigen Sybariten 64

65 66 67 68 69

70

71

72

D.S. 8.18,1: τῶν ἔξωθεν ἐθνῶν μάλιστα ἠγάπων Ἴωνας καὶ Τυρρηνούς, ὅτι συνέβαινεν αὐτοὺς τοὺς μὲν τῶν Ἑλλήνων, τοὺς δὲ τῶν βαρβάρων προέχειν τῇ κατὰ τὸ ζῆν πολυτελείᾳ. De Sensi Sestito 1991, 127–29. Gorman–Gorman 2014, 214–16. Lupi 2016, 169–74. Gorman–Gorman 2007, 52. Alternativ würde bedeuten, dass Diodor und Athenaios ein Exzerpt von Timaios’ Werk mit einer solchen Deutung verwendeten. Eine derartige Hypothese löst jedoch das Problem nicht, sondern verschiebt es nur auf einen unbekannten Exzerptor. Lupi 2016, 186: „Die Kleider aus milesischer Wolle waren nämlich nicht ‚wertneutral‘, sondern wiesen auf einen Diskurs über den angemessenen Konsum hin, welcher besonders bedeutsam für die Luxusgüter erscheint“. Hdt. 1.143 nennt die Ionier als die schwächsten aller griechischen Stämmen und bezeugt, dass die Athener nicht als Ionier bezeichnen werden wollten, vgl. auch Hdt. 6.11–12. Ar. Pl. 1002, 1075 enthält den verbreiteten Spruch, „vor Zeiten waren die Milesier noch stark!“, mit Bezug auf die militärische Schwäche der Milesier. Zum Ursprung des negativen Bildes der Ionier in der klassischen Zeit vgl. Lombardo 1983, 1102–103. Thuc. 1.6,3. Vgl. Geddes 1987, 315–19.

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(F 48) zu den Topoi gehören, die bereits im Werk des Timaios vorhanden waren. Es ist daher wahrscheinlich, dass über die Schilderung der Konsumpraktiken der Sybariten ethische Einstellungen zum Ausdruck gebracht wurden73. Es ist durchaus möglich, dass Timaios solche Topoi wiedergab, um sie zu kritisieren. Auch weitere Erzählungen entsprechen einer Logik, die sich in das kulturelle Klima des früh-hellenistischen Athen einordnen lässt. Dies ist der Fall, wenn es um professionelle Köche geht, welche wichtige Charaktere der Mittleren und Neueren Attischen Komödie sind74. Die im Text erwähnten Ehrungen für Wohltäter (öffentliche Proklamation und Übergabe einer Krone) stellen ebenfalls Praktiken dar, die durch athenische Dekrete des 4.–3. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. belegt sind75. Diese Beobachtungen legen die Vermutung nahe, dass die Anekdoten im 50. Fragment etwa aus der Zeit stammen, als Timaios in Athen lebte. Sie stehen in einem logischen Zusammenhang mit der Beschreibung des sybaritischen Gebiets und der Schilderung der sybaritischen eudaimonia bis zum Untergang, wie die hippokratischen Theorien über den Einfluss der geographischen Beschaffenheit auf den Charakter und auf die Gewohnheiten der Menschen erkennen lassen76. Erst durch Athenaios erfuhren die Anekdoten vom müßigen Leben der Sybariten eine Trivialisierung. Die Lektüre des 50. Fragments verdeutlicht damit einige Grenzen der aktuellen philologischen Forschung. Das Fragment in einzelne sprachliche Ausdrücke zu zerlegen, kann dazu führen, den Gesamtsinn aus dem Auge zu verlieren. Die Tatsache, dass der Ausdruck ὅτι τρυφῇ προσεῖχον Athenaios zuzuschreiben ist, bedeutet schließlich nicht, dass in Timaios’ Werk die tryphē als historiographische Kategorie keinerlei Rolle spielte. Das Konzept der tryphē kann nicht auf einzelne Sätze reduziert werden. Dies gehört zu einem breiten Wortfeld – in das auch die Begriffe hēdonē („Lust“), pleonexia („das Mehrhabenwollen“) und hyperbolē

73 74 75 76

Vgl. FGrHist 566 F 111. Für eine Diskussion dieser These siehe Lupi 2016. Vgl. Lupi 2019, 248, 269–73 (über die Darstellung der sybaritischen Köche in Phylarch. FGrHist 81 F 45). Vgl. Lupi 2019, 247­–48. Vgl. Hipp. Aër. 24: Faulheit und Müßiggang gelten hier als Merkmale derjenigen, die an ausgehöhlten Orten leben (κοῖλα χωρία). Auch Sybaris lag nach dem timaiischen Fragment in einer Senke (519f: ἐν κοίλῳ). Der Vergleich mit der unter dem Namen von Hippokrates überlieferten Schrift sichert die Korrektheit der tradierten lectio ποταμούς, welche in πότους (Trinken) emendiert wurde (ὥστε τοὺς πλείστους αὐτῶν ὑπειληφέναι πρὸς ὑγίειαν διαφέρειν τοὺς πότους(?) „Daher hat sich bei den meisten die Ansicht verbreitet, dass das Trinken für die Gesundheit gut ist“). Aber gerade Flüsse haben nach der hippokratischen Schrift einen guten Einfluss auf die Menschen, die in Senken leben. Die Stelle soll daher wie folgt gelesen werden: ὥστε τοὺς πλείστους αὐτῶν ὑπειληφέναι πρὸς ὑγίειαν διαφέρειν τοὺς ποταμούς, „Daher hat sich bei den meisten die Ansicht verbreitet, dass die Flüsse für die Gesundheit gut sind“. Gemeint sind an dieser Stelle die Flüsse Sybaris und Krathis. Vgl. Lupi 2019, 250–53.

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(„Exzess“) hingehören – und gilt als Oberbegriff für eine Reihe von Praktiken, welche der Befriedigung sinnlicher Genüsse und dem Müßiggang dienen. Die Schriften von Platon und Aristoteles ordnen das Konzept in einen Diskurs über das Verhältnis zwischen Eigen- und Gemeinnutz ein. Im Zentrum der philosophischen Reflexion stehen die Folgen, welche das Streben des Einzelnen nach sinnlichen Genüssen auf das Zusammenleben unter Mitbürgern hat. Den Ausgangspunkt für Platons Betrachtung bildet in der Politeia die Frage nach dem Ursprung der Ungerechtigkeit, den Sokrates in der Entwicklung einer einfachen hin zu einer luxuriösen Stadt (τρυφῶσα πόλις) aufspürt77. Durch das Bild der Stadt, die dem Sinnengenuss gewidmet ist, warnt Platon vor den ruinösen Auswirkungen des ‚Mehrhabenwollens‘ für das politische Zusammenleben78. In Sokrates’ Ausführungen hat dies eine Überbevölkerung zur Folge, welche zu einer Expansion und letztlich zum Krieg mit den benachbarten Städten führt.79 Im Siebten Brief wird Platons politische Auffassung noch deutlicher. Am Beispiel der Sitten in Italien und auf Sizilien stellt Platon den Kontrast zwischen Eigennutz und Gemeinnutz wie folgt dar: „Keine Stadt kann, nach welchen Gesetzen immer sie lebt, zur Ruhe kommen, wenn die Männer glauben, alles für Maßlosigkeiten aufwenden zu müssen, und andererseits meinen, sie dürften in allem müßig sein, nur nicht im Schlemmen und Trinken und im eifrigen Bemühen um Liebesgenuss. Es ist eine Notwendigkeit, dass solche Städte ohne Ende im Wechsel von Tyrannen, Oligarchen und dem Pöbel beherrscht werden“80. Nach dieser Darstellung des Genusslebens fasst Platon die Lebensweise der Italioten und Sikelioten mit den Begriffen tryphē und hedonē zusammen81. Auch Aristoteles versteht die tryphē als Hindernis für eine gute Regierungs­ führung und als Ursache für Zwietracht innerhalb der politischen Gemeinschaft82. 77 78 79 80

81

82

Plat. Resp. 372e–73e. Es überrascht, dass in Gorman–Gorman 2014 jeglicher Verweis auf die Darstellung der τρυφῶσα πόλις bei Platon fehlt. Vgl. Schriefl 2013, 143–48. Plat. Resp. 373b–e. Plat. Ep. 7,326 d: πόλις τε οὐδεμία ἂν ἠρεμήσαι κατὰ νόμους οὐδ’ οὑστινασοῦν ἀνδρῶν οἰομένων ἀναλίσκειν μὲν δεῖν πάντα εἰς ὑπερβολάς, ἀργῶν δὲ εἰς ἅπαντα ἡγουμένων αὖ δεῖν γίγνεσθαι πλὴν ἐς εὐωχίας καὶ πότους καὶ ἀφροδισίων σπουδὰς διαπονουμένας· ἀναγκαῖον δὲ εἶναι ταύτας τὰς πόλεις τυραννίδας τε καὶ ὀλιγαρχίας καὶ δημοκρατίας μεταβαλλούσας […]. Übersetzung von Neumann 1967, 51. Zur Echtheit des Briefes vgl. Knab 2006, 1–6, 45–50. Plat. Ep. 7,327b: Δίων […] τὸν ἐπίλοιπον βίον ζῆν ἠθέλησεν διαφερόντως τῶν πολλῶν Ἰταλιωτῶν τε καὶ Σικελιωτῶν, ἀρετὴν περὶ πλείονος ἡδονῆς τῆς τε ἄλλης τρυφῆς ἠγαπηκώς. Arist. Pol. 1295b 4–33, und insbesondere die Zeilen 15–18: πρὸς δὲ τούτοις οἱ μὲν ἐν ὑπεροχαῖς εὐτυχημάτων ὄντες, ἰσχύος καὶ πλούτου καὶ φίλων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν τοιούτων, ἄρχεσθαι οὔτε βούλονται οὔτε ἐπίστανται (καὶ τοῦτ’ εὐθὺς οἴκοθεν ὑπάρχει παισὶν οὖσιν· διὰ γὰρ τὴν τρυφὴν οὐδ’ ἐν τοῖς διδασκαλείοις ἄρχεσθαι σύνηθες αὐτοῖς), „Außerdem sind diejenigen, die sich eines Übermaßes von Glücksgütern, wie Kraft,

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Gerade die Suche nach Sinnengenüssen führt ihm zufolge zu den größten Übeln: „Denn die schlimmsten ungerechten Handlungen begehen die Menschen wegen der Übersteigerung (der Begierden), nicht wegen lebensnotwendiger Be­ dürfnisse“83. Das klassische und hellenistische Konzept von tryphē ist daher nicht mit einer ‚Dekadenzvorstellung‘ gleichzusetzten, welche politische Untergänge durch einen Sittenverfall erklärt. Es handelt sich um ein ethisch-politisches, nicht um ein moralisches Konzept, wie es bei Athenaios erscheint. Es kann nun meines Erachtens nicht ausgeschlossen werden, dass dieser Diskurs über Eigen- und Gemeinnutz auch im Werk des Timaios eine Rolle spielte und seine Schilderung der sybaritischen Geschichte vor diesem Hintergrund betrachtet wurde – und zwar unabhängig davon, ob er den Begriff tryphē benutzte. Schließlich entspricht der evozierte Zusammenhang zwischen Genussleben, gegenseitigen Wettbewerb um Geltung84, Zwietracht und Krieg mit den benachbarten Poleis (520b–c) genau den platonischen und aristotelischen Vorstellungen und unterscheidet sich von der anekdotischen Lektüre des Athenaios. Für eine solche Deutung der sybaritische Geschichte sprechen das bereits konsolidierte Bild der Stadt als Ort des Überflusses und Müßigganges sowie auch die exemplarische Funktion, die Sybaris bereits in den Schriften aus der Akademie und dem Peripatos angenommen hatte. Das Interesse des Timaios an den Pythagoreern ist außerdem ohne jegliche Behandlung ihrer ethisch-politischen Vorstellungen kaum denkbar85. Die Relevanz der Luxuskritik im früh-hellenistischen Athen ist ein weiteres Argument für eine solche politische Lektüre der sybaritischen Geschichte. Diesbezüglich ist die konventionelle Verknüpfung zwischen Luxus- und Tyrannis­ kritik zu berücksichtigen, welche auch ein timaiisches Fragment über Dionysios I. von Syrakus bezeugt86. Timaios verstand die Prachtentfaltung als Zeichen von Tyrannis und hybris87, was vor dem Hintergrund der Einnahme Athens durch Demetrios Poliorketes zu betrachten ist. Wenn wir Plutarchs Erzählung Glauben

83 84 85 86 87

Reichtum, Freunden und anderer Vorzüge dieser Art erfreuen, weder willens, sich beherrschen zu lassen, noch verstehen sie dies – und diese Haltung beginnt bei ihnen schon in der Kindheit gleich im Elternhaus; weil sie verwöhnt wurden, fehlt ihnen selbst die Gewohnheit, sich in den Schulen (Weisungen) zu fügen“. Übersetzung von Schütrumpf 1996, 30. Vgl. Arist. Pol. 1266b 25–30. Arist. Pol. 1267a 14: ἐπεὶ ἀδικουσί γε τὰ μέγιστα διὰ τὰς ὑπερβολάς, ἀλλ’ οὐ διὰ τὰ ἀναγκαῖα. Übersetzung von Schütrumpf 1991, 28. Vgl. Lupi 2019, 284 über Phylarch. FGrHist 81 F 45. Dazu immer noch grundlegend ist die Untersuchung von Vattuone 1991, 210–27, insbesondere 222–23. FGrHist 566 F 111. Vgl. Vattuone 1991, 225–26. So Vattuone 2002, 202–203.

