Reciprocity in Ancient Greece [1 ed.] 0198149972, 9780198149972

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RECIPROCITY IN = Br GREECE

Edited by CHRISTOPHER GILL NORMAN POSTLETHWAITE AND RICHARD SEAFORD

Reciprocity in Ancient Greece

Reciprocity in Ancient Greece Edited by: CHRISTOPHER NORMAN

GILL

POSTLETHWAITE and

RICHARD

OXFORD

SEAFORD

UNIVERSITY

PRESS

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OXFORD

UNIVERSITY PRESS

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Oxford University Press 1998

The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) Reprinted 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover And you must impose this same condition on any acquirer ISBN 978-0-19-814997-2 Cover illustration: Attic black-figure neck-amphora from Vulci, signed by Exekias, c.540 BC, illustrating Dionysos and his son Oinopion (B210). British Museum.

Preface

Tuis volume of new essays is based on a conference on ‘Reciprocity in Ancient Greece’, held at the University of Exeter in July 1993. All the chapters are either based on papers given at the conference or were written specifically for the volume. The chapters cover a spectrum of literary, historical, and philosophical topics out of the very wide range of subjects in ancient Greek culture to which the idea of reciprocity is relevant; the arrangement of subjects in the volume is broadly chronological. We should like to thank the British Academy, the Classical Association of England and Wales, and the Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies for financial assistance towards the conference. We are grateful to Hilary O’Shea for her support and guidance, and to an anonymous reader for the Press. Special thanks are due to Kerensa Pearson for her characteristically careful and systematic secretarial work in preparing the volume for publication. All secondary works, identified by date, are listed in the Bibliography, with the exception of standard reference works. (References within the volume are normally given in this form, ‘see van Wees, Ch. 1, Sect. ıv’.) Unidentified abbreviations for ancient authors and works are normally those given in Liddell-ScottJones, Greek-English Lexicon, gth edition (Oxford, 1940). We have gone further than is customary in transliterating Greek personal and place names rather than using the conventional Latinate forms, but we have retained ‘y’ for ‘u’, as in Aiskhylos, Odysseus. C.G., N.P., B.S. University of Exeter January 1997

Contents

Notes on Contributors

ΙΧ

In troduction

RICHARD

SEAFORD

The Law of Gratitude: Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory HANS VAN WEES Political Reciprocity in Dark Age Greece: Odysseus and his hetairoi WALTER DONLAN

51

Beyond Reciprocity: The Akhilleus-Priam Scene in Ihad 24 GRAHAM ZANKER Akhilleus and Agamemnon: Generalized Reciprocity NORMAN POSTLETHWAITE Pleasing Thighs: Reciprocity in Greek Religion ROBERT PARKER The Reciprocity of Giving and Thanksgiving in Greek Worship JAN-MAARTEN BREMER

93

105

127

Harming Friends: Problematic Reciprocity in Greek Tragedy ELIZABETH BELFIORE Herodotos on the Problematics of Reciprocity DAVID BRAUND Reciprocal Generosity in the Foreign Affairs of FifthCentury Athens and Sparta ANNA MISSIOU

159

181

Vill

Contents

10.

Reciprocity, Altruism, and the Prisoner’s Dilemma: The Special Case of Classical Athens 199 GABRIEL HERMAN

11.

The Rhetoric of Reciprocity in Classical Athens PAUL MILLETT

12.

The Commodification of Symbols: Reciprocity and its Perversions in Menander SITTA VON REDEN

227

255

13.

Reciprocity and Friendship DAVID KONSTAN

279

14.

Altruism or Reciprocity in Greek Ethical Philosophy? CHRISTOPHER GILL

303

Bibliography

329

Index of Ancient Passages

357

General Index

364

Notes

on Contributors

ELIZABETH BELFIORE University of Minnesota.

is Associate Professor of Classics at the

Davip Braun is Professor of Mediterranean History at the University of Exeter. JaAN-MAARTEN of Amsterdam.

BREMER

WALTER DONLAN California at Irvine.

and

Black

Sea

is Professor of Greek at the University

is Professor of Classics at the University of

CHRISTOPHER GILL University of Exeter.

is Professor

of Ancient

Thought

at the

GABRIEL HERMAN is Senior Lecturer in Ancient History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Davip Konstan is John Rowe Workman Distinguished Professor of Classics and Comparative Literature at Brown University. PauL MILLETT is University Lecturer at Cambridge and Fellow of Downing College.

the

University

of

ANNA Miıssıou is Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Crete, Rethymno. ROBERT PARKER is Wykeham Professor of Greek History at the University of Oxford and Fellow of New College. NORMAN POSTLETHWAITE University of Exeter. RICHARD SEAFORD University of Exeter. Hans van WEEs College, London.

is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the

is Professor

of

Greek

is Lecturer in Ancient

SITTA VON REDEN University of Bristol.

is

Lecturer

in

Literature

the

History at University

Ancient

GRAHAM ZANKER is Research Professor University of Canterbury, New Zealand.

at

of

History

at

the

Classics

at

the

Introduction RICHARD

SEAFORD

Reciprocity is the principle and practice of voluntary requital, of benefit for benefit (positive reciprocity) or harm for harm (negative reciprocity). It is to be found in various kinds of Greek practice and discourse, providing a common theme for the various specialisms represented in this volume. It is to be found as an ethical value, as a factor in interpersonal relations, as an element of political cohesion, as economically significant, as a way of structuring human relations with deity, as shaping the pattern of epic and historical narrative, as a central theme of drama. It is well known, moreover, that, as VAN WEES’s survey here of the anthropological literature shows, reciprocity is in general a more central value and practice in the economic, political, and interpersonal processes of pre-state societies than it is in those of modern industrial societies. And yet we are still acutely familiar, at least in our everyday lives, with the demands of reciprocity. Where does ancient Greece, which in various respects forms a bridge between societies of primitive technology and ourselves, stand in respect of reciprocity? How Pervasive was Greek reciprocity? Does the relative unimportance of reciprocity in modern Western society prevent us from understanding the interrelation of the reciprocities manifest in the various spheres of Greek practice and discourse?! Did reciprocity vary in importance, in each of these spheres, in different periods of Greek history and in the different forms of Greek society? What were the factors determining any such variation? Were the factors that have marginalized reciprocity in our own society also operating in ancient Greece? ' One could add further spheres not covered by this volume, e.g. early Greek cosmology. For an example of the cultural pervasiveness of reciprocity in a different kind of pre-modern society (the Kalali people of Papua New Guinea) see Schieffelin (1980).

2

Richard Seaford

The definition of reciprocity given above is not the only possible one,” but it is the one largely adopted in this volume. Both its major components, ‘requital’ and ‘voluntary’, require immediate qualification. Firstly, generosity (or harm) that is not an act of requital may nevertheless, if requited, be said with hindsight to belong to a pattern of reciprocity. Secondly, ‘voluntary’ means that pressure (social, moral, etc.) to requite is not envisaged as by itself sufficient to enforce the requital. There remains a freedom not to requite. Because requital is expected but not enforced, an act of generosity, even if seen as perhaps designed to elicit requital, may nevertheless retain an appearance (or even the reality) of gratifying disinterestedness, for there is always the possibility that it will not be requited. The definition is clarified further in various respects by comparing it to commercial exchange. It is in part our experience of the pervasiveness of commercial exchange that gives us a special interest in perceiving reciprocity as a contrasting phenomenon. Commercial exchange may, like reciprocity, seem to involve voluntary requital, for it is generally voluntary and involves requital. But in fact of course the reguital is not voluntary. You purchase my car voluntarily, but if you receive it from me by ‘purchase’, then there is nothing voluntary about your requiting me for it by ‘payment’. If you do not pay, I can invoke a third party (the law) to force you to do so or to return the car. The requital to which our definition of reciprocity refers, on the other hand, can be enforced neither by the other party to the exchange nor by any third party, however strongly it is encouraged by an ethical code. And so among the factors producing the requital may frequently be goodwill (or enmity, where harm is requited). The principle (or ethical code) and practice of reciprocity do therefore serve to establish and maintain relationships (friendly or hostile) between individuals or 2 See e.g. van Wees in this volume (15-20). On the possible articulation into ‘generalized’, ‘balanced’, and ‘negative’ reciprocity see Donlan in this volume (51). My definition is not meant to exclude the kind of reciprocity in which the reciprocations involve at least three agents and the actors do not benefit each other directly but only indirectly, i.e. in which A’s benefit to B causes B to benefit C, and thereby C to benefit A (or D, etc., with A benefiting eventually). This ‘univocal reciprocity’ ceases to count as reciprocity, I suggest, to the extent that it becomes (as it may, more easily than ‘mutual reciprocity’) a matter of generalized rights and duties. See van Wees in this volume (21), and Ekeh (1974), 205-6. For a discussion of reciprocity from the perspective of social exchange theory see Chadwick-Jones

(1976), 242-76.

Introduction

3

groups. Such relationships may be extended in time by the indeterminacy of the time period within which it is felt appropriate to requite, as well as by the fact that, despite a general expectation of a rough equivalence between gift (or harm) and requital, there is also a general lack of concern with (or of the means to measure) precise equivalence, with the result that requital may not so much ‘even the score’ as be felt to require further requital (VAN WEES, IV). In these respects reciprocity is again in polar opposition to commercial exchange gua commercial exchange, which creates no relationship between the parties to it, is instantaneous (the transaction, though not necessarily the payment), and involves precise equivalence between the items exchanged. In noting this polarity we are of course using abstract models. In reality commercial exchange and reciprocity may combine in various ways, so that it may not always be possible to say whether a transaction is one or the other (BRAUND, 161-2; cf. VAN WEEs, v).? But the proper use of abstract models, so far from necessarily reducing the infinitely various complexity of the phenomena to a few formulae, may be a useful instrument for understanding it. Further, both commercial exchange and reciprocity are in reality very often precisely as I have defined them, however numerous the meanings they may also simultaneously embody. And the distinction between them is needed for understanding the important historical development of commercial exchange and of the city-state from the eighth to the fourth century BC, a development that is touched on in several contributions and is a central theme of this Introduction. Commercial exchange embodies a relationship between the items exchanged rather than between the parties to the exchange,* and generally involves a mutual absolute egoism that is by definition incompatible with (beneficial) reciprocity. Of course friendliness, honesty, etc., may be helpful in commercial exchange. But at the heart of commercial exchange gua commercial exchange is the desire by both parties to get the best deal possible. The factors that limit self-advantage are external (the law, the facts of supply and demand, etc.). They generally do not include goodwill towards the 3 The closeness of the two is more likely to be assumed by those social exchange theorists who stress economic motives in social exchange generally than by those (such as Malinowski and Lévi-Strauss) who tend rather to attach symbolic value to social exchange items. See in general Ekeh (1974). * On the differences between gift exchange and commodity exchange see Gregory (1982).

4

Richard Seaford

other party: if they do, then this goodwill may be subordinate in the short or long term to self-advantage and/or may indeed be an element of reciprocity. Reciprocity has been considered to be a cultural universal, like the incest taboo.? In general it occupies a more central place (economically, politically, and socially) in pre-modern societies, and especially in pre-state societies, than in modern industrial societies, in which its functions have been partly replaced by commercial exchange and by the apparatus of the state. But even in a society, such as our own, thoroughly penetrated by market relations and by the organized rule of law, reciprocity plays an inevitable part. In interpersonal relations positive reciprocity may be valued as a welcome refuge from the encroachment of impersonal commodification. In transactions of economic or political significance, on the other hand, even positive reciprocity may be condemned—as cutting across impartiality. I am thinking not only of the (positive and negative) reciprocity of networks such as the mafia, but also, for example, of how the indeterminacy that (we have noted) may sustain reciprocal goodwill may also encourage sleaze. It facilitates, for instance, the attempt to acquire a political favour or honour in return for a donation to a political party, a transaction which, precisely because it is not a commercial exchange, is difficult to pin down or prevent, even when, as occurs especially in the USA, the intent is made unusually clear by simultaneous donation to the election funds of both political parties. The central role of the positive reciprocity of gift-giving in the Homeric poems is consistent both with itself and with its role generally in numerous pre-modern societies. This demonstration, one of the most successful recent applications of anthropology to the classics,® is taken further in this volume by DONLAN’s analysis of the leader-people reciprocity between Odysseus and his hetairoi in books g-ı2 of the Odyssey. Crucial here, as generally in Homer, is the lack of an external constraint (state institutions, written law, money, etc.) to enforce the will of one party or the other.’

5 Gouldner (1960), 171. ® Finley (1978); Donlan (1981-2), (1982), (1989a), (1993). 7 An interesting quasi-exception is the constraint consisting of Odysseus’ violence on Thersites, who had complained (like Akhilleus) about Agamemnon’s maldistribution of booty, Il. 2.211-77.

Introduction

5

The internal consistency of the depiction of reciprocity can be extended to Homeric ethics. There has been scholarly debate about the extent to which virtues in Homer are co-operative (such as justice and generosity) or competitive (such as individual prowess in war).® But this distinction may obstruct our understanding of a system of ethics pervaded by reciprocity, for reciprocity transcends the distinction. Generosity may at the same time be admired as generosity and, precisely because it is so admired, be a competitive means of obtaining prestige and power. Individual competition for honour (and its material embodiments) through military prowess is of benefit to the community that bestows it (/had 4.341-8, 12.310-21). The potential unhelpfulness of the division here between competitive and co-operative virtues is a symptom of the wider inadequacy of discussing ethics with insufficient attention to social formation. How, to take another example, can the virtue of honour be understood other than in connection with its role in a society held together not by state institutions but by codes of reciprocity?? Positive reciprocity, as we have defined it, transcends the distinction between egoism and altruism by deploying each of them in the service of the other. The question then arises, and is debated in this volume, as to what extent, if at all, the Greeks admired altruism quite independently of the moral framework provided by reciprocity. On the one hand ZANKER argues that altruism (defined as ‘beneficence towards others primarily for their own sake’) was a significant element in Greek thought generally, and in particular in the Homeric representation of Akhilleus’ behaviour to Priam in the last book of the Mad. On the other hand PosTLETHWAITE sees Akhilleus’ behaviour rather as ‘an assertion of his own authority by means of generalized reciprocity’ in his continuing conflict with Agamemnon; and GILL maintains that the exceptional contact between Priam and Akhilleus ‘is structured, formally and conceptually, by the standard norms of Homeric ethics (which I take to be solidarity and reciprocity) rather than altruism’. My own view is that the manifold crisis of reciprocity at the heart of the [lad is finally resolved, in the Akhilleus—Priam scene, neither by the transition to a generalized, abstract beneficence towards others nor merely by the restoration (through Akhilleus’ acceptance of 8 Adkins (1960); Long (1970).

9. Posner (1979).

6

Richard Seaford

Priam’s gifts) of the norm of reciprocity, but rather, largely by the power of death ritual to unite enemies—a power of importance to the development of the city-state.!° I suspect that, historically, the centrality of the egoism—altruism distinction in ethical debate, together with its complete abstraction from reciprocity, emerges from the centrality of commercial exchange (and the corresponding marginalization of reciprocity) in social and economic relations. What I have called the mutual absolute egoism of commercial exchange becomes in practice a generally accepted abstract norm, indiscriminately pervading ever more social relations. Influenced by this subtly pervasive norm, though without necessarily being conscious of its origin, the moral sensibility is driven to establish the opposite pole of generalized, abstract, indiscriminate altruism. To claim that this process has clearly advanced much further in capitalist Europe than it ever did in Greco-Roman antiquity is not of course to say that an abstract, generalized duty of beneficence played no role in moral choice before the time of Immanuel Kant, or that entirely altruistic acts were never performed before the term ‘altruisme’ was invented by Auguste Comte. The point is about development of the norm and its effect on conceptualization.!! Although the Greek economy was the first in history to be pervaded by coinage (in the advanced city-states from the fifth century Bc), in the classical period at least it remained to some extent embedded (as in other pre-modern societies) in non-economic social relations and practices:!? the increasing importance of commercial exchange neither produced a system of economic institutions nor pervaded and transformed social relations to the extent characteristic of advanced capitalism. This broad historical tension should not be forgotten as we explore the tensions in the representations of the pervasive social practice of reciprocity in the various spheres of rhetoric, philosophical ethics, drama, historiography, and religion. Homeric society is, being largely without state institutions and commercial exchange, just the kind of society in which we would expect reciprocity to play a central role.'? In Athenian society of the 10 Seaford (1994), ch. 5. 1 Cf. the general case, argued by development of commodity exchange 12 An idea promoted especially by tory by M. I. Finley: see Humphreys 51 and von Reden, 256-7. 13 Seaford (1994), 6, 13-14.

Sohn-Rethel (1978), for the influence of the on the philosophy of Kant. K. Polanyi and taken further into Greek his(19786), 31-75, and see in this volume Donlan,

Introduction

7

classical period, on the other hand, with its written law, state apparatus, and commerce facilitated by coinage, we would expect reciprocity to be in some respects relatively limited in scope. The unstable reciprocity described by DONLAN, in which the only or primary means the Homeric leader has to keep his supporters is the prestige acquired by generosity and good leadership, may with the development of state institutions allow the balance of power to be shifted in favour of the autocrat, or less frequently, as in the case of Athenian democracy, in favour of the community. The claims of various individual Athenians for a reciprocal gesture from their jurors in return for generosity towards the community, analysed here by MILLETT, are appeals to the institutionalized sovereignty of the community. The law-court speeches are also used by HERMAN in his contention that in the Athenian democracy the intervention of the community was the key factor in producing conceptions of reciprocity quite different from those to be found in Homer. Communal opinion might be mobilized to promote a liberal spirit in the doing of favours, encouraging a strategy which (as demonstrated by a computerized programme in game theory), by being ‘forgiving up to a certain point of non-reciprocation, maximizes the overall welfare of those who employ it. Secondly, the negative reciprocity of vengeance is ‘rendered redundant by the community’s capacity to administer punishment effectively’ (215). Thirdly, gift-exchange with an outsider might from the perspective of the community be redefined as bribery. Similarly, Missıou discusses the evidence for Athenian leaders enhancing their democratic credentials by renouncing relations of positive reciprocity within the city, and sees the democratization of Athens as also underlying the distinctive Athenian playing down of reciprocal obligation in inter-state relations. On an even broader canvas, BRAUND demonstrates the importance in Herodotos of intercultural reciprocity, in which the (often dangerous) uncertainty surrounding reciprocity is especially likely to occur. Further light on the historical contingency of reciprocal relations, again highlighting the distinctive character of classical Athens, is provided by KONSTAN’s distinction between on the one hand the ideal of friendship between equals in democratic Athens and on the other hand, in the Hellenistic period and later, friendship between people of unequal status (and the concomitant problem of flattery). The problematic nature of reciprocity in classical Athens, and

8

Richard Seaford

the contrast with Homeric reciprocity, are also manifest in its drama. BELFIORE shows that Homer and tragedy stand at opposite poles in their representation of reciprocity: a feature of almost all extant tragedy is harm done within relationships characterized by positive reciprocity, namely relationships of philia—whether the philot are outsiders brought into the philia group (by marriage, xenia, suppliancy) or whether they are blood-kin.!* Von REDEN explores in Menander’s comedies the confrontation between on the one hand the order and civic community embodied in positive reciprocity, and on the other hand the corrosive disorder embodied in commodity exchange. This antithesis is based on the persistence of positive reciprocity in actual social practice (alongside commodity exchange) to an extent unknown in a modern economy,'? a persistence that forms the background to GiLr’s claim that the altruism recommended in ancient philosophical ethics is to be taken not as an abstract, general duty, but rather as the kind of altruism that implies a framework of reciprocity. Further light on the problematization of reciprocity in the classical polis can be provided by a brief excursus on Plato. The Seventh Letter'® eschews both negative and positive reciprocity. The evils of civil war will never cease while people take revenge (τιμωρία) on their enemies (336e). And it emerges from the failures of the elder Dionysos and of Dion that doing favours is not a firm basis for friendship (33224, 333e; cf. 325d), the only such basis being association in liberal studies G.e. philosophy, 334b). In Plato’s Republic Sokrates rejects reciprocity (doing good to friends and harm to enemies’, 332c) as a definition of justice, and is then invited to show why one should act justly if one can instead manage to act selfishly without suffering adverse consequences—as in the extreme case of Gyges, who acquired power in Lydia by means of a ring whose bezel made him invisible. Gyges, who did in fact rule Lydia in the seventh century, was for the Greeks the first trannos (absolute ruler with no constitutional basis). The theme of invisibility no doubt reflects the mysterious power of the ruler’s signet Gn the bezel of his ring) to enforce the authority of an unseen autocrat 14 Note also, in tragedy, again in sharp contrast to Homer, the sense of the instability of reciprocity and the generally destructive function of the gift: Seaford

(1994), 388-405. 15 Herman in this volume (208-12); Millett (ig99r), esp. 116-26. 16 Whether Plato (or an early follower) wrote it is still uncertain. A recent contribution to this debate is by Lloyd (1990).

Introduction

9

throughout his realm. In another version he acquires his great wealth through his ring. Whatever the historical truth about Gyges, he represented for the Greek imagination a new kind of personal power, which, to the extent that it was based on organized control of the state and its wealth,'” no longer needed to be based (like the Homeric hero’s power) on reciprocity. Tyranny reappears, later in the Republic, as the worst possible kind of rule. The tyrant alienates everybody of consequence, is hated by all his (worthless) companions, and can rely only on outsiders whom he pays with the wealth of the temples and of his victims (567, 568d). Like the turannos of tragedy, the tyrannical character commits incest, murder, sacrilege, and violence against his closest kin (571c-d, 574c). His wealth and power isolate him from all claims of reciprocity. Sokrates is in the Republic required to construct an account of justice for a world in which we have seen that reciprocity is not only morally inadequate but also unable to constrain absolute power. Accordingly, justice and cohesion are maintained in his ideal state not by a network of reciprocal relations but by its foundation on objective rational principle understood by its philosopher rulers. But this does not mean that positive reciprocity is excluded altogether. In particular, as GILL points out (315-17), it is invoked at a crucial moment in the argument: the problem of why the philosopher-rulers should be concerned to govern the city, rather than confine themselves to the happiness of philosophical contemplation, is resolved, at least in part, by their keenness to requite the cost of their upbringing (520b4, ἐκτίνειν... τὰ τροφεῖα). The relatively neglected phenomenon of reciprocity in Greek religion is addressed by BREMER, who investigates terminology, gifts, and hymns, to show that (contrary to some scholarly views) the Greeks did thank their deities, and by PARKER, who concentrates on sacrifice. In Homer the fundamental importance of positive reciprocity between humans provides a way for them to envisage their relationship with deity. And reciprocity remains important in the relations of humans with each other and with deity into the classical period and beyond. But we would also expect the '7 Coinage was invented in Lydia in the time of Gyges, or even earlier: Seaford (1994), 224-5. Nikolaos of Damascus’ remark on Gyges, ‘by giving them gifts he made them mercenaries for himself? (go FGH F97(9) ), seems to embody the transition from reciprocity to payment.

Io

Richard Seaford

problematization of reciprocity that we have observed in the classical polis to have consequences for the representation of religious reciprocity. I mention here briefly three examples (the first two discussed by PARKER) of what may be consequences of this kind. (1) In certain texts of the classical period (including Plato) reciprocity between humans and deities comes to seem problematic because it has to some extent been reconceived in terms of the (more mechanical and impersonal) process of commercial exchange. (2) Another threat to the idea of reciprocity with deity might be posed in theory by the notion—to be found in Xenophanes, Antiphon, and Euripides—that deity needs nothing. I would add that the new kind of deity imagined by Xenophanes in the sixth century BC—a single god, the greatest among gods and men, always in the same place, shaking all things by his thought, needing nothing!*—is in principle as frighteningly removed from the claims of reciprocity as (I have suggested) in the same period the new kind of ruler, the allpowerful ‘tyrant’, is imagined to be. (3) The subversion (by eating raw) or rejection of normal animal sacrifice by certain mystic groups may perhaps be interpreted as in part a rejection of the distance between deity and mortal implied by sacrificial reciprocity.'? And so, for example, given the constant association of kharis (‘delight’, ‘favour’) and its cognates with reciprocity, and their frequent application to sacrificial offerings,?® it may not be a coincidence that in Euripides’ Bakchai (139-40) the presence of the god among his worshippers is mentioned in the same breath as the ‘raweating kharis’?! involved in the killing of a goat.?? In conclusion, for the Athenians in the classical period the practice of reciprocity remained important, but was also in various respects marginalized and problematized. The economic role of 18 Xenophanes B 23-6, A 32.23-5 DK. 19 See Detienne (1979), 59-64, 88-9. 20 Parker in this volume, 108-9; MacLachan (1993). 21: Another instructively paradoxical characterization of kharis in tragedy is at A. A. 182 ‘there is a violent kharis of the gods who sit on the awesome bench (of the helmsman)’. This implies that ‘crimes, as well as sacrifices, evoke a response’ (Parker, 106), that positive and negative reciprocity are somehow one, and that human negative reciprocity will, through positive reciprocity from the gods, be ended by the polis (cf. the image of the helmsman guiding the ship of state at e.g. A. Th. 2-3, 62-4; with A. 176 ὁδώσαντα cf. Pr. 498; with A. 181 σωφρονεῖν cf. A. Eu. 1000 (also 276, 520-1, 988)). 22 Another example of a non-reciprocal relation between mortals and deities imagined as present in mystery cult is that of the Eleusinian Demeter as nurse or mother to the initiands: Richardson (1974) 29, 191-2, 235-6.

Introduction

II

positive reciprocity had been reduced (though not of course eliminated) by the development of commercial exchange. Both positive and negative reciprocity might be considered threatening to the polis, as bribery and reciprocal violence, and so to be controlled by state institutions. The ability of state organization to marginalize the role of reciprocity could also take a more alarming form, by permitting the novel possibility, at least in the imagination, that the centralization of economic and institutional power in the monstrous figure of the ‘tyrant’ could substitute mere egoism for the central moral principle of reciprocity that is so important in Homer. But the problematization of reciprocity, whose effects we have noted in the drama, philosophy and religion of the classical period, sprang from much more than a fear of tyranny. The advance of commercial exchange, along with polis institutions, at the expense of reciprocity would, with its possibilities of mere egoism, bring into the moral world of every Athenian a new kind of anxiety requiring the kind of symbolic resolution, the reconciliation of the old with the new, that we find, for example, on a cosmic scale, in the Prometheia attributed to Aischylos. Here the egotistical ‘tyrant’ Zeus both feels self-sufficient enough to want to destroy mankind and to torture his own relative and _ benefactor Prometheus (Pr., esp. 223-7), and yet in the end holds on to power only, it seems, by an exchange of favours with Prometheus which also (it has been plausibly suggested) involves the permanent establishment of Justice among mankind.

I

The Law of Gratitude: Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory HANS

VAN

WEES

GRATITUDE... is the fourth Law of Nature; which may be conceived in this Forme, That a man which receiveth Benefit of another of meer Grace, Endeavour that he which giveth it, have no reasonable cause to repent him of his good will. For no man giveth,

but with

intention

of Good

Thomas

τ,

to himselfe.

Hobbes, Leviathan (1651), τοῖς

INTRODUCTION

Travellers are struck by nothing so much as by the generosity of strangers, and so it was with many early anthropologists in the field. Reports of lavish hospitality, extensive gift-giving, and generous chieftains accumulated and eventually led Karl Polanyi to declare that the primitive spirit of exchange was radically different from our own. In tribal communities, he believed, ‘the premium set on generosity is so great when measured in terms of social prestige as to make any behaviour other than that of utter self-forgetfulness simply not pay’.! Some of the natives studied are happy to agree: The Fijian way of life is good, eh ? Nothing is paid for... . The food is not paid for, it is ust given. You are hungry ? Yes. Fine. Come and eat, come and eat here. Come here and eat fish. You want to drink ? Fine, come and drink yagona here... . This is the Fujian way... But it is different with you Europeans. Everything is paid for. You all live alone, each family by itself. (Toren 1989, 142.) ! Polanyi 1944 (1968), 8. (In refs. of this type in this chapter, the first date, without brackets, is that of the original publication, the second that of the edition whose page nos. are cited: both editions are listed in the Bibliog.) Admittedly, Polanyi normally takes a less extreme view, but it is this perspective that his critics have taken against, e.g. Cook (1966), 328. See also 34-40 below.

14

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Recent anthropological opinion, however, has turned its back on ‘this romantic idealization of the world of the gift... . as nonexploitative, innocent and even transparent’ (Bloch and Parry

1989, 9). Informants who say they exchange for ‘love’ or ‘generosity’ are following a myth that serves in their society to hide a reality of self-interest. The anthropologist who then insists on labelling this act as a ‘gift’ [is] perpetuating and creating an image of ‘the primitive’ as a person, or ‘primitive society’ as a way of life, that has survived on some fundamental principle other than self-interest.”

The distortions of native ideology, it is said, are compounded by those of modern Western ideology, which draws a black and white distinction between ‘purely altruistic’ gift-giving and ‘purely interested’ market transactions—a distinction peculiar to capitalist society,’ and one which obscures the mixed motives governing most forms of exchange most of the time.* This may seem a dramatic change of mind, but in fact each of the classic studies of gift-giving had been at pains not to overstate the difference between primitive and modern moralities of exchange. Although Bronislaw Malinowski, in Argonauts of the Western Pacific (1922), stressed that for his Trobrianders ‘to possess is to give’, he also noted that ‘many a man will carefully conceal any surplus so as to avoid the obligation of sharing it’. In his next, more theoretical, book, Crime and Custom in Savage Society (1926), he was firmer on the matter: ‘the social behaviour of the natives is based on a well-assessed give and take, always mentally ticked off and in the long run balanced.’® His pupil, Raymond Firth, went further still in Primitive Economics of the New Zealand Maori (1929), pointing out that ‘in the exchange of gifts the ostensible principle [is] to give as much as possible in return for anything received’, but at the same time claiming that ‘beneath the surface liberality of the transaction runs a strong current of self-interest’.? That crucial point had by then also been made by Marcel Mauss, 2 Weiner (1976), 221 (emphasis deleted); cf. (1980), 76-7. See further Bourdieu’s influential analysis of ‘the institutionally organized and guaranteed misrecognition which is the basis of gift-exchange’, (1977), 171-97. 3 Bloch and Parry (1989), 9-11; also Parry (1986), 458. + Appadurai (1986), 11-13; Davis (1992), esp. 6-7, 45-6. 5 Malinowski (1922), 97, 178; also 173. ® Malinowski (1926), 26; also 55-6. 7 Firth 1929 (1959), 422-3.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

15

with the very first observation on ‘archaic’ exchange in his famous Essai sur le don (1925): ‘the form usually taken is that of the gift generously offered; but the accompanying behaviour is formal pretence and social deception, while the transaction itself is based on obligation and economic self-interest’ὃ What makes it possible to consider one’s self-interest while appearing to act in the interests of others is the principle of reciprocity, which demands that benefits bestowed must be repaid. The apparent prevalence of generosity in primitive society is really the prevalence of reciprocity in social relations, and on this point at any rate there is broad agreement amongst anthropologists. Institutionalized reciprocal exchange, in all its many material and symbolic forms, is widely regarded as the tribal equivalent of what keeps modern society together: it is, so to speak, the market, the law, and the state rolled into one.?

11.

DEFINITIONS

OF

RECIPROCITY

What is reciprocity? As so often with important concepts, there is little agreement on precisely what is meant by it. One finds reciprocity used in its widest possible sense as a synonym for exchange of any kind, but equally in its most narrow and colloquial sense as denoting one particular type of exchange, that is, the giving and returning of gifts and favours. The confusion is such that one survey of anthropologists’ vague and varied uses of the term warns ‘that the language of reciprocity should be avoided in descriptions or analyses of tribal societies or, at least . . . used with great restraint’.!° It has even been suggested that our notion of reciprocity may not be cross-culturally applicable at all (J. Davis 1992, 29). Abandoning the term would, surely, be a waste of a perfectly good concept, but, as recent work rightly stresses, each culture defines its own unique range of categories of exchange, and ‘the description of all types of exchanges as reciprocal easily leads to an obscuring of 8 Mauss 1925, 1. I cite the first English translation, by Ian Cunnison (1954), rather than the more recent one, by W.D. Halls (1990). ° Institutionalized reciprocity as the equivalent of (1) the market: esp. Polanyi 1944 (1968), 9-16; 1957 (1968), 149-53; of (2) civil law: Malinowski (1926), esp. 58; and of (3) the state: esp. Sahlins 1965 (1972), 169. 10 MacCormack (1976), 101; Parry (1986), 466.

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the significant differences between them’.'! What is wanted, then, is a definition which is sufficiently restrictive but retains a degree of general applicability. Yet there has been little systematic progress in this direction since Alvin Gouldner’s self-proclaimed ‘preliminary statement’ on the subject, dating from 1960. Gouldner distinguishes two main kinds of reciprocity. One comprises the ‘specific and complementary duties’ which people owe to one another ‘by virtue of the socially standardized roles they play’. The other consists of a ‘generalized’ and ‘indeterminate’ norm governing ‘countless ad hoc transactions’ which are not ‘regulated by specific status obligations’. Simplifying a little, one might speak of formal and personal reciprocities.'? An example may help illustrate the meaning of the distinction. A generation ago, in a village in the French Pyrenees, it was one of the mayor’s duties to sign certain forms for the villagers. For the younger people, who knew their rights, he would sign without further ado, but when the form and he would he would

old people [went] to the mayor with a form, he would look at the then pause with his hand over the paper. Looking at the peasant say that he would rendre service to them [i.e. ‘do them a favour’); rendre service and fill in the form.

In the same vein, the mayor once canvassed a family’s vote by reminding them of how he had provided for them a water supply to their cowshed; the family, however, denied being obligated to him on that count, insisting that they had a right to a proper water supply (Blaxter 1971, 133-4). Here we find a clash between the two kinds of reciprocity. On the one hand, formal reciprocity, a set of definite rights and duties, is meant to govern relations between mayor and villagers. He must sign their forms, they must reciprocate by, say, obeying his by-laws. They must pay their local taxes, he must ensure a functioning water supply. This is an instance of the ‘specific and complementary’ formal reciprocity found also in relations between husbands and wives, parents and children, teach1! MacCormack (1976), 101; also J. Davis (1992), 10-11, 22-9; Gell (1992), 150-6. The broadest sense of the word, however, is still applied by Leach (1982), 150: ‘All person-to-person relationships entail reciprocity’; 152: ‘reciprocity is implicit in the very idea of a relationship’. See also Braund, Ch. 8, 160 below. 12 Gouldner (1960), 170, 175. The terms ‘formal’ and ‘personal’ are not Gouldner’s, but convey in shorthand the distinction he makes. Mauss (1925) and Malinowski (1926) treated all kinds of ‘compulsory obligations of one individual or group towards another individual or group’ (1926, 12) as belonging to an undivided category of reciprocity.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

17

ers and students, employers and employees.'? On the other hand, we find the mayor, for his own purposes, appealing to the norm of personal reciprocity. He pretends that his actions are not dutybound, but voluntary, and that those who benefit from them therefore ought to reciprocate by equally going beyond their established duties to him and offering their ‘voluntary’ political support. This is an example of the personal reciprocity obtaining very widely, not only between would-be patrons and reluctant clients, as here, but between friends, colleagues, acquaintances, or even between strangers. Although in our illustration the two types of reciprocity are at odds, it is of course quite possible for the two to co-exist, with formal reciprocity forming the basis of many well-defined social relations, while personal reciprocity functions as ‘a kind of plastic filler, capable of being poured into the shifting crevices of social structures, and serving as a kind of all-purpose moral cement’, to borrow Gouldner’s DIY metaphor (1960, 175). Moreover, as Gouldner also points out, invoking the norms of personal reciprocity is one way of justifying the more concrete demands of status obligations. Forced to the wall, the man demanding his ‘rights’ may say, in effect, ‘Very well, if you don’t do this simply because it is your duty, then remember all that I have done for you in the past and do it to repay your debt to me’... . In this manner, the sentiment of gratitude joins forces with the sentiment of rectitude.!*

In any society one would expect to find a wide range of reciprocities, from entirely formalized reciprocal obligations—precisely defined and inescapable—to entirely personalized expectations of reciprocity—diffuse and left to the discretion of the parties involved. Nevertheless, the two types of reciprocity are not only separable for analytical purposes, but may be distinguished in practice by applying a simple criterion. If one side would feel obliged to continue to fulfil their duties to the other even if their efforts were not reciprocated, we should speak of formalized reciprocal obligations, inherent in one’s social role or status. If, however, either side 13 “Complementarity’ is sometimes used as a technical term for this type of reciprocity: Gouldner (1960), 168-9 (developing Talcott Parsons’s terminology); Leach (1982), 150. 14. Gouldner (1960), 175-6; also Bourdieu (1977), 171, on turning ‘inevitable’ relations of ‘kinship, neighbourhood, or work, into elective relations of reciprocity’.