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schenken, war nämlich das öffentliche Erscheinungsbild von Demetrios durch übertriebenen Luxus gekennzeichnet88. Um 315 aus Tauromenion verbannt – nachdem diese Siedlung an der Ostküste Siziliens von Agathokles eingenommen worden war – verbrachte Timaios fünfzig Jahre seines Lebens in Athen89. Im Jahr 290 heiratete Demetrios Poliorketes die Tochter des Agathokles, Lanassa, und beanspruchte für sich und folglich für seine Ehefrau göttliche Ehrungen90. Dieses Ereignis erklärt nach Baron die Beschäftigung des Timaios mit der Geschichte des Westens: Der Geschichtsschreiber habe die Absicht gehabt, den Athenern Agathokles’ Politik darzustellen91. Im Kontext eines solchen politischen Klimas musste die Historiographie als eine Art ‚politische Ersatzleistung‘ gelten, welche auch didaktische Funktionen erfüllen konnte. So fragt man sich, ob die sybaritische Geschichte vielleicht als eine Art ‚abschreckendes Beispiel‘ dienen sollte. Das Orakel, das die Vernichtung der Sybariten infolge der göttlichen Ehrung eines Mannes vorhersah (520b), wirkt jedenfalls wie eine Warnung für die Athener vor den Folgen der göttlichen Verehrung von Demetrios92. Abschließend ist festzuhalten: Die Betrachtung des ‚Cover-Textes‘, also des Werkes des zitierenden Autors, ist entscheidend, um Entstehung und Deutung des Fragments zu verstehen. Zugleich ist der soziokulturelle Kontext zu berücksichtigen, in dem der zitierte Autor lebte. Bei der Unterscheidung zwischen der Perspektive des zitierten Autors, nämlich des Timaios, und der des zitierenden Autors Athenaios kann die sprachliche Analyse weiterhelfen, aber nur solange der Gesamtsinn nicht aus dem Blick gerät. Bibliographie Ambaglio 1990 = D. Ambaglio, “I Deipnosofisti di Ateneo e la tradizione storica frammentaria”, Athenaeum 78 (1990), 51–64. Ampolo 1993 = C. Ampolo, La città dell’ eccesso: Per la storia di Sibari fino al 510 a. C., in Stazio–Ceccoli 1993, 213–254. Baron 2013 = C. A. Baron, Timaeus of Tauromenion and Hellenistic Historiography, Cambridge 2013. Bernhardt 2003 = R. Bernhardt, Luxuskritik und Aufwandsbeschränkungen in der griechischen Welt, Stuttgart 2003. Braund–Wilkins 2000 = D. Braund–J. Wilkins (eds.), Athenaeus and his World: Reading Greek Culture in the Roman Empire, Exeter 2000. Bugno 1999 = M. Bugno, Da Sibari a Thurii: La fine di un impero, Napoli 1999. Clarke 2008 = K. Clarke, Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis, Oxford 2008. 88 89 90 91 92

Plut. Demetr. 2,3, 19,3, 41,4–5. Zur athenischen Lebenszeit des Timaios vgl. Baron 2013, 89–112. Vgl. Baron 2013, 102–103 mit weiterer Literatur. Baron 2013, 104. Vgl. Democh. FGrHist 75 FF 1–2; Duris FGrHist 76 F 13; Plut. Demetr. 10,12–13.

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Cozzoli 1980 = U. Cozzoli, La τρυφή nella interpretazione delle crisi politiche, in U. Cozzoli–M. Pavan (eds.), Tra Grecia e Roma: temi antichi e metodologie moderne, Roma 1980, 133–154. De Sensi Sestito 1991 = G. De Sensi Sestito, La storia italiota in Diodoro: Considerazioni sulle fonti per i libri VII–XII, in E. Galvagno–C. Molè Ventura (eds.), Mito storia tradizione: Diodoro siculo e la storiografia classica. Atti del Convegno Internazionale Catania-Agira 7–8 dicembre 1984, Catania 1991, 125–152. Erdas 2009 = D. Erdas, Tra ktisis e politeia: Il caso della fondazione di Siris nelle Politeiai attribuite ad Aristotele, in E. Lanzilotta–V. Costa–G. Ottone (eds.), Tradizione e trasmissione degli storici greci frammentari: in ricordo di Silvio Accame, Tivoli 2009, 577–603. Friedrich 2000 = C. Friedrich, Athenaios: Das Gelehrtenmahl. Buch XI–XV, 1. Teil: Buch XI–XIII (eingeleitet und übersetzt von), Stuttgart 2000. Gambato 2001 = M. L. Gambato, Traduzione e commento dei libri XII – XIII, in L. Canfora (ed.), Ateneo: I Deipnosofisti (I dotti a banchetto), vol. 3: Libri XII – XV, Salerno 2001, 1267–1581. Geddes 1987 = A. G. Geddes, “Rags and Riches: The Costume of Athenian Men in the Fifth Century”, CQ 37.2 (1987), 307–331. Gorman–Gorman 2007 = R. J. Gorman–V. B. Gorman, “The Tryphê of the Sybarites: A Historiographical Problem in Athenaeus Source”, JHS 127 (2007), 38–60. Gorman–Gorman 2014 = R. J. Gorman–V. B. Gorman, Corrupting Luxury in Ancient Greek Literature, Ann Arbor 2014. Hau 2016 = L. I. Hau, Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus, Edinburgh 2016. Jacob 2004 = C. Jacob, La citation comme performance dans les Deipnosophistes d’ Athénée, in C. Darbo-Peschanski (ed.), La citation dans l’ Antiquité, Grenoble 2004, 147–174. Jacoby 1909 = F. Jacoby, “Über die Entwicklung der griechischen Historiographie und den Plan einer neuen Sammlung der griechischen Historikerfragmente”, Klio 9 (1909), 80– 123 (Nachdruck in: H. Bloch [ed.], Abhandlungen zur griechischen Geschichtsschreibung, Leiden 1956, 16–64). Jacoby 1968 = F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 1. Teil. Genealogie und Mythographie, A Vorrede, Text, Addenda, Konkordanz, Leiden 1968 (Nachdruck der vermehrten 2. Auflage 1957). Jacoby 1969 = F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 3. Teil. Geschichte von Städten und Völkern (Horographie und Ethnographie), Kommentar zu Nr. 297–607, Leiden 1969 (Nachdruck der ersten Auflage 1955). Kaibel 1962 = G. Kaibel, Athenaei Naucratitae Dipnosophistarum Libri XV. Vol. III. Libri XI–XV Indices, Stuttgart 1962 (Nachdruck der ersten Auflage 1890). Knab 2006 = R. Knab, Platons Siebter Brief: Einleitung, Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Hildesheim 2006. Lenfant 2007 = D. Lenfant, Les «fragments» d’ Hérodote dans les Deinosophistes, in D. Lenfant (ed.), Athénée et les fragments d’ Historiens. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg (16–18 juin 2005), Paris 2007, 43–72. Lombardo 1983 = M. Lombardo, Habrosyne e habrà nel mondo greco arcaico, in Forme di contatto e processi di trasformazione nelle società antiche, Atti del Convegno di Cortona 24–30 maggio 1981, Roma-Pisa 1983, 1077–1103. Lombardo 1993 = M. Lombardo, Da Sibari a Thurii, in Stazio–Ceccoli 1993, 255–328. Lombardo 2002 = M. Lombardo, La norma e l’ eccesso: la guerra tra Sibari e Crotone e alcuni aspetti della ‚greek way of war‘ in età arcaica, in M. Sordi (ed.), Guerra e diritto nel mondo greco e romano, Milano 2002, 43–67.

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Lupi 2014 = E. Lupi, Aitiologien und narrative Strukturen im fünften und sechsten Buch Strabons, in C. Reiz–A. Walter (eds.), Von Ursachen sprechen. Eine aitiologische Spurensuche, Zürich-New York 2014, 211–241. Lupi 2016 = E. Lupi, Milesische Wolle in Sybaris: Neudeutung eines Fragments von Timaios (FGrH 566 F 50) und die Frage nach dem Textilhandel zwischen Kleinasien und Süditalien, in K. Droß-Krüpe–M. L. Nosch (eds.), Textiles, Trade and Theories. From the Ancient Near East to the Mediterranean, Münster 2016, 169–191. Lupi 2019 = E. Lupi, I pericoli dell’ eudaimonia: La rappresentazione di Sibari nelle testimonianze letterarie di V–III secolo a. C., Freiburg-Berlin-Wien 2019.  Luraghi 1994 = N. Luraghi, Tirannidi arcaiche in Sicilia e Magna Grecia: Da Panezio di Leontini alla caduta dei Dinomenidi, Firenze 1994. Luraghi 2001 = N. Luraghi, Introduction, in N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’ s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford 2001, 1–15. Neumann 1967 = W. Neumann, Platon: Briefe (griechisch-deutsch herausgegeben von), München 1967. Olson 2018 = S. D. Olson, “Athenaeus ‘Fragments’ of Non-Fragmentary Prose Authors and Their Implications”, AJPh 139.3 (2018), 423–449. Pelling 2000 = C. Pelling, Fun with Fragments: Athenaeus and the Historians, in Braund– Wilkins 2000, 171–190. Romeri 2014 = L. Romeri, “Citation et recontextualisation: Le cas des philosophes et des historiens chez Athénée de Naucratis”, Kentron 30 (2014), 17–32. Schepens 1997 = G. Schepens, Jacoby FGrHist: Problems, Methods, Prospects, in G. W. Most (ed.), Collecting Fragments. Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen 1997, 144–172. Schepens 2000 = G. Schepens, Probleme der Fragmentedition (Fragmente der griechischen Historiker), in C. Reitz (ed.), Vom Text zum Buch, St. Katharinen 2000, 1–29. Schriefl 2013 = A. Schriefl, Platons Kritik an Geld und Reichtum, Berlin-Boston 2013. Schütrumpf 1991 = E. Schütrumpf, Aristoteles: Politik. Buch II–III (übersetzt und erläutert von), Berlin 1991. Schütrumpf 1996 = E. Schütrumpf, Aristoteles: Politik. Buch IV–VI (übersetzt und eingeleitet von), Berlin 1996. Squillace 2005–2006 = G. Squillace, “Le fonti di Teocrito per la Crotoniatide antica (a proposito di Latymnon, stomalimnon e Physkos nell’ Idillio IV vv. 17–25)”, MStudStor 13 (2005–2006), 53–104. Stazio–Ceccoli 1993 = A. Stazio–S. Ceccoli (eds.), Sibari e la Sibaritide. Atti del trentaduesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia (Taranto-Sibari, 7–12 ottobre 1992), Taranto 1993. Tischer 2015 = U. Tischer, “Zitat, Fragment und Kontext: Enn. Ann. Frs. 6,14 Sk. und die Rolle kontextueller Aspekte bei der Deutung von Fragmenten”, Hermes 143.3 (2015), 333–355. Vattuone 1991 = R. Vattuone, Sapienza d’ Occidente: Il pensiero storico di Timeo di Tauromenio, Bologna 1991. Vattuone 2002 = R. Vattuone, Timeo di Tauromenio, in R. Vattuone (ed.), Storici greci d’ Occidente, Bologna 2002, 177–232. Wilkins 2000 = J. Wilkins, Dialogue and Comedy: The Structure of the Deipnosophistae, in Braund–Wilkins 2000, 23–37. Zecchini 1989 = G. Zecchini, La cultura storica di Ateneo, Milano 1989.

Irmgard Männlein-Robert

The Old Gods in Fragments or Modes of Deconstruction: Eusebius on Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων

Keywords: Platonism, Early Christian Apologetics, Statues of Gods, Deconstruction, Fragmentation Greek gods, statues of gods and cult images have always been part of Greek culture and an integral part of the old Greek religion and its cults1. They were still important for many people of the Greek speaking Roman world of the later Roman Empire in many religious and cultural respects, although the Christian religion was increasing and establishing more and more. In this very period of religious change the Platonist Porphyry composed his Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων (De statuis), which was, as far as we can see from the remaining fragments, a complex philosophical interpretation of statues of old pagan gods. To this day there is very little research literature on this text: apart from a very few contributions that are mainly interested in philosophical or editorial details, after the pioneer study by Joseph Bidez in 1913 now the commentary by Mino Gabriele (together with the Italian translation by Franco Maltomini) is the only helpful reading device for the whole text2. But studies including interpretation of the contexts in which Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων is quoted, paraphrased or mentioned are, however, still lacking. The observations presented in this paper on the preservation and handling of Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων by one of his worst enemies, the Christian bishop Eusebius, belong to a current project on Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, which in my opinion has to be interpreted in a wider context of contemporary frictions and polemic between Platonists and Early Christian intellectuals in late antiquity3. 1. The Discourse and its Protagonists Porphyry’ s treatise Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων is first to be embedded into a contemporary discussion about dignity, role, value and function of images of the old – Hellenic, 1 2

3

For the ancient cults on statues and images of gods see Gladigow 1985–1986 and Scheer 2000, 54–66; Icard-Gianolio 2004a; Icard-Gianolio 2004b. Bidez 1913, Appendices pp. 1*–23*; Gabriele–Maltomini 2014. The preserved fragments and testimonies of this text are collected by Smith 1993, 351 F.–360a F. (pp. 407–35), according to which in this paper the text will be cited. For this reason, here I will concentrate on the very aim of this paper and give only necessary references and literature. I hope to publish my more comprehensive study on Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων in 2021.

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pagan – gods, which is conducted in confrontation with controversial Christian views: in the last half of the 3rd century AD, in which the Neoplatonic philosopher Porphyry is a prominent, well-known and well-connected author4, contemporary Christian intellectuals, apologists and early church fathers have already established their own literary tradition of rejecting pagan religion and not at least of rejecting pagan cult images and cult statues of the old gods. The Christians of the first centuries break with many old religious traditions of their Greek culture and essentially do not worship their God in images or statues, at least in pre-Constantinian times (Christianity is a practically aniconic religion for a long time and well into the 3rd century). They criticize and attack the non-Christian, old and established religious cult for statues of gods as superstition. Therefore, they also firmly reject pagan cult practices such as the care and worship of images of the gods and rituals around them as idolatry. I would like to mention just a few out of many Christian writers who were polemical against pagan images and statues of gods: e. g. Aristides (Apology), Athenagoras (Legatio), the Barnabas letter and the Diognet letter, Justinus Martyr, Tatian (Oratio contra gentiles), Clement of Alexandria (Protreptikos), Origen (Contra Celsum), Minucius Felix (Octavius)5 and Tertullian (De idolatria)6. These apologets use on the one hand arguments from the philosophical tradition of the older Hellenic criticism of religion, such as Heraclitus or Xenophanes or Plato7, or even younger philosophers such as Plutarch8, and accordingly polemicize against material, artificial and anthropomorphic representations of gods. But the early Christian critics do not only refer to the Greek philosophical tradition, on the other hand they also have an ‘own’ literary tradition: this is the Old Testament, where criticism of the cults around images and statues of god (εἴδωλα in a negative sense) of the neighbouring people of Israel is called ‘idolatria’ and is formulated from a Jewish perspective, which is to be seen e. g. in the prohibition on images in the Decalogue (Ex. 20,3–5)9. So we may say that the Christian apologetic writers were not only defensive and apolo4 5 6 7

8 9

For Porphyry’ s social and philosophical network see Männlein-Robert 2019, 338–47. For a detailed interpretation of the Octavius see Zambon 2019, 19–39. See Funke 1981, 773–75 and Stock 2007; Lanzillotta 2010, 448–63; Männlein-Robert 2017a, 178. Cf. Heraclit. fr. 5 (DK 1964, I, p. 151,15–152,2), where he says that gods are not dwelling in statues (this is quoted in Celsus, see Origen. Cels. 7,62,9–11 Bader); Xenoph. fr. 14 (DK 1964, I, p. 132,15–17), fr. 15 (DK 1964, I, p. 132,18–133,4), fr. 16 (DK 1964, I, p. 133,5–7), fr. 23 (DK 1964, I, p. 135,2–5), where he claims anthropomorphism of the gods to be wrong and naïve; see also Plat. Resp. 377d–83c: Homeric gods do not possess ethic value, they do not perform as models. Cf. Plut. Cor. 38,1–3; see Hirsch-Luipold 2002, 171. See e. g. also Deut. 4,28; Is. 44,9–20; Ier. 10,1–16; Ps. 115,4–8 and 135,15–18. See also in Paul. Act. 19,21–40. For more details see Stock 2007, 125–6 and Männlein-Robert (forthcoming), chap. IV.2.

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getic, but also offensive, because they already used an established set of arguments against statues of gods. The Platonist Porphyry, who in addition to his exegetical writings on philosophy of religion also wrote an extensive fundamental critique of Christianity (Contra Christianos)10, thus in the last decades of the third century found himself confronted with the increasingly threatening Christian religion and its polemics against the old gods and their statues. In his treatise Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, this is my thesis, he therefore involves himself (from a Hellenic perspective quite early) into an ongoing contemporary debate on the traditional pagan gods, their images and their statues. Most fragments of Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων (351 F.–360a F. Smith) are preserved by the Christian Church Father Eusebius of Caesarea in his Praeparatio Evangelica (only single other ones by Iohannes Lydus, Stobaeus and Augustine)11. To be exact: nine fragments, a few shorter and a few longer ones, are preserved by Eusebius (frr. 351 F.; 352 F.; 354 F.; 355 F.; 356 F.; 357a F.; 358 F.; 359 F.; 360 F. Smith). It is quite remarkable in my opinion that Porphyry’ s texts respectively their fragements, like e. g. Contra Christianos, but also De philosophia ex ­oraculis haurienda and his Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, are largely preserved by his rivals, by Christian authors, and not at least by the bishop Eusebius. As the other Christian church fathers, e. g. Hieronymus, Augustinus or Johannes Chrysostomus, do with Porphyry’ s dangerous Contra Christianos, Eusebius, as we will see, also quotes and uses many of Porphyry’ s texts in order to disprove him or to fight against him and his arguments polemically12. And it is precisely these Christian intellectuals themselves who have passed on parts of his texts and his arguments. For a correct and coherent interpretation of the fragments of Porphyry’ s writings, but also for a better understanding of Eusebius’ own methods of Christian intentions and strategies by using these texts, it may be an important task to include the closer Eusebian contexts of citation of the respective Porphyrean texts into interpretation, as the very contexts of the fragments or testimonies are completely missing in the excellent Porphyry edition by Andrew Smith, and also in the elder collection by Bidez, which is not comprehensive, contexts are given only in a few cases in the apparatus. For another work of Porphyry, Contra Christianos, there are already recent studies by Ariane Magny and Matthias Becker, which include the contexts of fragments into consideration for interpretation13. But this is still to be done for the 10 11

12 13

See note 2 above. Porph. fr. 354a F. Smith = Stob. 1.31,7–10; Porph. fr. 357 F. Smith = Ioh. Lydus De mens. 138,18–139,5 and Porph. fr. 360a F. Smith = Stob. 1.25,2; Porph. (?) fr. 358a F. Smith = Aug. civ. 7.25,1–12. On his polemic strategies see more detailed Männlein-Robert (forthcoming). The recent studies by Magny 2014 and Becker 2016 are dedicated to this important concern for Porphyry’ s Contra Christianos.

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other writings of Porphyry, preserved in fragments and testimonies, and also for his important treatise Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων. In the case of Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, we must include in our interpretation the fact that Eusebius embedded parts of this writing in the argumentative process of his Praeparatio Evangelica (Εὐαγγελικὴ προπαρασκευή). This is a complete preserved work of 15 books, dedicated to the bishop of Laodicea in Syria, Theodotus, but for sure composed for a much wider audience as a huge and (quite special) apologetic work14. Eusebius wrote his extensive Praeparatio Evangelica probably after 311 AD, after the time of the Edict of Galerius (311 AD) and the Milan Agreement of Constantine (313 AD); we believe that he was working at between the years 314–324 AD. In this very period, after numerous persecutions of Christians, the as yet unestablished Christian religion for the first time experienced an essential and consequential acceptance15. But the religious order of Christians was by no means persistent yet. When Eusebius wrote his Praeparatio Evangelica, he had recently become bishop of the metropolis of Caesarea in Palestine, where he had a well equiped library and was also busy as teacher in theology. With his Praeparatio Evangelica the historian and biblical scholar Eusebius tried to convince educated circles of Christian converts of the intellectual competitiveness of Christian religion and theology and to construct a (new) intellectual identity for Christians16. He wanted to present arguments why and inasmuch in comparison with the old religions of the Greeks and Egyptians the Christian religion is right and better than the other ones. His pedagogical and above all his literary strategy show an extra­ vagant display of learning in order to prove that Christians (like him) are very well acquainted with the works and arguments of their adversaries. So, according to Eusebius, conversion to Christian religion was to be seen as inspired by real intelligence and careful consideration of the other options17. His Praeparatio Evangelica is an isagogic and apologetic text as it tries to make people who converted to Christian religion familiar with an argumentative intellectual background and to confute non-christian religions by demonstrating Christian theology, religion and philosophy as the better one. The still quite new Christian religion was not yet established at all, but it was already extensively critized and polemized by pagan respectively Hellenic intellectuals like Porphyry, e. g. the Platonist Celsus about 100 years earlier, and after Porphyry, by the emperor Julian and the Athenian Neoplatonists18. Obviously the Platonist Porphyry was considered to be extremely dangerous for Christian intellectuals like Eusebius because of his platonically 14

15 16 17 18

For the apologetic tendency see Johnson 2006a, 198–233 and Johnson 2014, 26–31; Zambon 2019, 41–61. The text of the PE is quoted in this article after the excellent edition by Mras 1982. Rich presentation in Zambon 2019, 389–415. See also Miles 2015, 78–79. Johnson 2006b, 67–89. For Celsus’ criticism of the Christians see Andresen 1955; Pichler 1980; Watson 1992.

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based religious interests, his deep and profound knowledge of Christian Texts19 and above all because of his extreme philological and philosophical strength. Therefore Eusebius was busy in fighting against this very critic Porphyry. His strategy was to accuse and to refute his adversary with his own words and his own texts quoted. The fact that Eusebius quotes and polemically comments from many texts of Porphyry more than 100 times20 in his Praeparatio Evangelica makes us aware how dangerous the arguments by this prominent Platonist must have been for the Christian audience targeted. Moreover, according to Hieronymus (De viris ill. 81) Eusebius is said to have written a work of 25 books titled Against Porphyry (not preserved) – and he was not the only one polemizising extensively against this dangerous Platonist: e. g. also Methodius from Olympus and Apollinaris from Laodicea wrote a Contra Porphyrium21. This means, however, that Porphyry’ s text in its original state must have had a considerable explosive effect on its (Christian) contemporaries, both with regard to the subject (statues of pagan gods), the arguments and figures of thought (his interpretation of the philosophical and theological meaning of these statues in detail) and as well as to the method he chose (allegorism). Porphyry’ s treatise Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων apparently had such an impact and outreach that the Christian bishop Eusebius felt compelled to refute and to fight against this very text and its author. For this reason we definitely must respect in our analysis the dynamics between the quoted Porphyrean text and the Eusebian context, which must also be included in our interpretative evaluation. 2. Eusebius and Porphyry Let us take a closer look as to where exactly and how Eusebius deals with Porphyry’ s text. In the very beginning of Praeparatio Evangelica Book 3 Eusebius explains his method: for his refutation (ἔλεγχος) he will use the original wordings and texts of famous philosophers, to show that their θεωρίαι were wrong (PE 3 prooem. p. 105– 06 Mras–Des Places). Then he starts quoting from Plutarch’ s Daidala to demonstrate that the old pagan religion (of the Greeks and even more the Egyptians) 19 20 21

See Becker 2016, 71–76. See Sirinelli–Des Places 1974, 28–31. All these texts are not preserved. Methodius of Olympus (311–312 AD) wrote Adversus Porphyrium (testified by Hieron. De viris ill. 83), still in Porphyry’ s lifetime; the same did Apollinaris of Laodicea (according to Hieron. De viris ill. 104). For some perhaps more polemical text against Porphyry see the fragments by Macarius Magnes, who based his Apocriticus on (refutation of) views of an anonymous pagan philosopher, who had in many respects similarities with Porphyry; for the ongoing discussion on the relation between Porphyry’ s texts and Macarius’ polemics against him see Viltanioti 2017 and Volp 2017. For more details and for a list of all Christian authors who quoted from Porphyry’ s Contra Christianos or knew about this text, see Becker 2016, 17–20.