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would stop fulfilling its duties once the other stopped fulfilling theirs, we should define the reciprocity involved as personal, since it ‘evokes obligations toward others on the basis of their past behaviour’ (Gouldner 1960, 170). Gouldner’s valuable attempt at definition is open to two chief objections. The first of these is that role-bound obligations, which may be notionally reciprocal but remain in force even when they are not actually reciprocated, cannot properly be counted as a form of reciprocity. The point has been brought home especially by Alfred Gell, who, having originally interpreted the life of ‘his’ tribe, the Umeda of Papua New Guinea, as dominated by rules of reciprocity, subsequently recanted and emphasized that the tribesmen and women themselves regard most of the things they do for one another as a matter of unconditional duty, not as a matter of reciprocal exchange. For instance, when an Umeda hunter offers to his in-laws some of the game killed, he does not regard these portions as ‘presents given’ but as ‘shares sent’. Gell concludes that where people act, as the Umeda do, ‘not because the services they perform are reciprocated’, but because ‘prescribed role-definitions oblige each and every person to perform services towards prescribed others in accordance with the division of labour by sex and age, and the recognition of kinship statuses’, it is ‘most misleading’ to speak of reciprocity.'? A second objection is that one needs to differentiate further within the category of reciprocity here called ‘personal’. As defined by Gouldner, it still embraces quite a wide range of ‘voluntary’ (that is to say, non-role-bound) forms of exchange, including not only gift-giving but also, for instance, barter and sale. While some anthropologists are content to treat all such exchanges as forms of reciprocity, others follow Polanyi in insisting that barter and sale are forms of market exchange, a category which they regard as diametrically opposed to reciprocity. Others, less sanguine about the absolute difference between these two categories, still agree that it is unhelpful to impose a single label on categories of exchange which in many cultures are perceived as quite distinct.'® It may 15 Gell (1992), 150, 151-2, 155-6. 16 Polanyi 1944 (1968), 7-36; 1957 (1968), 149-57; contra Sahlins 1965 (1972), 191-6, who makes reciprocity include all the types of exchange listed by Malinowski (1922), 176-90, from ‘pure gift’ to ‘trade, pure and simple’. For an intermediate position, see J. Davis (1992), 6-46.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

19

therefore be advisable to confine the use of reciprocity to its narrowest sense, referring specifically to the giving and receiving of gifts and favours, recognized as a category of exchange in many societies. Our attitude to gifts and favours is, normally, to deny that these are subject to any obligation, even when, for all practical purposes, they are. In our society, ‘for a gift to be a gift it must be experienced as something extra—something beyond . . . conventional expectations’, which ‘can properly be greeted with the ritual response of “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” (Cheal 1988, 13). So too, ‘whenever a favour has been done the return of grace is always expected’, yet ‘conventional formulae for the acknowledgement of thanks . . . consist curiously enough in denying that a favour has been done. Hence in Spanish de nada, in Italian de nulla and in French de rien ...In English “Don’t mention it”, but in American English “It was a pleasure” is the most explicit form.’'!” This matches exactly the observations of Mauss, Malinowski, Firth, and many others, about the nature of gifts and other ‘prestations’ in tribal cultures, emphasizing the appearance of generosity and the underlying obligation to give, receive, and repay. Thus reciprocity as an analytical concept clearly is widely applicable even when defined narrowly as a form of exchange in which both parties are ‘expected to display altruism towards each other’,!® or, more formally, as exchange conceptualized as the performance and requital of generous actions. It cannot be overemphasized that what characterizes reciprocity, on this definition, is that the exchange is overtly, in ideology and in performance, motivated by generosity, even if, more or less covertly, enlightened self-interest or even outright egoism features quite largely. Note that the reverse may be said of marketexchange. The idea that selling, buying, and bartering are motivated by pure self-interest is promoted by formal economic theory, the ideology of business, and the norms which encourage the shopper to seek ‘value for money’, and ridicule the ‘sucker’ who pays over the odds. In practice, however, self-interest is often tempered

17 Pitt-Rivers (1992), 217. Note also his comment that ‘grace is always something extra, over and above “what counts”, what is obligatory or predictable’ (ibid.). 18 'The quotation is from Lande (1977), p. xv, who uses it with reference to what he calls a dyadic alliance, which is essentially a relation of personal reciprocity in the narrow sense.

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by such moral constraints as customer loyalty, or fairness and commitment in labour relations.'? Modification of the definition of reciprocity proposed above may be necessary to incorporate what Gouldner calls ‘negative reciprocity .. . where the emphasis is placed not on the return of benefits, but on the return of injuries’.2°? One might feel that ‘the nastiness of the things exchanged’ is an odd criterion by which to define a sociological category (J. Davis 1992, 24); and one might prefer simply to speak of ‘retaliation’ instead. However, a single principle of exchange unites reciprocity and retaliation. Both involve a notion of ‘paying back’ or ‘compensation’ for past actions, and, just as in English ‘requital’ refers to both, so too does, for example, the Maori word utu, which one anthropologist suggested might follow in the footsteps of mana and taboo and serve scholars as general technical term.?! Furthermore, what unites the two kinds of requital is that they pay back, not just any kind of action, but actions perceived as gratuitous. Gifts and favours are gratuitous in that they are thought of as generously going beyond what is required, while the only injuries that demand retaliation are by definition those felt to have been inflicted gratuitously.*? A victim who accepts that an injury was inflicted with reasonable cause, e.g. by way of punishment, will not strike back. A case could be made, then, for including the exchange of hostilities and expanding our definition of reciprocity to exchange conceptualized as the performance and requital of gratuitous actions. To my mind, this last definition is the most satisfactory. Yet there is much to be said also for using reciprocity in its narrowest, positive sense, and Gouldner’s broad categories of formal and personal reciprocity, too, have their uses. If in the rest of this chapter gift-exchange and other positive, gratuitous, personal forms of reciprocity predominate, it is merely because these have been the subject of most anthropological study. 19 Emphasized by J. Davis (1992), 7-8, 56-8. Even Polanyi (1968), 69, adamant that market-exchange is based on principles fundamentally opposed to reciprocity, acknowledges that it is only in ‘the ideology of business’ that people act from purely selfish motives, whereas in reality their motives are ‘mixed’. 20 Gouldner (1960), 172. On Sahlins’s (different) use of this term, see 22-4 below. 21 Firth 1929 (1959), 421, and generally 412-21. 22 On ‘gratuitousness’ see Pitt-Rivers (1992), esp. 224; also Bourdieu (1977), 177, 193.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory 11.

Types

OF

21

RECIPROCITY

One is inclined to think of reciprocity as involving two parties, whether individuals or groups. On reflection, however, it is obvious that reciprocity can involve third parties. We may present cigarettes or sweets, offer a light, or give directions to strangers unlikely to make a return; we would expect the return to come from others extending similar courtesies to ourselves. Any Trobriander who has tobacco or betel-nut ‘in excess of what he can actually consume on the spot would be expected to give it away’, and, although the natives call this ‘a gift without mapula [return]’, they expect an indirect return when someone else has tobacco to spare.?? In terminology first coined by Lévi-Strauss, such forms of reciprocity are commonly called ‘generalized’, in contrast to the ‘restricted’ reciprocity of exchange between two parties only. Unfortunately, the adjective ‘generalized’ has another, equally well-established, use as a technical term, to be discussed presently, and in order to avoid confusion it may be best to use instead the alternative terms adopted by Lévi-Strauss himself in his final chapters, and speak of indirect and direct reciprocity.*+ Some of the more structured manifestations of ‘indirect’ reciprocity have been assigned names of their own, according to whether they form a chain or a net.2° A ‘chain’ involves A doing a favour for B, B doing the same for C, and so on, until the circle is completed by N doing a favour for A, who regards this as indirect repayment for the favour done to B.?® A ‘net’ of reciprocity is ‘group-focused’ when members take turns to benefit the group, as 23 Malinowski (1922), 178, 193. See also Parry (1986), 454-5. 2+ Lévi-Strauss 1949 (1969), esp. 265-8; in his last three chapters, he slips into using as synonyms the terms ‘indirect’ and ‘direct’: 436, 440, 442, 470, 478-9. Ekeh instead speaks of ‘univocal’ or ‘directional’ reciprocity, (1974), 48-50; ‘asymmetric exchange’ is the phrase used by Ott (1993), 103-16. Lévi-Strauss developed his terminology with specific reference to marriage exchanges, but regarded such exchanges as part of wider patterns of reciprocity (1949), 52-68. Polanyi 1957 (1968), 152, also recognized the existence of indirect reciprocity, but did not give it a name. Ekeh (1974), esp. pp. ix-x, 54, points out that the notion of generalized exchange ‘strain[s] the conceptions of reciprocity as currently used in sociological theory’, and suggests that this is due to British preoccupation with ‘individualistic’ two-party interactions, in contrast to the ‘collectivistic orientation’ of French social science. 25 Ekeh (1974), 52-6, 58-60. 26 A model example of an extended chain of indirect reciprocity is the Basque custom of circulating ‘blessed bread’, as described by Ott (1993), 63-9, 103-16.

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in the pub-goers’ custom of buying rounds, and ‘individualfocused’ when the group benefits each of its members in turn, as in the cooperative harvesting arrangements found in many an agricultural community. The labels are cumbersome but the distinctions worth making. The more diffuse forms of indirect reciprocity include all sorts of behaviour inspired by the injunction to do as one would be done by. Where relations of reciprocity are highly centralized, one speaks of redistribution. Here, goods and services move to the centre of a group, where they are ‘pooled’ and from where eventually they, or their equivalents, are dispersed again. In its widest sense, the term, as established by Polanyi, may cover anything from hunters sharing game to governments raising and spending taxes, but in the narrower sense more commonly used by anthropologists it usually refers to exchanges of goods and services owed by tribesmen to their chieftains, and vice versa. Although, strictly speaking, redistribution is merely a form of reciprocity (direct or indirect, depending on how it is organized), it has generally been regarded as prominent enough to be treated as a category of exchange in its own right.?’ The direction of exchange is, thus, one criterion by which to distinguish types of reciprocity. The mentality of exchange is a second, also widely used, criterion. Granted that motives are usually mixed in practice, on a normative level each kind of transaction is associated with a particular spirit. This ideal ‘spirit of exchange’, as Marshall Sahlins pointed out, ‘swings from disinterested concern for the other party through mutuality to self-interest’. He accordingly defined what he called a ‘spectrum of reciprocities’ ranging from ‘generalized’, via ‘balanced’, to ‘negative’. Generalized reciprocity refers to transactions that are putatively altruistic. ... At the extreme .. . the expectation of a direct material return is unseemly. At best it is implicit... . The counter is not stipulated by time, quantity, or quality: the expectation of reciprocity is indefinite. Balanced reciprocity may be . . . applied to transactions which stipulate returns of commensurate worth or utility within a finite and narrow period. . . . There is more or less precise reckoning . . . the relations between people are disrupted by a failure to reciprocate within limited time and equivalence leeways.?® 27 Polanyi 1944 (1968), 13-15; Sahlins 1965 (1972), 188-go. 28 Sahlins 1965 (1972), 193-6. Sahlins is emphatic that these are points along a ‘continuum’ (192, 193) or ‘spectrum’ (193); they are not entirely distinct

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

23

These characterizations have proved helpful in distinguishing modes of reciprocity in a society. A remarkable study of two Tyrolean villages, only miles apart on either side of the Austrian— Italian border, shows balanced reciprocity ruling in the Germanspeaking village of St. Felix, while generalized reciprocity dominates on the other side of the border, in the village of Tret. The Trettners build up extensive networks of kin and friends with whom they exchange favours on flexible terms: ‘the amount of labour and working time spent is rarely calculated. . . . Labour is donated by those asked, if they feel they can afford the time, and they agree to work with no stipulation of a return for their efforts.’ The contrast with their neighbours is striking: In St. Felix, estate managers strive for complete self-sufficiency. ... When it is necessary . . . to obtain help from outside the domestic unit, strict accounting is maintained. ... Even brothers established in separate households within the village carefully calculate the value of their assistance to each other and demand an equal return. In fact, wary that a sibling might interpret an act of assistance as a brotherly act, which did not require a material return, brothers tend to avoid each other, preferring to call on non-kinsmen for assistance.??

One is tempted to suggest that these Alpine villages represent a major cultural gap between a Southern European pattern of frequent generalized reciprocity and a Northern European pattern tending more often to balanced reciprocity—pushed to the limits by the farmers of St. Felix. The validity of defining in this manner opposite poles in attitudes towards reciprocity is beyond question, but it must be noted that a very strictly and explicitly balanced exchange could no longer be regarded as a form of reciprocity on the narrow definition commended above, because the characteristic show of generosity would be missing. The same applies a fortiori to the ‘negative’ end of Sahlins’s range, which is in any case problematic. ‘Negative reciprocity is the attempt to get something for nothing with impunity. categories. There is an apparent overlap in Sahlins’s and Levi-Strauss’s uses of the term ‘generalized’ insofar as the ostensibly one-way transfers of indirect exchange will tend to involve indefinite expectations of a return and therefore be ‘generalized’ in Sahlins’s sense as well. This, however, is by no means always so: it is perfectly possible to have a strictly balanced form of indirect exchange, as the circulation of blessed bread in Basque villages (above, n. 26) illustrates. See Sahlins 1965 (1972), 193 ἢ. 4. 2° Cole and Wolf (1974), 168-70.

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... The participants [overtly] confront each other as opposed interests, each looking to maximize utility at the other’s expense.’3° Sahlins intends this category to include not only what Gouldner called negative reciprocity, ‘the return of injuries’, but also buying and selling and such other forms of peaceful exchange as are openly motivated by self-interest. This may have a certain superficial plausibility—extortionate prices and service charges are, after all, ‘daylight robbery’—but it does no justice to the spirit that motivates, say, a revenge killing, to describe it as an attempt to get ‘something for nothing’, or to bracket feuding with picking pockets and buying socks merely because these activities share a lack of concern with the other party’s welfare. At the very least, therefore, it is necessary to distinguish two kinds of negative reciprocity: in the first, it is the attitude of the participants which is negative, insofar as they are openly ‘selfish’ and ‘mean’ with positively valued objects of exchange; in the second, it is the objects of exchange, the insults and injuries traded, which are negatively valued. The exchange of harm between enemies may quite properly be called ‘negative reciprocity’, but has no place at the end of a spectrum ranging from altruistic to egotistic attitudes towards exchange. It is in fact a wholly different category of exchange. The openly self-interested exchange of valued goods and services, by contrast, does belong at the end of that spectrum, but can be called reciprocal only on a rather broad definition of the term. In order to avoid confusion, it is simplest to use instead the time-honoured term market exchange?!

30 Sahlins 1965 (1972), 195. I add ‘overtly’ to emphasize once again that the difference lies in how the exchange is presented and perceived, not necessarily in what ‘really’ motivates it. 31 “Market’ exchange is here used in a very broad sense; some may wish to assign e.g. barter to a category in its own right (so Humphrey and Hugh-Jones 1992, 7-8), but it seems to me that barter does share with other forms of market exchange the fundamental feature of being overtly motivated by self-interest. Note that the phrase ‘something for nothing with impunity’ is not an accurate description of either market exchange or negative reciprocity in the proper sense. It covers only forms of theft, and even theft ‘with impunity’ is surely ron-reciprocal.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory Iv.

PEACE

OFFERINGS: RECIPROCITY INTEGRATION

AND

25 SOCIAL

One fundamental function?’ of giving gifts and doing favours is to establish, cement, and symbolize amicable relations. ‘Friends make gifts, gifts make friends.’?? We are of course familiar with reciprocity serving this purpose in our own society, but anthropologists have shown that in other cultures it may have far greater scope and impact. Modern Western gift-giving tends to be limited to a few formal occasions and to involve small gifts of primarily symbolic value. We do not mind doing someone a small favour now and then, but are wary of friendships based on the exchange of substantial or frequent services. Other cultures, by contrast, may have many more ceremonial and everyday occasions at which gift-giving is expected, and gifts may be of much greater individual and cumulative value. A Trobriander, say, may need to give away the greater part of his yam harvest and all his shell valuables in order to maintain his network of kin and friends. In traditional male-dominated societies the world over, men see themselves as exchanging women, ‘the supreme gift’, to establish alliances through marriage. Less common, but by no means rare, is the exchange of children through fosterage, also serving to create special bonds between households.**+ Exchange constitutes a strong force for social cohesion only when it is felt to express genuine mutual goodwill, which in turn requires at least a show of mutual generosity. This is why a return 32 T use the notion of ‘functions’ of reciprocity in a loose and colloquial sense, without adopting a functionalist perspective. Recent anthropological work has tended to focus less on what reciprocal exchange ‘does’ than on what it ‘says’. As Sally Humphreys points out to me in a letter, ‘anthropologists have become increasingly interested in the ethnosociology of reciprocity, i.e. the way in which the exchange of gifts functions as a representation of social relationships’. In drawing contrasts between the symbolic nature of reciprocal exchanges in modern Western society and the greater pragmatic impact of such exchanges in other cultures, I do not deny that in these other cultures they have an important symbolic content as well. 33 Sahlins 1965 (1972), 186; cf. 221-2; and also Malinowski (1922), esp. 175, on the ‘deep tendency to create social ties through the exchange of gifts’; Mauss 1925 (1954), esp. 31; Firth 1929 (1959), esp. 429. Scholars sometimes treat reciprocity as a subcategory of ‘reproduction’ (all transactions aimed at ‘reproducing’ over time the structure of the group): Weiner (1980); Gregory (1982), 29-35, 90-1; LiPuma (1988), 219-28. 34 “Supreme gift’: Lévi-Strauss 1949 (1969), 65. Fosterage: E. Goody (1970), 51774.

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gift is normally delayed rather than made at once, and is at least a little different from the original gift, even if similar in value: the slight imbalance ensures that the two do not simply and immediately cancel out one another, and allows each party to regard the other as generous.*° In societies which rely more heavily than ours on reciprocal exchange, the demands of generosity tend to be correspondingly higher, and it is often customary for the return gift to exceed the original in value.*° The effect of such customary imbalance in exchanges is to ensure that each party is in turn indebted to the other, which makes it much more difficult for either side to break off the relation than it would have been if the exchange had been balanced. The sense of incurring debts to others in reciprocal relations is quite powerful, and, surprisingly, is responsible for a lack of expressions of thanks in tribal and peasant societies which has frustrated many an anthropologist. Gifts are often virtually ignored by the recipient, or at best accepted without a word: it is felt that gratitude should be shown in a tacit acceptance of the obligation incurred, not in an attempt to reciprocate on the spot with mere words.’ Our verbal displays of gratitude, it would seem, are shallow substitutes for a deeper sense of obligation and greater concern to reciprocate which characterizes other cultures; they are an index, perhaps, of the comparatively small role played by gifts and favours in keeping together the fabric of our society. A feeling of obligation is enhanced by the continued association in the mind of the recipient between a gift and its giver. The association may go no further than the thought that a gift ‘gives you something to remember a person by’,?® but some cultures believe in a supernatural link between giver and gift, which allows, for 35

Bourdieu

(1977),

5-8:

‘In every

society it may

be observed

that

. . . the coun-

tergift must be deferred and different’ (5, his italics); also Gouldner (1960), 175, on the importance of reciprocating a gift or favour with ‘only rough equivalence’. 36 Prevalence of imbalance in primitive exchange: Gouldner (1960), 175; Sahlins 1965 (1972), 223; also Strathern (1971), 11, who coins the phrase ‘alternating disequilibrium’ for this phenomenon. Gell (1992), 145, suggests that, from the individual’s perspective, the ultimate aim is still ‘to be able to “call it quits” after a long series of socially salient, high-prestige, transactions’. From the community’s perspective, however, surely the more important feature is that such exchanges result in widespread, long-term mutual indebtedness. 37 Pitt-Rivers (1992), 218, 244 ἢ. 3.; Foster 1961 (1977), 25. Malinowski (1922), 190, 270-3, 290, 352-3, and Firth 1929 (1959), 410, both commented on the studied nonchalance with which gifts were received in the societies they studied. 38 So Mrs Margaret Rose, an informant cited by Cheal (1988), 76, 127.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

27

example, disappointed donors to turn the ‘spirit’ of their gifts against recipients who fail to reciprocate. Marcel Mauss built on such notions (which he saw exemplified in the Maori concept of hau, the spirit dwelling in gifts and givers, and in much else besides) to formulate the general theory that in ‘archaic’ society gifts are repaid because they are felt to be animated by a supernatural force seeking to return to its place of origin. It has since been shown that this theory is neither generally tenable nor even valid for the Maori alone;*? yet it clearly is a general characteristic of gifts that they are at some level ‘inalienable’ from their original owners, in contrast to goods sold or bartered, which are ‘alienated’ in the exchange.*? Whether this bond consists of tenuous moral claims or of powerful magical influence, it strengthens the obligation to give in exchange for what has been received. The need for exchange is greatest, of course, when a household or community lacks the resources or skills to satisfy its wants. So much value is attached to maintaining reciprocal relations that, in order to help sustain them, artificial shortages are sometimes created where autarky would have been possible.t! A much-cited aphorism of the Arapesh states as a general rule that households and communities should prefer dependence on exchange to selfsufficiency: Your have ters, may

own mother, your own sister, your own pigs, your own yams that you piled up, you may not eat. Other people’s mothers, other people’s sisother people’s pigs, other people’s yams that they have piled up, you eat.*?

39 Mauss 1925 (1954), 8-10, 41-5. For detailed refutation of Mauss’s reading of the Maori texts, see esp. Firth 1929 (1959), 417-21, 425-6, and Sahlins (1972), 149-83, with further bibliography. Parry (1986), 455-66, defends Mauss by highlighting other ethnographic evidence for the personification of gifts and for the spiritual bond between gift and donor, but concedes that these concepts do not necessarily entail a need to repay: thus, in parts of India, “where we have the “spirit”, reciprocity is denied; where there is reciprocity there is not much evidence of “spirit” (ibid. 463). +0 For these terms, see Gregory (1982), 12, 24, 42-3, 71, 100-1. In practice, most rights of ownership usually are alienated in gift-giving, as Gell points out, but he perhaps underestimates the stake a donor may retain in his gift, (1992), 145. #1 See e.g. Chagnon (1977), 100-1, on a shortage created to enable alliance; for similar cases of artificial dependence on exchange, see Gell (1992), 147-8, 159; Fortune (1963), 206; Malinowski (1926), 23. 42 First cited by Mead (1935), 83; used by Lévi-Strauss 1949 (1969), 27, as a motto, and used in part by Rubel and Rosman (1978) as the title of their book (and also on p. 321).

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This saying not only enjoins the exchange of food, by prohibiting consumption of one’s own supplies, but also the exchange of women, by imposing an incest taboo. Arapesh men see incest primarily as a waste of an opportunity to establish a new reciprocal relationship through the woman: ‘What, you would like to marry your sister! Don’t you want a brother-in-law? This sort of evidence led Lévi-Strauss to his famous theory that in origin ‘the prohibition of incest is a rule of reciprocity, for I will give up my daughter or my sister only on condition that my neighbour does the same’. This is the ultimate instance of an artificially created scarcity (of marriageable women within the kin-group) which ensures that no family can isolate itself, but is forced to engage in reciprocal exchange with others. On this view, ‘incest is socially absurd before it is morally culpable’, and its corollary, the rule of exogamy, ‘is the archetype of all other manifestations based on reciprocity, and... provides the fundamental and immutable rule ensuring the existence of the group as group’.*? Whereas in Western culture gifts and favours are more or less optional extras in amicable relations which could well exist without them (or so we like to think), they are elsewhere regarded as a vital part of social life. In pre-state societies in particular, gifts, services, and marriage alliances are often the only means of overcoming suspicion and hostility between individuals, communities, and tribes. The ‘market’ of the Chuckchee cited by Lévi-Strauss is an extreme case in point: ‘everyone came armed, and the products were offered on spear points. Sometimes a bundle of skins was held in one hand and a bared knife in the other, so that one was ready for battle at the slightest provocation’.** Not even marriage alliances are always enough to establish trust. On the island of Dobu, the bride’s and groom’s parties at the wedding ‘sit or stand at extreme ends of the village, preparing and cooking, a wide space in between them. If they look at the other party at all, by custom they glare with hostility.’ In subsequent yam harvest exchanges between the in-laws, the standard expression of thanks speaks volumes: ‘If you kill me by witchcraft, how shall I repay you this gift?’ (Fortune 1963, 191-2). In the face of such persistent antagonism, no relationship could exist if it were not for a continual display of mutual goodwill: hence 43 Quotations from, respectively, Mead (1935), 84, again cited by Lévi-Strauss 1949 (1969), 485; Lévi-Strauss ibid. 62 (cf. 51), 485, and 480-1. 44 Lévi-Strauss 1949 (1969), 60; also Chagnon (1977), 117.

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the need for a high level of generosity and indebtedness, and for mechanisms stimulating frequent exchanges of gifts, favours, and women. In short, reciprocity is the major force for keeping peace within and between communities where there is no effective centralized power to do so. There may be an inverse relation between the level of reciprocity and state-formation within a society. Networks of reciprocity and the apparatus of the state may serve the same function, but they serve it in fundamentally different ways. The extent to which the state is able to ensure social integration largely depends on its success in monopolizing the legitimate use of physical force. In order to prevent a hypothetical ‘war of all against all’, it demands ‘the surrender of private force in favor of a public power’, and imposes ‘a structure of submission, sometimes of terror’, which ultimately relies on its ability to coerce and punish those who transgress.*> Reciprocity, on the other hand, counters the war of all against all with ‘the exchange of everything between everybody’. Law and order are maintained, not by centrally administered punishment, but by a communal threat of ostracism from all networks of reciprocal relations. Thus there is at least in theory ‘no sacrifice of equality and never of liberty’. The outstanding feature of reciprocity as a mode of social integration is that it allows everyone to retain at least notional autonomy, even in respect of physical force, but deprives them of the inclination to use it.*° v.

‘A

War

oF

WEALTH’: RECIPROCITY STATUS

AND

SOCIAL

As anyone knows who has ever agonized about picking a suitable present for a friend, there is more to reciprocity than simply being generous. Gifts are not random objects of value, but vary according to gender, age, and social class, and may be selected with great care to suit a particular occasion, to meet the needs, interests, and tastes of the recipient, to match the means and personality of the donor, and to reflect the nature of the relationship between them. ‘Despite the principle which subordinates the content or quality of the gift 45 Sahlins (1972), 170, drawing on the tradition of political theory represented by Hobbes’s Leviathan. 46 Quotations from Sahlins (1972), 168, 170. On law and order, see Malinowski (1926), 58-67; Fortune (1963), 191.

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to its significance as a token of the social relationship itself, it is clear that the presentation of a gift is an imposition of identity .. . upon the giver as well as the receiver.’ (Schwartz 1967, 1-2). Insofar as one’s position in society depends on how one presents oneself and on how one is treated by others, the nature of gifts offered and received affects one’s social status. Up to a point, you are what you give and what you get. The more central to a culture reciprocity is, the greater its impact in shaping identity and defining status. Accordingly, in exchangeobsessed Melanesian societies the activity of giving and receiving may be the single most significant factor in ‘constituting the self’.*7 Melanesian categories of gender and social rank are, in large part, defined by differences in exchange behaviour. Women are regarded as ‘rubbish’ because they play a marginal role in exchange or are excluded from it altogether. Men who do not engage in exchange because they are poor or dependent may be ‘relegated to the position of male women’. Even men who attempt to reciprocate, but fail to meet standards, may be taunted: “You are our women.’ An active and successful gift-giver, on the other hand, is admired as a ‘bigman’.*® Not every tribal society accords quite so much prominence to exchange performance as a measure of personality and status, but it is not rare for it to assume a significance comparable to that of criteria more familiar to us, such as wealth, birth, profession, or education. Where individuals and groups vie for status, reciprocal relations, which thus far we have treated as expressions of mutual goodwill, are therefore bound to take on a different aspect and acquire a competitive edge. Gifts may be given, and favours done, in a manner so ostentatious as to turn a generous gesture into a show of wealth and power—an assertion of superiority first, and friendship second. Where men compete for prestige, a public act of generosity tends to be presented, not as a peace-offering, but as a challenge to give as much or more in return: ‘I secured forty-eight pigs and displayed

47 Munn (1986), esp. 3-20 (also 163-80, on the ‘deconstitution of self? in mortuary exchanges); Lederman (1986), esp. 89 (‘What differentiates a man from his “brothers” is his unique network’ of exchange partnerships). 48 Tosephides (1982), esp. 3 Crubbish’); Rubel and Rosman (1978), 307 (‘male women’), also 313-16; Lederman (1986), 88 (“You are our women’), also 117-40. More on gender and rank differentiation: Weiner (1976); Josephides (1985), esp. 107-14; Gell (1992), 161-5.

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them tied to stakes . . . I showed them to him and said: “You reciprocate those and you are a real man.” ’*? In some contests, it is enough to be able to match gifts item for item. A Trobriand village challenged by its neighbour to a food contest at harvest time is presented with a large wooden frame filled with garden produce and must respond by filling for their rivals a frame of exactly the same dimensions with their own produce.*? In some of the best-known forms of competitive reciprocity, however, the return ‘prestation’ must surpass the original gift. In the Highlands of Papua New Guinea, big-men spur on their communities and clans to spend several years raising wealth in the form of pigs, shells, money, and much else, to be presented as a so-called moka or te gift to their rivals, who must then spend the next few years raising even more wealth in turn.?' The potlatch feasts and distributions organized by the chiefs of the Kwakiutl and other tribes of the American Northwest Coast are still more demanding. The culmination of an exchange of increasingly lavish potlatches is a feast at which wealth is destroyed instead of presented to the rival: vast quantities of oil and blankets are burnt, and precious copper shields are smashed or sunk into the sea. The ‘recipient’, who does not really receive anything except perhaps a fragment of the broken copper, is under tremendous pressure to reciprocate by destroying a still larger quantity of wealth. Appropriately, the Kwakiutl describe potlatch rivalry as ‘fighting with property’ .°? An act of generosity which bestows no material benefit on anyone seems a contradiction in terms, and one might think that the ultimate stage of potlatching comes close to being a form of ‘negative’ reciprocity. Yet, perverse as it may seem, the voluntary destruction of one’s own property is a gratuitous gesture of liberality with wealth; it calls for a return and indeed establishes a relationship between challenger and challenged which is not wholly antagonistic. ‘A great chief needs great rivals. It is an honour, therefore, to be selected as a rival by one acknowledged as a great 49 Lederman (1986), 89; see also Munn (1986), 49; 105-18; Damon (1980), 280; (1983), 317-20; (1990), 90-3; Malinowski (1926), 29 (cf. 30, 32, 36-7, 67). 50 Malinowski (1935), 181-7; cf. (1922), 170; Powell (1960), 140; Davis (1992), 9-10. 51 Moka: Strathern (1971). Te: Meggitt (1974). For similar forms of exchange amongst the Maori and elsewhere, see Firth 1929 (1959), 422-3. 52 Codere (1950), esp. 118-19. Her interpretation of the potlatch (based on the work of Franz Boas) has been significantly modified by subsequent studies, esp. Drucker and Heizer (1967); Rosman and Rubel (1971).

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chief.’’® In leaving minimal scope for generating goodwill while bringing to the fore the display of riches, the potlatch of destruction simply takes to extremes the logic which underlies this kind of competitive reciprocity. Before wealth can be given away, it must first be accumulated. For the more important occasions the resources of a single household do not suffice, and one must mobilize the support and resources of third parties. Hence the big-men and chiefs most successful in competitive reciprocity are not necessarily those who own most property, but those best able to raise wealth from their exchange networks by calling in debts, soliciting gifts, and otherwise persuading kin and friends to contribute. This adds a second competitive dimension to reciprocal relations: apart from outgiving one’s rivals, one must also outdo, or even directly outmanoeuvre, them in winning the favours of exchange partners. The acquisition of gifts is thus a competitive goal in its own right, and may indeed rank above generosity as a source of prestige. So it is in kula exchange. The kula, intensively re-studied since Malinowski first described it, is a complex form of reciprocity centred on the exchange of shell necklaces and armshells which travel hundreds of miles around a ‘ring’ of islands in a clockwise and anticlockwise direction, respectively. Giving away a precious shell ornament is a matter of pride and creates a debt, but the real object of the kula game is to win valuables rather than give them away. ‘It is carried out’, as Malinowski said, ‘in fulfilment of a deep desire to possess’.’* Balanced reciprocity is the norm in kula, but men often bend, if not break, the rules of reciprocity, by wabuwabu, ‘sharp practice’, in order to increase their share of the circulation of shells. It is said that ‘the only way to get ahead in the kula is to lie’, and for many ‘success in wabuwabu is a matter for pride’.>5

53 Rosman and Rubel (1971), 168. Drucker and Heizer (1967), 102-3, stress that many rivalries are, in any case, ‘fictitious’, no more than an entertaining show of competition between men who are on friendly terms. 54 Malinowski (1922), 510; also 359-60; elsewhere he stresses the element of generosity (97-8, 173-5, 353). Later studies have strengthened Malinowski’s conclusion that in kula the desire to possess outweighs the desire to give: Fortune (1963), esp. 209-18; Damon (1980), (1983), (1990); Leach (1983), 12. 55 Quotations from Damon (1980), 278, and Fortune (1963), 193. The difference between the styles of rivalry associated with kula, and potlatch or moka is stressed by Fortune (1963), 234; Strathern (1983), 78-80; it had been overlooked by Mauss

1925 (1954), 20-9.