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is nothing else than physiology in form of myths, mythical figures and religious rituals (ibid. 3.1,1–1,7 pp. 106–10 Mras–Des Places). In his opinion the old gods turn finally out to be pure physical phenomena, so he ascribes to Porphyry a Stoic doctrine, because of his use of the explanatory model of theologia naturalis. A little later Eusebius makes clear that the old Hellenic and the old Egyptian religion and their gods are to be held as chronical and old “disease” (νόσος), from which Jesus Christ through the εὐαγγελικὴ διδασκαλία is able to relieve (ibid. 3.5,1,5 p. 120 Mras–Des Places). Then Eusebius is very vivid in his statements that not “physical elements” from the world perceptible, but the transcendent Demiurge, the creator of the whole universe, is the only one true god – and nothing else (ibid. 3.6,5–6,6 pp. 121–22 Mras–Des Places). And now he comes closer to Porphyry: τοσούτων ἡμῖν ἀποδεδειγμένων εἰς ἔλεγχον τῆς ἀσυστάτου θεολογίας τῆς τε ­λεγομένης μυθικωτέρας καὶ τῆς ὑψηλοτέρας δὴ καὶ φυσικωτέρας, ἣν οἱ ­παλαιοὶ Ἕλληνές τε καὶ Αἰγύπτιοι σεμνύνοντες ἀπεδείχθησαν, ὥρα καὶ τῶν νέων τῶν δὴ καθ’ ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς φιλοσοφεῖν ἐπαγγελλομένων ἐπαθρῆσαι τὰ καλλωπίσματα. οἵδε γὰρ τὰ περὶ νοῦ δημιουργοῦ τῶν ὅλων καὶ τὰ περὶ ἀσωμάτων ἰδεῶν νοερῶν τε καὶ λογικῶν δυνάμεων τοῖς ἀμφὶ τὸν Πλάτωνα μακροῖς ποθ’ ὕστερον ­χ ρόνοις ἐφευρημένα καὶ λογισμοῖς ὀρθοῖς ἐπινενοημένα συμπλέξαι τῇ τῶν παλαιῶν ­ ­θεολογίᾳ πεπειραμένοι μείζονι τύφῳ τὴν περὶ τῶν μύθων ἐπαγγελίαν ἐξῆραν. ἄκουε δ’ οὖν καὶ τῆς τούτων φυσιολογίας, μεθ’ οἵας ἐξενήνεκται τῷ Πορφυρίῳ ἀλαζονείας· (Euseb. PE 3.6,7 p. 122 Mras–Des Places = 351 F. Smith)22 After we have given so many proofs in confutation of their inconsistent theology, both the more mythical so-called, and that which is forsooth of a higher and more physical kind which the ancient Greeks and Egyptians were shown to magnify, it is time to survey also the refinements of the younger generations who make a profession of philosophy in our own time: for these have ­endeavoured to combine the doctrines concerning a creative mind of the universe, and those concerning incorporeal ideas and intelligent rational powers – doctrines ­in­ven­ted long ages afterwards by Plato, and thought out with accurate reasonings – with the theology of the ancients, exaggerating with yet greater conceit (μείζονι τύφῳ) their promise concerning the legends. Listen then to their physiology also, and observe with what boastfulness it has been published by Porphyry (μεθ’ οἵας ἐξενήνεκται τῷ Πορφυρίῳ ἀλαζονείας). (Transl. Gifford23)

22

23

Here and in the following quotes and translations in this article I give Eusebius’ words in italics, the quotes from Porphyry in recte (as it is presented in the text given by Mras–Des Places). Gifford 1981, 43.

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Eusebius now turns to contemporary, younger philosophers, especially Porphyry. He clearly classifies him in the field of Platonic philosophers, as his reference to Nous (Intellect) as Demiurge of the universe and to immaterial ideas proves. But he criticizes the confusion of these Platonic doctrines with the “theology of the ancients”, meaning: with the pagan religion. He criticizes Porphyry as Platonic philosopher of religion and as applying a pure physical exegesis. By doing so, he would, according to Eusebius, denounce the validity of interpretation and its reach into transcendental realm – what, of course, for Porphyry’ s Platonic metaphysics would be essential. Eusebius obviously tries to distort Porphyry’ s allegorical me­ thod polemically, accuses him of inconsistencies and also emphatically accuses him of arrogance, pretension and boasting24. With the reproach of arrogance (τῦφος) Eusebius refutes his adversary with his own words, after Porphyry had accused the Christians for that because of their illegitimate use of allegoresis25. Now Eusebius is turning the tables. And we may notice that Eusebius’ sound is noticeably stronger here – before, in his treatment of the Platonist Plutarch, he was still quite objective and relaxed. The following literal quotation from Porphyry’ s On Statues is not introduced by Eusebius with its title: φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί, θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι, σοφίας θεολόγου νοήματα δεικνύς, οἷς τὸν θεὸν καὶ τοῦ θεοῦ τὰς δυνάμεις διὰ εἰκόνων συμφύλων αἰσθήσει ἐμήνυσαν ἄνδρες, τὰ ἀφανῆ φανεροῖς ἀποτυπώσαντες πλάσμασι, τοῖς καθάπερ ἐκ βίβλων τῶν ἀγαλμάτων ἀναλέγειν τὰ περὶ θεῶν μεμαθηκόσι γράμματα. θαυμαστὸν δὲ οὐδὲν ξύλα καὶ λίθους ἡγεῖσθαι τὰ ξόανα τοὺς ἀμαθεστάτους, καθὰ δὴ καὶ τῶν γραμμάτων οἱ ἀνόητοι λίθους μὲν ὁρῶσι τὰς στήλας, ξύλα δὲ τὰς δέλτους, ἐξυφασμένην δὲ πάπυρον τὰς βίβλους. (Euseb. PE 3.7,1 pp. 122–23 Mras–Des Places = 351 F. Smith) To whom it is right I will speak; close the gates, you who are uninitiated! I am showing the thoughts of a theological wisdom, with which men revealed God and the powers of God to physical perception through kindred images, delineating invisible things in visible forms, to those who have learned to pick out the outlines of the gods from the images as if from books. It is not surprising that the most uneducated consider the statues to be wood and stones, just as indeed those ignorant of letters see inscribed columns as mere stones, writing tablets as pieces of wood, and books as woven papyrus. (Transl. Johnson26)

24 25 26

See more detailed Männlein-Robert 2017a, 199–200 and Männlein-Robert (forthcoming), chap. IV.3.4. Zambon 2019, 150. Johnson 2013, 165.

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Obviously this is the prooemium of Porphyry’ s text. Already the first sentence is significant: Porphyry starts quoting a hexametric verse of Orphic origin (fr. 245 Kern): φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί, θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι. Thus the speaker quoting this verse habitually assumes the role of ‘Orpheus’ or that of a priest who describes what is proclaimed below as ‘divine revelation’. In the gesture of secrecy Porphyry makes clear that this should not be accessible to the uninitiated (βέβηλοι), but only to the initiated ones. This very opening verse is to be meant as an exclusion formula anchored in ritual and established in religious literature – the oldest proof of which is currently given to us in the Derveni-Papyrus, col. 7 –, but which is mainly handed down in imperial and late antique texts27. This old Orphic formula thus underpins the legitimacy of the following statements. The speaker, here probably the author Porphyry, appears in the priestly gesture of indicating (cf. δεικνύς). Thus he becomes recognizable as a hierophant of ancient mystical knowledge of revelation through Orphic stylisation (cf. fr. 351,17 F. Smith: ἐμήνυσαν). We know from an autobiographical episode from his Vita Plotini that Porphyry really did like to slip into this role: there he reports how he was once personally and explicitly honoured by his master Plotinus as a “poet, philosopher and priest at the same time” (Porph. VP 15,4–6: ἔδειξας ὁμοῦ καὶ τὸν ποιητὴν καὶ τὸν φιλόσοφον καὶ τὸν ἱεροφάντην)28. Moreover, in his On statues his religious, hierophantic gesture converges with that of the divinely inspired, revealing exegete: for this text is the written interpretation or exegesis of statues of the gods. They are to be ‘read’ as signs with a certain meaning, known only by ‘initiates’29. Porphyry therefore wants a certain group of ‘unbelievers’ to be excluded from his literary exegesis of gods in the gesture of revelation. Since with the Orphic formula he ascribes the rank of religious secret knowledge to the following, we can identify the programmatically exclusive, so to speak antichristian tendency of this text already in the beginning. And this is exactly the reason why Eusebius is so furious about this very text, as the Christians are excluded as βέβηλοι. Eusebius, by quoting not only this (in is eyes) offensive prooemium, but also quite a few passages from Porphyry’ s text, definitely betrays his close familarity with this ‘exclusive’ pagan text. Quite pointedly he does not care about Porphyry’ s Orphic exclusive formula, but, as we can see, he definitely is furious about the anti-christian implicit polemics there. Afterwards Eusebius quotes a longer section: Porphyry, however, emphatically here defends the material nature and form of the pagan statues of the gods and explains their meaning and semantic reference (fr. 352 F. Smith). Light reflexes 27

28 29

See Euseb. PE 13.12,3–5 pp. 191–94 Mras–Des Places for Aristobulus (= fr. 247 Kern); cf. Tat. Or. ad Graec. 8, p. 9,13 Schw., or Clem. Al. Protr. 7.74,4; more examples in Riedweg 1993, 47–48 with note 118; rich references gives Mino Gabriele in Gabriele– Maltomini 2014, 109–10. Männlein-Robert 2017a, 206. See Zambon 2019, 212.

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were used for statues of the gods, since the divine was light-like and surrounded by subtle fire. He shows that certain characteristics of the material statues reflect certain characteristics of the divine, more precisely: the respective material qualities of the statues of the gods refer to corresponding qualities of the divine itself (light, beauty etc.)30. So, according to Porphyry, we are able to draw certain conclusions about the gods from their statues respectively their material quality. And this Eusebius finds absolutely ridiculous. Finally he concludes this quote with his own ironic summary: ταῦτα ὁ θαυμαστὸς φιλόσοφος· ὧν τί ἂν γένοιτο ἀσχημονέστερον τὰ αἰσχρὰ σεμνολογοῦσιν; τί δὲ βιαιότερον, τὰς ἀψύχους ὕλας, χρυσὸν καὶ  λίθον καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα, εἰκόνας φέρειν τοῦ φωτὸς τῶν θεῶν καὶ τῆς οὐρανίου  καὶ αἰθερίου φύσεως δηλώματα φάσκειν; ὅτι δὲ τῶν νέων ἐστὶ ταῦτα σοφίσματα μηδ’ ὄναρ τῶν παλαιῶν εἰς ἐνθύμησιν ἐλθόντα, γνοίης ἂν μαθὼν ὅτι καὶ ἀπόβλητα ἦν παρὰ τοῖς προτέροις τὰ διὰ χρυσοῦ καὶ τῆς νομιζομένης πολυτελεστέρας ὕλης ξόανα. λέγει δ’ οὖν Πλούταρχος ὧδέ πη κατὰ λέξιν· […] (Euseb. PE 3.7,5 p. 124 Mras–Des Places) These are the statements of this wonderful philosopher: and what could be more unseemly than talking, as they do, in solemn phrase about shameful things? Or what more violently unreasonable than to assert that lifeless materials, gold, and marble, and such like, bear representations of the light of the gods, and manifestations of their heavenly and ethereal nature? That these are modern sophistries, and never entered, even in a dream, into the imagination of the ancients, you may learn, on being informed that statues made of gold, and other material esteemed more precious, were even rejected among the men of former times. Plutarch, at all events, speaks somewhere thus, word for word […] (Transl. Gifford31).

Eusebius is quoting Porphyry’ s On statues κατὰ λέξιν, and by doing so he is introducing and concluding his verbal quote. In this framing we can identify strong emotions: obviously Eusebius feels offended, is quite aggressive and ironic in the end. Afterwards he tries to undermine Porphyry by quoting from Plutarch and Plato just to show that Porphyry as a later Platonist is not in accord with the Platonic religious tradition in his defense of material statues and images of gods. Eusebius makes him a young philosopher who is wrong, especially in comparison with the old, much more serious and learned Platonists (and, of course, Plato himself).

30 31

See also Gabriele–Maltomini 2014, 113–14; Miles 2015, 88; Männlein-Robert (forthcoming), chap. IV.3.2. Gifford 1981, 44.

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Later on, after further verbal quotations (ibid. 3.9,1–5, pp. 126–28 Mras–Des Places = fr. 354 F. Smith), Eusebius critizises the anthropomorphism of the old gods and the Orphic allegory of an anthropomorphic sitting statue of Zeus, which is – so Porphyry says – to be taken as symbol for the body of the cosmos, which is directed by the Nous of Zeus (as the Demiurge). In quite sophisticated arguments Eusebius deconstructs the old gods like Zeus to be pure πλάσματα, i. e. inventions or fictions, and in their mythical shape – e. g. as Zeus – not compatible with the Christian and also Platonic doctrine according to which the transcendent god is the Demiurge of the cosmos as Nous (ibid. 3.9,6–10,26, pp. 128–34 Mras–Des Places). While for Porphyry the mythical Zeus and also his statue would be a (partial) manifestation of the transcendent divine – a manifestation you have to ‘read’ correctly (see above) –, Eusebius purposefully deconstructs the highest (mythical) god of the ancient pagan religion, Zeus, whose statue Porphyry interprets. While he reveals via the allegorical method this god as a (mythical respectively material) symbol of the Demiurge, i. e. the Intellect (Nous) and interprets him according to Platonic ontology, Eusebius does refute this: from his Christian perspective he considers the Demiurge to be the highest transcendent god, but assumes Porphyry to have declared Zeus (only) to be a symbol of the physical cosmos. Zeus would be no longer transcendent, but material, and could thus – according to Eusebius – no longer be held as divine32. Also in the following Eusebius is very busy in presenting Porphyry as inconsequent, as a not stringent and self-contradictory philosopher, whom the recipients of Eusebius should not believe. As far as we can reconstruct from the remaining fragments and testimonies, Porphyry with his Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων offered a kind of catalogue or galery33 of statues of important old Greek gods and goddesses, their typical iconographic representation and their attributes, as well as towards the end also of some Egyptian deities. This gallery is structured in a hierarchy: Porphyry opens with the statue of Zeus, the highest god, and leads them via Hera, Hestia, Demeter, Dionysus, Pluto, Attis and Adonis to Artemis and Athena and finally, after numerous other Hellenic deities, to Egyptian deities like Kneph, Isis and Osiris (and Helios and Selene) – just to name a selection out of many mentioned gods and explained images. Here Eusebius differs in presenting and marking his verbal quotes: he says e. g. (ibid. 3.7,2 p. 123 Mras–Des Places) γράφει πρὸς λέξιν or simply (3.8,2 p. 125 Mras–Des Places) φησίν (where he quite sure quotes word by word). When he infers ἐπιφέρει λέγων ὧδε (3.10,26 p. 134 Mras–Des Places) or (3.11,5 p. 135 Mras–Des Places) διαιρῶν ἐπιλέγει or προιὼν ἑξῆς λέγει (3.11,6, p. 136 Mras–Des Places) or τούτοις ἑξῆς ἐπισυνάπτει λέγων (3.11,9 p. 136 Mras–Des Places), he only 32 33

For a more detailed interpretation of this fragment see Männlein-Robert (forthcoming), chap. IV.3.5. So with Bidez 1913, 21: “galerie d’ images” and Des Places 1976, 17.

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seems to be close to the Porphyrean text. In fact, he does not quote verbatim, but skips single words, sentences or little parts of the texts. A hint to this free quoting and summarising is given by Eusebius himself, when he remarks it in the end after such a passage, where he says: τοσαῦτα μὲν οὖν καὶ τάδε, ἃ καὶ ἀναγκαίως ἐπιτεμόμενος παρατέθειμαι […] (ibid. 3.11,17 p. 138 Mras–Des Places). So far, then, we have these statements (sc. of Porphyry), which I have been compelled to set before you briefly […] (Transl. Gifford34).

Or his following transition, where he is quite explicit about his quoting technique: καὶ τί δεῖ κατὰ  μέρος ἕκαστον ἀπελέγχειν, ἐπιδραμεῖν δέον, ὡς ἂν μηδὲν ἡμᾶς τῶν ἀπορρήτων λανθάνοι, καὶ τὴν τῶν ἑξῆς αὖθις ἐπιτεμέσθαι φυσιολογίαν, ἣν ἐκτέθειται ὁ δηλωθεὶς συγγραφεύς, τόνδε ἐπεξιὼν τὸν τρόπον· (ibid. 3.11,21 p. 139 Mras–Des Places). But what need to refute each part separately, when we ought merely to run over them so that none of their secrets may escape us, and to cut short the physical explanation of what follows, which the author before named has set forth, proceeding in the following manner (Transl. Gifford35).

This sentence of transition and abbreviation, which refers to Porphyry’ s allegorical explanations referred to earlier (e. g. to Pluto, Kore, Demeter as well as Dionysus, Attis, Adonis), is particularly revealing for the evaluation of the citation context in Eusebius: for here he makes unambiguously clear that he epitomizes, i. e. that he is cutting, shortening and omitting the original Porphyrean text, and thus he is preparing and modelling his enemy’ s text according to his own interests. So he is easily able to refute Porphyry’ s errors, contradictions and absurdities contained therein about the old gods and their statues. In addition, Eusebius maliciously refers to Porphyry’ s habit of secrecy, which, as quoted, became clear in the prooemium of his treatise: what Porphyry is about in this text are (τὰ) ἀπόρρητα, secrets, about which only initiates are allowed to experience and to learn36. While Porphyry had meant the statues of (mythical) old gods and their demanding religious Platonic semantics which he had explained and revealed for insiders, and while he wanted to exclude the uninitiated from such religious knowledge, Eusebius takes pleasure in presenting this very religious 34 35 36

Gifford 1981, 49. Gifford 1981, 49. In my opinion, this text was not meant to be for pedagogical purposes, cf. Krulak 2011 and Johnson 2013, 165.

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knowledge of the hated Platonist in its absurdity and thus to profane and devalue it. Finally Porphyry did not achieve his goal of reserving this Platonic knowledge to an exclusive inner circle – and this is exactly what the Christian Church Father Eusebius himself in his Praeparatio Evangelica proudly presents, and in which respect we learn about a real dynamic effect flowing from Porphyry’ s text via his provocative opening and his Platonic allegories of statues of gods over to the Christian apologist Eusebius. Citation and epitomization of Porphyry’ s text by Eusebius turn out to be tendentious, emotional and even polemical. Not least through the emotional engagement of Eusebius the danger caused by the Platonist Porphyry for Christian intellectuals and elites, as Eusebius embodies it exemplarily, becomes manifest to us. The meaning and relevance of his treatise on statues of gods therefore seems to have been considerable, because Porphyry with his Platonic allegorical explanations of statues of gods obviously had hit a nerve with Christian contemporaries. Eusebius shortly later (PE 3.11,45–13,2, pp. 142–46 Mras–Des Places = fr. 360 F. Smith) concludes his presentation of Porphyry’ s text on Greek gods and their iconography and presents in the following Porphyry’ s explanations of the statues of Egyptian gods37: first comes a detailed explanation of the Egyptian god Kneph, whom the Platonist explains as demiurgic, as a cosmos-creating deity, which appears in statues in human form. Further gods (Helios, Isis, Osiris, Selene) are also represented as humans (or as hybrids, but essentially anthropomorphically) by the Egyptians. In this context Porphyry refers to the cult established in the Egyptian village of Anabis38, which is not for a god, but for a human being who receives divine honours there with sacrifices and sacrificial meals (a similar phenomenon is known to the Greeks as ‘hero cult’). Porphyry also mentions this very fact in another text, namely in De abstinentia (4.9,13–15, p. 242 Nauck), literally quoted by Eusebius in the passage after (PE 3.4,10, p. 119 Mras–Des Places). It is obvious that this fact of the divine worship of a human being for the Christian bishop might have been scandalous. And indeed, in his concluding remark, after quoting the passage from Porphyry’ s text just referred to, he explicitly distances himself: ταῦτά μοι ἐκ τῆς τοῦ προειρημένου ἀνδρὸς γραφῆς ἐπιτετμήσθω, ὡς  ἂν μηδὲν ἡμᾶς λάθοι τῶν ἀπορρήτων τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς ὁμοῦ καὶ Αἰγυπτιακῆς θεολογίας, ἧς ἀποστάτας ἑαυτοὺς καὶ φυγάδας ὁμολογοῦμεν, κρίσει καὶ λογισμῷ σώφρονι καὶ τάδε παραιτησάμενοι. οὐ γάρ με ἡ ἀλαζὼν ἐκπλήξει φωνή, φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί, θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι

37

38

For Porphyry’ s use of the Stoic Chaeremon as model of his Egyptian part and for differences between the passages on the Greek and the Egyptian gods see MännleinRobert 2017a, 181–82. For Anabis as a highly probable corruption of Athribis, see the commentary in Gabriele–Maltomini 2014, 283.

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φήσασα. βέβηλοι γοῦν οὐχ ἡμεῖς, ἀλλ’ οἵ γε τοιάσδε αἰσχρὰς καὶ ἀπρεπεῖς μυθολογίας κανθάρων πέρι καὶ θηρίων ἀλόγων σοφίας θεολόγου νοήματα εἶναι  ἀποφηνάμενοι, οἳ κατὰ τὸν θαυμάσιον ἀπόστολον  “φάσκοντες εἶναι σοφοὶ ἐμωράνθησαν· ὅτι δὴ ἤλλαξαν τὴν δόξαν τοῦ ἀφθάρτου θεοῦ ἐν ὁμοιώματι εἰκόνος φθαρτοῦ ἀνθρώπου καὶ πετεινῶν καὶ τετραπόδων καὶ ἑρπετῶν”. (Euseb. PE 3.13,3–4, p. 146 Mras–Des Places) Let it suffice, that I have made these short extracts from the writing of the before-named author, so that we may not be ignorant of any secrets of the theology which is at once both Grecian and Egyptian, and from which we confess ourselves to be apostates and deserters, having rejected these doctrines with sound judgement and reasoning. For I am not going to be frightened by the arrogant voice which said, “I speak to those who lawfully may hear: depart, all ye profane, and close the doors”. Not we at all events are profane, but those who declared that such foul and unseemly legends about beetles and brute beasts were the thoughts of a wise theology – they who, according to the admirable Apostle, “professing themselves to be wise, became fools” (= Paulus, Rm 1,22–23), seeing that they “changed the glory of the incorruptible God for the likeness of an image of corruptible man, and of birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things” (Transl. Gifford39).

Also in the following, Eusebius continues to emphasize that he does know about the Hellenistic respectively Platonic “secrets” (ἀπόρρητα) very well, but rejects them decidedly for Christian reasons. With this he makes clear that he disregards Porphyry’ s (Orphic) formula of exclusivity and that he definitely is familiar with the Platonist’ s theological allegories about the semantics of traditional statues of the gods in Greece and Egypt, which are to be unmasked as unreasonable, ridi­ culous, and simply absurd. 3. Eusebius’ Method of Deconstruction The Christian bishop Eusebius is in some respects focused on the Platonist Porphyry, because he knows him well as an extremely dangerous critic of the Christian religion and its holy texts. Concerning Porphyry’ s treatise Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, quoted, misinterpreted, and discredited in his Praeparatio Evanglica (Book 3), the Christian Church father Eusebius obviously identifies not only its subject, statues of old Hellenic and Egyptian gods, but also Porphyry’ s chosen method of allegoresis as ­problematic and reprehensible. His concerns regarding statues of pagan gods may be obvious 39

Gifford 1981, 52.