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33

Whatever form it takes, the antagonistic nature of reciprocity as a force for status differentiation seems to sit uneasily with its conciliatory nature as a force for social integration. Rivalry in exchange may become so heated that it spills over into violent confrontation. Trobriand ‘garden challenges’ between villages end in brawling as a matter of course; frustrated kula participants resort to lethal magic against more successful competitors.°° The tension between rivalry and friendship can be partly resolved by keeping competitive and co-operative reciprocity separate. A chief tends to confine himself to non-competitive exchange within his clan, while throwing potlatches as challenges to the chiefs of other clans. Conversely, in kula one avoids competition with overseas partners but engages in rivalry within one’s own region. Even a victim of sharp practice turns his anger, not against the deceitful partner, but against someone who has received the valuables he had been hoping to get.?’ Commonly, however, reciprocal relationships are characterized by simultaneous intimacy and hostility, graphically illustrated by a big-man’s metaphor for a lavish moka gift: ‘Let us copulate with them so hard that blood flows from our pulled-back foreskins’ (Strathern 1983, 85). What must be stressed, however, is not that competitive reciprocity occasionally leads to the use of force, but that most of the time it is an effective, and on the whole preferable, alternative to violent competition for status. ‘Of olden times the Kwakiutl illtreated my forefathers and fought them so that the blood ran over the ground. Now we fight with button blankets and other kinds of property, smiling at each other. Oh, how good is the new time!’ (Codere 1950, 118). Where reciprocity fails to establish firm friendships and whole-hearted co-operation, it succeeds at least in channelling antagonism into less destructive, or indeed productive, forms of rivalry.°® The ‘war of wealth’ strengthens social integration.

56 Garden challenge: Powell (1960), 140 (and n. 50 above). Black magic: Malinowski (1922), 359; Fortune (1963), 169, 217. 57 Leach (1983), 12; Fortune (1963), 169, 217; Damon (1990), 90. Malinowski appears to have mistaken the target of such anger, (1922), 359, though the kula myths cited by him illustrate it quite clearly (1922), 307, 322-4. 58 Mauss 1925 (1954), 35-6; also Strathern (1971), 54. For economically ‘productive’ rivalry, see 38-9 below.

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THREE-LAYERED BASKETS: THE RECIPROCITY

ECONOMICS

OF

A birthday card and a box of chocolates make a negligible contribution to one’s personal economic situation. Yet the card and gift industry accounts for a sizable chunk of the national economy: Christmas sales in particular keep many a retailer and manufacturer in business. What is disapprovingly called the ‘commercialization of Christmas’ is also the ‘gifting of the market’ and demonstrates, as John Davis has pointed out, not only that gift-giving is of economic importance, but also that it does not obey quite the same rules as market-exchange. Spending on gifts may remain relatively high in times of austerity, since, after all, ‘people do not interrupt social relationships in a recession and then resume them when times get better’.°? In societies where reciprocal exchange plays a larger part than in ours, its economic impact is correspondingly greater, and its norms are bound to affect the way in which people provide for their material needs. A notorious bone of contention, however, is whether an economy based on reciprocity is fundamentally different from one based on market exchange—as ‘substantivists’ believe—or differs merely in some of its surface manifestations—as ‘formalists’ would have it.°° One temptation to be resisted at the outset is to assume that market-exchange is limited to ‘modern’ society and that ‘primitive’ societies know only reciprocal exchange, if any. Clearly, the fully developed market economy is a recent phenomenon, but market transactions (in the broad sense, defined above, of ‘exchange overtly motivated by self-interest’) are found in many politically and technologically simple societies. In a few cultures, overtly selfinterested exchange may indeed be as prominent as reciprocity.®! 5° J. Davis (1992), 52-3; see his statistics on the continuing rise in sales of greetings cards from 1979 to 1990, ‘which did not follow, match or mimic changes in the conventional measures of the economy’ (49-51). 60 The terms of the debate were set by Polanyi, most explicitly in 1957 (1968), 139-40, 145-8; see further on Polanyi, Humphreys (1983), 31-75. The most often cited statement of the ‘formalist’ position (named for its application of ‘formal’ economic analysis to non-Western economies) is Cook (1966); the most sustained argument for a ‘substantivist’? approach (named for its use of a broader, ‘substantive’ concept of economic behaviour) is Sahlins (1972). 6! Tribal trade: Sahlins (1972), 277-314; barter: Humphrey and Hugh-Jones (1992). An extreme example: Pospisil (1963), 300-1, 312-19, 334-43, 401. The possibility of different modes of exchange co-existing within a single society was acknowledged by Polanyi 1957 (1968), 149, 156, but he did believe that market

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35

However, most economically significant exchanges in most nonstate societies do tend to be reciprocal. What difference does that make? Crucially, market exchange aims openly at providing for one’s own material wants, whereas reciprocal exchange aims ostensibly at providing for the material wants of others. Market exchange is thus, by definition, driven by what we regard as economic motives, while reciprocity, by definition, is driven by motives which we regard as non-economic. Hence the economic aspect of a reciprocal transaction is not supposed to be more than a subordinate or ‘embedded’ element. Even in market exchange, the desire for material gain is hemmed in with moral, legal, and practical restrictions, and ‘pure’ economic motivation is rarely found; but in reciprocity the ‘embeddedness’ or ‘encapsulation’ of economic motives certainly is far more prominent.°? However, economic interests can be served quite adequately by reciprocal exchange. Commonly, there is an understanding about what gift or favour the other party needs. A Trobriand fisherman who finds a gift of yams deposited on his doorstep knows that his inland exchange partner expects, by long tradition, to be given a share of his next catch of fish.°? Where there is no such tradition, there may be other ways for the giver to solicit a specific gift or favour in return without asking directly. Among the Maori, the custom was to drop a hint by praising the object desired.°* So long as such exchanges are mutually beneficial, it is perfectly possible to serve one’s own economic interests while acting to provide for the needs of others and making friends into the bargain. Where interests diverge, however, reciprocal exchange clearly inhibits the pursuit of one’s own advantage. In a famous footnote, Malinowski pointed out that, with the emergence of a Western demand for pearls, Trobriand fishermen would be materially ‘ten exchange features only in ‘archaic’ and ‘modern’, not ‘tribal’ society, 1957 (1968), 156-7; also 1944 (1968), 8-12. See also the evolutionary schemes of Mauss, 1925 (1954), 54, 68; Karl Bücher and Herbert Spencer, as cited by Firth 1929 (1959), 423-5; all of which have ‘sale’ or ‘the market’ as their ultimate stage. 62 Embeddedness: Polanyi 1944 (1968), 7 = 1947 (1968), 65 (‘Man’s economy is, as a rule, submerged in his social relationships’); 1957 (1968), 148 (“The human economy, then, is embedded and enmeshed in institutions, economic and non-economic’). Whereas Polanyi was inclined to regard the modern market economy as an exception to this rule, esp. 1944 (1968), 30, the difference clearly is one of degree; see also J. Davis (1992), esp. 7: ‘embeddedness is . . . to one degree or another . . . a universal characteristic of exchange.’ 63 Malinowski (1922), 187; (1926), 22-3 (wast). 6+ Firth 1929 (1959), 411.

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or twenty times’ better off if they spent their time diving for pearls rather than catching fish to give to their inland exchange partners. Yet the fishermen apparently felt obliged to keep this relatively unprofitable exchange relation going. The obligation to receive can be equally compelling. A missionary at Mt. Hagen, reluctant to ‘trade’ his stock with the locals for goods which he did not need, was instantly reminded that he, as their ‘friend’, had to accept whatever the natives chose to offer.°> A personal relationship between exchange partners thus entails that one may find oneself morally obliged to engage in an exchange which is economically disadvantageous, and which one would avoid in a market transaction where one has no ties with the other party. This raises the question of whether the laws of supply and demand can operate in a reciprocal economy. When initiating a reciprocal relationship, one might go where the goods one intends to give away are most scarce and where goods one hopes to receive are most abundant. Once the relation has been established, however, it is, in theory, no longer possible to calculate one’s material interests in the light of changes in supply and demand, since the norms of reciprocity tell one to continue exchanging the same goods with the same partner at the same rates of equivalence. In practice, when supply and demand change so much that an established exchange relationship is no longer economically viable, the disadvantaged party may break off the relationship altogether and initiate a new one with a different partner that reflects more closely the new supply and demand situation.°® Reciprocity is thus not impervious to the laws of supply and demand, but does have a built-in resistance to them. A Maori tale about a greedy man who was killed because of his habit of soliciting gifts from all passers-by suggests that sometimes the rules demand that ‘one should slay a man sooner than hurt his feelings by refusing him a request’.°” If one can only respond to economic fluctuations at the cost of losing a partner, one is bound to respond slowly. If this partner is a good friend, one may not respond at all. 65 Famous footnote: Malinowski (1922), p. 188 n. (cited e.g. by Sahlins (1972), 309). Misunderstanding missionary: Sahlins (1972), 310-11. 66 Sahlins (1972), 311-14; also Fortune (1963), 214, on breaking off partnerships in kula. Conversely, the partner who gains the advantage will dispose of his giftgoods, not by lowering his ‘prices’ so as to enable his partner to keep up or intensify the exchange, but by initiating additional partnerships: Sahlins (1972), 300, 309. 67 Firth 1929 (1959), 412.

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Moreover, supply and demand do not always determine the value and equivalence of gifts when a partnership is first established. In the ideal market economy, free negotiation between buyers and sellers allows supply and demand to determine the value of commodities and labour. In reciprocal exchange, by contrast, equivalence is never open to negotiation: the value of the return gift or favour is from the outset left for the partner to decide. This leaves scope for criteria of value other than ‘how much it will bring’ in exchange. Gifts may instead be rated by the amount or quality of labour expended in their production, or by their usefulness in consumption. There is also scope for those who are powerful to define ‘equivalencies’ unfavourable to their weaker exchange partners.°* Usually, however, scarcity does appear to be a major determinant of value.°? Presumably, a partner who from the outset gives no thought at all to the relative scarcity of goods will find his exchange relationships economically non-viable and short-lived. Again, though, it must be stressed that the forces of supply and demand are not necessarily prime movers; if they have an influence, it is almost despite the norms of reciprocity. Reciprocal exchange can do more than provide for one’s subsistence needs: it can be exploited to make a profit. We have seen how Trobrianders may bend the rules of kula to get more valuables. Some people break the rules altogether by terminating a relationship while in debt; the shame of defaulting does not always outweigh the pleasure of possessing.’ Even without offending against the norm of reciprocity, however, one may make a profit if one’s gifts are differently valued by exchange partners in different regions. Thus a Siassi traveller may give to one ‘trade-friend’ three pots for a block of obsidian, and later give the obsidian to a tradefriend elsewhere who will happily offer ten pots in exchange. In the absence of a unified system of values, then, reciprocity can be profitable. Yet the inherent bias is against material gain, and the likes of

68 The fundamental discussion of these issues is Sahlins (1972), 300-8; the effect of differences in power on ‘primitive trade’ is stressed by Modjeska (1985), 145-62. The crucial observation that it is the partner who decides what is to count as equivalence had already been made by Malinowski (1922), 96, 188. 69 See Sahlins (1972), 280-97, for evidence of supply and demand affecting exchange values in several Oceanic societies. 70 eg, Fortune (1963), 193 (breaking off marriage ties while the balance of exchange is in one’s favour).

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the Siassi can only retain a semblance of generosity by keeping their various partners apart and in the dark.’! Reciprocal exchange affects patterns of production and consumption. Despite the common notion that in primitive economies households or kin groups aim at autarky, the prevalence of networks of reciprocity, even if these are primarily social and symbolic, means that one must produce for exchange as well as subsistence.’? Indeed, where reciprocity is competitive, one must produce ever larger amounts to hold one’s own in exchange rivalry. Big-men in particular have a reputation for being hard workers, and even more for being tireless in spurring on their wives and relatives to greater efforts: My trading partners can all come at once and try to overwhelm me. But I always win... I always pay back every one. This is the way of my wife, which is why I hold on to her. Her way is to make baskets very quickly. Like a machine she makes baskets.”?

How much the demands of competitive reciprocity affect production depends on the extent to which exchange is compartmentalized into distinct ‘spheres’. Even in our commercialized society there are limits to what can be traded for what: it is unacceptable to pay for donations of blood or bodily organs, or to sell your grandmother. Anthropologists have long studied cultures which impose greater restrictions on exchangeability than we are used to, but the first to articulate the idea of ‘spheres of exchange’ were Paul and Laura Bohannan in their study of the Tiv of Nigeria. The Tiv distinguish three spheres: one of subsistence goods, one of prestige items, and one of ‘rights in human beings other than slaves, especially dependent women and children’. There was no obstacle to exchange within the sphere (‘conveyance’), but exchange between 71 Sahlins (1972), 282-5; Modjeska (1985), esp. 149. 72 The idea of primitive autarky goes back at least to Aristotle, and was adopted by early theorists such as Karl Bücher (in Entstehung der Völkerwirtschaft). Sahlins’s concept of a ‘domestic mode of production’, characterized by autarky and underproduction (1972), 41-99, is meant to be a theoretical construct only; due to reciprocal obligations it never comes to exist in reality, (1972), 101-48. Polanyi elevated autarkic ‘householding’ into an economic mode alongside reciprocity et al., and argued that it is not primitive but exists ‘only on a more advanced level of agriculture’, 1944 (1968), 16-18; but see also 1957 (1968), 154. 73 Cited by Gell (1992), 165, from Barlow (1985), 108. On the exploitation of women in production for exchange, see also Josephides (1982), 19, 32; (1985), 203-15; Godelier (1986), 180. M. Strathern (1988), 133-67, argues that the issue is not one of straightforward exploitation.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

39

the spheres (‘conversion’) could be problematic.’ Where reciprocal exchange involves only goods from a closed ‘prestige’ sphere, its impact on subsistence production is bound to be limited, since there is no use for a production surplus which cannot be converted into prestige goods. However, the barrier between spheres is not always an insurmountable obstacle. There are often roundabout ways of converting subsistence goods into valuables, and in many cultures exchange spheres pose no obstacle at all. The valuables used in the potlatch are all freely exchangeable for one another, and most of them are merely ‘subsistence items . . . accumulated in fantastic surpluses’. So too, moka gifts are mainly pigs and yams, both staples produced by every household.7> Where sharply delineated spheres of exchange do not intervene, competitive reciprocity is likely to stimulate an (often collective) effort to raise production far above subsistence requirements. Strikingly, this is true even of the production of perishable foodstuffs. Rivals may be quite happy to exchange quantities of yam or fish in excess of what they can eat, and to let the surplus go to waste. To their minds, ‘being rotten in no way detracts from the value of fish’.”° The generosity demanded by reciprocal exchange encourages the consumption of wealth through giving it away, rather than reinvesting, hoarding, or conspicuously consuming it. In a competitive context, the pressure to give rather than keep may impinge on subsistence consumption itself. Even among the otherwise acquisitive Kapauku, the imperative to be generous with food is such that a man ‘killing a pig or giving a feast . . . must distribute all the meat and delicacies without himself consuming a morsel’. Consequently, to avoid extensive sharing, a man who has some delicacy usually tries to hide it and consume it secretly. Very often a successful hunter, or a man who has bought a piece of pork, invites his wife and children to a secret feast deep in the bush.”

74 1929 their 75

Bohannan and Bohannan (1968), 227-37 (quotations from 231); see also Firth (1959), 396. Sahlins suggests that foodstuffs are often restricted to a sphere of own (1972), 217-18. Conversion in kula: Damon (1980), 285; (1983), 323-4. Potlatch: Codere

(1950), 63-4. 76 Competitive exchange stimulating production: Sahlins Rotting food surpluses: Malinowski (1922), 187, 173. 77 Pospisil (1963), 361, 365-6.

(1972),

esp.

101-42.

40

Hans van Wees

In the same way, a Trobriand man of rank can keep for his own use a supply of, say, tobacco or betel nut only by hiding it from public view. Malinowski (1922, 97) commented that a certain type of large three-layered basket was popular ‘among people of consequence . . because one could hide away one’s small treasures in the lower compartments’. Conspicuous generosity and secret consumption here stand in marked contrast with the conspicuous consumption and secret generosity (in the form of anonymous charity) more characteristic of our own society. Reciprocity does not, of course, exclude other modes of consumption. Resources may be hoarded, conspicuously displayed, and even invested, as well as used to maintain reciprocal relations. The crucial point, however, is that in these societies economic goals remain subordinate to the norms of reciprocity. Sceptics might suspect that reciprocity is no more than a thin veneer disguising behaviour which is really geared towards maximizing material gain, but the evidence suggests otherwise. The three-layered basket of the Trobriands is emblematic: here is an artefact specially created in order to allow the laws of economic behaviour to govern the disposal of some hidden wealth, an invention which would have been unnecessary if the disposal of wealth in the public domain were not genuinely governed by the non-economic rules of reciprocity. On the other hand, one should not jump to the conclusion that one who disposes of wealth in a non-economic, indeed altruistic, manner is necessarily animated by ‘utter self-forgetfulness’. Generosity with wealth is perfectly compatible with self-interested calculation aimed at maximizing non-material resources of status and power. At the most basic level, societies dominated by reciprocity are very probably in essence the same as our own: most people, most of the time, are motivated mainly by self-interest. Their behaviour might conceivably even conform to some sort of ‘economic’ law, if economic analysis were extended to incorporate ‘all the goods, material and symbolic, without distinction, that present themselves as rare and worthy of being sought after . . .— which may be “fair words” or smiles, handshakes or shrugs, compliments or attention, challenges or insults, honour or honours, powers or pleasures’.’® At this level of abstraction formalists 78 Bourdieu (1977), 178; also Cook (1966), 329, who argues that acquiring status and power through gift-giving ‘is the functional equivalent to the selfish seeking of

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

41

may be right that scarcity of resources is always a determining influence on behaviour. Yet when it comes to economic behaviour, as conventionally defined, substantivists are clearly right to stress that in reciprocal exchange the scarcity, supply, and demand of material goods plays only a secondary role, if any.”? Market exchange, openly motivated by material self-interest, allows and encourages individuals to seize opportunities for gain and to accumulate property. Reciprocal exchange, while not necessarily preventing gain, limits one’s scope for acquisition and forces one to give away much of what one has, demanding as it does that one put the interests of others before one’s own. A reciprocal economy, in short, is fundamentally unlike a market economy in inhibiting the accumulation of private wealth (Bourdieu 1977, 180). vit.

‘A

KIND

oF

CONSTRAINT’: RECIPROCITY

THE

POLITICS

OF

Reciprocity is conducive to the accumulation of personal power. In this respect, too, it differs from market exchange. A market transaction does not in itself establish relations of power between those who do business; once completed, it creates no future obligations for either side. By contrast, one who benefits from another’s generosity in reciprocal exchange is placed under an obligation until he repays, and this may entail a degree of actual subservience to the generous giver. Often, generosity is not meant to be repaid in kind at all, but to be reciprocated with long-term subordination to the benefactor. The acceptance of even a small gift may assume ritual significance as a token of submission. One study of American prisons in the 1950s comments on ‘the custom of forcing other inmates to accept cigarettes’, noting that ‘aggressive inmates will go to extraordinary lengths to place gifts in the cells of inmates they have selected for personal domination. These intended victims, in order to escape the threatened bondage, must find the owner and insist gain or profit in a market economy’. J. Davis (1992), 14-22, 73-4, rightly argues that this line of thinking should not be carried to extremes, as ‘exchange theorists’ and “transactionalists’ tend to do: not all actions can be meaningfully attributed to selfish motives. 79 So

Gregory

(1982),

esp.

19 and

51;

Sahlins

(1968), 7; 1947 (1968), 65; Mauss 1925 (1954), 72-3.

(1972),

esp.

93;

Polanyi

1944

42

Hans van Wees

that the gift be taken back’. Thus, ‘generosity is a kind of constraint’. As the Inuit say, ‘gifts make slaves as whips make dogs’.°® In modern Western politics gifts and favours play their part, but they do so largely covertly, being morally suspect if not simply illegal. In the absence of state institutions, however, reciprocal obligations may constitute a respectable source of power and a vital part of the political structure. Two broad types of political organization based on reciprocal relationships may be distinguished: in one, personal power is achieved through reciprocity; in the other, reciprocity serves to uphold institutional, ascribed power. Marshall Sahlins singled out the big-men of Melanesia and the chiefs of Polynesia as the respective models of each type of political reciprocity, though neither type is confined to these areas, and the distinction between them is not always clear-cut.*! The strategy of the aspiring big-man, and of many another would-be leader in small, egalitarian groups, is to distribute the fruits of his own labour to followers who are thereby kept in debt. Since there are obvious limits to how much wealth one can produce single-handedly, such ‘generous autoexploitation’ creates a shallow power base at best (Sahlins 1972, 138). The big-man soon moves beyond this level, as he acquires wives to help him produce greater surpluses. ‘He may then begin to attract single male followers who become part of his household. These bachelors, in exchange for being fed by his wife, become part of his labour force.’ Such dependent followers are few in number and rarely extend beyond a small circle of relatives. With their aid, the big-man is able to produce more wealth and recruit further followers, who remain outside his household but become obligated to him for his contributions to their bride-prices or other ceremonial gifts.2? In some areas, big80 Quotations from, respectively, Schwartz (1967), 4, on US prisons, citing MeCorkle and Korn (1954), 90; and Sahlins (1972), 133, on ‘constraint’ and Inuit. The process of subjection is negotiated, not automatic: even short of rejecting the gift, several strategies for minimizing the obligation may be open to the recipient. 81 Sahlins (1963); 1965 (1972), 204-10; (1972), 130-148. Sahlins (1963) acknowledges the simplification involved. For criticisms of Sahlins, see Godelier (1986), 162-6; Rubel and Rosman (1978), 301-2; Strathern (1971), 221-5. Note also Leach’s study of the oscillations between hierarchical, chieftain-led political structures (gumsa) and egalitarian communities (gumlao) among the Kachin of Burma, 1954 (1977); also Friedman (1975). 82 See Rubel and Rosman (1978), 293-4; also Godelier (1986), 180; Josephides (1982), 19, 32; and, for a concrete example, Strathern (1979), 36-7. See also, though with different terminology, Pospisil (1963), 31-2, 38-9.

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43

men may raise funds by ‘finance’ as well as home production; that is to say, they invest surplus in gifts to external exchange partners so as to be able to call upon them for a larger return gift at a later stage. Apart from putting individuals under an obligation, the bigman also places his village, clan, or tribe, as a whole in his debt by being the main contributor to, and driving force behind, collective gift-giving to allied or rival groups.*? A man who has thus created a position of dominance for himself is expected to provide leadership for the community, especially as a peace-maker in quarrels and war; leadership in battle is often left to others. Coercion generally plays a minor role, though sometimes it is pronounced enough for anthropologists to dub an overbearing big-man a ‘despot’.8+ There is clearly more to big-men than a generous disposition and skill in organizing gift presentations, but success in reciprocal exchange remains their central avenue to power. A personal following won through generosity is a common kind of power base, appearing in many guises according to the nature and scale of reciprocity involved. The leader may distribute a variety of gifts, allocate land, hold feasts or food distributions, or render some less tangible form of assistance. The follower may repay with anything from symbolic deference or the occasional service when called upon, to, literally, ‘following’ and serving the leader at all times. Two examples may suffice to illustrate the range: the small and entirely dependent ‘strong-arm squad’ of the highestranking Trobriand chiefs, his shield-bearers in battle, “whose duty it was to kill people who offended’ their leader; and the far-flung networks of personal connections, generated mostly by the performance of favours, on which rests the influence of mafia dons and other power brokers.*° The crucial difference between a chief and a big-man is that, although a chief may attract personal followers as well, he does not need to carve a niche for himself, but ‘comes to power’. He attains, 83 ‘Finance’: Strathern (1969), 42-67; (1971), 221-3. Big-man’s role in collective prestations: Strathern (1971), 226, points out that a big-man would make himself unpopular if he chose to ‘go it alone’ rather than mobilize his clan in making moka gifts. 84 Strathern (1971), 53, 75-8, 208-9, 224-5; also Salisbury (1964); Pospisil (1963), 45-6; also Strathern (1979), 91. 83 ‘Strong-arm squad’: Powell (1960), 138-9. Mafia dons: Blok (1974), 7-8, 137-40; Arlacchi (1986), 21-54.

44

Hans van Wees

typically by inheritance, an established position with well-defined privileges and obligations, within a hierarchy based at least notionally on kinship relations. Where relations of power are thus formalized and institutionalized, rather than personal, reciprocity may still play a vital part in sustaining them. The chief’s subjects owe him ‘gifts’ of tribute and labour and he in turn must ‘generously’ redistribute his resources to his people, in presentations, feasts, and festivals. In reality, it may be that ‘goods are . . . yielded to powersthat-be, perhaps on call and demand, and likewise goods may have to be humbly solicited from them’. Indeed, a chief may well give away much less than he has received, and, like the rulers of Hawaii, spend the rest on an ‘awesome display of conspicuous consumption’. Yet some chiefs do conscientiously pass on all they receive, as a late eighteenth-century missionary report on a Tahitian leader illustrates: Whatever he receives he immediately distributes among his friends and dependents; so that for all the numerous presents he had received, he had nothing now to shew, except a glazed hat, a pair of breeches, and an old black coat... And this prodigal behaviour he excuses by saying that, were he not to do so, he should never be a king, nor even remain a chief of any consequence.*°

Whatever the actual balance of goods and services transferred, and whatever the real sentiments of those involved, these exchanges are presented as grounded in reciprocity, with an emphasis on chiefly generosity. Their function is not to create a position of power, but to legitimate a political office that exists independently of personal obligations. As in the case of the big-man, it should be noted that generosity, although vital, is not the sole prop of a chief’s position: other personal qualities, real or alleged, may count for much, as does disposing of fearsome physical or magical powers. The paramount chiefs of the Trobriands again furnish an example: they ruled by virtue of their knowledge of the magic of weather and prosperity, which gave them control over famine and abundance.®” 86 Quotations: Sahlins (1972), 139, and 1965 (1972), 206 (his italics in both passages); (1972), 145; (1972), 132-3, citing not only the ‘Duff’ missionaries report (1799), but also Levi-Strauss’s portrait of the self-sacrificing chiefs of the Nambikwara. 87 Powell (1960), 128-9; also Leach 1954 (1977), 129-30, on the chiefs of the Kachin.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

45

Reciprocity can play a similar role where social and political hierarchies are based on wealth rather than birth, either through patron-client relations, or through benefactions bestowed upon the community at large by members of the élite. As a rule, it has been suggested, ‘the greater the wealth gap ... the greater the demonstrable assistance from rich to poor that is necessary just to maintain a degree of sociability.’°® In patron-client relationships, the legal obligations of share-cropping contracts between landlords and tenants, for example, are commonly overlaid with reciprocal relationships which generously go beyond the terms of the contract. “The landlord might lend money . . . find work for family members not needed on the farm, obtain medical services . . . intervene with the authorities,’ and so forth, in exchange for the deference and loyalty of his tenants. Contractual obligations may be overridden altogether by the landlord’s reciprocal obligation to look after his tenants’ well-being: in times of crisis he may be expected to forego a part of his share of the crops.®? The rich may be expected also to act as ‘protectors and benefactors’ of the community as a whole by bestowing upon it ‘material benefits, political advantages, and glory’. In many traditional agricultural societies, the position of well-off villagers is legitimized only to the extent that their resources are employed in ways which meet the . . . welfare needs of villagers. [They] avoid malicious gossip only at the price of exaggerated generosity. They are expected to sponsor more conspicuously lavish celebrations at weddings, to show greater charity to kin and neighbours, to sponsor local religious activity, and to take on more dependents and employees than the average household.

This form of reciprocity, also known as ‘euergetism’, in which public benefactions, often on a grand scale, and often repaid with collectively granted honours, serve to legitimate the wealth and power of elites, at all levels, from local to imperial, is very widespread and was highly prominent throughout antiquity.?° 88 Sahlins 1965 (1972), 211. 89 Silverman (1977), 12-13; also (1975), 87-98. See esp. the detailed analysis of patron-client relations worldwide in Eisenstadt and Roniger (1984), esp. 43-165; also Scott (1977), 29-35. Case studies include Bourdieu (1977), 190-1 (Kabyles of Algeria); Campbell (1964), 213-62 (Sarakatsani of Epiros). °° Quotations: Silverman (1977), 12-13; Scott (1977), 27. On political reciprocity in ancient Greece, see Donlan, Ch. 2; Gill, Ch. 14, Sects. u—t1.

46

Hans van Wees

If reciprocity creates and enhances relations of power, it also imposes restraints on their exploitation. Where mutual generosity is the norm, or at any rate the ideal, the threshold above which impositions come to be seen as excessive is liable to be low. The big-man gets away with very little: his followers will simply refuse anything that seems unreasonable.?! We have seen that a chief can often afford to be more demanding, and, certainly, less egalitarian, in his relations with his subjects, who may indeed customarily prostrate themselves before their leader. Yet even chiefs must observe restraints in their exercise of power, or face rebellion and assassination—a common enough fate amongst the paramount rulers of Hawaii. Much the same is true of the position of patrons and benefactors. Especially where clients and other beneficiaries have become accustomed to ‘a standard package of reciprocal rights and obligations .. . even small movements away from the balance that reduce . . . benefits are likely to encounter a fierce resistance’. Accordingly, ‘many riots and uprisings in eighteenthand nineteenth-century Europe . . . were legitimized in the popular mind by the failure of the ruling class to meet its fundamental obligation of providing for the minimum well-being of their subjects.’?? Although the norm of reciprocity, once established, may thus inhibit the exercise of power and protect the ruled, it must not be forgotten that the dominant party will normally have the greatest say in what is to count as a ‘fair’ exchange in the first place. Where the balance of power is highly unequal, one is therefore bound to find a hierarchical form of reciprocity, with the balance of exchange tilted in favour of the powerful. In at least one part of Italy, for example, the generosity of patrons was ‘extolled in official proclamations, on tombstone inscriptions, and in local folklore’, yet ‘the actual downward movement of goods or services was rarely very substantial’.?? Even relations which are based almost purely on coercion may be masked as reciprocal exchange. One thinks here of protection rackets, which involve intimidating shopkeepers or farmers into giving ‘gifts’ to their mafioso ‘friends’, who in return offer ‘protection’ from themselves. As Marshall Sahlins put it, °! Strathern (1971), 169-75 and 221-7. °2 Quotations: Scott (1977), 29, 31 (his italics). Sahlins (1972), 144-8. °3 Silverman (1977), 8, 12-13.

Limitations

of chiefly

power:

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

47

‘everywhere in the world the indigenous category for exploitation is “reciprocity” ’.?* From genuine generosity to exploitation in disguise, all forms of reciprocity in political life share one key feature: they deny, in effect, that a relation of power exists. Notionally, no one surrenders his autonomy, as was pointed out earlier; supposedly, everyone gives gifts and performs favours of his own free will. Followers and subjects believe in their own independence, and feel justified in asserting it when leaders and rulers make demands which stretch any pretence of mutual generosity beyond breaking point. By the same token, those in power can assert their autonomy, and deny that their privileged positions entail specific obligations to their subordinates. Where the ideology of reciprocity prevails, even a paid official with a prescribed set of duties may feel entitled to gifts and favours from those to whose benefit he carries out these duties. Provided such demands stay within limits, they may well be regarded as quite legitimate by the ruled. A case in point are the elderly French villagers, cited at 16 above, who fully accepted that, by signing their forms for them, their mayor was doing them a favour rather than merely performing his duty. Another is the unfortunate governor of the Mexican state of Chiapas whose political career foundered on his refusal to accept gifts from those who needed his services: ‘it was felt that such a man could not be trusted in personal relations.’ (Pitt-Rivers 1992, 220). Open to manipulation and exploitation as reciprocity is, its governing principle of allowing each party to remain autonomous is in many cultures strong enough to have a genuine effect on the structure of power, tending to create networks of personal and restricted bonds. The political structure, and certainly the political ideology, offered by reciprocity is thus essentially different from that of the modern Western state, which demands the surrender of personal autonomy to impersonal, centralized institutions, while insisting that those who run these institutions are ‘only doing their job’, and have no claim on the citizens’ gratitude.

%+ Sahlins (1972), 134; cf. J. Davis (1992), 62-3; Blau (1964), 110, 113; Gouldner (1960), 165-7, 174. Note also the point made by Ekeh (1974), 212-13, that indirect reciprocity is especially open to abuse: ‘the source of exploitation is less easily detectable and exploitation therein . . . is attributable to the system rather than to individuals’.

48

Hans van Wees VIII.

CONCLUSION:

THE

History

ΟΕ

RECIPROCITY

While anthropological research has established that reciprocity entails patterns of integration, status differentiation, economic behaviour, and political structure unlike those prevalent in modern Western society, it remains unclear how and why the organizing principles of modern society came to displace reciprocity to the extent that they have. Although anthropologists have sometimes been able to see changes taking place in the field, these have normally been not indigenous developments but produced by the external social, political, and economic forces of colonization and the global market. The study of such processes is of considerable historical value in itself, demonstrating, among other things, the resilience of reciprocal relations even in times of dramatic change. The introduction of money, for instance, turns out not to make as much difference as one might have thought. Its exactly defined values make money rather unsuitable for giving where gifts are supposed to be roughly equal in value, yet sufficiently different so as not to cancel out one another; but there are ways even round this. The Maring give banknotes an identity ‘by writing an owner’s name or cryptic signs on them’ so that they can at least avoid using the same notes when reciprocating a gift. In competitive reciprocity, on the other hand, money is an eminently suitable medium of exchange since one’s generosity is easily measured against that of one’s rivals. Nor does money necessarily break down exchange spheres by providing a universal measure of value. Instead, it can simply be absorbed into one or another sphere. The Siane went so far as to assign silver shillings to the sphere of valuables while classifying pennies as ‘things of no account’, and thereby made it impossible to get change for a shilling.®° Informative as it is, analysis of externally imposed change cannot take us very far towards understanding the historical processes which reduced the role of reciprocity in societies of the past. A few evolutionary schemes have none the less been suggested. Mauss, for instance, envisaged a development from primitive societies in 95 Mlaring: Healey (1985), 138. Siane: cited in J. Davis (1992), 81. On the limited impact of money generally, see Bloch and Parry (1989), 3-21; amongst other things, they convincingly argue against the Bohannans (1968), 245-531, that the introduction of money in itself did not destroy Tiv exchange spheres.

Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory

49

which groups exchanged ‘everything’ with one another in ‘total prestations’, via archaic societies characterized by more restricted gift-exchange, to modern society in which man has become ‘a machine—a calculating machine’. In a less moralizing account, Sahlins proposed an evolutionary process whereby the successive stages of political organization centred on big-man, chieftain, and state represent decreasing levels of reciprocity and correspondingly increasing levels of surplus extraction.?° Such theories are inevitably largely hypothetical. If we are to understand more fully how reciprocity lost its central role in society, therefore, it is vital that historians contribute to its study. Among the more sweeping claims made by Marcel Mauss is the assertion that it was the ‘Greeks and Romans, who, possibly following the Northern and Western Semites . . . passed beyond [the] antiquated and dangerous gift economy, encumbered by personal considerations, incompatible with the development of the market’.?” This is vague on chronology and detail, and, in all probability, wrong. Yet it may stand as an invitation to historians to investigate more closely the shifts from personal power and autonomy to institutionalized, central control; from revenge to stateadministered punishment; from gift-giving and conspicuous generosity to market exchange and conspicuous consumption. It may stand, in other words, as a challenge to write the history of reciprocity.”® 96 Mauss 1925 (1954), 74; also 45, 68. also n. 81 above, for Leach’s study and developments amongst the Kachin, and n. 97 Mauss 1925 (1954), 52. °8 Sally Humphreys and an anonymous mented on a draft of this chapter; they do expressed in it.