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from a Christian point of view, as these many gods and goddesses – well known from many Hellenic (and Egyptian) mythes as not really that exemplary in terms of morals – are anthropomorph40 or hybrid, material, and created by human ar­ tists. So, with regard to Porphyry’ s subject and the apologetic tradition against Hellenic ἰδολατρία we are able to embed Eusebius’ polemics into a wider discourse and learn that Eusebius positions himself in this field. With regard to Eusebius’ emotional and aggressive mode of presentation and commenting of Porphyry’ s On Statues (especially PE 3.6,7–14 pp. 122–51 Mras–Des Places), the considerable alterity of the early Christian and the Porphyrean Platonic understanding of God, the Divine and statues of gods becomes clear41. But what is mainly Eusebius’ problem with this (roughly) contemporary Platonist is the method of allegoresis and Porphyry’ s philosophical explanation, as to what the single ἄγαλμα from a Platonic perspective means. Eusebius is busy himself with allegoresis, which he got experienced with as pupil of the Christian Platonist Origenes, who himself with his (Platonic) allegorizing of Christian texts tried to be distinct from (close) other Platonists42. As Porphyry opened his treatise with an ostentative Orphic exclusion formula to prepare his following text as revelation of theological knowledge, only for Platonic initiates and insiders who are really allowed and able to decode the statue’ s meanings, it is Eusebius’ aim to demonstrate his recipients his exact knowledge of these ‘secrets’ and to deconstruct the Platonist’ s philosophical allegories. As far as we can see, with his Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων Porphyry offered to an exclusive audience an explanation, or better: a philosophical conception of statues of gods via the method of allegoresis. The typologically explained statues of Greek and Egyptian gods are according to Porphyry σημεῖα or σύμβολα43 with reference to the divine, which are therefore not identical with its images or its materiality. The true divine is therefore – in the Platonic sense – supermaterial and transcendent. In some fragments of this writing we can still recognize from terms and concepts, despite the abbreviation and the transformative evaluation by Eusebius, that Porphyry interprets and ­appreciates the statues of the gods in a strictly Platonic and definitely not a Stoic spirit, as Eusebius insinuates: for example, he mitigates the argument of materiality by referring to the comparable qualities of certain materials used for statues of gods and the divine represented: matter and deity have a related character. His Platonic metaphysics becomes unmistakably clear in this regard, especially in Porphyry’ s allegorical representation of the statue of Zeus: here he combines the iconographically famous, long since typological version of a Zeus statue of Phidias with an Orphic poetic hymn to Zeus. Porphyry thus combines the image, the statue of the god, with a theological text, illustrating the significance of the 40 41 42 43

For this aspect see also Johnson 2006a, 86–87. Still relevant are e. g. Geffcken 1919 and Elliger 1930, now also Meier 2003, esp. 538–53. Pollmann 2017, 94–107. See Johnson 2013, 74–75 and 168.

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physical performance of the statue, its body parts and its attributes. From this it becomes clear that the statue of Zeus is a decodable image of ‘Zeus’, who in the Platonic allegory of Porphyry is clearly understood as Nous and as Demiurge, i. e. as a transcendent deity44, but as a deity who affects the world, creates it and holds it within himself, as it were, ‘embodies’ it. But Eusebius insinuates that Porphyry undertakes a purely physical (and thus stoizising) allegoresis45. Thus, according to Eusebius’ conclusion, the old Hellenic, pagan gods finally are only physical, i. e. material elements or powers of nature, which are worshipped in form of anthropomorphic statues. He thus denies the Greek gods and their statues any theological value because of their polytheism, anthropomorphism and materiality. By doing so, he lays a counterattack on Porphyry’ s allegoresis as Porphyry before with his Contra Christianos also tried to deny authorization for Christian allegoresis: in his eyes, allegoresis is a specific Hellenic (pagan) method of interpretation, a claim, which the Church Father Eusebius wants to shake46. What can we conclude to be Eusebius’ strategy? We see that Eusebius deliberately misunderstands the text of Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων, partly quoting it literally or close to the text, but apparently deliberately cutting it into fragments and selecting passages to purpose. In the Praeparatio Evangelica, passages in which Eusebius epitomizes and paraphrases from this writing of Porphyry alternate with those which he quotes in detail and word by word (κατὰ λέξιν)47. Most of the time he introduces Porphyrean passages with detailed statements of his own and formulates a resultative (critical) remark at the end. We identify in Eusebius decidedly polemic introductions, transitional remarks and conclusions around the literally quoted and abbreviated Porphyrean passages. Besides, in his polemical framings Eusebius acts quite personally and emotionally against Porphyry himself and tries to undermine his arguments and method, his credibility as Platonist and philosopher by demonstrating Porphyry’ s inconsistencies with Platonism and by distancing Porphyry from Plato’ s and other Platonists’ (like Plutarch’ s) theology48. His selection of Porpyhyry’ s allegoreseis and his arrangement of these passages are embedded in the context of his Praeparatio Evangelica for Eusebius’ own strategical purposes, i. e. to demonstrate the Platonist’ s problematic and wrong approach to divine subjects. With his intentional polemic frames Eusebius is creating new contexts for Porphyry’ s words and arguments. His aim by doing so is to demonstrate that the Platonist’ s text is not convincing and not to be accepted, because it is contradictory, and for a Platonist too close and too akin to Stoic philosophy as Porphyry (at first sight) seems to use allegory in a similar approach for his 44 45 46 47 48

Johnson 2013, 170. Cf. Johnson 2013, 168–69. Becker 2016, 73, 75–76; Zambon 2019, 217–28. See also Johnson 2013, 30–31. See Magny 2014, 35–53; Magny 2017; for Porphyry’ s polemics against the Christians see Männlein-Robert 2014, 117–38.

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‘physical theology’. Eusebius therefore continues the struggle for authority in using allegory, which already Origenes and Porphyry were carrying out. So, by his special mode and strategy of ‘quotation’ and epitomizing, by his intentional framing and selection of Porphyrean passages, but also with intentional misunderstanding, misreading and polemical bias the Church Father tries to deconstruct the most dangerous pagan Platonist at that time. But, as said in the beginning of this article, we may take it as history’ s irony that it was exactly Eusebius himself to preserve at least parts of Porphyry’ s provocative treatise On statues of gods. Bibliography Andresen 1955 = C. Andresen, Logos und Nomos. Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum, Berlin 1955. Becker 2016 = M. Becker, Porphyrios, ‘Contra Christianos’. Neue Sammlung der Fragmente, Testimonien und Dubia mit Einleitung, Übersetzung und Anmerkungen, Berlin-Boston 2016. Bidez 1913 = J. Bidez, Vie de Porphyre, le Philosophe Néo-Platonicien, Gent-Leipzig 1913. Des Places 1976 = E. Des Places, Eusèbe de Césarée. La préparation évangélique. Livres II–III, Paris 1976. Elliger 1930 = W. Elliger, Die Stellung der alten Christen zu den Bildern in den ersten vier Jahrhunderten (nach den Angaben der zeitgenössischen kirchlichen Schriftsteller), Leipzig 1930. Funke 1981 = H. Funke, “Götterbild”, RAC 11 (1981), 659–828. Gabriele–Maltomini 2014 = M. Gabriele–F. Maltomini, Porfirio, Sui Simulacri. Introduzione e Commento di Mino Gabriele. Traduzione di Franco Maltomini, Milano 2014. Geffcken 1919 = J. Geffcken, “Der Bilderstreit des heidnischen Altertums”, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 19 (1919), 286–305. Gifford 1981 = E. H. Gifford, Preparation for the Gospel, 2 Vols, Grand Rapids 1981 (= Reprint, or. ed. 1903). Gladigow 1985–1986 = B. Gladigow, “Präsenz der Bilder – Präsenz der Götter. Kultbilder und Bilder der Götter in der griechischen Religion”, Visible Religion 4–5 (1985–1986), 114–133. Hirsch-Luipold 2002 = R. Hirsch-Luipold, Plutarchs Denken in Bildern. Studien zur lite­ rarischen, philosophischen und religiösen Funktion des Bildhaften, Tübingen 2002. Icard-Gianolio 2004a = N. Icard-Gianolio, “L’ image culturelle manifestation de prodige”, Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum 2 (2004), 463–468. Icard-Gianolio 2004b = N. Icard-Gianolio, “Statues enchaînées”, Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum 2 (2004), 468–471. Johnson 2006a = A. P. Johnson, Ethnicity and Argument in Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelica, Oxford 2006. Johnson 2006b = A. P. Johnson, Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelica as Literary Experiment, in S. F. Johnson (ed.), Greek Literature in Late Antiquity: Dynamism, Didacticism, Classicism, Aldershot 2006, 67–89.

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Johnson 2013 = A. P. Johnson, Religion and Identity in Porphyry of Tyre. The Limits of Hellenism in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2013. Johnson 2014 = A. P. Johnson, Eusebius, London-New York 2014. Krulak 2011 = T. C. Krulak, “‘Invisible Things on Visible Forms’: Pedagogy and Anagogy in Porphyry’ s Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων”, JLA 4 (2011), 343–364. Lanzillotta 2010 = L. R. Lanzillotta, Christian Apologists and Greek Gods, in J. N. Bremmer–A. Erskine (eds.), The Gods of Ancient Greece. Identities and Transformation, Edinburgh 2010, 442–464. Magny 2014 = A. Magny, Porphyry in Fragments. Reception of an Anti-Christian Text in Late Antiquity, Farnham 2014. Magny 2017 = A. Magny, Eusebius’ Porphyry, in Männlein-Robert 2017, 261–274. Männlein-Robert 2014 = I. Männlein-Robert, Ordnungskonkurrenz: Polemik und Feinde in konkurrierenden Ordnungen. Der platonische Philosoph Porphyrios und sein Kampf gegen die Christen, in E. Frie–M. Meier (eds.), Aufruhr – Katastrophe – Konkurrenz – Zerfall, Tübingen 2014, 117–138. Männlein-Robert 2017 = I. Männlein-Robert (ed.), Die Christen als Bedrohung? Text, Kontext und Wirkung von Porphyrios’ ‘Contra Christianos’, Stuttgart 2017. Männlein-Robert 2017a = I. Männlein-Robert, Zeichen deuten – Zeichen setzen. Porphyrios, die alten Götter und die Christen in Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων / De imaginibus, in MännleinRobert 2017, 177–206. Männlein-Robert 2019 = I. Männlein-Robert, Move your Self. Mobility and Migration of Greek Intellectuals to Rome, in M. R. Niehoff–J. Levinson (eds.), Self, Self-Fashioning, and Individuality in Late Antiquity. New Perspectives, Tübingen 2019, 331–352. Männlein-Robert (forthcoming) = I. Männlein-Robert, Subtle Battles or Platonic Exegesis as Polemical Strategy in Porphyry, in P. d’ Hoine–G. Roskam–S. Schorn–J. Verheyden (eds.), Polemics, Rivalry and Networking in Graeco-Roman Antiquity (Lectio. Studies in the Transmission of Texts & Ideas), Turnhout (forthcoming).  Meier 2003 = M. Meier, Das andere Zeitalter Justinians. Kontingenzerfahrung und Kontingenz­bewältigung im 6. Jahrhundert n. Chr., Göttingen 2003. Miles 2015 = G. Miles, “Stones, Wood and Woven Papyrus: Porphyry’ s On Statues”, JHS 135 (2015), 78–94. Mras 1982 = K. Mras, Eusebius Werke. Achter Band. Die Praeparatio Evangelica. Erster Teil: Einleitung, die Bücher I bis X, herausgegeben von Karl Mras., 2. bearbeitete Auslage von Édouard Des Places, Berlin 1982. Pichler 1980 = K. Pichler, Streit um das Christentum. Der Angriff des Kelsos und die Antwort des Origenes, Bern 1980. Pollmann 2017 = K. Pollmann, Porphyry, Metaphor/Allegory, and the Christians, in Männlein-Robert 2017, 85–110. Riedweg 1993 = C. Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation eines orphischen Hieros logos. Beobachtungen zu OF 235 und 247 (sog. Testament des Orpheus), Tübingen 1993. Scheer 2000 = T. S. Scheer, Die Gottheit und ihr Bild. Untersuchungen zur Funktion grie­ chischer Kultbilder in Religion und Politik, München 2000. Sirinelli–Des Places 1974 = J. Sirinelli–É. Des Places, La préparation évangélique. Introduction générale: livre I, Paris 1974. Smith 1993 = A. Smith, Porphyrii Philosophi Fragmenta edidit Andrew Smith. Fragmenta Arabica David Wasserstein Interpretante, Stuttgart-Leipzig 1993.

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Stock 2007 = A. Stock, Frühchristliche Bildpolemik. Das Neue Testament und die Apologetik des 2. Jahrhunderts, in R. Hoeps (ed.), Handbuch der Bildtheologie, Bd. 1: Bild-Konflikte, Paderborn 2007, 120–138. Viltanioti 2017 = I.-F. Viltanioti, “Cult Statues in Porphyry of Tyre and Macarius Magnes: Porph. Chr. fr. 76 and fr. 77 (von Harnack)”, JLA 10 (2017), 187–220. Volp 2017 = U. Volp, Ein Kampf gegen die Hydra. Die christliche Verteidigungsstrategie des Makarios Magnes im Gegenüber zu exegetisch begründeter philosophischer Bibelkritik, in Männlein-Robert 2017, 289–305. Watson 1992 = G. Watson, “Celsus and the Philosophical Opposition to Christianity”, Irish Theological Quarterly 58 (1992), 165–179. Zambon 2019 = M. Zambon, «Nessun dio è mai sceso quaggiù». La polemica anticristiana dei filosofi antichi, Roma 2019.

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Indices Index verborum ᾁδοφοίτης : 155 ἀπομακκόω : 82 ἀπούατος : 43 ἀπόφθεγμα : 90–91 αὐχένος (gen.) : 82 ἀφίδρυσμα : 81 βέβηλος : 218 βόαξ : 122 βράκος / ῥάκος : 44–45 γαλεός : 122 γαμψῶνυξ, γαμψώνυχος : 85–88, 93 διαδικάζω : 45 διαυγάζω : 79–80 ἔδωκεν εἰς ἐργασίαν : 52 Ἑκάταιον : 156, 159 ἐνεύχομαι : 78 ἐξοκέλλω : 204 ἐπίφθεγμα, ἐπιφθέγγομαι : 90–93 ἐπιψεύδομαι : 78 ἑτεροιόω, ἑτεροῖος : 80 ζάκορος : 167 κατατιλάω : 156 κερδαλῆ : 41 κόλαφος, κολαφίζω : 70–75, 84, 92 κόνδυλος : 72, 74–75 κρατῆρα ποιεῖν : 82 (παρ)λέλονβα (λαμβάνω) : 83 λέλογχα (λαγχάνω) : 83 λέμβος : 175

λεπτότης : 155 λωβητής : 15 μάρτυρος : 31 ὀπισθόκεντρος : 87 ὀρφώς : 122 οὐκ ἐγένετο : 53, 54 οὐκ ἐδιδάχθη : 53 παιδίον : 166 παιδοτρίβης : 71 πέποσχα (πάσχω) : 75–84, 92 πλάσμα : 220 ῥογός : 72–73 σάλπης : 122 σοφία, σοφοί : 33–34 Συβάρεια ἐπιφθέγματα : 88–92 τέχνη, τεχνίται : 34 τραχυδέρμων : 87 Τρέλλος, Τρέλλων : 73 ὑδάτινος : 44–45 ὑπεκρίνετο: 50 ὕστερος : 61 χορὸν αἰτεῖν : 52 χρύσοφρυς : 122 caries : 168 colaphus, Colaphus : 74 Dorcium : 166 fastidire : 173 lembus : 175 vestis : 181–82

Index locorum Ael. NA 13.4 : 85 NA 16.23 : 203 VH 3.43 : 203 VH 9.24 : 203 VH 14.20 : 203 Aes. Fab. 270, 368, 378, 438 P. : 119 Aesch. Ch. 456–57 : 90 fr. 388 R. : 159 Alc. fr. 130 V. : 44

Apoll. Dysc. Pron. GG II,1 p. 27,26 Schn. : 82 Apul. Met. 2.32–3.18 : 119 Ar. Ach. 65–125 : 109 Eq. 522–24 : 113 Vesp. 804 : 152 Vesp. 835–1008 : 128–29 Vesp. 936–39, 962–66 : 119 Vesp. 1427–31: 89–90 Vesp. 1435–40 : 89–90

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Ar. (cont.) Av. 359 : 88 Av. 864–93 : 127–28 Av. 905–1055 : 127–28 Av. 1225–312 : 127–28 Av. 1306 : 88 Av. 1372–409 : 145 Av. 1372–468 : 127–28 Av. 1388–90 : 156 Av. 1531–765 : 127–28 Ran. 89–91 : 155 Ran. 94–94 : 155 Ran. 153 : 151 Ran. 154–57 : 148 Ran. 316–57 : 147–48 Ran. 366 : 146–60 Ran. 389–90 : 147 Ran. 404 : 158–59 Ran. 404–408 : 146 Ran. 1361–64 : 159 Eccl. 329–30 : 150 Plut. 1002, 1075 : 204 fr. 156 K.–A. : 154–55 Archil. fr. 185 W.2 : 41 fr. 196a W.2 : 43 Archipp. frr. 14–17, 20, 23, 27, 28, 30 K.–A. : 122–24 Arist. HA 503a 30 : 86 HA 517a 30 : 86 Po. 1449a 38–b 9 : 102, 105, 126 Po. 1455b–56a 2–3 : 157 Po. 1477b 7–9 : 114 Pol. 1259b 4–33 : 206–207 Pol. 1267a 14 : 207 Ath. 6.267e–70a : 120, 131 12.518c–19a : 201 12.519b–20c : 192–94, 202 Callim. fr. 315 Pf. = 122 H. : 43 Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.34,72–73 : 172–73 Clem. Al. Protr. 7.74,4 : 218 Crat. frr. 16–19 K.–A. : 114–20 Cratin. fr. 108 K.–A. : 31 fr. 164 K.–A. : 32

Cratin. (cont.) frr. 172, 175, 176 K.–A. : 120 fr. 331 K.–A. : 31 fr. 397 K.–A. : 32 fr. 444 K.–A. : 32 fr. 472 K.–A. : 33 D.S. 8.18,1 : 204 20.110,1 : 58 Dem. 4,35 : 54–55 Democh. FGrHist 75 FF 1–2 : 208 Dur. FGrHist 76 F 13 : 208 Ephipp. fr. 5 K.–A. : 109 fr. 19 K.–A. : 109 Epich. fr. 1 K.–A. : 70 fr. 9 K.–A. : 75 fr. 11 K.–A. : 75 fr. 27 K.–A. : 85 fr. 29 K.–A. : 85, 87 fr. 52 K.–A. : 87 fr. 59 K.–A. : 87 fr. 222 K.–A. : 88–89 Eup. fr. 22 K.–A. : 34 fr. 49 K.–A. : 33 fr. 102 K.–A. : 34 fr. 182 K.–A. : 176 fr. 299 K.–A. : 119 fr. 342 K.–A. : 33 fr. 352 K.–A. : 33 fr. 472 K.–A. : 33 fr. 483 K.–A. : 33 Euseb. PE 3 prooem. : 215 PE 3.1,1–1,7 : 216 PE 3.4,10 : 222 PE 3.5,1,5 : 216 PE 3.6,5–6,7 : 216, 224 PE 3.7,1 : 217 PE 3.7,2 : 220 PE 3.7,5 : 219 PE 3.8,2 : 220 PE 3.9,1–5 : 220 PE 3.9,6–10,26 : 220 PE 3.11,5–6, 9 : 220 PE 3.11,17 : 221

Index locorum Euseb. (cont.) PE 3.11,21 : 221 PE 3.11,45–13,2 : 222 PE 3.13,3–4 : 222–23 PE 13.12,3–5 : 218 Eust. ad Il. p. 812,46 : 40 ad Od. p. 1916,46 : 45 Hdt. 1.23–24 : 110 1.143 : 204 2.32 : 108 4.43 : 108 6.11–12 : 204 Heraclit. fr. 5 DK : 212 Herod. 6,45–48 : 78 Hieron. De viris ill. 81, 83, 104 : 215 Hippon. fr. 42a Deg. : 40 fr. 73 Deg. : 150 Hom. Il. 18.272 : 43 Il. 19.399–423 : 106–107 Il. 22.454 : 43 Od. 11.539–40 : 155 Hp. Aff. 25,1–3 : 151 Coac. 428,2–3 : 150 Morb. Sacr. 1,87–89 : 150 Hesych. α 1180 L.–C. : 41 β 180 L.–C. : 40 β 203 L.–C. : 44 β 1047 L.–C. : 44 ε 1258 L. : 153 ε 7535 L. : 44 κ 2037 L. : 41 λ 1369 L. : 44 π 839 L.–H. : 43 Joh. Chrys. Hom. 3.2,50 : 91 Luc. Philops. 33–36 : 118–19 Salt. 15 : 158 Salt. 22,6–9 : 158 Salt. 30 : 152 VH 1.10–42 : 112 Men. Dysk. 52 : 70

231

Men. (cont.) Imbrioi test. i K.–A. : 49–64 Leuk. 1–3 : 171 Leuk. 1–10 : 170 Leuk. fr. 1 Austin : 170, 181 Leuk. frr. 4–5 Austin : 175 Leuk. fr. 8 Austin : 176 Sam. 326–27 : 173 Sam. 454, 595–96 : 70 Metag. fr. 6 K.–A. : 120 Orig. Libri X in Cant. Cant. p. 141,29 B. : 91 Orph. fr. 245 Kern : 218 Ov. Her. 15.75–76 : 181 Her. 15.162–72 : 171–72 Pherecr. fr. 117 K.–A. : 124 fr. 137 K.–A. : 109, 120 Phil. Byz. Belop. p. 57,27 Th. : 79 Philipp. fr. 25 K.–A. : 58–59 Phot. α 376 Th. : 42 π 614 Th. : 76 Phryn. Praep. Soph. 54,7–8 : 40 Plat. Ep. 7, 326d : 206 Ep. 7, 327b : 206 Resp. 365c : 41 Resp. 372e–73e : 206 Resp. 377d–83c : 212 Plaut. Capt. 657–58 : 71 Rud. 205, 215, 227 : 171 Rud. 531–32 : 175 Plb. 3.104,5 : 79 12.25c, 26d : 203 Plut. Cor. 38,1–3 : 212 Demetr. 2,3, 19,3, 41,4–5 : 208 Demetr. 10,12–13 : 208 Demetr. 12,2 : 60; 12,3–7 : 58; 26,2–3 : 58; 34 : 62–63 Quaest. Conv. 670c : 86 Poll. 8.25 : 45 Porph. De abst. 4.9,13–15 : 222 VP 15,4–6 : 218

232

Index locorum

Porph. (cont.) fr. 254a F. Smith : 213 fr. 352 F. Smith : 218 fr. 357 F. Smith : 213 fr. 358a F. Smith : 213 fr. 360a F. Smith : 213 Proleg. de com. III pp. 29–31 Koster : 126 Ps.-Paleph. 48 : 179–80 Quint. Inst. or. 6.3,83 : 74 Σ (v.ant.) κ 284 C. : 41 Sapph. fr. 31 V. : 16–17 fr. 57 V. : 44 fr. 98b V. : 181 fr. 155 V. : 16 schol. Ar. Ach. 67 : 52 schol. Ar. Eq. 522a : 113 schol. Ar. Av. 471b : 89 schol. Ar. Pac. 344b : 88–89 schol. Ar. Ran. 366 : 150 schol. Ar. Ran. 153 : 151, 152–53 schol. Ariston. Il. 2.670 : 31 schol. ex. Il. 2.56c : 31 schol. ex. Il. 333a : 33 schol. ex. Il. 8.365–68 : 30 schol. ex. Il. 9.77b1 : 32 schol. ex. Il. 10.435 : 30 schol. ex. Il. 13.20 : 30 schol. ex. Il. 13.289–91 : 34 schol. ex. Il. 13.353 : 33 schol. ex. Il. 15.412b1 : 33 schol. ex. Il. 16.353b : 34 schol. ex. Il. 16.428b : 32 schol. ex. Il. 17.463 : 34 schol. ex. Il. 24.85a : 34 schol. D Il. 2.670 : 31 schol. h Il. 23.361a1 : 32 schol. Hrd. Il. 18.521b : 32 schol. Il. 7.76 : 31, 33 schol. Pind. Ol. 7.63 = 34 : 31 schol. Porph. vel ex. Il. 14.241c : 33 schol. vet. Ar. Vesp. 804a : 159 schol. vet. Ar. Ran. 366 : 156–57 Soph. fr. 734 R. : 159 Sophr. fr. 126 K.–A. : 73 Stesich. fr. 85 F. : 17–18 fr. 219 P. = 180 F : 14–15

Strab. 10.2,9 : 170–71 Sud. α 2874 A. : 42 α 3622 A. : 42 σ 1271 A. : 89 Syr. In Arist. Met. p. 122,33 CAG : 92 Tat. Or. ad Graec. 8, p. 9,13 Schw. : 218 Telecl. fr. 1 K.–A. : 120 Theoc. 11,62 : 84 Theod. Stud. Epist. 509,11, 521,17 : 92 Theolept. Philad. Epist. ad Iren. Bas. 2,104 : 92 Thuc. 1.6,3 : 204 5.54,1–4 : 58 Tim. FGrHist 566 T 19 : 203 FGrHist 566 FF 44, 50, 51 : 203 FGrHist 566 F 46 : 202 FGrHist 566 F 48 : 204–205 FGrHist 566 F 50 : 189–208 FGrHist 566 F 111 : 207 Timocl. frr. 15–17 K.–A. : 109 Turpil. (Leuc.) frr. 1–3 R.3 : 167, 173, 174 fr. 2 R.3 : 169 fr. 4 R.3 : 168, 173 fr. 6 R.3 : 167–68, 173, 174 fr. 10 R.3 : 175 fr. 11 R.3 : 171, 174 fr. 12 R.3 : 167, 169, 172–73 fr. 13 R.3 : 167 fr. 14 R.3 : 175 fr. 15 R.3 : 175 fr. 16 R.3 : 166 fr. 17 R.3 : 171, 174 Xen. Hell. 4.7,2–3 : 58 [Xen.] Ath. 3,2 : 45 Xenoph. frr. 14–16, 23 DK : 212 Papyri et Inscriptiones PAmh. 2.12 (MP3 483) : 28 PCairoZenon III 59482 : 77 POxy 1235, col. iii, 103–112 : 49–64 POxy 4024 : 163–64 POxy 2082 : 54 PShubart 41 : 79 IG I3 1,851 : 61