Sahlins (1972), 130-48; also (1963). See Friedman’s reinterpretation of historical 61 above for grand evolutionary schemes. reader for the Press have helpfully comnot, of course, necessarily share the views

2 Political Reciprocity in Dark Age Greece: Odysseus and his hetairo1 WALTER

1.

DONLAN

RECIPROCITY

The rule of reciprocity, that one gives of one’s own accord, with the expectation that a suitable return will follow, was a powerful regulator of social behaviour at every stage of Greece’s history. The Homeric epics provide our earliest observation of its operation. In Homer’s ‘world’, reciprocity is a very strong cultural value, manifested in a myriad of ways, both friendly and hostile. In this chapter I explore what may properly be called ‘political reciprocity’ in Homeric society, that is to say, the nature of the relationship between the leaders and the people. Reciprocity, whether a friendly something-for-something or a hostile ‘payback’, motivates the social behaviour of both individuals and groups. Among the heroes of the [liad and Odyssey, which are classic examples of Karl Polanyi’s ‘embedded economy’ (1944, 1977), gifts are equated with honour, and many of the dramatic encounters between individual heroes occur in the context of gift transactions. All the leader—people ‘dramas’ in the poems involve (and frequently revolve around) affirmation or rejection of the customary standards of reciprocity. I have observed (1981-2) the occurrence in Homer of Marshall Sahlins’s three degrees of reciprocity (1972): the altruistic giving of ‘generalized reciprocity’, giving without obligation to return; “balanced reciprocity’, or quid pro quo; and ‘negative reciprocity’, taking without returning. It turns out, not surprisingly, that generalized reciprocity is confined to the circle of philei (close kin and close friends), that negative reciprocity within the démos is condemned, and that the ethos of exchange situations inclines towards the middle point of equivalence and balance, what we generally

52

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mean by reciprocity. By the same token, failure to reciprocate appropriately—which, let me hasten to add, does not mean equally—severely strains the social relationship, the reason for the giving and taking.' There is considerable disagreement concerning the leader-people relationship in Homer. It is a reasonable strategy, given the prominence of reciprocity in epic society, to analyse the relationship as a mode of reciprocity, keeping in mind that we are speaking about the give and take of power. I hope to show, using the example of Odysseus and his hetairoi in Odyssey 9-12, that, ideologically and in practice, their ‘political’ relationship is one of balanced reciprocity. The balance is easily upset, and, when that happens, there is friction between them. I believe that the tensions within the relationship, as well as the attempts to resolve conflict, both of which are prominent elements of the nostos-narrative, reflect the tensions and contradictions in the power-structures experienced by the poet and his audiences. 11.

HOMER

AND

HISTORY

Not all will agree either that social commentary was part of the poetic craft or that the poetic society and its problems held any sociological significance for the listeners.” My own thoughts about this long-standing controversy are as follows. The indications that the Homeric poems supply ‘the raw materials for the study of a real world of real men, a world of history and not of fiction’ (Finley 1978, 49) are overwhelming. The economic, social, and political institutions and ideologies form a coherent and consistent system. The Homeric power-structure, which is quite different from both that of the Late Bronze Age and that of the early city-states, is quite like the anthropological type of the chiefdom. It is impossible that institutions common among chiefdom societies worldwide, such as gift-exchange, separate economic spheres, follower bands, and small-scale raiding, were poetic inventions, or that the complex of social institutions and their validating ideologies is an artificial amalgam of elements taken from ' Sahlins (1972), 186, 195, 211. See Humphreys (1969), 177, 205-6; Mann (1986), 60-1; van Wees, Ch. 1, Sect. III. 2 For a detailed discussion of the question, see Raaflaub (1991), 207-15, 248-52; also Donlan (1993).

Dark Age Greece: Odysseus and his hetairoi

53

five centuries of oral epic poetry.? These indications convince me that the social background of the two epics was drawn predominantly from an historical stage of chieftain societies in Greece. The dates of this stage are a matter of dispute. Kurt Raaflaub suggests that the Homeric society covers the time-span of the ‘audience’s collective memory, that is, at the very most three generations or one century before the poet’s own time: in the late ninth and early eighth centuries’ (1993, 44-6). I agree wholeheartedly with this dating. Against the belief that the Homeric society must reflect predominantly the period of the poems’ composition, the late eighth century, Raaflaub cites the natural lag-time for poetic adjustment and the need to preserve the ‘epic distance’; he also points out that during the period of the audiences’ collective memory ‘the old and new overlapped and coexisted’.* Adjusting the traditional material to changes in the society was a leisurely process for the many generations of poets before the mid eighth century because change was very slow and incremental. For Homer and his contemporaries, composing in a period of profound and rapid change, adjusting the inherited songs to respond to the new conditions was far more problematical. In fact, Homer admitted almost nothing into his poems of the fundamental changes that were occurring in his lifetime. A notable example is the change in the power-structure. The subject of epic poetry from time immemorial had been the individual warrior-king; it is almost unimaginable that singers of the late eighth century would have considered incorporating into their versions of the inherited muthoi the passing of the paramount basileus and the replacement of personal leadership by a collegial system of officials and boards. We must also take into account that in Homer’s day the chiefdom polity, though waning, still survived in some form in most poliscommunities. During this period of social transformation, when the traditional way of organizing society still existed in experience or in living 3 Finley (1978), 49-50. Compare his reply to critics (1974). On epic society as an amalgam, see Snodgrass (1974). For the anthropological parallels, see Bohannon (1959); Leach (1954); Jones (1974). Archaeologists also employ the anthropological models; e.g. Renfrew and Shannon (1982), 107, 110; Renfrew (1988), 254; Whitely (1991), 42, 184-6, 192. + On epic distance, see Redfield (1975), 36-9; Dickinson (1986). For late eighthcentury dating, see Morris (19865). Van Wees (1992) is insightful on the question of reality and fantasy.

54

Walter Donlan

memory, poets and audiences preferred the old songs sung in the old fashion. The aoidoi of the Late Geometric period (750-700), the final two generations of oral epic poets, froze the form and content of traditional heroic poetry; they did not change them. I feel reasonably secure, therefore, in placing the fictional world of Odysseus and his companions in the context of the real world in the years around 800 Bc, the midpoint of the long and archaeologically conservative Middle Geometric period (850-750), just before the occurrence of the dramatic changes that led to the emergence of new forms of political relationships. I have one final observation. That the epics do not actually reflect but rather refract the world of the audiences’ experience through the prism of an unreal heroic world (whose material trappings do betray some conflation of different eras), of course, presents a challenge to the social historian trying to uncover the real social experience of the singers and their audiences; but the fictional construct, marked by ‘poetic selection’, also presents an opportunity. The distortions of poetic selectivity, the exaggerations, omissions, overvaluations and undervaluations, that make for the desired epic distance can point us to the deep social concerns of the people. One such concern, heavily emphasized in both epics, is with the relations of power. Ill.

POLITICAL

RECIPROCITY

Politics in the Middle Geometric chiefdoms was keyed to the dominant ideology of reciprocal exchange. Here we must be careful to distinguish between series of personal interactions and the abstract relationship between the chieftain (basileus) and the people (démos or laos). Homer tells us mainly about the reciprocity between basileis or between a basileus and a close subordinate. On that level, gifts are both a means of alliance and control and of competition. The complicated and richly symbolic game of give-and-get determines, or states, who is the superior in prestige and rank at that moment in the relationship. A basileus manoeuvres politically among the other chiefs and important men by giving and promising gifts and feasts, and by extracting gifts and calling in past debts, in this way displaying and reinforcing his standing among them. This is a perpetual process that allows for fluid ranking, and, because the process

Dark Age Greece: Odysseus and his hetairoi

55

favours the already dominant families, also promises a measure of stability in the hierarchy of leaders from generation to generation. One’s general impression of correct gift-etiquette among these symmetrical entities is that the differences in rank and honour, which could often be slight, were expected to be acknowledged in the transaction, yet that the differential of value given and received (however that may be expressed) should not exceed what is fitting and appropriate, the purpose being to avoid the ill will that might arise from demanding too much or from creating a disproportionate obligation. Epic audiences knew well that political trouble begins when the rules of reciprocity are violated and amity turns into enmity.” Homer says enough about the protocol of give-andtake between basileis and the lower-ranked individuals and families to show that it functioned much more straightforwardly to declare and confirm the chief’s social and political superiority. On this level, gifts (déra) to a chief are more obviously and openly dues, his gifts largesse, and it is understood that over the long run, and in normal circumstances, the upward flow of goods will exceed the downward flow. This description identifies politics, that is, the relations of power, as also personal. In Homeric society, as in comparable ones, a chiefs prestige and authority depend on networks of carefully forged and carefully nurtured personal reciprocal relationships with peers, subordinates, and inferiors. Political reciprocity has a different face, however, when the other ‘person’ is the whole community, subordinate in its parts, yet superior by its numbers and by the chief’s lack of formal powers. It is to that most important, and elusive, reciprocity that we now turn. The relationship is wholly asymmetrical; on one side a single figure, hailed as ‘chief’, ‘leader’, ‘ruler’; on the other side, an abstract entity, the ‘people’, being the sum of the individuals, families, and groups, which collectively is said to ‘follow’, ‘honour with gifts’, and ‘obey’ him. Expressed thus formally (in terms of basileus and démos), it is a ‘political structure’. The démos (or the Kephallénes, Ithakesioi, Phaiökes, for instance) looks like the ‘governed body’, 5 On the complexities and problematics of giving, receiving, and repaying among the élites, see Donlan (19895) and (1993). Hesiod preaches the ideal of a meticulously balanced reciprocity among relatives, friends and neighbours, for the same reason of reducing tensions and promoting harmony: Op. 187-92, 342-60, 370-2, 707-14, see also 477-8.

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exactly as we say ‘the people’ today, and the basileus looks like its ‘head of government’. But of course these terms are much too definitive for pre-state Greece. In Homer’s world, the basileus is far from a constituted head of state, a king or monarch, who rules through a centralized system of officials, taxation, and edicts, backed up by his legitimate control of the military, and, in many cases, by divine sanction. The Homeric basileus is a central figure, and is treated with great deference by all who rank below him. The title and office convey considerable legitimate authority, for which there is divine sanction. He possesses the means to dominate individuals, families, and factions. The difference between him and a king is that his power dissipates when they are united as the démos or laos. The moral and practical foundation of the leader-people relationship is a balanced reciprocity that verges toward the generalized pole. Balance and equity are the rule because political power is divided between the two ‘persons’. In practice, the flow of gifts from the démos, both material and symbolic, sustains, and at the same time demands, counter-giving from the basileus, represented by actual material donations, like feasts, but most especially by leadership and direction. There is a constant ‘reckoning up’ involved in the process. Déra that the families and groups of families give to a chief are dues they owe to the office, but being ‘gifts’, not tax or tribute, they state a moral and practical obligation to reciprocate. Within the framework of a continuous series of individual interactions and transactions, a chief who proves to be ungenerous, or too overbearing, or incompetent, risks losing the respect of the people as a whole, making him vulnerable to rivals who appear more competent, generous, and friendly. The more closely the give-and-take approximates to generalized reciprocity (as among close kin, where the amount and time of return are not stipulated, but are part of an ongoing flow) the more stable and integrated the political relationship. The ideal configuration is expressed in the common comparison of the chief to the father of a household.® As an illustration of this continuous two-way flow, the return (nostos) of Odysseus and his ‘companions’ or ‘men’ (hetairoi) is unique in providing a lengthy and concentrated portrayal of the ® See Sahlins (1972), 205, 208-9; Donlan (1982), 151, 172. See also ἢ. 16 below.

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successive interactions between a basileus and a laos as they occur from day to day. The Odysseus of the [liad and Odyssey fits the ethnographic type of the regional chief, dominating, yet not fully controlling, the other chiefs and localities within the tribal area. Homer describes him as loosely sovereign over the Kephallénes, an ethnic tribe occupying four islands and parts of an opposite mainland.’ He is more securely in control of the main island of Ithaka and its main polis, Ithaka. When he went to Troy, he took with him a contingent of Kephallenian warriors, recruited not only from Ithaka village and island, but also from the other parts of his chiefdom. Back home, 96 of the 108 suitors and their followers, who had joined to exterminate the chieftain’s lineage (genos basiléion), came from the other islands, which appear to have been essentially autonomous. One may question the appropriateness of the hetairos-band as the model for the leader—people relationship. The band is, of course, a special segment of the whole society, since its members are males, mostly youths (kouroi), who have volunteered for a dangerous adventure. But both poems make it clear that the bulk of the followership are ‘ordinary’ or ‘average’ men in respect to family wealth and social status, so they are in those respects representative of the free population. More to the point, a leader and his circles of adherents (his close friends, philoi, and retainers, therapontes, and his recruited hetairoi) form the sole active group between the basic social unit of the individual household and the aggregate of the households, the démos. The Männerbund is the political building block, so to speak. Chiefs have followers, and the high chiefs have their own followers and control or influence other chiefs and their followings. Since they are all structurally alike, the reciprocal behaviour will be the same within every one of however many such groups may exist at the same time, and therefore will be the same at the highest level of integration, that of the paramount chief and all the peoples.® Odysseus and his warrior-band, then, represent the ruler-people 7 Tl. 2.631-7; 4.329-31; Od. 20.209-10; 24.353-5, 428-9. In Od. 24.376-8, we learn that his father had ‘ruled’ over the Kephallenians. See also Od. 1.245-7 (= 16.122-4 = 19.130-2); 9.21-8; 20.344-7. 8 Forrest (1966), 48-9, aptly describes this as a system of political ‘pyramids’. It has long been thought that the /aos was originally the hetairoi-band; e.g., Jeanmaire (1939), 55-9, 97-9. On the social groups and their interrelationship, see Donlan (1985, 1989a).

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relationship in microcosm. In this context reciprocity is reduced to its simplest and purest form. The hetairoi are equal, and equally philoi, united in a single purpose, preservation of the group, interacting with a single, undisputed leader.? ιν.

THE

‘NOSTOS’

Odysseus—let us keep in mind that he becomes the narrator at this point—begins the long tale of his fantastic adventures in a naturalistic way, with a raid against a Thracian tribe, the Kikones (9.39-61). The raid began successfully: they swooped down from the sea, sacked the main village, killed the men, and made off with the women and ‘many goods’ (κτήματα πολλὰ). According to the rule of hetairoi-bands, ‘We divided it up [verb δατέομαι so that no man would go deprived of his equal share’ (42). Immediately, however, troubles begin: Odysseus gives the order to run, but the men, ‘in their great foolishness’ (μέγα νήπιοι), stay on the beach and feast on the captured sheep, cattle, and wine, and are caught the next morning by reinforcements from the inland villages of the Kikones. In a day-long battle by the ships they lose six men from each of the twelve ships before they can get away. Here I should say a word about epic numbers and reality. Twelve ships, with (conventionally) fifty men each, would be a force of 600 warrior-rowers. This is actually one of the smallest contingents in the Catalogue of Ships in the Jad; Agamemnon, by contrast, leads 100 ships. That these are impossibly high numbers for Homer’s time poses no problem. Let us conjecture that in the world the audiences knew, a Kephallenian-type territory might have held a free population of four to six thousand (this would probably be a high estimate), with perhaps a maximum of 1000 men

of

fighting

age.

Out

of

this

pool,

a

major

chief

such

as

Odysseus might easily have been able to gather a troop, Aads, of 100 or 150 men for a serious raid (that is, not cattle-lifting and kidnapping, but a full-fledged attack against a large village of 300-400 people with, say, 50-75 fighting-age men). So, the epic exaggeration of scale poses no historical problem and does not affect the relative picture. ° Even as a segment of the whole the Homeric hetafroi-group is called démos and laos. The famous "Ten Thousand’ Greek mercenaries of Xenophon’s Anabasis act as a polis on the move. The many similarities to the Homeric leader-follower relationship are worth noting.

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The Kikones incident introduces a recurring motif of the voyage home, the ambiguousness of authority. It is clear that the relations of power are flexible, not fixed. The laoi, though predisposed to obey, can withhold the gift of obedience, as here, completely blunting the chief’s authority. That uncertainty as to the leader’s control over the group, which is everywhere evident in the epics, is the hallmark of the chiefdom form of government. Penelope cites an example of the volatility of the démos—basileus relationship in a lecture to Antinoos and the suitors about their outrageous behaviour. She reminds him that his father Eupeithes, one of the Kephallenian chiefs, once had to flee the wrath of the démos because he had joined up with the Taphian pirates in raiding against the Thesprotians, who at that time were allied to the Kephallenians. This angered the people enough to want to kill him and ‘eat up his great and abundant livelihood’ (16.418-33).' We observe here, inside the démos, the same process of exchange of power as in the warrior-band abroad. Both Eupeithes and Odysseus were rendered equally helpless in the face of collective opposition. The Eupeithes story also provides an example of the reciprocal relationship between a paramount chief and a subordinate chief. Eupeithes saved his life and position by running to the house of Odysseus, whose greater authority and wider influence protected him against the people’s anger. The moral point of Penelope’s rebuke is that Antinoos’ oikos owed a strong debt to Odysseus, which should by rights have firmly cemented their relationship, and yet he was repaying loyalty with treachery. Odysseus confronts disobedience again, in the land of the Lotus Eaters (9.82-104), when the party of three men sent to scout the situation eat the lotus fruit and refuse to return. Odysseus himself goes and drags them out by force, ties them up in his ship, and gives the order to sail on. Odysseus’ unconsulted use of force against their fellow hetairoi arouses no resentment because, this time, the will of the people is symmetrical with the will of the leader. Odysseus functions essentially as their agent. These back-to-back incidents show that the relations of power (the allocation of rights, responsibilities, and decision-making), in the absence of formal regulation of them, are apt to be erratic and unpredictable. Whether the leader’s authority will prevail unquestioned, as here, 10 For other Homeric examples of the whole démos or laos acting in concert or imposing its will on its members, including leaders, see Donlan (1989a), 14-15.

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or whether the people will refuse outright to listen, as before, or anything in between, hinges on the specific situation and circumstances, the personalities involved, and the general psychological mood. The episodes that follow are built around occasions of reciprocity and redistribution. The story of the Kyklops’ cave, which takes up the rest of Book 9 (105-566), is bracketed by two remarkable examples, of great anthropological interest. The deserted island opposite the land of the Kyklopes, where Odysseus had prudently put in, was inhabited only by huge herds of wild goats. In this totally feral environment, completely removed from the familiar tamed world of villages, farms, and pastures, Odysseus and his men re-enact a social ritual as old as human society itself. Dividing into three hunting parties, they soon bring down much game. “Twelve ships followed me, and to each nine goats were allotted; but for me alone they chose out ten’ (159-60). Afterwards they feasted all day on goat-meat and drank the wine they had taken from the Kikones. Collection and redistribution by and among a group is the most sociable of reciprocities, similar to the generalized reciprocity within a family. The inherent social intent of sharing-out is to reaffirm and strengthen the basic equality within the group. Among the hetairoi, pooling and distribution by lot was a fixed custom; no other method of distribution was thinkable. To do otherwise would destroy the friendship (philia) which was the essence of its existence. Anthropologists associate this pure sharing with putatively primitive levels of socio-cultural integration, as in egalitarian bands and tribes. Indeed, if it were not for the phrase ‘ten for me alone’ (160), which tells us that we are looking at a society of established rank, we might view this scene as an event in the life of an unranked primitive hunting band. As it is, in the equal allotment the basileus is one with the /aos; with the geras, the leader’s extra share, the basileus stands apart and above. Yet even chiefly due has balance and symmetry, since the chief’s portion is perceived as the gift of the people for his service as leader. In this elemental setting, both the unranked distribution and distribution by rank fold into a seamless, pure reciprocity, for Odysseus does not keep the ten goats but shares them with his companions. The gift is a symbolic prestation, ratifying his position. Odysseus’ ‘profit’ lies in having the food to distribute, building up his fund of renown, good will, and influence. Both the getting and

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the giving, which balance out perfectly, increase his honour and prestige (timé, kleos), his ‘symbolic capital’."! On the next day, Odysseus convenes the agoré (9.171) to explain his plan to sail over to the land of the Kyklopes in his own ship, leaving the other eleven in the safety of the deserted island. At this point, we should note that this and all subsequent actions involve a single ship’s company, from an audience’s perspective a more realistic grouping than a large fleet. Out of his ship’s crew, Odysseus chooses ‘the twelve best of my fetairot’, to explore the cave of the Kyklops. The hetairoi plead with Odysseus to steal the cheeses and the sheep and goats, and quickly leave, ‘but I did not listen to them’, he says (ἀλλ᾽ ἐγὼ οὐ πιθόμην, 228), hoping in his greed for treasure to extract ‘guest-gifts’, xeinia, from the absent owner when he returns. Here we cannot escape the impression that the poet is using Odysseus’ own first-person narrative to comment on Odysseus’ leadership. Throughout the narrative, Odysseus exhibits to a high degree all the qualities that make a good leader: fighting skill, courage and daring, combined with clever and prudent planning; he is consistently generous and thoughtful towards his men. Most importantly, he is portrayed, and portrays himself, as the protector of the group, introduced in the poem’s opening as the man who suffered many pains, ‘trying to win his own life and the return of his hetairoz; yet not even so did he save his hetairoi, although he was eager.’ (1.4-6). There the poet places the responsibility on the hetairoi, who in their wilful foolishness (ἀτασθαλίαι) ate the cattle of Helios (1. 7-9); yet it becomes apparent in the course of his own narrative that Odysseus’ ἀτασθαλίη contributed to their destruction. The heavy expectation borne by the leader is that he will always act in the best interests of the entire band. From the point of view of the hetairoi, that constitutes, as it were, the major clause of their contract.'? Yet, in the cave, Odysseus endangers his men for gifts that would enrich only him and increase only his kleos. The theme is enormously enlarged in the next scenes, which show Odysseus 11 Bourdieu (1977), 171-83. Kurke (1991) connects the concepts of the embedded economy, reciprocity, and social capital with the poetry of Pindar and the values of his aristocratic patrons. The word for ‘feast’ (dais), which comes from the root da- (divide, distribute), and is often accompanied by the adjective zsé (‘equal’), incorporates the concept of generalized reciprocity. '2 On the obligation of the basileus to the community’s well-being, see Ulf (1990), esp. ch. 3.

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recklessly pursuing his personal fame, utterly heedless of the common interest. First, as they are escaping in their ship, against the frantic entreaties of his companions, Odysseus taunts Polyphemos, who then nearly swamps them with huge rocks. Then, more ominously for the group, he boasts his name and homeland, allowing the giant to name him to his father Poseidon, who heeds his son’s prayer to make Odysseus return home late, ‘having caused the destruction of all his companions’ (ὀλέσας ἄπο πάντας ἑταίρους, 491-540). Odysseus’ self-narrative about his most famous feat of courage, cunning, and leadership admits plainly that he failed in the cardinal obligation of the leader by placing his men in mortal peril. The rules of reciprocity also govern the allocation of danger. In perfect parallel with the apportionment of booty, danger is also apportioned in an egalitarian manner. For the perilous task of putting out the Kyklops’ eye four men are picked by casting lots, ‘and I was numbered fifth among them’ (9.331-5). The leader is both inside and outside the allotment, of course; just as he may claim a geras, he is expected to take an extra portion of the danger. Here we strike the very basis of the leader-people reciprocity. Although M.I. Finley and others have duly recognized the basileus’ ‘counter-gift to the people’ of ‘military leadership and protection’, they have not appreciated what this really meant in terms of mutuality.'2 In Homer’s world, leadership and protection are not abstract executive functions, but the chief’s fearsome obligation to put his life on the line in every perilous situation. That most expensive of gifts, which must be offered when the time comes, balances all the gifts and dues from the people: the geras, the special allotment of land (temenos), the seat of honour, the best cuts of meat, the full cups of wine, and other marks of preferment and adulation. The episode of the Kyklops ends, as it had begun, with an example of pure sharing among the group. Odysseus and his shipmates return to the other ships with the Kyklops’ sheep. As they had earlier in the goat hunt, “We divided [the sheep] so that no one would go cheated of his equal share; but my well-greaved hetairoi gave the ram to me alone, separate from the division of the sheep, '3 Finley (1978), 96-7. His view (112) is that neither Homer nor his audience cared ‘how rights were determined when commoners were involved, whether between noble and commoner or between commoner and commoner’. In effect, Finley supposes different moralities of reciprocity based on social class.

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and I sacrificed him on the shore to Zeus’ (549-52). The reciprocity envelops the entire group; all the hetairoi share in the spoils taken by a few. Here is redistribution in its most egalitarian and democratic form. The prize of the leader-ram, Polyphemos’ favourite animal, is fitting symbolic acknowledgement of the leader’s cunning and courage. His immediate return of the gift to the giving group completes the circle of reciprocity. As before, the transaction is evidently without material profit, yet the social gains engendered are enormous. The purpose of the rituals of sharing and feasting is to celebrate and foster the spirit of unity and co-operation within the group. In this remarkable scene, the pattern of reciprocity forms itself into a pure generalized philia among the hetairoi and between hetairoi and basileus. The geras, as we see from these two examples of purely symbolic gifts to the chief, does not violate that spirit. At the same time, the leader’s ‘due’, the tribute from the people, the overarching sign of the chief’s special status, sustains and strengthens the principle of centricity, of subordination to a central authority, without which cooperative social order would be impossible (Sahlins 1972, 189-90). Thus equal allotment and geras, which might appear to express contradictory principles, complement one another in expressing the ideal balance between the conflicting and ambiguous claims of egalitarianism and authoritarianism which are inherent in the chiefdom polity. These repeated images of their seamless merging could exist only in the primal setting of Adventure-land. The poet, I believe, has used that super-simplified world to reduce or refine the complex reality of the chief-people relationship, as he and his audiences knew it, into its ideal essence. Yet no less are the ambivalences and contradictions brought to the surface, so regularly in fact that we cannot escape the conclusion that in contraposing harmony and conflict the poet (or, better, the poetic tradition) is exploring a persistent, nagging social problem. Almost without exception in epic that tension is represented in situations where a leader is perceived to be putting his own and his household’s wealth-and-glory needs before the common good. This is so, in the next episode (10.27-55), where Aiolos has given Odysseus a bag confining the contrary winds. Thus protected, the ships sail within sight of Ithaka. Odysseus, weary from his long stint at the helm (note, again, the consistent theme of the leader’s

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sense of duty), falls asleep, and his hetairoi, assuming that the bag contains gifts from Aiolos, grumble among themselves. Look, how dear and honoured this man is by the men to whose towns and lands he comes. He is bringing much fine treasure from the booty out of Troy, and we, who have completed the same journey, are returning home with empty hands. And now Aiolos, to please him in their friendship, has given him these gifts. But come, let us quickly see what these are, how much gold and silver are in the bag. (10.38-45)

Their ‘evil counsel’ (βουλή κακή), as Odysseus calls it, sprang from a chronic perception that he was getting more than he deserved and they less than they deserved. The hetairoi have no claim on the xeinéia of Aiolos, yet it is precisely that solo enrichment and personal enlargement that flashes their common resentment. That resentment, carrying with it more than a hint of status envy, hinges on the central ambiguity of the leader-people reciprocity: when might a chief's proper ‘due’ be construed as selfish greed? In the Iliad, both the top-ranked Akhilleus and the low-ranked Thersites share a similar perception of Agamemnon as the ungenerous chief who takes much and gives little. That tension is built-in, unavoidable, in the chiefdom. Thus, the opposite pressure, to maintain, and to restore if lost, the delicate balance of rights and obligations, constitutes the social imperative of the group. The next adventure, the land of the cannibal Laistrygonian giants, which seems like a reprise of the Kyklops-episode, functions formally to reduce the fleet of twelve to a single ship, and so to the kind of war-band the listeners could identify with personally (10.80-132). Thoroughly disheartened, they sail on, arriving finally at Kirke’s island of Aiaia, another wonderful evocation of earth in its primeval state, pure nature resentful of and resistant to the irresistible intrusion of man (10.133-574).'* The first human social act to take place there is the symbolic re-establishment of the political order. Going off alone to see if there is any sign of civilization, Odysseus comes across a giant stag, kills it, and with heroic labour carries it on his shoulders to his comrades lying on the beach, immobilized by despair, and revives their spirits with the ‘glorious feast’ (ἐρικυδέα δαῖτα) (144-84). With an uncanny econ14. Aia = gaia. It would appear from 213 and 433 (also 233-40) that Homer knew the version in which the enchanted wolves and lions the men saw at Kirke’s house were also transformed humans. But he is purposely careful not to say this, in order to make Odysseus and his men the first humans on the island.

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omy and purity this ritual re-enactment fastens on the ideological core of the chief-people reciprocity. Some anthropologists hypothesize that this may have been how ranked leadership began originally. Occasional acts of leadership, of this type, constitute the ‘starting mechanisms’ for what will become an established leadership role, as consistent public benefits build up both a loyal following and a permanent functional status (Donlan 1982, 168-9). In keeping with the rhythm of the nostos-narrative, the ideal balance that has been restored to the group by this powerful act of renewal must again be displaced by discord. For the first time, we are introduced to an actual opposing voice in the person of Eurylochos, whom Odysseus describes as his πηός, ‘(close) relative by marriage’ (10.441), possibly his sister’s husband, though we can only guess. Eurylochos, who comes off as a shirker and a coward, is also, we learn here, Odysseus’ second in command. On the next morning (10.205), Odysseus divides his command in two, appointing himself leader of one group of twenty-two men and Eurylochos of the other. As usual, the lot determines which of the two groups is to have the dangerous job of exploring. When Eurylochos comes back, having lost his men to Kirke’s enchantments, Odysseus, ever the true leader, goes alone, defeats Kirke and returns to a tearful welcome with the good news that their comrades are men once again and living at ease in Kirke’s house. Eurylochos, however, tries to dissuade them from going to Kirke’s, predictably basing his claim to a counter-authority on Odysseus’ failing the first principle of the leader-people reciprocity in the Kyklops-adventure: ‘For those men perished through this man’s recklessness [ἀτασθαλίαι} (429-37). Eupeithes, the father of Antinoos, will use the same argument in trying to whip up popular support in the Ithakan ἀγορή after the slaughter of the suitors (24.426-37; also 463-9). It seems to me that we are very close here to contemporary social reality, for audiences will surely have witnessed similar political dramas, in which a lesser leader publicly challenged the rightful authority of the paramount. Within the small communities of the ninth and eighth centuries, such confrontations, pregnant with negative social consequences, will have constituted major political events: hence the keen interest in them in epic poems. Odysseus’ first impulse, he tells us, is to kill Eurylochos on the spot, but the Aetairoi intervene, and the incident ends well.

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Eurylochos goes along after all, in shame and fear (10.438-48); he doesn’t even lose his rank, for twice more we see him in positions of delegated responsibility (11.23-4; 12.195-6). In the end, however, Odysseus’ rival wins in authority over the laos, because he appeals to their immediate perceived needs. Having escaped, though with heart-rending losses, from the hideous trials of Kharybdis and Skylla (12.234-59), they face the final test of the Cattle of the Sun (12.260-402). Even though their survival thus far was due to Odysseus’ good leadership (‘my manly excellence, my counsel, and my intelligence’, ἐμῇ ἀρετῇ, βουλῇ τε νοῷ τε, 12.211), the men, by now at the end of their endurance, are ripe for rebellion. So, when Odysseus orders them not to land on the island of the Sun, but row past, ‘the spirit was broken within them, and immediately Eurylochos answered me with hateful words’, giving an impassioned and persuasive speech to the effect that in a night sail they would all perish. ‘And the rest of the companions gave assent [ἐπὶ δ᾽ ἤνεον ἄλλοι ἑταῖροι)", a formula for agreement to an authoritative opinion voiced in assembly (Martin 1989, 59). Odysseus has no choice. ‘Eurylochos’, he begins, and then changes to the plural, ‘you force me, one man alone’ (4 μάλα δή με βιάζετε μοῦνον ἐόντα, 297), succinctly stating the fundamental fragility of leadership authority in a low-level chiefdom. Whereas previously Odysseus could have rid himself of his single challenger with force, now he cannot touch Eurylochos, who is now covered by the collective force (Bin) of the group. Though he is compelled to give in, Odysseus’ authority prevails enough to make them swear an oath not to eat Helios’ cattle. When they are becalmed on the island for a month, and starving, Eurylochos makes an eloquent speech in favour of slaughtering the cattle, which ends: ““. .. I would rather lose my life once and for all gulping at a wave than to pine slowly away on a deserted island.” So spoke Eurylochos, and the rest of the companions gave consent (ἐπὲ δ᾽ ἤνεον ἄλλοι ἐταῖροι}" (12.340-52). The final and fatal misjudgement of the hetairoi makes explicit the political ideology of Books 9-12.'> Although it seems that a chiefs leadership, judgement, and motives will inevitably appear flawed, far more dangerous for the démos or laos is to depose the 15 At this point, Odysseus becomes again the blameless leader. The role of the destroyer passes from his personal enemy, Poseidon, to Zeus. The opening statement of the poem, blaming the hetairoi for their own fates, is validated.

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legitimate central authority. That conservative political doctrine is consistently upheld in the epics. Whether or not the rightful rulership of the established chiefly line will be preserved is the central question of the Ithakan Odyssey as well. In that wider political sphere the danger comes from rival Kephallenian chiefs, but the lesson is the same. v.

ITHAKA

From what we are told of the popularity and prestige enjoyed by the house of Laertes and by Odysseus himself before the Trojan War, we can predict that a timely and booty-laden return would have solidified Odysseus’ position as chief of Ithaka and strengthened his rule over the Kephallenians.'° The close bond of brotherhood would have loosened somewhat when the warriors returned home and were reintegrated into their own families, kindreds, and villages, and were caught up in the various contrasting tugs and pulls of loyalty and energy demanded by these social contexts. Nevertheless, most of the hetairoi would remain faithful to their leader and his house and he to them, thus providing the solid core of political support that is necessary for the maintenance of chieftainship in the segmented tribal community. As it is, however, the house of Odysseus faces extinction, and the Ithakans are about to have a new chief. Despite his initial success at gathering a following and winning a measure of noble fame (kleos esthlon) and some sympathy from the démos, Telemachos, young and still isolated, would most likely not have succeeded to the chieftainship, and probably would have eventually lost his οἶκος and been killed or forced to flee. The obliteration of the reigning lineage would not have ended the chiefdom polity, of course; one of the suitors would have claimed the title of basileus. Yet the character of the coalition of competing young chiefs strongly implies (nor would this have escaped the notice of contemporary audiences) that communal war (polemos epidémios, II. 9.64), the most calamitous of social ills, lay in Ithaka’s future. Inevitably, given the shaky legitimacy of the winner, the factions would have set to quarrelling. As it happened, the unexpected return of the legitimate paramount changed the situation, but not the problem of the 16 e.g. 2.46-7, 230-4 (= 5.8-12); 4.687-93; 24.376-8. See Rose (1992), 105.

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breakdown of political reciprocity. It is only through divine intervention that a wider ‘evil war’ (polemos kakos) between the house of Odysseus and his supporters and the otkoi and followers of the suitors is converted to ‘friendship between both sides’, (φιλότητα μετ᾽ ἀμφοτέροισι). Zeus decrees that Odysseus will be basileus ever after, and orders them ‘to be friends (phileein) to one another as before and let there be wealth and peace in abundance’ (24.475-6, 483-6; also 531-2, 546-8). There existed another solution to the political crisis. Although they belong to the most powerful families in the démos, the suitors begin to worry, when Telemachos escapes their ambush, that he will

call a full assembly (ὁμηγυρίσασθαι Ἀχαιοὺς | εἰς ἀγορήν) to reveal the assassination attempt, and the /aoi will drive them from the community, ‘and we will come to the démos of others’ (16.364-82). This possible ending, like the ‘actual’ outcome, would have achieved the same desired result, namely political stability, with peace and harmony, within the community. In juxtaposition, the two scenarios provide a precise formulation of the limits of aristocratic power, even when combined; the divinely sanctioned authority of the rightful leader; and the power of the people when aroused. This agoré, had it occurred, would have been a significant event in the history of the Ithakans: a decision by the popular assembly to side with the traditional ruling family against its enemies and, without bloodshed, to rid the démos of its disruptive element. We may be tempted, anachronistically, to call the process of deciding who will rule them and who will be driven out ‘democratic’. But, as I have tried to show, from the point of view of the participants, this was simply the démos holding their leaders to a just reciprocity. VI.

CONCLUSIONS

What I have called ‘political reciprocity’ the epics present as a set of actions that maintain or restore the normative (traditional and sanctioned) distribution of rights, dues, and responsibilities among the leader and sub-leaders and between leader and community.'” 17 The ideology is the same in both epics. Despite his flawed leadership, the other chiefs and the army as a whole consistently support Agamemnon’s rightful rulership in the interests of communal solidarity, siding with him against ‘rebels’ from the top and bottom of the social scale. The poet’s point of view is equally clear in his recounting of Aigisthos’ usurpation of Agamemnon’s rulership in the Odyssey. See Carlier (1984) 201-2.

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Epic poetry’s intense interest in the themes of breakdown and restoration of political reciprocity is historical proof that the people were aware of the instability of their political system and the threat it posed to internal peace. As dramatized in the epics, the ruptures of the leader—people compact, leading to a descent into negative reciprocity, occur in two forms. The collective démos refuses to obey the leader, either acting spontaneously or persuaded by a rival leader or spokesman, playing on popular dissatisfaction with the chief. Or, whether or not they believe that the chief has failed in leadership, a rival chief or chiefs may seek to replace him. While all instances in Homer pose a threat to the common good, the challenge to a chief’s authority by another chief appears especially fearsome, since it always involves bloodshed, and carries with it the dangerous possibility that the démos as a whole will be drawn into factional violence, even though those outside the disputing parties may seek to remain aloof.'® So long as the competition for power among the chiefly families remained ‘peaceful’, the Ithakans remained passively neutral, but when this progressed to open violence, it was immediately apparent to the suitors that an aroused and concerned démos might drive them out instead. The evidence of Homer is overwhelming that in the long run the démos has the final say. I have argued that it would be very odd indeed if this did not correctly represent the view of the ninth- and eighth-century audiences. The ideological position of the poems is that this ultimate popular power, which could be exercised passively or actively, must be restrained for the common good. The ‘text’ of the political contract is very simple: the basileus should ‘lead’ and ‘command’, and the démos should ‘follow’ and ‘obey’. Homer does not shrink from portraying the realities of this ambiguous formulation. Leaders always erupt in fury when their will is challenged, and use their powers to intimidate and to bully their opponents. The people accept these and other abuses of 15 Aigyptios, one of the respected men of Ithaka, had four sons. One was a hetairos of Odysseus, eaten by the Kyklops; another ‘associated with the suitors’, and the other two ‘kept the family farm’ (Od. 2.15-24). The family is already politically divided; the last two sons, presumably too young now, would no doubt have eventually taken sides. The fact that the political ‘pyramids’ (n. 8 above) are variable and impermanent adds to the problem of political instability. The coup against Agamemnon involves a bloody battle between both men’s hetairoi (Od. 4.529-37). Note also that Aigisthos’ followers number only twenty.

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leadership-authority until they become fed up and exercise their power to walk away from or do away with the leader. The ideal basileus-demos relationship is one that constantly corrects imbalances in the power-equation. This is advantageous for both ‘persons’, since a change in chiefly lineages, however it may come about, is a potentially divisive event. We should therefore not assume that the ideology supporting the status quo was specifically ‘aristocratic’. That the populace fully grasped the negative aspects of the system does not signify that they were dissatisfied with it. From the material remains, it appears not to have undergone any formal change from 1000 to 750 Bc. Both living memory and legendary memory recalled only the chiefdom form of polity. In practice, there was no alternative to a form of governance that had existed for all time and was sanctioned by Olympos. Nor was there any reason for the people to be dissatisfied. As authoritarian systems go, low-level chief-systems tend to be benign. Homer’s seems typical. Obviously, one’s view of Dark Age politics affects one’s view of politics in the Archaic Age and later Greece. For those who see in the epics a stratified society of ascribed orders of noble ‘masters’ and submissive ‘commoners’ going back for centuries, the seventh century marks the beginning of a struggle to create ‘virtually ab initio’ the ‘citizen’, the autonomous individual with unquestionable civil rights.!?” I have argued that that figure and those ideas are already there in Homer, and would emphasize, instead, the continuing influence that the ideal of a reciprocal exchange of political power had on the evolving ideologies of power-distribution among the descendants of those nobles and commoners. 19 Forrest (1966), 65-6. The weakness of this scheme is seen in Finley’s attempts (1978, 55) to describe the majority population who were neither ‘slaves’ nor ‘nobles’. Some of these were ‘presumably “free” herders and peasants with their own holdings (though we must not assume that “freedom” had precisely the same connotation and attributes as in later, classical Greece or in modern times).’ The rest, craft specialists, bards, and physicians, ‘floated in mid-air in the social hierarchy’. See also 70, ‘merchants’ lived ‘in the interstices of society’. The implication that the mass of non-élite community members lacked a precise awareness of their communal standing, or of their rights and obligations, is unsustainable. Finley, like others, is guilty of ‘primitivizing’ the pre-historic social mentality. Equally, we must avoid the Romantic notion that Homeric society represents some form of ‘primitive democracy’, such as was once posited as the natural state of human society before it was corrupted by civilization and greed. Raaflaub (1993) correctly argues that the early form of the polis as ‘citizen-state’ existed by 800 Bc.

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The key principles of the political reciprocity that we have observed among Odysseus’ hetairoi (and elsewhere in epic) survived as the irreducible principles of governance within the various types of polities (democracies, moderate oligarchies, and advanced chiefdoms) that emerged out of the late Archaic period. Leaders work for the common good or risk losing their positions. The people are free and are treated equally under law; a majority or a plurality of the people have some say in the decisions that affect the community. All are bound by the strictest penalties and sanctions to obey the rightful authority of the leaders and the laws. Explaining the historical movement away from closed oligarchies and strong-man rule (turannis) towards greater inclusion and political equality and power-sharing for the non-elites becomes simpler if we set aside the notion that those principles and practices were invented from nothing and thus were somehow ‘created’ by the polis-form. We should work, instead, from the proposition that the ideal of a proper balance of power between the many and the few was the Greeks’ ancient political birthright,

3 Beyond Reciprocity:

The Akhilleus-Priam

Scene in Iliad 24 GRAHAM

ZANKER

I The main objective of this paper is to argue that Book 24 of the Jliad presents Akhilleus as behaving with a degree of what even modern thought would recognize as altruism. More specifically, it argues that Akhilleus transcends the institutionalized reciprocity which the epic presents as the dominant ethical orientation of the heroic society which it depicts; furthermore, [ad 24 prescriptively commends, through the description of Akhilleus’ behaviour, a recognizable form of altruism, as a foil to the reciprocity-based values described as normal in the poem’s society. The argument requires, first, an attempt to describe the nature and function of reciprocity in the [iad as the major operative ethical factor governing co-operative behaviour in the poem’s thought-world, and to establish some framework within it for the possibility of altruism, the meaning of which I shall make clear. Against this background, secondly, I analyse

Akhilleus’

behaviour

towards

Priam,

and

‘calibrate’

this

behaviour, which I have elsewhere (1994, 127-54) called ‘magnanimity’, on the scale of altruism thus established. I thus intend to demonstrate that altruism formed an ongoing element in Greek thought and society from Homer to Aristotle, sometimes working in association with reciprocity, sometimes in a state of tension with it. Walter Donlan’s seminal article, “Reciprocities in Homer’ (1981-2), makes the task of defining ‘reciprocity’ comparatively straightforward. Donlan draws on the categories of reciprocity elaborated by Marshall Sahlins (1968, 1974): generalized, balanced, and negative reciprocity. Generalized reciprocity involves ‘the pure gift’, and a benefit conferred on this basis is not subject to

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stipulations of time or equivalent value of the compensation. It is the characteristic preserve of the leader, used, for example, to secure the loyalty of his subordinates. Balanced reciprocity involves a quid pro quo exchange, and, most importantly for our purposes, plays an integral role in hospitality, gift-giving, and giftexchange. Negative reciprocity involves getting something for nothing, and, practised within the tribe, it constitutes a breakdown in normal social relations, Agamemnon’s theft of Akhilleus’ geras being an obvious example.' It seems strange to me, however, that Donlan nowhere in this article locates the vital institution of hiketeia (‘supplication’) in his categories. The mechanism of supplication, whereby the benefactor raises the suppliant up to his level, is surely what Donlan would call an instance of generalized reciprocity.” Also xenia (the guest-host relationship), whose close connection with supplication is brought out by Gould (1973) and Herman (1987), is most certainly, and on Donlan’s own model (19895, 7), an example of at least ‘ultimately’ balanced reciprocity, as Gabriel Herman’s study (1987, esp. 60-1) amply illustrates. Supplication, as a type of generalized reciprocity, is an important omission from Donlan’s argument, since it often involves ‘intertribal’ exchanges, even between enemies. We shall see the full significance of supplication, and the possibilities it opens up for recognizing altruism, when we consider the meeting of Akhilleus and Priam, a scene which Donlan leaves unexamined. Il In brief, this is the background of ethical thinking about cooperative behaviour in the heroic society depicted by the /lad.? To locate altruism in this framework, ‘altruism’ calls for definition. 1 Donlan (1981-2), 158-63, has fruitful observations on the tensions latent in the co-existence of the principle of chieftainly due and aspects of tribal egalitarianism in the Iliad, by reference to which he analyses the dynamics of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Akhilleus. On the Sahlins—Donlan conception of ‘reciprocity’, see also Ch. 1, Sect. 111; Donlan, Ch. 2, Sect. 1. 2 Donlan (1981-2), 155-6, does refer to giving to beggars, analysing this as generalized (but also balanced) reciprocity, combined with aspects of pity and of fear of Zeus Xeinios; this analysis would not be adequate for hiketeia (on which see Sect. 11). 3 See Cairns (1993a) for the pressures on the heroes not to assert themselves inappropriately (as expressed in, for instance, the terminology of insults in the Ziad); add to his bibliography Rowe (1983).

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Kant’s position is summed up in the statement in The Foundations for the Metaphysics of Morals (1785, 398-9), ‘It is one’s duty to be beneficent wherever one can’. It is even clearer in the second formulation of the categorical imperative, ‘Act in such a way that you treat humanity, in your own person as well as in the person of anybody else, at all times as an end, never merely as a means’ (1785, 429). In fact, Kant’s doctrine perverts the Christian doctrine that agapé is the necessary basis of beneficent action (1 Corinthians 13 and elsewhere), and we should be wary of equating Kant’s rationalization with its forerunner’s original moral.* Hegel objected violently to Kant’s position, arguing that it robbed moral thought of any content, but the Kantian ethic has lived on till quite recently, notoriously influencing the contrast drawn between modern and Greek moral concepts by Adkins (1960) and Finley (1978), who, interestingly, both left /liad 24 out of account, presumably, as I shall argue, because it did not fit into their ethical ground-rules for the epics of Homer. More recently, however, philosophers such as Bernard Williams (1985, 1993) and Alasdair MacIntyre (1981) have argued forcefully that Kant in particular has impoverished our moral vocabulary, and have, in effect, disputed the view that the Greek understanding of virtue is fundamentally different from ours, or from what ours should be; see also Kirwan (1990, 165-70).° An important rider to this is the feeling that altruistic acts are the more commendable the less instrumentality they entail. This more flexible stance has been strikingly paralleled by modern sociologists such as A.W. Gouldner. In his exploration of the role of reciprocity in social cohesion, Gouldner (1973, 246) argues that, for the maintenance of the social system, ‘there is an altruism in egoism, made possible through reciprocity.’ He would thus agree with Williams (1985, 30-53, 175-96; 1993) that helping others is in no way necessarily devalued ethically by the simultaneous pursuit of one’s own happiness (eudaimonia). Importantly, however, he admits the need for compensatory mechanisms such as ‘walking the second mile’ when reciprocity breaks down, thus * On Christianity and altruism, see Gill, Ch. 14, 307 below; also Gill (1996), 335-9, on Christianity, Kant, and altruism. 5 But note the trenchant critique of Williams (1985) by Irwin (1986), who argues that Williams is wrong to deny a concept of morality to ancient, especially Aristotelian, philosophy; the eudaemonism of Nicomachean Ethics (NE) is combined (as in Rhetoric) with concern for the common good; see further text to nn. 12-13 below.

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seeing a positive value for the practical working of society in the humanist-Christian belief in altruism.° I therefore define ‘altruism’ as ‘beneficence towards others primarily for their own sake’. ‘Others’, in modern humanist-Christian thought, extends to friends and relationships beyond philia, though, as we shall see, such universalism is not evident in Greek thought down to Plato and Aristotle. In the light of this discrepancy and others between the ancient and modern concepts I see the force of Annas’s (1993, 225-6) substitution of ‘self-concern’ and ‘other-concern’ for ‘egoism’ and ‘altruism’. Altruism (to persist with the risk of anachronism) is motivated by affective impulses such as pity and fellow-feeling, by justice-based drives such as the sense of fair play, or by a mixture of both basic types of incentive. Altruism does not require Kantian freedom from instrumentality, whether it takes the form of the satisfaction of altruistic impulses such as those named, of religious or ritual obligations, or of financial reward. Its value admits of degree, depending on the extent of selflessness in the altruistic act. It transcends the various forms of reciprocity, though it can accept compensation, provided that this is not its principal object, nor the decisive goal. In this it goes beyond even generalized reciprocity: generalized reciprocity is motivated principally by the expectation of some future return compensation, as in the case of the chieftain’s gifts, given in order to ensure his people’s continuing loyalty.” Before we proceed with our inquiry whether altruism, thus defined, falls within the dominant ethical framework of the Iliad, it is useful to examine whether later Greek popular thought and philosophical discourse shed any retrospective light on the Homeric situation. In Greek popular thought, we have ample evidence that the idea of altruism was indeed a current and potent one. This can clearly be seen in the legends of self-sacrifice, such as those of Alkestis, Menoikeus, and Iphigeneia, at least as Euripides presents them in the Alkestis, the Phoinissai (834 ff.) and the Iphigeneia at Aulis. (In the latter two cases, admittedly, Euripides seems to have introduced the motif of self-sacrifice into the stan6 See Gouldner (1973), 275: as well as reciprocity or justice, society also requires the norm of beneficence, based on the need of others and the necessity for breaking vicious cycles. 7 For a different view of the motivational pattern associated with generalized reciprocity, see Gill, Ch. 14, Sect 1; on further differences with Gill, see Sect. rv below.

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dard versions of the myths.)® We can also discern altruism of a sort in the Odysseus of Sophokles’ Azas, as I have tried to show (1992). In that play, after Athene demonstrates her power over Aias, Odysseus feels constrained to pity his enemy on the grounds that Aias is a victim of an evil doom; moreover, he perceives that his own position is no less precarious than Aias’ since all humans are mere images or insubstantial shadows (121-6). This sense of fellow-suffering informs his later statements that it is unjust to harm an esthlos (noble person’), and that he is willing to do all in his power to assist in the burial of Aias. There is no doubt here that Odysseus’ behaviour is viewed in the play as ‘altruistic’ in the sense I defined earlier, as is clear from the admiration of this behaviour expressed by Teukros (1381-8, 1398-9). This generosity is particularly significant in a play which has often, and correctly, been seen as a meditation on the Jiad, in which Odysseus’ behaviour is shaped by Akhilleus’ towards Priam. We also have clear instances of altruism in the historical example of those who risked their lives to tend the stricken during the plague at Athens, described by Thukydides (2.51). Again, to judge from Thukydides’ evident admiration for the noble and knowingly self-sacrificial attitude of these people toward their suffering friends, there is no doubt that his society commended and understood these acts as ‘altruistic’, in my sense. It is, finally, surely significant that Phaidros in the Symposion of Plato couples the stories of Alkestis and Akhilleus as proof of the esteem in which the gods hold self-sacrifice based on philia. In Akhilleus’ case, Phaidros notes especially his willingness to avenge Patroklos’ death despite learning from Thetis that he will die directly after killing Hektor (179b-d, 179e-180b). The same thought is, of course, put into the mouth of Sokrates at Apology 28b—d, when he is faced with the threat of the death penalty if he continues practising philosophy. In his response (that the sole question to be considered is whether one is acting nobly) he commends Akhilleus’ selfless readiness to avenge the death of his friend Patroklos in spite of Thetis’ unequivocal warning (Il. 18.95-106). ‘These two passages show that Plato must have regarded altruism as a characteristic of contemporary Greek popular thought, and realized that people associated this quality with legendary figures such as Alkestis and Akhilleus. 8 See further Kearns (1990).

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Whether Plato’s own philosophical system anywhere admits altruism is, of course, a more complex question, but I think that on some occasions it does. The first is again from the Symposion, and shows clearly that Plato saw altruism as relevant to practical life, and believed that his master, the embodiment of erös in the dialogue, Sokrates, exhibited altruistic behaviour. In his praise of Sokrates, Alkibiades relates how Sokrates saved Alkibiades’ life in the battle preceding the blockade of Potidaia in 432 Bc. The generals awarded Alkibiades the prize for valour, but Alkibiades argued that Sokrates should have it, and, while the generals persisted with their original decision out of respect for Alkibiades’ high reputation and social standing, Sokrates insisted that Alkibiades have the prize—despite his having saved Alkibiades’ very life (Smp. 220d-e). Alkibiades is, clearly, meant to express admiration for Sokrates’ altruistic self-denial not only in saving Alkibiades’ life (presumably at some risk to his own) but also in repudiating an honour so that his friend might enjoy it. In the Republic, we have Sokrates’ rebuttal of Polemarchos’ assertion of the traditional view of justice as helping one’s friends and harming one’s enemies. Whatever one thinks of the argumentation underlying Sokrates’ conclusion, Sokrates’ claim is that the Just man never harms anyone, even his enemy (335d-e).? Finally, we have the philosopherrulers’ acceptance of their obligation to return to the State (esp. 5202-521a).! Their justice entails their knowledge that they owe it to the State to repay the benefit that it has given them, but Sokrates emphasizes that a degree of reluctance at the self-sacrifice is necessary for peaceful government, for rulers should have some interest which they would prefer to follow than government and the potentially corrupting exercise of power. I conclude that Plato envisages his philosopher-kings as accepting, because of their knowledge of the Form of the Good, their duty to return to the state, not merely out of an acceptance of reciprocity, but out of altruism."! Aristotle, on the other hand, seems to accept popular views of altruism in the Rhetoric, but to refine them to suit his own more for9. For this view, see Vlastos (1991), ch. 7, esp. 196-7. 10 Here I have revised my thinking since writing The Heart of Achilles (1994), 132. True, the passage parallels Laws 731d-732a, where self-love is opposed not to a love of others but to a love of justice, but I would now admit that the philosopherrulers accept that the state is making a just demand of just men. 11 See e.g. Kraut (1973); also Annas (1977), (1981), 266-7. For Gill’s denial that altruism is the relevant concept here, Ch. 14, Sect. II.

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mal framework in the ethical treatises. In the Rhetoric he says, for example, that we may call ‘noble’ any desirable acts which a man does not do for his own sake. These include acts done on behalf of one’s country, in which one ignores one’s own interest. They also include acts the goodness of which will accrue to one posthumously rather than during one’s lifetime (for in the latter case ‘more’ selfinterest is involved), and acts which one does on behalf of another (for ‘less’ self-interest is involved, Rh. 1366P6-1367°4). One thing which creates friendship is doing a favour, kharis, without being asked, and without advertising the fact, ‘for in this way the favour seems to have been rendered for the sake of the friend, not for some other reason’ (1381®35-7). Kharis is defined as the benevolence or kindliness displayed when one helps someone who is in real need, without the expectation of a return, and without any self-interest on the part of the donor (1385?17-19). He adds that claims in court that a favour has been rendered can be refuted by asserting, among other things, that the donors acted in their own interests, or were paying back a favour (13851-5). Aristotle also refers to the general opinion that Akhilleus was particularly commendable in his disregard for his own interest, in that he went to avenge the death of Patroklos in the full knowledge that by doing so he was fated to lose his life (135971-5, referring to Il. 18.95-106). Here we have unequivocal cases of disinterested magnanimity, the more important because Aristotle must be following a line of thought likely to be considered as orthodox by the audience of his orator.'!? From the ethical treatises, moreover, we have the remarkable reference to women who give their children away for adoption, but, though they love them, keep their identity a secret from them, to save them any discomfiture. They do this in the full knowledge that their children will not be able to reward them in the proper way; they do not insist on being loved in return, but are sufficiently gratified to see their offspring faring well (NE 1159?28-33). Care should be exercised with this example, however, for one’s own well-being is conventionally assessed in relation to the well-being of one’s children and parents. We cannot talk of strict, Kantian altruism here, but we can certainly talk of the mother’s self-sacrifice and the magnanimous renunciation of duties owed her. 12 Trwin (1986), 127-8, and Annas (1993), 249, likewise take the Rhetoric as evidence of a popular, intuitive concept of altruism.

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Aristotle admits, then, that popular thought includes altruism. His rather different position in the ethical writings is brought out well by Terence Irwin (1986, esp. 129-33). Irwin argues that, in the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle does not make the common-sense assumption that virtue attaches to sacrificing one’s own interest for the interests of others. Instead, the Nicomachean Ethics accommodate altruism by reference to the concept of the common good, which is a good for the virtuous person as well as for others benefited. In NE 1168°8-11, Aristotle says that, if everybody strives to do what is fine and noble, the community will gain all that it ought to and the individual will gain the greatest good, virtue.!? At the same time, however, much stress has recently been placed on the value of altruism within Aristotle’s view of friendship. Julia Annas in particular shows how, at NE 1169*18-1169>2, Aristotle’s position is that pursuing the fine with regard to one’s friends involves ‘acting for the sake of other people out of concern for them’. Thus: "The agent acts out of self-concern, but where this is concern for oneself as a rational agent aiming at the fine, this will take the form of other-directed and moral action’; this is an expression of concern for oneself ‘as a rational agent aiming at the fine’, that is, what one values highest in accordance with one’s true self, one’s nous.'+* Annas’s approach is compelling.'° I share her conclusion that Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics does admit an authentic altruism, an altruism which furthermore corresponds with my definition of it. I accept, with her and others,'® that Aristotle’s altruism does not extend beyond one’s philoi, and is therefore not unrestricted or universal. This is one respect in which Aristotle’s conception of altruism differs from mine and the one dominantly held nowadays. 13 See Kirwan (1990), 165-8. 14 Annas (1993), 249-62, quotation from 262. Kraut (1989), 78-154, argues that Aristotle should not be seen as a pure, combative or benign egoist. See Kahn (1981), on whom see Kraut (1989), 136-9. For a rather different account of Aristotle’s theory (stressing the significance of reciprocity and solidarity) see Gill, Ch. 14, Sect. ıv. 'S Aristotle also asks why benefactors love their beneficiaries more than vice versa ‘even if they are in no way useful nor likely to be so in the future’. He offers a number of possible explanations: the benefactor feels affection for his beneficiary; he enjoys ‘creating’ just like an artist, because our love of existence can only be realized by activity; he enjoys the element of nobility involved in giving; as the ‘lover’ of the beneficiary, he enjoys the more active role; and, the more we put into a thing, the more we value it (NE 1167"17-1168#27). 16 eg. Kahn (1981), 20; Kirwan (1990), 155-6; Annas (1993), 250-3.

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On the basis of this outline of Greek thinking on altruism, let me state my position on whether Akhilleus’ response to Priam in Iliad 24 should be defined in terms of altruism or reciprocity. I see the ethics of the society depicted in the Iliad, in which reciprocity is, indeed, the dominant pattern, as accommodating a recognizable altruism, so that, for example, an Akhilleus can extend generosity to Eétion in a period when he is operating in total accord with the heroic code. Ethical relationships among the Akhaians, for example, are standardly based on reciprocity; even the support given by Akhilleus, the selflessness of which Akhilleus himself stresses (1.152-68, 9.321—7), requires the return of kharis. In Iliad 24, however, I argue that the altruism of Akhilleus goes beyond the generosity normally included in the ethics of the [/iad, so far that the notion of ‘extended’ or ‘generalized’ reciprocity held by Gill and Donlan, following Sahlins, is generalized out of existence. On the other hand, I contrast the altruism exhibited in /liad 24 and elsewhere in Greek thought with ‘strict Kantian or Christian altruism’. Although Akhilleus is acting under threat from the gods, is the subject of supplication, receives gifts, and reacts by thinking of his own father, his generous gesture towards Priam remains principally his own response, thus going beyond the requirements of reciprocity. Moreover, whereas Aristotle thinks that altruism consists in the motivation to benefit ‘parents, children, one’s wife, and generally one’s philoi and fellow-citizens’ (NE 1097%9-11), Iliad 24 reveals an altruism involving a desire to benefit a person outside his circle, an enemy and not someone with whom one is normally engaged in a mutually beneficial relationship.'’ Here we are indeed close to one aspect of Christian altruism, illustrated in Christ’s parable of the good Samaritan, namely that one should go beyond the Judaic—and Aristotelian—circle of people to whom one may extend altruism. On this point, I question the utility of the concept of extended or generalized reciprocity held by Gill and others: the concept seems to me to be diluted at this point beyond significance. Once we accept instrumentality into the ambit of altruism, there is, pace Gill, no difficulty in discerning the existence of altruism and egoism in ancient Greek thought on reciprocity, and in appreciating the momentous moral value of Akhilleus’ achievement in [liad 24. '7 Halliwell (1987), 133, rightly rejects Aristotle’s statement at Poetics 1453°17-18 that fear and pity cannot be perceived when enemy confronts enemy, referring to the meeting of Akhilleus and Priam as the supreme disproof of Aristotle’s position.

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III I now ask where the /liad itself fits within Greek thinking about altruism, and whether the views articulated by later philosophy are anticipated in Homer. I have already expressed agreement with Gabriel Herman and Walter Donlan on the ultimate reciprocity involved in xenia (treatment of guest-friends or strangers). Herman (1987, 60-1) cites the encounter of Diomedes and Glaukos in Iliad 6 to show that ‘the value of the gifts should have been equal’, but explaining the passage has proved difficult over the centuries; Calder (1984) and Kirk (1990, notes on 6.234-6) outline the ancient and modern attempts. Donlan (19895, 13) has argued persuasively that, within the reciprocity in xenia, there is room for competition over status, and more particularly that Glaukos, notoriously, gives too much because of his recognition of Diomedes’ superiority, his mistake being ‘that he was so bewildered that he gave at the humiljating ratio of 11 to 1’. In the case of supplication, however, we have the paradigm of the personified Prayers of supplication, described by Phoinix in /lad 9. The ‘theology’ has it that, when a person is supplicated, he (or, less often, she) will be compensated by timé for the timé he has shown the Prayers. The practice is that the offer of gifts obligates the person supplicated to comply; the gifts are the concrete expression of the tim& which is equivalent to the desired benefit.'® That all the battlefield supplications fail is an index of the fact that, by the stage of the Trojan war at which the Jiiad’s main narrative takes place, the sanctions of reciprocity have become drastically attenuated. We contrast the treatment of an Adrestos, a Tros, a Lykaon, or a Hektor with the process of compensation in the epic’s images of peace, like the court-scene of the Shield, or in the moments of lesser tension, such as Akhilleus’ tactful arbitration between Menelaos and Antilochos in the chariot-race of Book 23.'° Phoinix’s paradigm is worth probing more deeply. It illustrates the reconstruction of motives for co-operation which I have attempted elsewhere (1990; 1994, 1-42). Phoinix introduces it by 18 On reciprocity in Greek religious practice and thinking, see Chs. 5-6. On supplication in Homer (and tragedy), see Ch. 7, esp. Sect. τι. 19 On the court-scene, see Edwards (1991) on 18.498-500. See also Akhilleus’ settlement of the quarrel between Aias and Idomeneus at 23.488-98, and the argument between Agamemnon on the one side and Sthenelos and Diomedes on the other at 4.365-421; see Cairns (1993a), 158-60. On hiketeia and the Prayerspassage, see Yamagata (1994), 9-11, 40-60, taken with n. 29 below.

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telling Akhilleus that he should not have a ‘pitiless’ heart (9.496-7), that is, he should feel pity and yield to the ambassadors’ supplication. Both a moral response and the affective pressure of pity are expected. The picture of the personified Prayers is one which draws emphatic attention to their pitiability, especially when seen against the figure of Blind Folly, Até. Pity is thus the initial response to be felt for suppliants, accompanied, as here, by a sense that it is morally right to help disadvantaged people. But Phoinix proceeds to a more external mode of formulating the correct response. He says that the personified Prayers ‘reward’ the man who ‘respects’ them (aidesetai), and that they hear his prayers (508-9); therefore, Akhilleus too should treat the daughters of Zeus with timé, (513-14), advice which Phoinix claims he is offering only because Agamemnon is bringing so many gifts. Here we have passed to incentives based on honour and reciprocity. Elsewhere, I have named the initial affective and justice-based responses the ‘ultimate’ ones; I have described the honour-centred incentives as the ‘proximate’ drives; and I have concluded that texts such as Phoinix’s paradigm show clearly that the ‘proximate’ incentives underpin the ‘ultimate’ responses. It may be felt that this grading of ethical motives and responses is formulated in my own terms and by modern standards. Yet I think that the analysis is justified. Phoinix’s initial appeal for Akhilleus’ pity involves appealing to the ‘primal’ values, which I designate as ‘ultimate’; but he then backs up his appeal by offering a reason why (gar, 502) Akhilleus should respond to those primal values, namely that there is an external sanction in the institution of supplication, mediated by the personified Prayers and presided over by Zeus in his role as protector of suppliants. This institutionalization involves the more tangible incentive of Zeus’ dispensation of honour or Até and dishonour (512), which I call ‘proximate’.?° On this model, reciprocity has an obvious location on the ‘proximate’ level, while we are naturally led more to the ‘ultimate’ level for instances of altruism, always bearing in mind that receiving ‘proximate’ benefits need not deprive a generous act of the title ‘altruism’, in either ancient or modern thinking. Such thematically important motives as pity and a sense of fair play are therefore ‘ultimate’ pressures, while gifts, time and 20 Gouldner (1973), 281-5, has important observations on the ‘charismatic’ qualities of beggars, mendicants, and the like.

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reciprocity are ‘proximate’ elements as also in competitive ones.?!

in co-operative transactions,

IV It is against this background that we should analyse the great supplication-scene of Book 24. The first striking thing is Akhilleus’ attitude to the ransom-gifts of Priam. Zeus has construed these as gifts which will warm the heart of the hero (119), and Akhilleus, of course, accepts them (578-9). However, we remember the two sheets and the tunic in which Akhilleus has wrapped Hektor’s corpse (580-1, 588): the anointing and enshrouding of the corpse in fact begin the funeral rites of Hektor; see Macleod (1982 on 24.587-9) and Richardson (1993 on 24.587-90). Akhilleus thereby shows a generosity that we have not come to expect in such circumstances. Critics have noted the sharpness of Akhilleus’ reply to Priam at 559-62: ‘Do not provoke me now, old man: I myself, even I, intend to ransom Hektor for you, since my mother has come to me with a message from Zeus.’?* I suggest that the reason for Akhilleus’ sharpness to Priam is at least partially prompted by the way Priam has just insisted that Akhilleus accept the ransom-gifts (555-6): it looks as if Akhilleus wants to make it clear that his decision is independent of the incentive of the gifts, though Richardson (1993 on 24.560-70) differs. Donlan (19895, 5-6) has shown how Akhilleus’ refusal to acknowledge Agamemnon’s gifts in Book 19 constitutes ‘a breach of the convention’, here to acknowledge the donor-king’s supremacy. The episode throws into the deepest possible relief how totally irrelevant such considerations of status have become in the Priam—Akhilleus encounter, a matter which I have discussed at greater length elsewhere (1994, 115-17). On the other hand, it is quite evident that Akhilleus does not view the gifts as entirely devoid of meaning or use: after he has put the corpse of Hektor on the waggon, he prays to Patroklos not to be angry, since 21 See further Zanker (1990), 212, and (1994), 13, 20-1, referring to Il. 9.630-1. Philotés (friendship), I argue, is viewed as the ultimate, affective pressure, which Aias needs to bolster with the proximate incentive of honour. See also Cairns (1993a), 159 with n. 20; and Schofield (1986), 13-22, on II. 22.99-130, taken with Zanker (1994), 53-6, 60-1, 140-3. 22 Claus (1975), 26, regards Akhilleus’ pique as caused by the fact that Priam ‘has brought attention back to the gifts of the ransom’, thus insulting Akhilleus by putting a price on his honour. For a critique of Claus’s approach see 86-7 below.

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Priam has brought him ‘honourable gifts’, of which Patroklos shall have his share (592-5). He therefore conceives of the gifts as a means of preserving right relations with his dead friend. But the whole idea of accumulating timé in the form of gifts is something which, equally clearly, he rejects as inappropriate behaviour. This comes out in his command that Priam sleep outside the hut to avoid Agamemnon’s getting knowledge of the king’s whereabouts and causing a delay in the ransom-process (650-5), an action which Hermes formulates more plainly when he warns Priam that the Akhaians will use him to extract more ransom-gifts (685-8). Akhilleus’ scorn for such lack of scruples is expressed, I would argue, in the participle characterizing Akhilleus’ tone, ‘mocking’ (epikertomeön 649).73 The god and the mortal agree on the matter of the Akhaians’ acquisitiveness. Akhilleus has, therefore, gone past his society’s evaluation of timé and ‘exchange’, and has even gone beyond his heroic generosity to Eétion, whom he buried with full military honours, not stripping the corpse of its armour, out of respect for the dead king (6.416-20). In my terms, Akhilleus has relegated the ‘proximate’ incentives to a minor role in his decisionmaking, and this relegation is also present in his attitude to Priam’s supplicatory gifts and Priam’s supplication itself. A second salient factor is the meal which Akhilleus and Priam share. It raises Priam to the status of Akhilleus’ xenos, as Akhilleus’ address to Priam as ‘old friend’ (geron phile) demonstrates, as well as his other kindly acts of reassurance (e.g. 671-2). Yet Akhilleus knows for an absolute fact that he cannot hope for the future reciprocity and sharing of benefits which the institution normally entails (e.g. 18.95-100, 19.416-17, 22.358-60): he knows that he himself is to die soon, and it is a general belief that Priam’s city will fall, now that Hektor is dead (e.g. 22.56-8). Again we see Akhilleus waiving the ‘proximate’ incentives, this time that of reciprocity. If we are to try to calibrate the altruism of Akhilleus here, it is essential for us to ascertain what the text offers as the motivating pressures on the hero. Most importantly, the currency of timé, which plays a vital role in Homeric reciprocity, has been irrevocably debased for him. In Book 9, after his experience of the fragility of timé under an irresponsible autocrat such as Agamemnon, he tells Odysseus in his great speech that literally no amount of wealth 23

So Leaf (1902); see also Macleod (1982) and Richardson (1993) ad loc.