Index rerum IG II2 2323 : 57 IG II2 11886 : 72 IG II2 12552 : 73

233

IMT Kaikos 932 : 81 SEG XXXV 1269 : 80

Index rerum Archippo Ichthyes: 121–25, 131–32 Aristofane attacchi ai contemporanei: 145 Cavalieri: 128 Gērytadēs: 154–55 negli scolî ad Il.: 35 parodo (Rane): 147–48 Rane: 145–60 rappresentante della commedia politica: 103–104 Uccelli: 113, 121, 126–29 Vespe: 112, 119, 128–29 vd. ‘Cinesia’ Ateneo, Deipnosofisti opera contenitore: 189–91 struttura: 199 usus scribendi: 198 vd. ‘Timeo di Tauromenio’ Callimaco conoscenza del testo omerico: 43 censura nel teatro ateniese Cleone e Aristofane: 52 decreto di Morichide: 52 vd. ‘Lachares’ vd. ‘Menandro’ Charalambides, K. e Ovidio, Heroides: 180–82 Sappho in Leucas: 176–83, 184–85 Sappho (in the waves of Leucas): 183–85 Chionide: 101, 113–14 Cinesia accusa di empietà: 148, 152–54 choroktonos: 159 coreografie mimetiche: 159–60 diarroico: 148–50, 152–54, 156 ed Ècate: 149, 154, 156–59 imbrattatore degli Hekataia: 152–53 kykliodidaskalos: 149, 152 magrezza (e inconsistenza artistica): 151, 153, 154 negli Uccelli di Aristofane: 145–46, 150

Cinesia (cont.) nel Gērytadēs di Aristofane: 154–55 nelle Ecclesiazuse di Aristofane: 150 nelle Rane di Aristofane: 145–60 nuovo ditirambo: 153, 159 pirrica: 151–52 citazione frammenti come citazioni: 27–28 manipolazione del testo citato: 215–26 ruolo della fonte nell’interpretazione di un fr.: 208 vd. ‘contesto’ vd. ‘frammenti’ vd. ‘letteratura erudita’ Commedia greca allusioni alla contemporaneità: 126–32 anagnorisis: 176 come creazione estetica sofisticata: 102–103, 114 di caratteri: 103–104 inizi: 99–104 kōmos proto-comico: 100 invettiva politica: 103 materiali e motivi condivisi dai poeti: 121 parodia mitologica: 103–104 parodia tragica: 157 topoi culinari: 121 trame Commedia nuova: 173–74 trame ‘specchio di storie’: 172 vd. ‘Märchenkomödie’ vd. ‘testimonianze vascolari’ confusione Nicia/Nicocle: 64 contesto confini di un frammento: 196–99 dell’esegesi: 42, 202–208 de- e ricontestualizzazione di un fr. in un’edizione: 201 di una citazione: 28, 199–202, 213 in senso fisico: 14 spazio e utilità del c. in un’edizione: 15

234

Index rerum

Cratete materiale favolistico: 102–103, 114 nella Poetica di Aristotele: 126 Thēria: 114–21, 124, 131 Cratino commedia come genere sofisticato: 102–103 Dionionysalexandros: 128 negli scolî ad Il.: 31–33 Nemesis: 128 Ploutoi: 120 Demetrio I Poliorcete: 61–64 Epicarmo Agrōstinos: 71 dorismi attestati nella koiné: 69, 72, 75, 83–84, 92–93 Gā kai Thalassa: 84–85 Harpagai: 75 lingua: 70 forme rare: 70 frammenti ex Alcimo: 83 influenza sulla commedia attica: 102–103 poetismi parodici (supposti): 76 proton legomena attestati nella koiné: 93 regionalismi: 70, 71, 72 registro linguistico: 72–73, 76 soprannomi: 71–73 strategia parodica: 85–87 Eupoli Chrysoun Genos: 119 negli scolî ad Il.: 33–35 rappresentante della commedia politica: 103–104 Eusebio citatore di Porfirio: 213, 214–23 decostruzione degli dèi pagani: 220 decostruzione di Porfirio: 223–26 manipolazione del testo citato: 215–26 polemica cristiani vs pagani: 212 Praeparatio Evangelica: 213, 214 strategie di citazione: 219–21, 225 vd. ‘Porfirio’ favole, leggende, storie di fantasia Bosch, H.: 126 Fratelli Grimm: 116, 125 immaginario popolare: 118 Le mille e una notte (“Arabian Nights”): 116

favole, leggende, storie di fantasia (cont.) Lügenmärchen: 120, 125 materiale favolistico nell’iconografia vascolare: 111–12 Rabelais, F.: 126 racconti popolari indonesiani: 116 Schwänke: 120 The Hobbit: 130 The Lord of the Rings: 130 vd. ‘Märchenkomödie’ Ferecrate Metallēs: 120 Myrmēkanthrōpoi: 112, 124 festival Artisti di Dioniso: 57 cambiamento di data: 57–58 cambiamento di location: 56 cancellazione della πομπή: 59 cancellazione di un agone o di un festival: 54–58, 60, 63–64 Dionisie: 53–57, 101 interruzione delle Dionisie: 61–62 posticipo della πομπή: 59 posticipo delle Dionisie: 60, 63 posticipo per ragioni climatiche: 60 programma ridotto: 56–57, 59 filologia antica alessandrina: 25–26 Aristarco: 31 Atticismo: 35, 81 come fenomeno storico-culturale: 28 obelos: 26 vd. ‘letteratura erudita’ fonti documentarie datazione arconte: 50, 61–62 decreti dell’Assemblea ateniese: 61 lessico degli archivi teatrali: 50–51 nome dell’attore: 50, 61 per ricostruire il registro basso della koiné: 77–81 vd. ‘festival’ frammenti attribuzione a un’opera: 18 come citazioni: 28 ‘dintorni’ di frammenti: 13, 17–19, 21–22 editore di frammenti: 13 edizioni di frammenti: 18–19, 191, 194–95, 202–203, 213

Index rerum frammenti (cont.) integrazione: 18–19 interpretazione: 18 ordine e collocazione: 17–18 ricostruzione: 19–22 vd. ‘citazione’ vd. ‘letteratura erudita’ vd. ‘tradizione indiretta’ hapax legomena ἀπομακκόω: 82 Τρέλλων: 73 hypotheseis a Cratin. Dionysalex.: 50 ad Ar. Av.: 50 a Eur. Alc.: 50 a Soph. Ant.: 50 trama: 53 vd. ‘Menandro’ iscrizioni sintassi: 80–81 lessico: 81–82 morfologia: 81 Lachares (tiranno): 53–54, 61, 64 letteratura erudita Ancient Scholarship: 23, 24 citazioni d’autore: 28–36 congetture: 24, 35 epitomazione: 28, 39, 45–46, 222 esegesi degli scolî: 43 informativa sui Realien: 27 interesse intrinseco: 24–25 loci similes: 26–27, 28, 33, 34 Omero nella l. e.: 29 omissione del nome: 30, 34, 39 opere grammaticali: 27 Pindaro nella l. e.: 30, 35–36 per interpretare opere antiche: 24 scolî ad Iliade: 31–36, 41 testimone di opere perdute: 24, 26 testimonianza linguistico-grammaticale: 31, 32, 33, 35 testimonianza linguistico-stilistica/prosodica: 32, 33, 35 testimonianza lessicale: 31, 33, 34, 35 tipologia delle citazioni: 29–30 vd. ‘filologia alessandrina’ vd. ‘lessicografia’ vd. ‘opere grammaticali’

235

lessicografia atticismi vs koiné: 74–75 autoschediasmo letterale/concettuale: 41, 44, 45 distinzione lemma / interpretamentum: 42 esegesi di un testo già corrotto: 44 esegesi discorsiva: 40 esegesi in riferimento al contesto: 42 Fozio sui dorismi: 76 fluidità: 39 glossa come interpretamentum: 44–45 glosse anomale: 40–41 glossierende Synonimie: 44 glossografi: 43 incomprensioni e fraintendimenti: 44, 75, 93 interpretamenta: 40–42, 44–45 Konzeptionalität: 39 lemmatizzazione: 40 lemmatizzazione all’accusativo: 42 Polluce (fonti): 45–46 tipi di corruzione: 39 Suda: 42, 89–90, 101 Leukadia (Menandro) dramatis personae: 165–70 fonti iconografiche: 164, 167, 168, 169, 176 paradosi diretta: 163–64 paradosi indiretta: 164 ricostruzione della trama: 170–76 Saffo e Faone: 172 spazio (scenico, extra-scenico, diegetico): 165 vd. ‘Turpilio, Leucadia’ Magnete: 101, 113–14 Märchenkomödie: 104–32 animali antropomorfizzati / parlanti: 104, 113, 115, 117–18, 122–24, 129, 131 automatos bios: 115, 131 coro di animali: 115, 117 edonismo gastronomico: 120–21 inversione dell’ordine naturale (mundus inversus): 124–25 personificazione di oggetti: 104, 117–19 trame: 114–26 Paese di cuccagna (Schlaraffenland): 119–20, 125, 130

236

Index rerum

Märchenkomödie (cont.) significato politico: 126–32 utopia dell’abbondanza: 115, 121, 131 Menandro censura politica (presunta): 51–52 e Lachares: 51–54 Imbrioi: 49–64 ipotesi papiracea: 49–51 Perikeiromenē: 176 vd. ‘Leukadia’ Plutarco confonde cronologia: 60 Vita di Demetrio: 58–60, 62–63 Porfirio Contra Christianos: 213–14 filosofo platonico: 217, 220 in Eusebio: 213, 214–23 interpretazione allegorica: 215, 217, 223–25 Peri agalmatōn: 211–26 pericolosità per gli intellettuali cristiani: 214–25 polemica cristiani vs pagani: 212 statue di dèi pagani: 211–12, 219–20, 222, 224 vd. ‘Eusebio’ registro linguistico e stilistico composti descrittivi: 87–88 forme analogiche: 83 forme locali/dialettali: 70–84, 92–93 forme poligenetiche: 83 letteratura tecnica: 86 linguaggio parlato: 78, 82–83, 84 livelli della koiné: 79–80, 82, 84 neologismi: 76 registro basso: 73, 76, 77 registro colloquiale: 73, 74, 78, 80–81 registro elevato: 76, 77, 87–88 soprannomi: 73 vd. ‘Epicarmo’ vd. ‘fonti documentarie’ vd. ‘hapax’ vd. ‘iscrizioni’ Saffo commedie intitolate Sapphō: 164–65 confronto delle edizioni critiche: 16–17, 18–19

Saffo (cont.) e Faone: 172 ricezione moderna della storia di Saffo e Faone: 177 vd. ‘K. Charalambides’ Sibari città dell’abbondanza: 203, 207 critica del lusso nell’Atene ellenistica: 207–208 favole sibaritiche: 89–92 (apo-/epiphtegmata), 191, 204–205 (logoi) tryphē: 189, 191, 197–99, 200–201, 203, 206–207 vd. ‘Timeo di Tauromenio’ Stesicoro edizioni a confronto: 14–15 forme doriche: 76 integrare i frammenti: 20–21 ordine dei frammenti: 17 Susarione inventore della commedia: 100–101 Teleclide Amphiktyones: 120 testimonianze vascolari iconografia favolistica: 105–14 elementi esotici africani: 107–109 prime testimonianze per la commedia: 101 travestimenti da animali: 100, 105–7, 109–10 suonatore di aulo: 100, 105 vd. ‘favole, leggende, storie di fantasia’ Timeo di Tauromenio e la storiografia d’Occidente: 208 F 50: 189–208 funzione didattica della storiografia: 208 in Ateneo: 189–91, 199–208 l’edizione di Jacoby: 194–95 ricezione dell’opera: 202–203 trattamento dei topoi: 204–205 tryphē come elemento di ricostruzione storiografica: 198, 205 tradizione indiretta non uniforme: 39 tipi di corruzione: 39 Turpilio, Leucadia: 164–76