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is of equivalent value to his life (401), and that gifts such as Agamemnon’s can simply be plundered, while no such thing is possible in the case of a man’s life (406-9). With one stroke, he has eroded the value of such compensation for putting his life on the line. Eighty verses or so earlier we have his remarkable statement that: ‘A man has an equal destiny whether he fights or hangs back; we are all held in a single honour, the ignoble and the noble: the man who has achieved nothing and the man who has achieved a lot die alike’ (318-20). On this formulation, the only real ‘honour’ for human effort is death, and even cowards can win it. These lines have in my opinion been misunderstood by D. B. Claus in an influential paper entitled ‘Aidös in the Language of Achilles’ (1975). Claus (1975, 21, 24) sees Akhilleus’ rejection of Agamemnon’s gifts as a bitterly reflective restatement of the heroic ethic, which Claus uses Sarpedon’s speech at 12.310—28 to show is ‘substantially gratuitous’; Agamemnon has insulted Akhilleus by putting a material evaluation on Akhilleus’ areté. Against this, one may immediately express some bewilderment why Odysseus, Phoinix, Aias, and Diomedes all consider Akhilleus unreasonable; in particular, why does Phoinix tell Akhilleus that up till now his behaviour has not been a matter ‘meriting indignation’ (nemesséton, 523), that is, behaviour which people would consider as conduct unbecoming the high social status of an Akhilleus? Why, for example, does Aias call Akhilleus’ heart ‘savage’ (agrios, 629), and why does Diomedes claim that Agamemnon has only driven Akhilleus further into his arrogance (agénoriai, 700)? None of the Akhaians appear to think that Akhilleus is toeing the line. But Claus’s whole thesis is vitiated by his interpretation of Sarpedon’s speech, which is at the root of his entire approach. According to Claus (1975, 22), Sarpedon says, in effect, that: “The life of an aristeus (noble) is so good that only immortality itself could be preferred’; since immortality is unattainable, this simultaneously puts high value on the goods accorded to the aristeus for defending his community, and invalidates any ‘reason for shunning death including, necessarily, enjoyment of goods so valued’. Claus concludes that the aristeus does not act on any quid pro quo, calculative basis. The more reasonable interpretation is that the reality of death is compensated only by winning glory in battle (325), yielding or winning glory (328), or, as Sarpedon puts it earlier, so that their community

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might publicly acknowledge that the kings (basilees) are ‘not without glory’ (ou... akleees, 318), and that their strength is noble (320-1). In other words, Claus ignores the central focus of the heroic life, the pursuit of glory, arguing that heroes disliked having a material price-tag put on their honour. It is precisely this pursuit of personal honour which, on my submission, Akhilleus has come to reject. It is only on this interpretation, moreover, that the Akhaians’ dissatisfaction with Akhilleus’ attitude is explicable. In consequence, I can see no justification in Claus’s approach for understanding the role of the ‘gratuitous’ or generous gesture as an integral part of reciprocity, particularly in any ‘generalized’ form. Here again, I differ from the views of Gill, Donlan, and Postlethwaite expressed in this volume; see also Donlan (1993). It should be obvious, moreover, that the high degree of materialism that Donlan (1981-2) imputes even to generalized reciprocity is in violent discord with Claus’s anti-materialist slant.?+ Corresponding to Akhilleus’ devaluation of the timé-incentive is an indication in the poem that what is foremost in his mind is a more personal response to the appeal. If any emotions have been acting on Akhilleus’ behaviour since Book 9, they are first, of course, his grief over the death of Patroklos, but also his sense of guilt at not looking after his father, Peleus, expressed, for example, at 19.321-4 and 334-7. In Book 24, the two losses, one past, the other in prospect, play an almost equal part. Priam’s initial speech commits the poignant error of assuming that Peleus is happy, since he has news that his son is still alive, and culminates in the appeal for pity, ‘remembering your father’ (504), an idea that Priam had himself entertained in Book 22 on seeing Hektor’s death (22.416-22), and one which Hermes had specifically encouraged in his night-passage with Priam across the plain (24.465-7). The last appeal causes Akhilleus to grieve first for Peleus but then both for him and Patroklos (507-12). Moreover, Akhilleus directly compares Priam’s life-history with that of Peleus (534-46). Responsiveness to this human appeal is one of the factors that makes Akhilleus wish not to transgress the behest of Zeus Hikesios (24.568-70), and to have Hektor’s body placed out of Priam’s sight, in case Priam weep and make Akhilleus lose control of himself (582-6); this is in the starkest possible contrast with Akhilleus’ 24 "This is, in turn, a problem for Gill, Ch. and Claus in his contribution.

14, Sect. 11, who follows both Donlan

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attitude to supplication in the case of Lykaon or Hektor. Throughout, we may discern an overriding sense of fellow-suffering in Akhilleus’ behaviour. There is, most significantly, the image of the Jars of Zeus, offered as a consolation to Priam, according to which Zeus allots to mortals either a mixture of good and bad, or bad pure and simple, as Macleod (1982 on 24.527-33) and Richardson (1993 on 24.527—-33) rightly interpret the passage. This was the fate of Peleus, who only had one son, and that son is not looking after his father in his old age, but is only causing Priam and his children grief and suffering. Nor is the motif of the father-doublet, on my view, to be construed as an appeal to a familial bond acting as the basis for an extended bond between Akhilleus and Priam. Rather, like the image of the jars, it powerfully underlines the sense of common humanity and fellow-suffering to which Akhilleus is now responsive. These, then, are the main factors which give the lie to the statements of Apollo and Hekabe that Akhilleus lacks pity and respect (44-5, 207-8), and prove to Zeus that Akhilleus ‘fears’ him (116). Akhilleus has in this way restored the ‘ultimate’ responses to their rightful place. Independent generosity, as an ‘ultimate’ drive, is thus presented as capable of winning the ‘proximate’ reward of kudos, while kudos itself is seen as more closely associated with the ‘quieter virtues’. Yet we would be wrong to think that timé is entirely jettisoned. In his speech to Thetis, Zeus had said that he was restraining the gods from stealing the corpse of Hektor because he was preserving the release as a kudos for Akhilleus, out of consideration for Thetis’ respect and friendship in the future (110-11). The act of giving the corpse up for ransom, therefore, is a matter of kudos, which has come to denote in the language of Zeus an act of magnanimity beyond reciprocity. To this extent we may agree with Taplin’s conclusion that a process of redefinition is at work.?5 So how are we to classify Akhilleus’ behaviour in Book 24? We might be tempted to consider it as an instance of Marshall Sahlins’s ‘generalized reciprocity’ (1974, 191-6), where, as we have seen, the exchange of gifts or benefits need not be simultaneous or of equal value, and the return benefit is expected at some time in the future. T.W. Gallant (1982, 112) has helpfully pointed to Hesiod’s words 25 Taplin (1992), 264, 274; also Richardson (1993), on 24.110, who says kudos ‘must refer at least primarily to the honour which Akhilleus will receive from Priam’s ransom (cf. 119).’

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at Works and Days 349-51 as exemplifying this type of reciprocity: “Take fair measure from your neighbour, but pay him back fairly with the same measure or better if you are able, so that you may find something to rely on in the future if you are in need.’ But what material or practical thing is there that Akhilleus can be obliging Priam to do in the future in accordance with the claims of xenta and its concomitant machinery for future reciprocal exchange? Again, Donlan (1981-2, 140-1), adopting Sahlins’s category, calls the giving involved ‘(ideally) altruistic’, and illustrates the structure by the example of the chief who shows his followers generosity as a means of securing his high position and their loyalty. It is by now, I hope, a small matter that, in Kantian or Christian terms, the idea of such altruistic reciprocity is self-contradictory: we have seen that modern thinking is prepared to admit instrumentality into altruism, and, that, in this respect, it comes closer to Greek thinking.”° Much more importantly, however, Donlan’s interpretation of Sahlins’s ‘generalized reciprocity’ likewise seems inadequate as a description of Akhilleus’ motives and actions in his encounter with Priam, which Donlan nowhere discusses in his article. True, Priam’s ransom-gifts can be seen as the initially obligating factor, and Priam, not to mention Zeus, views them as having this role; but, as we have seen, Akhilleus plays down the idea that this influences his decision to return Hektor’s corpse, for example when he says ‘I myself, even I, intend to release Hektor to you, since my mother has come to me with a message from Zeus . . .” (24.56ο--2).27 Akhilleus himself is made to state, for all to hear, that his decision to return Hektor’s corpse is first and foremost his own; and the fact of the primacy of his volition in helping Priam is decisive in raising his act beyond reciprocity to the altruism that I have defined. I would make the same kind of criticism of the approach of Postlethwaite, and particularly of Gill, which in fact builds upon Donlan’s. Gill argues that in the Priam—Akhilleus encounter we find central, characteristic features of what he calls solidarity and reciprocity, in the Homeric mode: the exchange of gifts for favours, shared lamentation, the shared meal, but extended from philia or 26 See Sect. II. Even so, I wish Donlan had defined ‘altruism’ more clearly. 27 Richardson (1993), on 24.560-70, underestimates the importance of ‘myself? (autos) when he says, “The point he is making is that given this [divine] motivation any failure to respect Priam as a suppliant would be a direct offence against the orders of Zeus (570).’

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xenia to relations between enemies. But this extension would suffer from the dilution to which I think Donlan is subject. Gill argues (312-13 below) that in Priam’s appeal for pity via the analogy with Akhilleus’ own father (504-7, accepted by Akhilleus in 534-51; cf. the separate grieving of 510-11) the assumption is that the normal (mutually benefiting) familial bond provides the basis for this extended bond. But Akhilleus knows that he will not be caring for Peleus in his old age and shows guilt over the fact (19.321-5, 334-7; 24.540-2). But what Akhilleus makes of this doubleting has to be seen within the context of his consolation for Priam as a whole: the two fathers are parallels in the suffering which Zeus dispenses to all mortals, not just fathers. The idea of general fellow-suffering is therefore rather to be construed as poignantly highlighted by Peleus’ and Priam’s particular shared suffering. The doctrine of the image of the Jars, that all humans suffer, is Akhilleus’ overall point. This is in no way to deny that the narrator makes sublime use of the father-motif in the scene, or that Akhilleus reacts to Priam at least partially as Peleus-figure. But the main point at issue here is that Akhilleus is at last moved by common suffering shared by all mortals (his own loss of Patroklos included) to respond to the supplication of an enemy, as he had so cruelly refused to do with Tros, Lykaon, and Hektor. Akhilleus thus responds because of the recognition, evoked by Priam and Peleus, that all mortals suffer, and are worthy of compassion. This is altruism in the sense in which I have defined it, and we see Akhilleus passing beyond the pre-Stoic Greek notion, illustrated by Aristotle, that the only recipients of one’s benevolence are one’s philoi.?® Apart from the gifts, which Akhilleus does indeed receive, but whose attraction is significantly circumscribed, there is hardly any material or practical benefit that Akhilleus can in the future expect from the transaction or the xenia which will ensue from it, if only because Troy’s wealth is spent, the city is to fall, and Akhilleus knows that his death is imminent. But there is something more 28 Postlethwaite argues that Akhilleus’ behaviour is conditioned in a major way by a continuing animosity between Akhilleus and Agamemnon. But, as argued by Richardson (1993), 269-70, the feud is formally resolved in Book 1g and finally sealed by Akhilleus’ gift at the end of the Funeral Games. Akhilleus, in his response to Priam, goes beyond what he knows would be the reaction of his colleagues, esp. Agamemnon, if they saw a chance of exploiting the normal reciprocity involved in capture and ransom; in this sense he can ‘make his jibe’ (epikertomeön) at Agamemnon.

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intangible that Akhilleus will be able to lay claim to, even if only per accidens. We remember the kudos of Zeus at line 110, which must refer to the glory that Akhilleus will win through his own independent decision to return the body and to obey Zeus Hikesios’ behest. It must be stressed, however, that not even this is presented in the text as something which Akhilleus consciously sets out to gain as a ‘reward’: the text presents us only with a wish to act generously, out of a sense of shared grief. This ‘ultimate’ affective response is at the root of Akhilleus’ altruism, and is underscored in the text by contrast with the ‘proximate’ incentives, of which reciprocity is a cardinal instance. Yet we are scarcely entitled to view Akhilleus’ kindness to Priam as either Kantian or Christian altruism in the strict sense, for Akhilleus’ response is based on a sense of pity, and, in Kantian thinking at least, the satisfaction of such a motive, or any motive other than duty, precludes an act from being called altruistic, or from having moral value at all. It does, however, fit in quite harmoniously with Aristotelian notions of kharis, as defined in the Rhetoric in the passages discussed earlier (text to n. 12 above). The favour has been performed more for the benefit of the recipient, and fulfils a real need. Where it goes beyond Aristotelian and general Greek thinking on altruism before the Stoics is that the recipient is no longer a friend, but an enemy; Akhilleus has had to wrestle with his feelings in order to respect him as a suppliant. The matter of degree, moreover, is important here, for we find Akhilleus’ generosity towards Priam the more commendable for its comparative lack of self-interest. It is also naturally analysed in terms of the model of virtue and altruism to be found in modern philosophers such as Williams and MacIntyre, and in recent sociological work such as that of Gouldner. We must also consider the magnitude of the struggle with his own feelings that Akhilleus barely succeeds in controlling, a struggle emphasized by his reasons for removing Hektor’s body from Priam’s sight, his occasional flash of temper, and his prayer to Patroklos. This goes far further in its moral status than the mere heroic chivalry that he displays in his treatment of Eétion. We may conclude that Akhilleus’ ‘“magnanimity’ has a greater accessibility to the modern thought-world than Finley and Adkins would think, and that they neglected to address the question of Book 24 because of their view of Homeric society as alien from ours, given their explicit or implicit adherence to

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Kantian modes of thought.?? I also conclude that what Gill argues are merely Greek analogues for what we call altruism are, rather, identical with this." 29 "The neglect of Book 24 might partly be a result of a past tendency to treat the book as ‘atypical’ or even as some sort of appendage. Macleod (1982), 1-35, in particular, has redressed the balance, but the neglect is remarkably persistent. See e.g. Yamagata (1994), esp. pp. Xi, 97-101, 105-20, 188, 224, 239-44, who argues against the idea that Homeric gods are concerned with justice, in spite of II. 24.116, 157-8, where Zeus questions whether Akhilleus will ‘fear’ him as Zeus Hikesios. 30 Warm thanks to Professor Christopher Gill, Dr Norman Postlethwaite, and Professor Richard Seaford for inviting me to the Exeter colloquium on which the present volume is based, and for the detailed comments of the first two in helping me to give a more explicit response to their contributions, enabling what I hope will be a constructive dialogue within the volume. I am indebted to many delegates at the colloquium, especially to Dr Malcolm Schofield, to my friends Dr Katherine and Professor Sam Adshead, and to Professor Pat Easterling and Professor David Gallop for further suggestions.

4 Akhilleus and Agamemnon: Reciprocity NORMAN

Generalized

POSTLETHWAITE

In his address to the conference on which this volume is based Gabriel Herman voiced the general consensus that ‘the [Homeric] hero [does not] seem capable of giving a gift or performing a service without expectation of return—a pattern which, since Comte, has come to be known as altruism. Benevolent and disinterested sentiments, dispositions, tendencies and actions which have as their direct object the good of others than the hero himself and his family seem to be totally alien to his spirit. However Graham Zanker argues in Chapter 3 that Akhilleus’ conduct towards Priarn in Book 24 of the [Nad reaches beyond the norms of reciprocity evident in the dealings of other characters within the poem and does indeed display a degree of altruism. Zanker suggests further that Book 24 “prescriptively commends’ this form of altruism and, following the suggestions of Morris (19865), he argues that this reflects the role of altruism in a historical Greek society, specifically the society of the eighth century Bc in which he thinks Homer himself lived. This last suggestion begs a variety of questions which it is beyond the scope of this chapter to address, not least the nature of the monumental composition which is subsumed under the catch-all heading ‘Homer. However, by viewing Akhilleus’ conduct towards Priam in the much broader context of his conduct generally in the poem, and in particular his conduct towards Agamemnon, I argue that his conduct there, far from showing altruism, demonstrates a selfconscious abuse of the conventions of balanced reciprocity and an assertion of his own authority by means of generalized reciprocity. That is, I suggest that Akhilleus’ actions in Book 24 are, more economically and more convincingly, to be explained as the continuation of his animosity towards Agamemnon, being motivated by a spirit of ethical superiority which is entirely consonant with

94 his behaviour tive.

Norman Postlethwaite towards

the Akhaian

leader elsewhere

in the narra-

I The central role of gift-exchange in Homeric society has been well documented, since Finley’s (1956) description of gift-exchange in the poems: ‘the return need not be forthcoming at once, and it might take several forms. But come it normally would . . . No single detail in the life of the heroes receives so much attention in the Iliad and Odyssey as gift-giving, and always there is frank reference to adequacy, appropriateness, recompense’ (70). More rarely noted is the relative infrequency of simultaneous exchange. In Iliad 7 Hektor and Aias end their duel on the advice of the herald Idaios because night is falling, and they round it off, in an act of friendship, with an exchange of gifts: from Hektor a sword together with its sheath and belt, and from Aias a war belt coloured purple (7.303-5). The slight disparity in volume of gifts may possibly be intended to reflect the slight advantage that Aias appeared to enjoy when night suddenly interrupted the contest, but nothing is made of it and, to all intents and purposes, it is an equal exchange. This exchange is, of course, very different indeed from the example of gift-exchange in the previous book, when Glaukos exchanges golden armour worth a hundred oxen for Diomedes’ bronze armour worth only nine, which famously elicits the comment from the poet that Zeus stole away Glaukos’ wits (6.234). The exchange between the Akhaian and the Lykian is designed to reinforce the earlier exchange between their ancestors Oineus and Bellerophontes: in that case a war belt with red dye was exchanged for a golden double-handled drinking cup, ‘fine gifts in token of friendship’ (6.218). The evenness of their ancestors’ exchange is perhaps reinforced by the paralleling of Oineus’ gift of a war belt in the gift of Aias to Hektor in the following book; in any case the evenness calls attention to the startling disparity between the gifts of Glaukos and Diomedes, when they likewise ‘exchanged the promise of friendship’. It is noteworthy that the two Akhaians who exchange gifts with battlefield enemies, Aias and Diomedes, are both presented in the poem as substitute figures for Akhilleus himself. By engaging in a duel with Hektor in Book 7, Aias is taking on the role which is

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rightly that of Akhilleus; similarly, in Book 15, at the climax of the Akhaian reversal which has resulted from Akhilleus’ withdrawal from the battle and his rejection of the embassy which came in the name of Agamemnon in Book 9, it is Aias who, having exchanged his great defensive tower shield for a great pike twenty-two cubits long, exchanges his role as the Akhaians’ greatest defensive bulwark for a role as their greatest single-handed fighter in this battle to save the whole expedition. Since Aias is throughout the poem second only to Akhilleus in warrior status and achievement, it is no surprise that he should act as substitute during Akhilleus’ absence. However, in the earlier books of the poem, it is Diomedes who is carefully established as Akhilleus’ counterpart and substitute: their equation is implicit in the imagery of Book 5, when Athene causes fire to blaze from Diomedes’ shield and helmet (5.4), since at 18.205-6 she places a golden cloud around the head of Akhilleus and similarly kindles a flame from it. At 5.5 Diomedes is compared to Orion’s Dog; similarly at 22.26 Priam sees the movement of Akhilleus towards his son as like this same star. At 5.410 Diomedes is characterized by Dione as karteros (‘stronger’), the very term which Nestor in his attempt to settle the quarrel used of Akhilleus (1.280), to differentiate him from Agamemnon whom he called pherteros (‘greater’). At 5.245 Diomedes kills Pandaros who, through their shared use of the bow, is associated with, and in this scene stands in place of, Paris, and whose death at Diomedes’ hands is an enactment of the punishment owed to Paris. Pandaros’ act of treachery in breaking the truce and wounding Menelaos represents the crime of all Troy, and his death represents the punishment which would befall all Trojans if Akhilleus, rather than his substitute Diomedes, were fighting. At 4.412-18 Diomedes defines and commends the very authority of Agamemnon as commander which Akhilleus challenged to such devastating effect in Book 1. Throughout his aristeia Diomedes presents a picture of heroic conduct by which the conduct of Akhilleus is to be measured, and it is in this context that his exchange of gifts with Glaukos should be viewed. The exchange is apparently a case of balanced reciprocity; and yet, in this most revealing example in the poem, the exchange is both unequal, and explicitly marked as such. I wish to argue that, like the other features of Diomedes’ role in the poem, this scene is carefully devised to inform our understanding of that of Akhilleus. In spite of the centrality of gift-giving and exchange to the poem

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generally, it is rather its denial which characterizes Akhilleus’ relationships within the narrative of the poem. When the suppliant Priam insists on urging upon Akhilleus the ransom he has brought for the corpse of his son, he is met by the dramatic outburst of Akhilleus: ‘no longer stir me up, old sir, I myself am minded to give Hektor back to you’ (24.560-1), and by a scarcely-veiled threat of violence if he provokes Akhilleus further (568-70). Taplin (1992, 273) offers an explanation of his anger: ‘Akhilleus realizes that if either of them bursts out from his self-control then disaster will follow. And he realizes better than the old father himself that it would be dangerous for him actually to see Hektor before he departs.’ But Richardson (1993, 335) may be nearer the mark: ‘The point he is making is that given this [divine] motivation any failure to respect Priam as a suppliant would be a direct offence against the orders of Zeus.’ However, I suggest, with Zanker, that Akhilleus’ outburst results from Priam’s very insistence, since he wishes his decision to return the corpse of Hektor to his father to be viewed as quite unconnected to the ransom offered for it. It is instructive to compare Priam’s emphasis on the size of the ransom he brings, ‘beyond number’ (24.502), and on the joy which he claims the ransom will give Akhilleus (24.556), with Akhilleus’ own reaction to it. T’o the two speeches of Priam Akhilleus makes two lengthy replies (24.517-51 and 24.560-70); in neither of these two replies does Akhilleus so much as mention the ransom on offer. He does, indeed, appear to register considerable excitement at 24.572, when he bounds to the door of the shelter like a lion, and it might be supposed that this betrays his eagerness to get his hands on the wealth of gifts which lies on the other side of it. More likely, however, the simile is intended to convey the latent danger which continually threatens Priam throughout this scene (Moulton 1977, 114). Akhilleus similarly pays no attention to the gifts when the moment comes to unyoke the mules and to unload the ransom from Priam’s wagon, but leaves the task to his companions Automedon and Alkimos (24.575); yet by contrast he himself supervises the ritual of washing, anointing, and clothing the corpse of Hektor, and he it is who finally places it upon the wagon. Richardson (1993, 337) comments that ‘the poet’s careful detailing of this ritual must be designed to stress the propriety with which Akhilleus now treats the body of his former enemy, just as again his concern to avoid distressing Priam and causing a breach in their understanding is

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emphasized’. So it is to be concluded that Akhilleus is properly attentive to all aspects of the preparation and surrender of Hektor’s body, but studiously avoids any mention of, or contact with, the gifts for which Priam wishes to exchange it. In fact it is only in his words to the ghost of Patroklos that Akhilleus addresses the subject of Priam’s ransom gifts, and then it is almost in an attitude of consolation or apology, rather than triumph, that he describes them as ‘not unworthy’, adding ‘I will give you your share of the spoils, as much as is fitting’ (24.594-5). Throughout the scene Akhilleus appears anxious to downplay the role of Priam’s gifts in his decision to return Hektor’s body for burial. If Akhilleus’ attitude to Priam’s proffered ransom gifts is viewed, not in isolation, but in the broader context of the poem, it becomes apparent that his behaviour towards Priam matches his behaviour earlier in the poem, in that his disregard for Priam’s gifts echoes his attitude to those of Agamemnon. In Book 9, of course, he rejected those gifts and, in doing so, he resisted Agamemnon’s attempt to assert his superiority and authority (Redfield 1975, 15). The amount of detail, and the great value of the gifts, constituted the clearest indication of Agamemnon’s intentions, but the offer was also accompanied by his explicit requirement that Akhilleus acknowledge his superiority (9.158-62), a requirement which Odysseus later wisely chose to suppress. However, of equal importance to Akhilleus’ rejection of the offer in Book g is the studied disregard for these same gifts of Agamemnon which Akhilleus displays when they are finally handed over in Book 19. Like Priam in Book 24, Agamemnon lays great stress upon the gifts he is offering: assigning responsibility to Zeus-sent Delusion for all that has occurred between himself and Akhilleus, he at last puts his request to Akhilleus that he return to battle (19.138-44): ‘I am willing to make all good and give back gifts in abundance. Rise up, then, to the fighting and rouse the rest of the people. Here am I, to give you all those gifts, as many as brilliant Odysseus yesterday went to your shelter and promised. Or if you will, hold back, though you lean hard into battle, while my followers take the gifts from my ship and bring them to you, so you may see what I give to comfort your spirit’ (tr. Lattimore 1951). In contrast to Agamemnon’s repeated emphasis in this passage upon his gifts, in his reply Akhilleus could scarcely appear less interested (19.147-8) ‘the gifts are yours to give if you wish, and as it is proper, or to keep with yourself. But now let

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us remember our joy in warcraft.’ As in Book 24, Akhilleus is concerned to minimize the role of Agamemnon’s gifts in his return to battle: they play no part—or no part he is prepared to acknowledge—in his decision, and his declared motivation is solely the need for immediate vengeance upon Hektor. Odysseus, of course, will have none of this and insists upon the full ritual of the communal feast, the swearing of an oath by Agamemnon that he has not defiled Akhilleus’ girl Briséis by sleeping with her, and the handing over of all the gifts; Agamemnon readily agrees to all of this. In turn, however, Akhilleus in his reply studiously avoids any reference to the gifts (19.199-214); when at last the gifts are brought from Agamemnon’s shelter, Akhilleus is not even mentioned (19.243-8); and when, finally, Akhilleus takes his lead from Agamemnon and acknowledges the role of Delusion in their quarrel, he makes no mention whatever of the gifts (19.270-5). In short, Akhilleus’ sole acknowledgement of Agamemnon’s vast array of gifts is: ‘give them if you wish, keep them if you don’t’. Just as the very size of the list in Book 9 seems designed to emphasize Akhilleus’ rejection of it, so too in Book το the continued stress laid by others upon the handing over of the gifts seems designed to emphasize his studied indifference towards them; and his marginalizing of Agamemnon’s gifts anticipates his downplaying of those of Priam during the ransom scene in Book 24. II In addition to the emphasis upon gifts and Akhilleus’ disregard for them, the reconciliation of Akhilleus and Agamemnon in Book 19 is recalled in at least two other respects in the Akhilleus-Priam episode in Book 24. In the first place there is Odysseus’ continued insistence that Akhilleus partake in a communal meal, which serves the purpose of attempting to reintegrate Akhilleus into heroic society. Odysseus’ insistence that Akhilleus permit the army to be fed, and that he himself accept the meal provided by Agamemnon in his shelter (19.156-80), is met by steadfast refusal (19.200); and, though he eventually instructs his men to take their dinner (19.275), Akhilleus declares that neither food nor drink will go down his throat until he has led his men into battle (19.209). The theme is maintained until Book 24, where his mother Thetis declares her anxiety that he gives no thought to food or to sleeping.

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Akhilleus’ abstention from food, and particularly the communal feast, is indicative of his continued alienation from the fellowship of heroic society. In contrast, in his scene with Priam in the final book, Akhilleus adopts the role taken in Book 19 by Odysseus, as he presses food upon the reluctant Trojan. The importance of this theme within the scene is conveyed through Akhilleus’ lengthy account of the story of Niobe, which serves as a paradigm to Priam (Seaford 1994, 175): even though she was lamenting the deaths of her six sons and daughters, she nevertheless took food and, says Akhilleus, Priam should do likewise (24.601). In addition the significance of the theme is indicated by the description of the preparation of the feast they are to share, the ritual slaughter of a sheep, the carving, the spitting, and the laying of the table (24.621); and finally, it is explicitly declared by Priam (24.641-2). Clearly the lengthy description of Akhilleus’ abstention from food in Book 19, and the related theme of alienation, is designed to highlight the meal shared with Priam in Book 24, and the related theme of social integration. A second respect in which the reconciliation of Akhilleus and Agamemnon is recalled in Book 24 is Akhilleus’ insistence that Priam spend the night before his return to Troy in a bed made up in Akhilleus’ shelter. As with Akhilleus’ insistence that they take food together, there is a good practical explanation available, in the lateness of the hour and the length of the old man’s journey. Nevertheless the scene is at one, both with Akhilleus’ words and with the shared meal they have just enjoyed, in extending hospitality to the enemy king. Once again there is an obvious contrast drawn with Book 19, where Akhilleus’ reconciliation with Agamemnon is characterized by the theme of his sleeplessness, which matches the theme of his unwillingness to eat, with the result that, at 24.2-6, ‘the rest of them took thought of their dinner and of sweet sleep and its enjoyment; only Achilleus wept still as he remembered his beloved companion, nor did sleep who subdues all come over him, but he tossed from one side to the other in longing for Patroklos’. Akhilleus’ unwillingness, or inability, to follow the natural rhythms and routines of human existence again emphasizes his alienation from the society of his fellow heroes, who in Book 23 exercised their competitive instincts in the Funeral Games for Patroklos and who now take their deserved rest, whilst Akhilleus stood aloof from competition and now resists the temptation of

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sleep. Therefore, Akhilleus’ words and actions in his scene with Priam should be viewed against the background of his words and actions in Book 19: his refusal to sleep anticipates his positive injunction to Priam to accept a bed in his enemy’s shelter, and his refusal to eat anticipates his positive insistence that Priam take food in his enemy’s shelter. In short, I suggest that the scene which Zanker has identified as a unique manifestation of altruism constitutes instead the positive image of Akhilleus’ negative behaviour during and after his reconciliation with Agamemnon. After his reconciliation with Akhilleus in Book 19, Agamemnon plays only a secondary role, and his relations with Akhilleus are those of a subordinate. He offers Akhilleus consolation for the death of Patroklos at 19.310; he acts upon Akhilleus’ instructions to arrange Patroklos’ funeral pyre at 23.54; he follows further orders from Akhilleus to organize the feeding of the army at 23.161; and at 23.250 he and the other leaders quench the flames of the pyre and gather up Patroklos’ bones, again according to Akhilleus’ instructions. For his part, Akhilleus orders the Akhaian attack at 22.378; he arranges and conducts the funeral games for Patroklos at 23.257; and at 24.669 he announces to Priam his unilateral decision to allow a truce to accommodate the burial of Hektor, without feeling the need to consult Agamemnon or any other of the leaders. In all their dealings subsequent to the reconciliation Akhilleus exercises the authority of leader, whilst Agamemnon goes wordlessly about the tasks assigned to him. It is from this position of authority therefore that Achilleus displays towards Priam what Zanker has termed ‘altruism’. To return to the question of gift-giving and exchange, one more example may be adduced. Following Walter Donlan’s demonstration (19895, 1) that in so-called gift-economies ‘the highest premium is placed on generosity and display; superiority in gift-giving equates to superiority in social prestige’, it may be suggested that the episode of the funeral games in /had 23, in which Akhilleus hands out prizes for the various competitions from his own store, is as much an assertion of his superior social prestige as was Agamemnon’s attempt through his vast offer in Book 9; and it may further be concluded that the acceptance of Akhilleus’ prizes by his fellow-leaders is an acknowledgement of his superiority. During the final competition of the games, the spear-throwing, one of the recipients is Agamemnon, who is given by Akhilleus ‘an unfired

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cauldron with patterns of flowers on it’ (23.885), whilst Meriones is awarded the spear itself as prize, even though no contest has in fact taken place. I have argued elsewhere (Postlethwaite 1995) that the underlying spirit of this particular encounter sets it apart from all the other contests which make up the funeral games, in that it demonstrates the continuing animosity which Akhilleus feels towards Agamemnon. The entire episode of the funeral games constitutes a case of generalized reciprocity, and Agamemnon’s wordless acceptance of Akhilleus’ proffered gift is, like the silent subservience which characterizes his dealings with Akhilleus in the concluding books of the poem, an acknowledgement of Akhilleus’ superior social prestige. It was suggested earlier in this chapter that the two instances of gift-exchange involving the two figures who act as substitutes for Akhilleus, between Diomedes and Glaukos in Book 6, and Aias and Hektor in Book 7, serve as the yardstick for Akhilleus’ own handling of gift-giving. In the case of Aias and Hektor there is an example of balanced reciprocity, in which the exchange is between (more or less) equals and in which the gifts exchanged are (more or less) equal. In the case of Diomedes and Glaukos, on the other hand, there is also an example of balanced reciprocity, but one in which the exchange is not between equals since Diomedes’ aristeia in Book 5 has established him as comparable to Akhilleus himself and thus far superior to Glaukos, and one in which the exchange itself is remarkably unequal. In the equal exchange of Aias and Hektor there is an acknowledgement of the equality of their social or military prestige and, by the same token, in the unequal exchange of Diomedes and Glaukos there is an acknowledgement of the inequality. In other words, the two examples of giftexchange provide graphic evidence of correct, and of incorrect, use of balanced reciprocity. In the case of Agamemnon’s offer of gifts in Book 9, there is also an apparent example of balanced reciprocity, of the compensatory kind, but the return which Agamemnon expects from Akhilleus is an acknowledgement of his inferior social prestige (Donlan 1993, 165) and, I would argue, is such that this constitutes rather a case of generalized reciprocity. It is for this reason that Akhilleus rejects Agamemnon’s advances and his gifts and, as was demonstrated above, their concluding scene in the poem, at the end of Book 23, is marked by Akhilleus’ giving and Agamemnon’s receiving.

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One final passage merits attention as perhaps revealing Akhilleus’ motivation. I suggested earlier that Akhilleus’ insistence that Priam share his tent for the night after the ransoming of Hektor’s body represented a reversal of his own steadfast refusal to sleep following the death of Patroklos. Akhilleus’ insistence in this scene throws up two problems which have been discussed by Hooker (1986) and by P.V. Jones (1989). In the first place, Akhilleus suggests that Priam sleep in the prodromos (vestibule) of his shelter beneath the aithousa (portico); however, the reason he suggests for doing so—that Priam might in this way escape the notice of any Akhaian who might call upon Akhilleus during the course of the night—is quite illogical, since the prodromos is just the place where he would be certain to be observed. In addition, since the prodromos is precisely the place where a guest in Homeric society would expect to be accommodated, there is in fact no reason for Akhilleus to supply Priam with an explanation at all. The purpose of this curious scene seems to be to draw attention to Akhilleus’ conclusion that, if Agamemnon were to learn of Priam’s presence in the Akhaian camp, there would be a delay in the return of Hektor’s body (24.653-5): that is, Akhilleus is carefully drawing the contrast between his own magnanimity towards Priam and the threat which Agamemnon poses, a threat which of course recalls his behaviour towards the priest Chryses in Book 1. The second problem which the scene throws up lies in the formula with which the poet introduces Akhilleus’ speech, τὸν δ᾽ ἐπικερτομέων προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς (‘Akhilleus of the swift feet now looked at Priam and said, sarcastic’): in its only other appearances in the Homeric poerns, at [liad 16.744 and Odyssey 22.194, the participle epikertomeén conveys the meaning ‘taunting’, a meaning which is obviously quite inappropriate to the context of sympathy and reconciliation in which the Akhilleus—Priam scene has been played out. Hooker has attempted to explain away the anomaly as yet another of Homer’s famous lapses; yet there was a wealth of alternative participles available to characterize Akhilleus’ words which would have easily avoided the anomaly, so that the choice of epikertomeön comes to appear quite deliberate. A more economical explanation would be to suggest, following Leaf (1902), that the participle is in fact directed at Agamemnon not Priam, and that a meaning such as ‘boasting his superiority—which would equally well suit its two other contexts—is more accurate. In this case,

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there is no anomaly in the use of the formula, and the scene is designed to enhance the contrast drawn between Akhilleus’ attitude towards his enemy Priam and his erstwhile ally Agamemnon. I conclude therefore, first, that the term ‘reconciliation’ misrepresents the events of Book 19, and is directly contradicted by the words and actions of both Akhilleus and Agamemnon in subsequent books; that the events of Book 19 constitute only the renunciation of Akhilleus’ menis anger’), with the short-term objective of exacting vengeance for the death of Patroklos; and that Akhilleus maintains his animosity, and continually displays that animosity, towards Agamemnon throughout the later books of the poem. Second, I conclude that Homer has carefully developed a picture during the course of the poem of Akhilleus’ indifference to giftexchange or gift-receipt: it plays no part in his decision to return to battle after Patroklos’ death, just as it plays no part in his decision to return the body of Hektor to his father. Akhilleus’ brief display of anger towards Priam (24.560-70), caused by the latter’s reference to the gifts he brings, recalls his angry reference to Agamemnon when his gifts are finally handed over. Third, I suggest that by his steadfast resistance to accepting gifts—and when he does receive them it is strictly on his own terms—and by his own distribution of largesse in Book 23, by giving but refusing to receive, Akhilleus overrides the conventions of balanced reciprocity, as expressed in the exchanges of Diomedes and Glaukos in Book 6 and of Aias and Hektor in Book 7; and I conclude that, in so doing, he continues to declare his own authority and to demean his old adversary. Akhilleus’ behaviour towards Priam in Book 24 is indeed exceptional, but only in that he turns from the patterns of balanced reciprocity which underpin the lives of other heroes, just as he has done in his dealings with Agamemnon throughout the poem. His unilateral decision to return Hektor’s body is as potent an assertion of his authority over the Akhaian army, and over Agamemnon, as his ordering a truce or organizing the army (including Agamemnon). This is not to deny that his return of the body is a response to the atmosphere of mutual sympathy and respect which has pervaded the scene with Priam. It is, nevertheless, self-assertion which dominates his actions in this scene, and it is for this reason that his final appearance in the poem is marked by one last gibe at Agamemnon, with his recollection of the trouble he caused by his refusal of

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Chryses’ supplication in Book 1. I conclude therefore that Akhilleus’ actions are not a unique manifestation of altruism as Zanker has suggested, since, although their result may be otherbenefiting, their purpose was the assertion of his own superiority, and I suggest rather that they constitute another case of generalized reciprocity, to match that of Agamemnon in Book 9 which proved such a disastrous failure.

5 Pleasing Thighs: Reciprocity in Greek Religion ROBERT

PARKER

In the tenth Nemean Ode,’ Pindar declares that it is ‘no wonder’ that Theaios has achieved athletic success, given that his ancestor Pamphaes once entertained Kastor and Polydeukes, those great athletic gods, in his house; he adds the comment ‘truly the gods are a race whom you can trust’, καὶ μὰν θεῶν πιστὸν γένος (54).? That may appear a surprising claim, if one thinks of the ‘trick-devising deceitfulness of god’ (Aiskhylos, Persai 93) that various passages of tragedy and epic so poignantly display. But it is a good expression of a more confident and optimistic attitude that is not uncharacteristic of ‘practical religion’ in Greece; a good introduction too to the theme of reciprocity between gods and men, which is a basic postulate of such practical religion. Almost the whole of Greek cultic practice is in fact founded—not merely by implication, but through numerous explicit statements—on the belief or hope that reciprocity of this kind is a reality. The much-abused word ‘fundamental’ is justified here, since without this ideal of reciprocity the whole explicit rationale of Greek cult practice disappears. It was in consequence a prime source of anxiety for the ordinary believer: the fear that the gods might be ungrateful was a darker thought, perhaps, than the fear that they might be unjust. But it was also a problem for those who stood partly outside traditional assumptions, one of the issues on which philosophers rejected, or attacked, or were embarrassed by, the religion of their fathers. A final reason for addressing the subject is that it has been strangely neglected or undervalued in almost all studies of Greek religion until very recently. It is symptomatic not only that neither

! In addition to standard abbreviations I cite Hansen (1983) and (1989) as CEG. 2 The Dioskouroi may have particularly attracted such beliefs: see the return they made to Simonides, PMG sıo.

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of the two great German histories of religion? has an index entry under the most relevant Greek word, kharis, but also that in the extensive scholarly debate about one of the most famous lines in perhaps the most famous Greek tragedy one almost never finds a recognition that this fundamental value is being alluded to. The reference to the ‘violent kharis’ of the gods in Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon 182 is a grim acknowledgement that the gods react, indeed, to mortal doings, just as worshippers hope they will when they appeal to kharis, but often in ways that are quite unlike what those worshippers hope for: crimes, as well as sacrifices, evoke a response. This neglect by scholarship of the religious principle of Rharis is perhaps ultimately a product of its devaluation by other religious traditions, beginning with the critiques by Greek philosophers just mentioned. However that may be, a consequence can be the kind of skewed view of Greek values that this volume seeks to remedy. I Let us begin with description. An obvious starting point is the practice once spoken of by Lysias (2.39) as ‘reminding of sacrifices’, θυσιῶν ἀνάμνησις. Every reader of Homer is familiar with it: to take the first example that occurs in the /lad, Chryses prays to Apollo (1.39-41): ‘Sminthian, if ever I roofed a temple that pleased you (χαριέντα ... νήον) | or if I ever burnt for you rich thighs | of bulls or goats, fulfil this prayer for me... .’. The part of the animal normally mentioned in this context, as here, is the god’s portion, the thigh-bones; when the gods welcome the offering these bones become the ‘pleasing thighs’ (κεχαρισμένα unpia)* of this paper’s title (which has nothing to do with private fantasy). But sacrifice is not the only form of religious service that can be recalled, as the ‘pleasing roof of our example shows. And the appeal can be somewhat indirect, as when in the Odyssey Penelope prays to Athene that if Odysseus ever sacrificed rich thighs the goddess should 3 Nilsson (1967) and Burkert (1985); even MacLachlan (1993) has only brief comment on religious kharis. There is, however, a splendid discussion in Yunis (1988), to1-11, and much interesting material in Versnel (19814), 42-62. * Od. 19.397. Other Homeric reminders of sacrifices not mentioned in subsequent notes are Il. 8.238-42 (without the ‘if ever’ formula); 15.372-6 (a complicated form: see n. 53 below); and cf. Il. 1.394-5; Kallinos fr. za West.

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remember them now and protect Telemachos her son.’ The deposit of divine favour made by Odysseus’ sacrifices is, therefore, treated as one on which other members of his family can draw. Appeals to past sacrifices are also quite common in tragedy, as when the chorus of Aiskhylos’ Seven urge the gods of Thebes to ‘remember the city’s sacrifice-loving rites’ or Sophokles’ Elektra reminds Apollo that ‘I often came to your altar and appealed to you with outstretched hand, bringing whatever I could’. Or the reminder may become a complaint, as when Klytaimestra tells the Erinyes, who are sleeping heedless of her wrongs, of the many offerings she brought to them at dead of night.° A note of caution should be sounded here. No instance of a prayer cast in ‘if ever’ form is known from a non-literary text, and the only two examples in prose, the passage from Lysias’ Funeral Speech from which we started and an appeal uttered by Kroisos to Apollo from the pyre in Herodotos,’ come from works or contexts of high literary register. It might therefore be epic tradition rather than ritual practice that gives appeals of this type such a fixed and canonical feel. The note of caution does not need to be sounded very loudly, however. There are reasons why prayers of this type would not have left traces in non-literary texts even if they were quite commonly made;® and, as we shall see, the underlying mentality is so well attested in sources of other types (dedications above all) that it can scarcely be doubted that past sacrifices were seen as grounding claims on divine favour, whether or not prayers were commonly uttered in just this form. We revert (with that warning) to literary texts. Naturally enough, it was also possible to ask for recompense at the actual moment of sacrifice: ‘Grant a delightful recompense (χαρίεσσαν ἀμοιβὴν) | to all the Pylians for this glorious hecatomb’, prays the 5 4.762-6. Od. 17.240-6 is indirect in a different way: Eumaios, praying for benefit to Odysseus, appeals to Odysseus’ past sacrifices. 6 A. Th. 179-80; 5. El. 1377-8; A. Eu. 106-9. See too Eur. Heracl. 777-83; Ar. Pax 385-6; ? Phrynikhos fr. 92 K/A, and the perversion in E. Hel. 969-70. But in Euripides prayers are more often accompanied by complaints and threats than by appeals to kharis: see Langholf (1971), 22-31. 7 “The Lydians say that when he observed Kyros’ change of heart and saw all the attendants trying to put out the fire but no longer able to control it, Kroisos cried out and called on Apollo, if he had ever received from him any pleasing offering (εἴ

τί οἱ κεχαρισμένον ἐξ αὐτοῦ ἐδωρήθη), to intervene and rescue him’ . . . (1.87). 8 So Pulleyn (1993), with new arguments which course.

I hope will be published in due

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disguised Athene in Odyssey 3.58-9. A third possibility is the vow that, if a particular benefit is conferred, then a gift, usually sacrifice, will be made in return: ‘. . . stand by me and protect me | and in turn I shall sacrifice to you a broad-browed | yearling cow.’? Sometimes it is made explicit that the god should perform the service ‘in order to’ receive the offering: “You must surely be one of the gods who live in the broad heavens. | Be propitious, that we may give you pleasing offerings | and golden gifts, well wrought. Spare us’, prays Eumaios to the disguised Odysseus.'° The idea that gods too benefit from such exchanges is often stressed in tragedy, when they are reminded that ‘pleasing offerings’ will be discontinued unless the speaker or the speaker’s city is preserved: ‘Come to our aid. I believe that I speak in our common interest. | For it is a city that flourishes that honours the gods’, or ‘If you destroy these chicks of a father who sacrificed | and greatly honoured you, then how | will you gain the honours of rich feasts from a hand like his?’ Zeus is offered ‘double and treble’ recompense if he aids Orestes in Choephoroi, and Elektra in similar circumstances in Sophokles conditionally promises her dead father ‘richer gifts than now’.!! A word is needed here about vocabulary. Kharis, we saw, is the word central to our subject, and most of the Homeric passages cited so far have contained a word from the khar- root. Kharis words are in fact applied to both sides of the relationship. Mortals seek to bring gifts or sacrifices which are kharienta or kekharismena to the gods, and request a return which is itself khariessa; in later texts the relation can be presented quite explicitly as one in which kharites are exchanged. Two interconnected points need to be made here. On the one hand, the primary meaning of kharis is ‘charm, delight’, or that which causes it. In attempting to bring the gods kekharismena mortals are trying to bring them things in which they take delight, and speakers sometimes explicitly urge deities to ‘rejoice ° Tl. 10.291-2; also 4.119-21, 23.194-8; Od. 3.380-4, 17.50-1 and e.g. Ar. Pax 392-9 (more in Ausfeld 1903, 528). The conditional promise not to defile the god’s shrine in Ar. Κ7. 394 is a comic version. Mortals who felt indebted to gods in this or other ways could make ‘down payment’ offerings (Il. 10.462-4, Od. 13.356-60), the residue to be paid later. 10 Od. 16.1835; see also Il. 6.306-10. "A. Th. 76-7; Cho. 255-7 (cf. Cho. 483-8, to the dead Agamemnon); Cho. 791-3; 5. El. 457-8; for variants see A. A. 581-2 (also 821), a promise that the Rharis of Zeus which permitted the sack of Troy will be ‘honoured’ (cf. CEG 774.4); E. Tr. 1059-80, where Zeus is told that he has in fact now lost his rites in Troy.

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in’ (khatrein) the offerings they make them.!? On the other, a strong social sense existed that ‘it is always kharis that begets kharis’ or, as English says, ‘one good turn deserves another’.'? That is to say, the ideas of reciprocity and repayment are associated with khari- words, but not in a direct semantic way. One gift or act endowed with kharis, power to please, will call forth another, which will in turn evoke yet another; but a kharis even when given in return for a kharis is not in meaning a recompense, however much it may be so in function. The English expressions ‘favour’ and ‘good turn’ work in a similar way: good turns and favours should be repaid in kind, but the words themselves express the

sense not of recompense

but of benefit. The

χαρίεσσα

ἀμοιβή

which mortals pray for should probably therefore be rendered as ‘a delightful’ rather than a ‘grateful’ return'* (the idea of repayment being explicitly present only in the noun). Or possibly the adjective is poised between ‘grateful’ and ‘delightful’ much as is ‘gracious’ (which translators in fact often favour);'> for it is doubtless too extreme to deny that the khari- words underwent some pressure towards the meaning ‘gratitude’ from their constant contextual association with ideas of deserved reward.!° However that may be, the fundamental conception at all periods is that of an unceasing interchange of delightful gifts and services, a kind of charm war. A specialized application is that seen in the combination of kekharismenon with a word meaning ‘sacrifice’ (or ‘rite’ or ‘procession’ and so on). It already occurs in Homer and remains a fixed phrase in the classical period, even in prose; Euthyphro’s definition of piety in Plato is ‘knowing how to say and do what pleases the gods (kekharismena) when praying and sacrificing’.'” The semi-formulaic 12 yalpe θεὰ τοΐσδεσσι: Il. 10.462, also Od. 13.357-8 (on these texts see n. 9), IG I} 728.2 (=CEG 227); Ar. Nu. 274, Th. 111, 314, 981, Av. 1743; PMG 887, Phaidimos 2 in Gow/Page (1965). The perceived link between χάρις and χαίρω (E. Ion 646-7; X. Mem. 1.3.3; Hippocr. ἢ. 44 below) is the starting point of Loew (1908); his thesis that Rharis is ‘res laetificans’ is accepted by Versnel (1981a), 48, and with modifications by Latacz (1966), 78-122; see in general MacLachlan (1993), ch. 1.

'3 χάρις χάριν γάρ ἐστιν ἡ τίκτουσ᾽ ἀεί, Soph. Aj. 522. 14 pares 15 cious 16 17 with CEG

So Latacz (1966), 78-122, at 101 (‘freudebereitende Vergeltung’), who comIl. 23.650: σοὶ δὲ θεοὶ τῶνδ᾽ ἀντὶ χάριν μενοεικέα δοῖεν. "ΤῸ call an act ‘gracious’ stresses its charming character, but the charm of graacts usually derives from their social appropriateness and often from gratitude. See e.g. Il. 4.95. Euthphr. 14b; cf. Hom. Od. 16.184, 19.397; Anakreon 357.7 PMG (perhaps a secondary reference to literary kharis, as Simon Goldhill suggests to me); 260 (= IG I? 788); Hdt. 1.87; Ar. Ach. 248, Pax 386; Lys. 6.33; X. Mem. 1.3.3,

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use of such phrases reflects the worshipper’s concern to get sacrificial and other ritual details right, the fear that they may be wrong. For if offerings for whatever reason are not kekharismena, if the gods do not ‘receive’ the sacrifice (another key term),'® then the supposed chain of reciprocal benefit is broken at the first link. The practice of taking omens at sacrifice is at one level an attempt to secure guidance about the future, but at another an investigation of the sacrifice itself, to establish whether or not it is Rekharismenon. The disastrous signs at Tiresias’ sacrifice in Sophokles’ Antigone (999 ff.) are, for instance, the proof that offerings from a polluted city are far from pleasing to the gods. Plato describes the skill of the priest, in a balanced phrase that well brings out the idea of reciprocity, as knowing how ‘to make gifts from us to the gods by sacrifice in accord with their wishes, and to seek blessings from them for us by prayer’ (Pit. 2goc). We can finish this section on sacrifice with a passage from Aristophanes’ Birds, where the chorus, having urged in paratragic vein the performance of ‘great solemn processional hymns to the gods’, add that it would be good also ‘to sacrifice a little sheep for the sake of kharis’, dua δὲ προσέτι χάριτος ἕνεκα | προβάτιόν τι θύειν (ὃς ς--6).19 The little phrase nicely illustrates the routine character, the banality, of the association between sacrifice and kharis. The other context where this cluster of ideas is very clearly displayed is in dedicatory inscriptions. We can take four examples (two Boeotian, two Athenian) out of many. The first is inscribed on the thighs of a little bronze hoplite, and is of the seventh century; the others survive on the supports for various offerings now lost, and probably date from different stages in the fifth. Mantiklos dedicated me to the silver-bowed far-shooter from his tithe. Grant him, Phoebus, delightful recompense (χαρίεσσα

ἀμοιβή) To Dionysus, who had fulfilled his prayer, Neomedes dedicated this monument in return for good deeds (ἔργον ἀντ᾽ ἀγαθὸν) Maiden, Telesinos son of Ketis dedicated this image on the acropolis. Take delight in it (kAatro), and allow him to dedicate another. 4.7.6, An. 5.3.7, HG 7.4.35, Eq. Mag. 1.1, 3.2 (bis); Pl. R. 394a, Cri. 119d; CEG 888.17; Sokolowski (1955), no. 47 lines 1, 11 (an oracular consultation on this subject); SIG? 695.45; Plut. Qu. Conv. 632c. 18 See e.g. Ar. Nu. 274; Ausfeld (1903), 530; Kleinknecht (1937), 45, 50. 19 For the expression, cf. Pl. Lg. 771d.

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Mistress, Menandros dedicated you this first offering in fulfilment of a vow, paying back a favour (kharis) ... Protect him, daughter of Zeus, (returning?) a favour (kharis) for this.?®

The first of these inscriptions is one of several that repeat the Homeric appeal for a ‘delightful recompense’.*! The second contains no such request, but stresses instead, in strikingly human terms, the ‘good deeds’? of the god which it repays. The third does not apply a kharis word directly to the offering, but, in urging the goddess to ‘take delight in’ it, points directly to the same circle of ideas. And the prayer to be allowed to ‘dedicate another’ (like that to ‘sacrifice again next year’ or something of the kind)? is of course an appeal to the common interest of god and worshipper, since the mortal will be able to repeat expensive offerings only if preserved healthy and wealthy in the interim; it opens a vista of mutual service extending indefinitely into the future. Such a cycle of obligation is explicit in the fourth, in which the dedicator asks a return for an offering that was itself a return for a service by the god. A religious service of any kind could provide grounds for such a request: Aristophanes’

Thesmophoriazusai,

for instance, ends with the cho-

rus asking the two goddesses to ‘grant them a fine favour in return for this’ (the play itself), and the singers of the Homeric Hymns may urge the deity to ‘take delight’ (khairein) in their performance and to send blessings ‘in return for the song’.*+ Similar language was addressed to the dead and to heroes as well. It is the ‘custom’ for mortals, says Elektra in Aiskhylos, when bringing offerings to the dead to request them to ‘make an equal return’ or (for the text is uncertain) to ‘return blessings’. The Attic hero Kallistephanos is asked, with just the same verb ἀντιδοῦναι, to ‘make a return’ for offerings. And honours paid to the dead,

20 CEG 326, 332, 227 (= IG 13 728), 275 UG 15 872). See also Bremer, Ch. 6, Sect. II. 21 Cf. CEG 359-60 (and 358), 426. 22 CEG 818 also applies this expression to a god. > Ar. Th. 275-6, also 950-2, taken with Fraenkel (1962), 118-19; E. El. 805-7; Herodas 4. 86-8. One could also pray to be allowed to make richer offerings: S. El. 457-8, and often in the Greek Anthology: see e.g. Gow/Page’s notes (1965) on Leonidas 36 and (1968) on Apollonides 2; Virgil, Ecl. 7.29-36. 10 II? 4514 is a late variant (2nd c. AD): ‘heal me from gout, so that I can walk to your temple again’. 24 See e.g. Hymn. Hom. 2.494, 9.7, 14.6 and the excellent remarks of Calame (1995), 8-14 on these and other ‘contrats de réciprocité’ in the Hymns.

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whether lament or offering, are often described as kharites in tragedy.*° Can any historical development be traced? The vocabulary of kharis and recompense (ἀντιδιδόναι) is ubiquitous in archaic and early classical dedicatory inscriptions, and still quite widely attested in the fourth century.*® Variations on it are common in the Hellenistic dedicatory epigrams preserved in the Greek Anthology?’ (difficult evidence to use, because their relation to contemporary dedicatory practice is extremely various), and inscribed instances can still be found, though they probably become rarer. Dionysios of Marathon, for instance, a prosperous figure in the Athens of the second century Bc, built a shrine for Dionysos, ‘choosing not to heap up wealth in silver so much as to honour your rites, Bakkhos’ and urges the god to protect him and his family ‘in return for this’ (ἄνθ᾽ ὧν). Late in the second century AD Herodes Atticus, healed by a god, could still ‘return the favour’

25

Should I pray, ‘as is the custom of mortals, to make equal return to those who

send these gifts’ (ws νόμος βρότοις | io”? ἀντιδοῦναι τοῖσι πέμπουσιν τάδε [io’: Bamberger; ἔστ᾽ ms; ἔσθλ᾽ Elmsley]), A. Ch. 93-4: for offerings to the dead as χάριτες see A. A. 1386-7 (a sacrilegious perversion), 1545, Ch. 43-4, 180, 320 with Garvie’s note, 517; cf. S. El. 356 and Leonidas 19 in Gow/Page (1965); for appeals to the dead see n. 11 above. Kallistephanos: SEG 39 (1989), 235. On the difficult

‘favour of the earth’ (χάρις χθονία) of S. OC 1751-2, see Seaford (1994), 135 ἢ. 141; note too Hdt. 7.114.2. 26 Before 400 BC there are some 20 instances: see Yunis (1988), 104 nn. 7-8 (add now IG I? 1027 bis). In the 4th c. (but some of the datings are insecure) see CEG 751 (Ὁ), 774, 798.2, 818, 822 (a lovely instance), 863, 865.6; Page (1981), 136-7 on Anth. Pal. 6. 346; note too texts of the form ‘x presents this gift: grant him the following’, e.g. CEG 760-1, 764. See also 603.3. 27 Festugiére (1976) is a survey, which however neglects relevant material not contained in Anth. Pal. book 6. In the epigrams collected in Gow/Page (1965) I note the following forms: ‘grant x in return for (avri) ν᾿: Euphorion 1, Leonidas 44 (the appeal here is to past religious services, not a gift), 46, 97; ‘grant a χάρις (for an offering): Kallimakhos 14.11, Leonidas 4, 6 (by implication); Phaidimos 2 (‘rejoice in the offering and... .; ‘I bring x. Grant y’: Antipater of Sidon 49; Nikarkhos 4; Pankrates 2; Phaidimos 1; Rhianos 8; Theodoridas 1; Anon. 41; ‘I bring x as a thankoffering (χαριτήσιον) for γ᾽ (explicitly or by implication): Antipater of Sidon 48; Anyte 3; Asklepiades 27; Kallimakhos 25; Hermokreon 2; Leonidas 36; ‘grant x, and ΤΊ] sacrifice y in return’: Theodoridas 3; Theokritos 20 (a more complicated form); “if ever I brought you offerings’: Alkaios 9 (very literary); ‘make me richer and I will give you more’: Agis 1; Kallimakhos 23; Leonidas 36; Phanias 5; cf. n. 24; ‘the dead repay kharites’: Leonidas 19. Note too the account of piety rewarded in Theokritos 2, ending ‘for mortals who cultivate the gods fare better themselves’. For evidence from later literary epigrams see Festugiére (1976), 416; and see also Herter (1932), 264.

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(ἀντιχαρίζεσθαι) by founding ἃ temple.?® We cannot then argue in any simple sense that the ‘kharis relation’ between man and god vanished along with the gift exchanges and ethics of reciprocity of archaic society.” Nor is it in fact the case that kharis lost all importance as a social principle in post-classical Greece, though its sphere of application doubtless changed enormously. It was in the Hellenistic period that the Kharites were re-interpreted, both speculatively and in cult, as symbols of gratitude: from about 220 the Athenians recorded honours bestowed on their benefactors in the new precinct of ‘the people and the Kharites’, in other words of the grateful people.?® So the old way of thinking about the relation of man and god never ran out of analogues in the human world. We have looked so far at the prayers and aspirations of worshippers at the time of worship. Obviously this is a context in which they are likely to profess an optimistic view as to whether an effective relation of kharis can be established with the gods. But it is not hard to find statements about the efficacy of kharis in narrative as well: Autolykos, for instance, was a master thief because he “burnt pleasing thighs’ for Hermes. We started with Pindar, and such claims are particularly characteristic of epinician poetry. Thus Bakkhylides explains that Poseidon granted an Isthmian victory to

Pantheides’ son ‘in return for the benefactions’ (ἀντ᾽ εὐεργεσιᾶν) of his father, and goes on to stress the cheerful prospects that mortals can create for themselves by ‘doing good to gods’ (εὖ ἔρδων θεούς);

28 Dionysios: JG II? 2948: on this foundation see W.S. Ferguson (1944), 115-19; Herodes: ib. 4781. Other instances are: [G ix. 2. 637 (3/2 c. BC); Epigr. Gr. 797 (= Die Inschriften von Smyrna, ed. G. Petzl, Bonn 1982, no. 750); 811; 815 (= Inser. Cret. 2.28.2), IG 112 4831; see too in prose Sokolowski (1955), 20.62, and the engaging claim of SIG? 708. 25 (Istros, late Hellenistic) that ‘those who conduct themselves admirably and with piety earn a certain kharis both from the gods and from those they benefit’. But there is no modern collection even of the verse inscriptions, and I have made no systematic search. 2° See the index to Seaford (1994), s.v. gifts (decline in importance of), reciprocity (transformation of in the polis). 30 See Habicht (1982), 91-3, whose interpretation (for which he appeals to the association of cultic graces with gratitude already made in Arist. NE 11332) receives support from the regular language of decrees (see e.g. JG IT? 223.13-14, of 343/2, which has innumerable successors) and, decisively, from evidence not used by him for a similar re-valuation of the cult of Kharites in Teos and Claros: see Bull. Epig. 1969 no. 496 and Robert (1989), 60. For Khrysippos’ association of the Graces with gratitude see SVF ii, 1081-2. Already in Hom. J/. 14.267-8 Hera offers Sleep one of the Kharites as wife if he will do her a favour (a point I owe to Dr Yasunori Kasai of Niigata University).

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and there are several similar passages in Pindar.*! In a very different genre, the two demagogues in Aristophanes’ Knights compete in listing to the personified ‘People’ the many benefactions that Athena is showering on the city: ‘very good of her to remember the Panathenaic robe’ (the city’s greatest gift to the goddess) comments People (1180). Il So far then kharis works; the gods can indeed be brought into a relationship of reciprocal benefit with the worshipper. We turn now to kharis as a problem. The gnawing religious doubt in Greece, for practical people at least, was much less likely to be ‘do the gods exist?’ than ‘can one get through to the gods?’ or ‘do they care about human beings?’. In later antiquity abuse of the gods by disillusioned worshippers is not seldom attested.?? For our period the evidence is literary, and the classic illustration is the story of Kroisos, as told by Herodotos and Bakkhylides. Kroisos, a benefactor of Delphi on an unprecedented scale, was led, none the less, to undertake a disastrous expedition on the advice, as was believed, of Apollo of Delphi himself. Bakkhylides and Herodotos agree in treating the issue as one of kharis: ‘where is the kharis of the gods?’, asks Bakkhylides’ Kroisos on the pyre (3.38); ‘is it the custom for Greek gods to be ungrateful [ayapioro:]?? is the question Herodotos’ Kroisos puts to Apollo of Delphi through a messenger (1.90.4). The seriousness with which the charge was taken is clear from the great feats of apologetic ingenuity on display in those two works; much pious imagination had evidently been exercised by persons unknown to clear Apollo from all suspicion of ingratitude. And there are many other complaints in literary works about supposed neglect of kharis by the gods. Eurykleia in the Odyssey protests that Zeus has done nothing for her master, a man of unique 31 B. 1.157-164; cf. 3.22 (Kroisos), P. O. 3.39-41, 6.77-81, 8.8, cf. N. 10.49-50; also Men. Dysc. 36-8, Plaut. Aulul. 23-7, Longus 2.2 (end). One could also investigate the ‘piety rewarded’ story type (for two instances see n. 2 above, and Theopompos FGrH 115 F 352). Autolykos: Hom. Od. 19.397. 32 “Gnawing doubt’: see Yunis (1988), 38-58. ‘Abuse’: see Versnel (19814), 37-42 and Veyne (1991), 281-90. But I hope to have shown in this paper that the late antique emphasis on what the dedicator of a well-known inscription from c. AD) is less thoroughly novel than Veyne argues.

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piety; the dying Herakles in Sophokles’ Trachiniai says to the altar of Zeus that he has just founded at Cape Kenaion, ‘What a kharis you have brought me for what offerings’: dying in anguish just after inaugurating an altar to one’s father with elaborate sacrifice is a problematic form of kharis indeed! At the end of Phoinissai the devastated Antigone recalls how she used to perform bacchic rites on Kithairon, ‘giving a kharis akharis—an unreciprocated kharis—to the gods’.>? These particular complaints relate closely to cult acts and the title to reciprocal benefit that these were felt to establish. But similar issues are also raised in tragedy in much broader ways.** A special feature of tragedy, with its mythological setting, is that it puts on stage individuals who have ties of kinship or sexual ties with gods—seduced maidens and their offspring. Complaints about divine treachery in such relationships are very common, especially in Euripides: Kreousa protests against Apollo throughout Jon, Amphitryon against Zeus in the early part of Herakles, and an infinitely poignant chorus of Troades stresses that Troy has been abandoned to ruin even though two Trojan youths, Ganymede and Tithonos, have shared immortal beds.*5 This is anxiety about the reality of divine kharis, translated into the mythological mode. There is an ancient and daunting question about the religion of tragedy and its relation to the preoccupations of Athenians outside the tragic theatre. One of the fundamental points of convergence between tragic religion and that of the city is, precisely, a concern for kharis. In most literary treatments the problem of kharis is one that finds a solution; the divine ingratitude turns out to be seeming, not real. The effect of such portrayals is, therefore, ultimately one of reassurance. Modern critics, it can be argued, are prone to misjudge the theology of Greek literature because they lack sensitivity to questions of kharis. As an instance we can take the portrayal of this issue in Homer; here too, there is an element of reassurance, of theodicy even, that is regularly neglected because the ideal of gods who respond to cult and are swayed by sacrifice is so far from our 33. Hom. Od. 19.363-9; S. Tr. 993-5; E. Ph. 1757. The difficult lines A. Th. 699-703 express in some sense Eteokles’ desolate sense that kharis between him and the gods is irrecoverably lost. ‘Is this Apollo’s gratitude?’ (sic gratus Apollo?): Stat. Theb. 8.176. 34 See Yunis (1988), part 2, passim. Of course, similar problems are not absent from epic also (e.g. Hom. Od. 20.201-3.) 35 See e.g. Ion 881-922; HF 344-7, and cf. Antiope 11-14 Page; Tr. 820-59.

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own post-Platonic ideas of the kind of righteousness that befits divinity. Homer’s gods, we are often told, in the /liad at least, are frivolous, careless of moral considerations, indifferent to mortal suffering.?° One charge to which they are not open, however, is that of being insensible to mortal attempts to win their favour by sacrifice and offerings. Zeus in Iliad 4 expresses unwillingness to permit the sack of Troy, a city where his altar ‘never lacked the equal feast, libation and the fat of sacrifice’; in Book 22 similarly he thinks of intervening to save Hektor, he who ‘burnt so many thighs of bulls for me’; at the start of the Odyssey he answers the reproach of Athene that he is indifferent to Odysseus with indignation: ‘How could 1 forget the godlike Odysseus, he who is pre-eminent among mortals in intelligence, and pre-eminent in making offerings to the immortal gods?’ In [had 20, strikingly, Poseidon declares himself unwilling to see Aeneas, a regular bringer of sacrifice, perish because of the guilt of Priam’s house, to which he does not belong; a pro-Greek god has been swayed by a Trojan’s sacrifices. But, conversely, Poseidon had been reminded by Hera in Book 8 of the obligation he owed to the Greeks because of ‘the many pleasing gifts’ they brought to him at Helikon and Aigai.%’ It is, of course, true that in several of these cases Zeus must in the end surrender the city or individual whom he loves; indeed, it has fairly been said that, poetically, the reason for stressing Zeus’ love lies precisely in the pathos generated thereby, in the poignant powerlessness of even the lord of the universe to protect those whom he holds dear.?® It is also true that instances are found of sacrifices that fail, when the god rejects the prayer or the most important part of 36 Chantraine, for instance, writes (1954, 64) ‘whether relationships among the gods or between gods and human beings are concerned, the sole determinants are emotion and the desire for vengeance’ (my trans.). On the topic that concerns us I have found no countervailing treatment, though Lloyd-Jones (1983), ch. 1, and Macleod (1982), 15, 90, are much more sympathetic in general. When noted at all, the Homeric gods’ sensitivity to offerings tends to be added to the list of their deficiencies: what the Greeks called kharis, we dismiss as a disreputably ‘personal’ motivation: see e.g. Yamagata (1994), 95-7, on ‘divine nepotism and favouritism’. Of course, the issue of the gods’ loyalty has many aspects (such as their reciprocal obligations among themselves) that are not discussed here. Note for instance how Athene and Hera feel bound by a promise to Menelaos, 5.714-18. 37 Tl. 4.48-9; 22.170-2; Od. 1.59-62, 64-7; Il. 20.297-9; 8.201-4: note too 8.245-6 and 10.46. Conversely gods resent omitted sacrifices: Il. 7.446-63 (cf. 12.6-9), 9.533 ff., 23.862-5, Od. 4.351-3. 38 Griffin (1980), 128 (cf. 85-8), who cites Schadewalt (1943), 107.

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it; and these can be among the grimmest moments in the Π|1α«."9 But it is a characteristic of the wholly singular way of representing the divine world in epic that, when a prayer or offering is rejected, the audience knows why; there is always a clear reason in terms of the divine politics of the poem, or larger divine plans, why the sacrifice must be spurned or the favourite hero surrendered. Simple indifference is never the explanation.*° Even when Zeus has to yield up an individual dear to him because of sacrifice, he may still make repayment of another kind: though Zeus cannot preserve Hektor from Akhilleus, he can ensure that he receives honourable burial—he reverts to Hektor’s piety in the debate on this subject early in Book 24*!—just as in Book 16 he looks after the corpse of his dear son Sarpedon whom he could not save from death. If one looks at the theology of Homer in terms of kharis, the accusation so often made that Homer’s gods are arbitrary seems quite misplaced. In Greek terms, the ultimate and intolerable arbitrariness on the part of the gods would be indifference to the whole system of sacrifice and offering and prayer;*? but this is not how they are portrayed in the poem as a whole (whatever mortals may say in angry moments).*? Instead we are given a picture in which cult is one factor among the many that shape men’s destinies: not decisive

3° Tl. 6.311, 16.249-52, Od. 9.551-5 (according to Odysseus); and cf. Griffin (1980), 89. Il. 2.419-20 memorably states ‘So (Agamemnon) spoke, but the son of Kronos did not yet fulfil his prayer; he received the offerings, and made their grim troubles increase’ (‘not yet’ also in 3.302). Nowhere else is it said that offerings are accepted when prayer is rejected (they too are spurned in four spurious lines adjacent to Il. 8.548 known only from Plat. Alc. ii 149d; otherwise nothing is said of their fate), and the poet’s explicit statement here should be taken as a confirmation that Zeus would in the end grant the prayer (cf. Kirk’s 1990 note ad loc.). 40 Note, for instance, how the death of Patroklos which Akhilleus vainly prays to avert (Il. 16.25 1-2) has already been predicted by Zeus in 15.64-7, and is anyway in a sense caused by Patroklos’ own folly (16.685-6). Similarly Odysseus’ prayer (Od. 9.551-5) was foredoomed (ib. 528-36)—and human folly played its part there too. Lang (1975), 310, observes that the Trojan women in //. 6 invoke no past relation between themselves and Athene, which makes Athene’s rejection of the prayer seem less invidious. 41 66-70; Apollo has also appealed to it, 33-4 (an argument which Hera seeks to counter by adducing the kharis obligations of the gods, and especially Apollo himself, to the family of Akhilleus, 61-3—later poets, sensitive to such issues, famously took up her point: A. fr. 350 Radt ap. Pl. R. 383a-b, Catullus 64.299). The pious confidence of Hektor’s parents (24.425-8, 748-50) is justified, therefore. #2 Intolerable to the gods themselves is the genuine arbitrariness of Ares, who changes sides: 5.830-4.

13 As when Asios calls Zeus a trickster, φιλοψευδής, 12.164.

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indeed, but not negligible. Even the most optimistically religious Greek will scarcely have believed anything else. III Thus far, this chapter has been mostly descriptive. We turn now to try to analyse more closely the nature of the relationship that we have looked at so far, and to ask what kind of reciprocity is involved. In doing so, we can make some use of certain philosophical positions about the relationship of man and god. As was noted earlier, this is one area where religious philosophy found traditional religion particularly problematic. We will look at the philosophical arguments not for their own sake, but as a lens through which to look at non-philosophical attitudes, a guide to some of the ambiguities and uncertainties in traditional lived religion. A first question to be asked might be: ‘Is the relation between human and god postulated by these practices commercial or contractual, as is so often supposed? Do human beings buy favour from the gods?’ The author of the Hippokratic treatise Airs, Waters, Places argues that a particular disease cannot be divine, because, if it were, one would expect it to afflict the poor more than the rich. The gods are generally supposed to ‘take delight in mortal offerings’, of which the rich can bring far more, and to ‘repay kharites’, which in the particular case they would do by sparing their wealthy worshippers.** (He adds that the poor would also earn divine resentment by complaining against the gods because of their poverty.) The fact that a Greek could advance such an argument shows that a very commercial interpretation of kharis is not an error pure and simple; it might, none the less, be a distortion or drastic over-simplification; and for several reasons those who have argued that it is are surely in the right.*” The commercial interpretation ignores precisely the implications of the vocabulary of kharis (which even the Hippokratic author employs). An exchange of Rharites is not an exchange of goods, the value of one strictly calculated in relation to the value of the other, the exchange taking place automatically once a particular asking price has been met; it is an exchange of favours, a voluntary, if socially prescribed, expression 44 Ch. 22, p. 74.17-20 Diller. 45 So Festugiére (1976), 413-18; Yunis (1988), ential reciprocity based on mutual esteem’.

101-11, who speaks of ‘a prefer-

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of a relationship of friendship. With crude anachronism, in short, the commercial interpretation confounds reciprocity with trade.*¢ Secondly, the idea that the rich can buy more favour than the poor, though certainly appealing to the rich—as we have seen, epinician poets come close to endorsing it, though never with complete explicitness—was not one that was accepted without contestation. (Even the rich presented their expenditures not as payments but as a surrender of wealth in the cause of piety.)*’ For Aristotle, the value of a mortal’s offerings is symbolic, like the widow’s mite: since no one can repay the gods in accord with their services to man, ‘he who serves them as best he can is held to be acting properly’, and a whole string of moralists insist that the virtue of offerings does not lie in their size.*? A similar response can be made to a famous accusation brought by Plato in the Republic against traditional religion, as taught by the poets. The poets, declares the outraged philosopher, subvert morality by suggesting that the unjust rich can buy off punishment for their crimes by cultivating the gods with offerings (364b-366b, 390e). No doubt such hopes were sometimes cultivated, and, it must be allowed, may have found some sustenance in the vocabulary of kharis.*” But Plato’s too is a drastically over-simplified picture of traditional belief, as if all offerings secured a given amount of divine favour automatically and no other factor influenced the attitude of the gods than mortals’ +6 See van Wees, Ch. 1, Sect. v; Seaford (1994), 13-25. Sokrates in Pl. Euthphr. 14e tendentiously confounds the distinction, as noted by Yunis (1988), 102. 47 See the epigram of Dionysios of Marathon (JG II? 2948), quoted in the text above, and CEG 317 = IG 13 953, ‘nor does he begrudge what he has, but is as gen-

erous to the gods as he can be’ (οὐδὲ παρόντων | φείδεται, ἀλλὰ θεοῖς ἀφθονος ἐς δύναμιν). Note too IG ix. 2.637. 48 Arist. NE

to the immortal

1163%15-18 (also EE 1243>11-12), cf. Hes. Op. 336 ‘make offerings

gods as best you can’ (kad

δύναμιν

δ᾽ ἔρδειν

ἱέρ᾽ ἀθανάτοισι

θεοῖσιν); the texts cited in Porph. Abst. 2.13-20; also Hdt. 1.50.1, E. fr. 327, 946, X. Mem. 1.3.3, 4.3.17, Pl. Lg. 955e, Ale. τ 148d-ı50b, Isoc. Nikokles 20, [Arist.] Rh. Al. 1423°26-8 (contrast ib. 16-17!), Men. fr. 683 Koerte, Theophrastos fr. 152 Wimmer. The non-quantitative criterion was obviously stressed by philosophers, but there is no reason (contrast the Hesiod passage) to think that they invented it. 49 For such language, even more than that of philia, makes it easy to bracket off questions of non-ritual conduct (though for the possibility of associating the ideas of Rharis and justice (diké) see ? A. fr. dub. 451th 4-5 Radt, Karphyllides fr. 2.5-6 in Gow/Page (1965), and Hom. II. 13.633). Associations between conduct (and character) and ‘dearness to the gods’ are considered by Dirlmeier (1935) and Yunis (1988), 110-11. The crucial point is that these powerful ways of envisaging the relations between mortals and gods always co-existed with others which laid more stress on conduct and were also powerful.

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record as bringers of sacrifice. In fact, of course, archaic poetry is full of accounts of gods refusing or taking no pleasure in offerings from mortals who have offended them; some crimes are said to be inexpiable by sacrifice.5° So neither the Hippokratic author nor Plato are safe witnesses on these matters to the attitudes of all their countrymen, though doubtless they are to those of a minority. A third objection to the commercial interpretation, the most fundamental of all, may emerge if one thinks about the famous tag that so offended Plato (R. 390e), ‘Gifts persuade the gods, gifts reverend kings’. Plato is horrified by the idea that gifts might persuade in violation of justice. But an equally important assumption that underlies the line is surely that gods can be dealt with as if they were kings. Here lies perhaps the fundamental significance of all the talk of gifts and counter-gifts and kharis in relations with the gods. This is the language that mortals use to one another; indeed, people in Homer can appeal to one another for assistance with exactly the same formula, ‘if ever 1 helped you in the past, remember that now’, from which we started in looking at appeals to the gods.*! The language of kharis sustains, indeed creates, the fiction that the relation between human and god can be assimilated to that between human beings and so brought within a comprehensible pattern. The commercial view of kharis treats as a device to manipulate the gods what is more fundamentally a means of gaining access to them, of reaching the unreachable. Mauss (1954) argued that the system of gift and counter-gift was a way of founding a social relation between human beings; just the same can be said, mutatis mutandis, about kharis between human beings and gods. The point is nicely illustrated by the prayer formulas that contain a different form of appeal. The commonest alternative in Homer to, ‘if ever I benefited you in the past, help me now’, is, ‘if ever you benefited me in the past, help me again now’.°? The logic seems reversed, but again what is being appealed to, by a different route, is an established relationship between human and god. The two forms of appeal are in no way incompatible or in tension; both 50 See e.g. Hom. Od. 3.144-6, 14.406, A. Ch. 42-8, 519-21; Th. 682, 698-704. The view that one can get away with things is an odd moral to extract from a reading of Greek epic and tragedy. 5! Od. 3.98-101 = 4.328-31. On the vocabulary of gratitude and obligation as deployed between humans, which is largely indistinguishable from the uses we have discussed, see Hewitt (1927). 52 e.g, Hom. Il. 5.115-17; more in Ausfeld (1903), 531-3.

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are ways, in a phrase of Xenophon’s (Smp. 4.51), of ‘giving the history of the relationship’ (γενεαλογεῖν τὴν συγγένειαν). A prayer to Apollo in the Theognidean corpus (773-7) moves from a past service by the god: ‘Lord Phoibos, you yourself built our citadel | as a favour (Rharizomenos) to Alcathoos, son of Pelops’ to an appeal for the present: ‘Yourself now avert the violent army of the Medes from this city’; and then offers an incentive: ‘so that in festivity the people | may bring you splendid hecatombs at the coming of spring.’ So the god is reminded of his own past services and asked to renew them in the same breath as he is offered a kharis in the future.?3 The kharis relation, then, is not one of commercial exchange. But what kind of exchange is it? And how equal is the reciprocity in giving which it pretends exists? It may be useful here to refer to Plato’s Euthyphro, that brilliant if impious critique of traditional belief. Sokrates presses Euthyphro, who is cast for this purpose as a representative of conventional piety, on the rationale for bringing gifts to the gods: is it because gods need these gifts and are benefited by them in some way (12e-15b)? Behind this line of questioning lies the famous doctrine of Xenophanes that god needs nothing.’* Plato was perhaps the first thinker to confront that doctrine explicitly with the practice of cult, which might seem to imply that gods do after all have needs. Under pressure from Sokrates, Euthyphro eventually bursts out in some anger: of course the gods do not need our gifts, it is all a matter of ‘honour and recognition and kharis’5 Now, it is doubtless the case that any conventional worshipper, if forced to decide whether gifts to the gods met divine needs or were simply a mark of honour, would jump the same way as Euthyphro. Only in comedy are gods portrayed as actually hungry for offerings—that is one of the things that makes comedy comedy— whereas hundreds of texts of all kinds echo Euripides’ proposition that ‘gods relish being honoured by mortals’.°* But it is probably 53 At Il. 15.372-6 Nestor asks Zeus to remember any past sacrifice accompanied by prayer which he heeded: a mixture of appeal to past sacrifices and appeal to the god’s past benefactions. 54 Xenophanes 21 A32. 23-5 Diels-Kranz; see also Antiphon 87 Bro DK, and the famous echo in Eur. HF 1345-6. In Mem. 1.4.10 Xenophon presents an interlocutor of Sokrates who supposedly regards the gods as too grand (megaloprepés) to need our service. 53 τὰ παρ᾽ ἡμῶν δῶρα τοῖς θεοῖς τιμὴ τε καὶ γέρα Kal ... χάρις, 15a. 56 See Mikalson (1991), 183-201.

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also true that a normal worshipper, one not confronted by Sokrates, would not find it necessary to pose the question whether the gifts he was bringing to the gods were of any actual use. (Xenophon introduces a speaker who despairs of the possibility of any human ‘repaying the benefits of the gods by adequate returns of favour’.?” But this is just a set-up for the response of his very un-Platonically reassuring Sokrates that it is sufficient to ‘do what one can’.) What the Sokratic questioning exposes is a drastic asymmetry within the reciprocal relation. Gods give to humans what they desperately need—health, property, life itsel—whereas humans give to gods what they do not need and are not benefited by, a mere luxury as it were, marks of honour. But when a worshipper brought a kharis in acknowledgement of a kharis with a prayer for a further kharis in return, using language that stressed the idea of like for like, tit for tat, reciprocity, he or she was doubtless not normally contemplating the radical dissimilarity between the favours on the two sides in quite that way. The relationship between god and human is unequal, therefore: but is it so unequal as to exclude all ties of amity between them? The question is perhaps not strictly relevant to the topic of kharis, since an exchange of kharites could conceivably occur outside a context of mutual affection. But it bears on the broader issue of the unbalanced reciprocity between human and god. Aristotle touches on the problem in several places.?® In the Eudemian Ethics he treats the relationship of god to human as an instance of ‘unequal’ love, along with that of parents to children and benefactors to those they benefit. (In what follows, ‘love’ is to be understood as an English calque of a Greek word, philia, of only related meaning.) The special characteristic of such love is that its emotional content is nonreciprocal: ‘for it would be ridiculous if anyone complained to a god that his love for him was not reciprocated’. In Nicomachean Ethics he argues that two people can only be pAiloi if the differences between them (in virtue for instance) do not exceed a certain level, and he takes as the limiting case that of gods, who are so superior to humans in all good things that humans and gods cannot be philoi. The author of Magna Moralia prefaces his discussion of philia by excluding so-called philia towards the gods and argues that those ”

τὰς

τῶν

θεῶν

εὐεργεσίας...

ἀξίαις

χάρισιν

ἀμείβεσθαι, Mem.

4.3.15. On

worshipping ‘as best one can’ (κατὰ δύναμιν) see n. 48 above. 58 See Dirlmeier (1935), 57 ff.; Babut (1974), 119-24; Osborne (1994), 155-7.

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who use such language are mistaken: ‘we speak of philia where affection is returned, but philia towards god does not admit of a return of affection nor of affection at all: for it would be odd if anyone claimed to love Zeus.’5? The emphasis in the three discussions is different and the details perhaps cannot be brought into strict harmony, but all agree that a relationship of reciprocal affection between man and god is impossible: god cannot repay humans’ philia in kind (EE, NE), or perhaps the difference between the two sides is so great that philia is not possible in either direction (WM). These texts ought to be treated with some reserve, not cited as they sometimes are as witnesses to standard Greek attitudes. There is no a-priori reason to expect that ‘god’ here is the god of popular polytheism, rather than Aristotle’s own very individual variant. One reason, for instance, why Aristotle’s god cannot love mortals is that, for Aristotle, love in its best form is the love of good people for the good in one another; but it is clearly impossible for a god to love the greatly inferior amount of goodness present in mortals.°° In fact, if one confronts Aristotle with Homer and other early texts, a curious reversal emerges. According to Aristotle, as we have seen, human may perhaps love god (though even this is doubtful), but god certainly cannot love human in return. In Homer too, there is an imbalance in affection between the two kinds, but it is exactly the reverse of that described by Aristotle. Homer often mentions the love of particular gods for particular mortals, and quite often gods speak of it themselves,°’ but never, it seems, does a mortal profess to love a god. So, if anyone, it is the gods who can complain that they love but are not loved back. Bizarre though this conclusion appears, given our normal assumptions about the loving kindliness of Greek gods, it is also the case that ‘dear to the gods’ (θεοφιλής) is a standard Greek word and concept, ‘god-loving’ (φιλόθεος) does not appear until the fourth century Bc and is never important.°? But in fact this seemingly paradoxical imbalance between loving gods and indifferent mortals may be closely related to the one we have just considered between humans who need everything and 59 60 61 62 more

BE 1238>26-30 (cf. 1242*32-5); NE ı158®33-1159% 5; MM 1208>27-31. See Gauthier-Jolif (1958-9), 2.2, 691-3. See Dirlmeier (1935); Griffin (1980), index s.v. gods and Zeus, love/s men. See Dodds (1951), 35. On divine-human relationships (including ‘loving god’) generally in Greek thought and Christianity, see Osborne (1994).

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gods who need nothing. Although Aristotle’s explicit doctrine about unequal friendship is that love moves upwards, towards the ‘better’, he acknowledges elsewhere that in two of his three instances it is in fact the stronger party (parent vis-a-vis child, benefactor vis-a-vis beneficiary) who feels the stronger affection.°? We could readily fit the Homeric gods too into this scheme (though, as we have seen, Aristotle must do exactly the reverse with his own god). This approach dovetails with Adkins’s suggestion (1963) that philein in Homeric usage indicates what the eighteenth century would have called ‘active benevolence’, not a friendly disposition alone but the demonstration of it through actual benefits. Clearly, mortals could not show love for gods in that sense. In saying this we are not required to explain away those occasions where mortals appeal to ‘dear gods’,°* using an expression that conveys affection without implying anything about the respective power and status of the two parties. The fact that mortals often prayed to ‘dear Hermes’ or ‘dear Nymphs’ and sometimes even to ‘dear Zeus’ does not refute the claim that ‘it would be odd for anyone to say that he loves Zeus’.°° Of all the relations brought under the rubric of reciprocity in this volume, that between humans and gods is perhaps the most unbalanced—a fact that, in many contexts, the Greeks were very far from denying. To mention another obvious asymmetry, the possibility of an exchange of benefit normally also implies the possibility of an exchange of harm. But remarks such as ‘I’d punish you if I could’ (Akhilleus to Apollo in the Ziad) and ‘if only mortals could curse the gods’ (Hippolytos about Aphrodite in Euripides) attest the bitter awareness of mortals that they could not pay back divine enemies in kind.‘ The races of men and of gods, says Pindar (N. 6.1-4), are ‘kept apart by a difference of power in everything: the one is nothing, but for the other the brazen heaven is a fixed habitation for ever’. The job of Rharis, of gift and counter-gift, was to 63 Parents: e.g. NE 1161>19-26; benefactors: ib. 1167>17-19; see also Price (1989), 115-16, 163-7. 6+ See Appendix below. On philein as active benevolence in Aristotle, see Osborne (1994), 142-3; see further Konstan, Ch. 13, Sects. III-IV. 65 Even the Hermogenes of Xen. Smp. 3.14 and 4.46-9 who playfully pretends to have powerful and virtuous friends, the gods, does not claim this: his argument is all about their care for him, his respectful services to them. On the extraordinary complexities in usage of the pAzl- words see Price (1989), 160-1. 66 Tl. 22.20; E. Hipp. 1415.

Pleasing Thighs: Reciprocity in Greek Religion veil these tend that bridged, gods and Appendix:

125

differences, however temporarily and partially, to prethe gap between man and god was not too wide to be and to found that social relationship without which the the world would be completely beyond our grasp.°? ‘Dear Gods’

We can distinguish between: (1) exclamatory uses of this type of phrase, either ‘dear gods’ or with a god specified (Zeus, Apollo, Dioskouroi, Herakles, Moirai: there is usually no obvious contextual relevance in the choice): Hom. Od. 24.514, Ar. Eq. 1270, Ec. 378, Pl. 734, 854; Men. Dysc. 193, fr. 362; Alexis fr. 173.3 K/A; Philemon fr. 74.7 K/A; Plato Comicus fr. 183.1 K/A (cf. K/A ad loc.); Com. adesp. nov. fr. 244.97 in Austin (1973). The borderline between exclamation and invocation may be blurred, as in A. Th. 154, 159 (Artemis and Apollo); Ρ. Didot 1.28 (in the OCT Menander, 329); Eupolis fr. 305 K/A and the vase they cite (ARV? 21,1); (2) the women’s oath ‘by dear Demeter’: Antiphanes fr. 26.2, with K/A’s note; Herodas 1. 69; (3) ‘special relationships’, such as Odysseus’, and the Athenian people’s, to Athene, Hippolytos’ to Artemis (5. Aj. 14, 38; A. Eu. 998 f.; E. Hipp.

82); (4) direct addresses, usually in prayer (often of some intensity) and often (Hutchinson 1985, 73) in the presence of a statue: to Hermes (Hipponax fr. 32.1 West; Ar. Nu. 1478, Pax 416, 718; Phrynichus fr. 61.1 K/A); Zeus (Theognis 373, and the Attic rain-prayer cited by Marc. Aur. Med. 5.7); Demeter (Ar. Th. 286; Com. Adesp. Nov. fr. 239.12 in Austin 1973); Artemis (Philemon fr. 70.1 K/A, cf. E. Hipp. 82); the Nymphs (Ar. Th. 978; Men. Dysc. 197); Pan (Pl. Phdr. 279b; Theocr. 7.106); Peitho (Men. Epit. 555); Apollo (Men. Sam. 444); the Horai (Ar. Pax 1168); Prometheus (Ar. Av. 1504: a special case); the Muses (Herodas 3.1, with Cunningham’s note ad loc.); ‘daimones’ in general (A. Th. 174). Clearly, informal prayer is the context in which the god-man relationship moves closest (partly no doubt for persuasive reasons) to intimacy. 67 See MacLachlan (1993), 33: ‘Charis bridges the great divide between gods and mortals. It is a softening agent, offering relationship, the exchange of kindnesses.’

6 The Reciprocity of Giving and Thanksgiving in Greek Worship JAN-MAARTEN

BREMER

If reciprocity necessarily implies symmetry of the parties concerned, this chapter had better end before it begins. For the relation between god and man is characterized by asymmetry. Of course the Greeks realized this, and we find the point made explicitly by Xenophon. Sokrates explains to his young friend Euthydemos all the benefits conferred to men by the gods; Euthydemos then answers that he is willing to acknowledge all this, ‘but I am discouraged by the thought that no mortal can ever requite the benefits of the gods with adequate thanksgiving’, ἐκεῖνο ἀθυμῶ ὅτι μοι δοκεῖ τὰς τῶν θεῶν εὐεργεσίας οὐδ᾽ ἂν εἷς ποτε ἀνθρώπων ἀξίαις χάρισιν ἀμείβεσθαι Mem. 4.3.15). Using the two terms χάρις (favour’, ‘thanksgiving’) and ἀμείβεσθαζ (requite', ‘return’}—the two key words in the Greek language for the issues discussed in this volume—Euthydemos states that in the exchange between god and man—if there is any such thing—equivalence is impossible. If, however, reciprocity is given the sense of ‘a practice of making voluntary return for benefit (or harm)’, then it is possible for man, in his relation to god(s), to do something in return: he can build temples, erect statues, bring sacrifices, offer gifts and prayers of gratitude. As Parker’s chapter in this volume concentrates on sacrifices, this chapter will deal with the gifts and prayers expressing thankfulness. Some scholars? have argued that, in the relation of the Greeks to their gods, thankfulness is conspicuously lacking: rituals and prayers of gratitude seem to be scarce. If this were true, it would reflect negatively on the Greeks, even according to their own standards: one of their greatest poets proclaimed that a man 1 See Stengel (1898), 72; Ausfeld (1903), 309; Rudhardt (1958), 199.

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who takes everything for granted without acknowledging debts of gratitude and suffers the memory of benefits to slip from him can no more rank as noble (Sophokles, Azas 523-4). But the thesis that the Greeks gave no thanks to their gods, has recently been criticized by Versnel (19814, 42-62). In this chapter I want to add new arguments to those adduced by Versnel and to concentrate on (1) terms, (2) gifts, and (3) hymns. 1.

TERMS

At first sight, two terms come to mind which seem to qualify as technical terms for actions of religious gratitude: χαριστήριον and εὐχαριστία. Neither of them is found in Greek literature before the fourth century Bc. As for χαριστήριον, Xenophon is the first to use this term, and then only in his imaginative description of that exceptionally religious king, Kyros the Great: Cyr. 4.1.2, 7.2.28, 8.7.3. The last passage is particularly eloquent. Kyros knows that his death is near and brings a sacrifice accompanied by the following prayer: Zeus of my forefathers and you, Sun, and all gods, accept this not only as the finale of my numerous and splendid actions but also as a ritual of thanksgiving; for in sacrifices, heavenly signs, birds, and sayings you have always indicated to me what I should do or not do. Ζεῦ πατρῷε καὶ Ἥλιε καὶ πάντες θεοΐ, δέχεσθε τάδε καὶ τελεστήρια πολλῶν καὶ καλῶν πράξεων καὶ χαριστήρια ὅτι ἐσημαίνετέ μοι καὶ ἐν ἱεροῖς καὶ ἐν οὐρανίοις σημείοις καὶ ἐν οἰωνοῖς καὶ ἐν φήμαις ἃ τ᾽ ἐχρὴν ποιεῖν καὶ ἃ οὐκ ἐχρῆν.

The author evidently wants to make his hero shine, and attributes his own highly personal (if not idiosyncratic) piety to him. After Xenophon the word χαριστήριον is found mainly? in Greek authors living and writing under Roman control, and with special frequency in those authors who as orators or historians deal with Roman affairs: Dionysios of Halikarnassos (15 instances), Flavius Josephus (21), Plutarch (9), and Themistios (27!). Perhaps one can find a beginning of an explanation in the Roman practice of gratulationes: prayers, hymns, and sacrifices of thanksgiving to gods and emperors. When Greeks write about Roman affairs past or present 2 The

following statements and numbers

are based on a Pandora-search

word χαριστήριον in the texts recorded on the Thes. Ling. Graec. disk.

for the

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129

one can expect them to adopt this theme and to use the word χαριστήριον for it. This state of affairs is confirmed by the epigraphical material: instances of this word are few and late.? About the words εὐχαριστεῖν and εὐχαριστία I can be brief because they have been discussed by Schermann (1910). Verb and noun are derived from the adjective evyapiatos (which is found once in Herodotos, three times in Xenophon, and can mean ‘pleasant’ as well as ‘thankful’). They occur only in the late Hellenistic and Roman period of the Greek language as technical terms for public manifestations of gratitude. In most cases they express gratitude vis-a-vis fellow-citizens (honorary decrees), in some thanksgiving to the gods. For the first category Dittenberger’s Sylloge offers a large group of instances, all of them from the Hellenistic or Roman period.* There are also three late instances of the second category; in all three of them the addressee is Asklepios (ibid. 995, 1172-3). It need hardly be said that in the Greek spoken by Christians εὐχαριστία received a new and specialized meaning:? it referred either to the ‘Eucharist’, i.e. the entire celebration of praise and reading from the Bible followed by the commemoration of the death and resurrection of Christ and the sharing of bread and wine, or even—most concretely—to the consecrated bread and wine itself. If this presentation of the material concerning the use of χαριστήριον and εὐχαριστία holds good, it has established that— apart from the general expression χάριν ἀποδοῦναι---ἰὴς Greek texts of the archaic and classical period contain no technical terms for acts, tokens, rites, or gifts of thanksgiving to the gods; it is only from the Hellenistic and Roman period onwards that we find a strong emphasis on this side of Greek religious practice. This would fit with the widespread idea that Greek religious sensibility developed from what one might call freedom and paradoxical selfreliance vis-a-vis the gods in the archaic and classical period 3 My search in the epigraphical material did not extend beyond the JG volumes, and yielded some late (all ap) instances from Attika (/G 11--2 =ed. min.: 3003, 4798) and from Boiotia (/G VII: 3100, 3101, 3416, 3417, 4137).

* SIG (repr. Olms

1960): 485, 533, 545, 570, 587, 590, 656, 679, 714, 721, 731

(Hellenistic), and 748, 798, 800 (Roman). Actually, 798, a decree of the city Kyzikos in honour of Germanicus, contains a phrase in which the theme of the essential asymmetry between god and man is applied to the relation between the Roman

prince and his subjects: eis εὐχαριστίαν

τηλικούτον

ἴσας ἀμοιβὰς οἷς εὐεργέτηνται μὴ δυναμένων. 5 See the article ‘eulogia/eucharistia’ in RAC

θεοῦ (=Germanicus)

vi (1966), especially p. 915.

εὑρεῖν

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towards submission, and perhaps even servility, in the Hellenistic and Roman era. For an exposition of this idea and for some criticism of it I refer to Pleket (1981). But all this is not conclusive, in so far as the Greeks, even if they did not use an explicit terminology, did bring sacrifices to the gods with an intention of thanksgiving. This point was made by Hewitt (1912). In some cases, e.g. E. Herac. 402, sacrifices called σωτήρια or σῶστρα were admittedly meant to obtain survival and victory for the worshippers; but in other cases they were definitely brought to give thanks for such a felicitous event: e.g. A. Suppl. 982 and Ag. 821, E. fon 1123-7. But as sacrifices are discussed extensively by Parker (106-10 above), this point will not be elaborated here. Il.

GIFTS

In a discussion of religious gratitude one cannot neglect the impressive corpus of votive-offerings presented to the gods by Greeks from all ways of life. When they were poor, in bad health, or threatened by enemies they prayed to a god and promised her or him a gift; when their hope had been fulfilled, the danger averted, their efforts crowned with success, they put up a gift for the god in return; these gifts, however small, were monuments of gratitude. The corpus of votive-offerings as archaeological material has been surveyed and discussed long ago by Rouse (1902) and more recently by van Straten (1981 and 1992). I shall concentrate not on the forms or iconography of the ἀναθήματα but on some poetical texts from the sixth and fifth centuries Bc inscribed on them which illustrate the relationship between gratitude and reciprocity. A simple example of this category is the following distichon (Thespiai, 5th century Bc): ‘Neomedes has put up this as a monument in honour of Dionysos who has fulfilled his prayer, in

exchange for an excellent benefit’ (edyav ἐκτελέσαντι ΖΔιονύσοι Neopédes | Epyov ἀντ᾽ ἀγαθὸν μνᾶμ᾽ ἀνέθεκε τόδε, CEG 332). In some cases the worshipper added an expression of a hope for more favours to come: thus the process of exchange (ἀμοιβή) of favour (χάρις) received and returned would go on. As this is particularly relevant for the topic of reciprocity, I give some other examples. The oldest and most famous of all is the votive-offering of the Theban Mantiklos® (first quarter of the seventh century Bc): 6 See also Parker, Ch. 5, Sect. 1.

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‘Mantiklos has dedicated me from the tithe, to Apollo who hits from afar with his silver bow. Phoibos, you must give him a pleasant gift in return’ (Mavrıxdos po ἀνέθεκε ΒΠεκαβόλοι ἀργυροτόχσοι | τὰς δεκάτας: τὺ δέ, Φοῖβε, δίδοι xapılFlerrav ἀμοι[βάν, CEG 326). Mantiklos had borrowed the two last words from Odyssey 3. There Mentor alias Athene is asked by Nestor to pray to Poseidon (the Pylians were in the process of bringing a sacrifice to this god when Mentor and Telemakhos arrived). He prays first that Poseidon may honour Nestor, and goes on: ‘and give to all men of Pylos a delightful gift in return for the glorious hekatomb they are bringing you’ (αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ᾽ ἄλλοισι δίδου χαρίεσσαν ἀμοιβάν | συμπᾶσιν Πυλίοισιν ἀγ ακλείτης ἑκατόμβης, Od. 3.58-9). The Greeks after Homer must have taken this passage as a divine instruction for a prayer of reciprocity: the human gift is accompanied by a request for a ‘pleasant return’. The same phrase χαρίεσσαν ἀμοιβάν is found on two Corinthian pinakes of c.500 BC.” Of the same period is the following epigram, inscribed on the base of a column on the Athenian Akropolis; it does not use the very same phrase but strikes the same chord: ‘For you, Virgin, Telesinos from Kettos has put up this monument on the Akropolis; take your pleasure in it, and give (him occasion) to put up another’ (φαρθένε, ev ἀκροπόλει Τελεσῖνος ἄγαλμ᾽ ἀνέθεκεν | Kerios, hat χαίροσα διδοίες ἄλο ἀναθέιναι, CEG 227). Although Telesinos does not explicitly state that he has dedicated the column in gratitude for a favour received from Athene, the second line of the poem implies it: for it expresses the hope that the combination of divine gift and human countergift will be repeated. There is an intriguing distichon, dated ¢.470 BC and found on a column in the precinct of Aphrodite Pandemos in Athens: ‘(Pyth?yodoros has set me up as a gift in honour of Aphrodite, a first offering from the good things (he has received). Mistress, it is up to you to give him plenty’ (. . . Ἰόδορός μ᾽ ἀνέθεκ᾽ Adpodira δὸρον, anapyev, | ΠΠότνία, τὸν ἀγαθὸν" τὸι σὺ δὸς ἀφθονίαν, CEG 268). One wonders for which good things he is thanking the goddess: if not for a happy marriage, then perhaps for a successful business as a brothel-keeper (he seems to give a tithe of his revenue, she being Aphrodite Pandemos)? 7 CEG 359 and 360; in both cases the rest of the epigram is lost.

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Another Akropolis:

inscription

of

¢.450

BC,

found

on

the

Athenian

Mistress, this is the first-offering which Menandros has set up, a statue in fulfilment of a vow; he, son of Demetrios from the deme Aigilia, repays you a favour. Daughter of Zeus, save him and his sons, as a gift in return for this one. πότνι", ἀπαρχὲν τένδε Mévavépol[s θέκεν ἄγαλμα, εὐχολὲν τελεσας σοὶ χάριν ἀντ[ιδιδὸς Atyı&reös Puids Δεμετρίο, Poly τε καὶ Putds σδιζε,

Διὸς

θύγατερ,

τόνδε

χάρ[ιν

θεμένε.ὃ

A few decades later some men, apparently thankful to Aphrodite, just like the [. . .] odoros above (CEG 268), erected in Antipolis (now Antibes, France) a monument of black stone in the shape of a phallus, with this daring inscription: ‘I am Delightful, servant of the revered goddess Aphrodite. To those who have set me up may Kypris give a favour in return’ (τέρπων εἰμὶ θεᾶς θεράπων σεμνῆς Ἀφροδίτης | τοῖς δὲ καταστήσασι Κυπρὶς χάριν ἀνταποδοίη, CEG 400). Again one wonders: these men who manifested their gratitude for the delights of the goddess by means of this dedication, did they hope to retain their sexual potency for a long time to come? The monument suggests something like that. From the fourth century onwards the evidence is richer; for interest I give two more specimens because they demonstrate the wide range of people who addressed the gods in this particular way. The first is an inscription set up by a certain Dionysios of Philadelphia (Lydia) who was converted to lead a life of worship and high morality; not content with that, he had opened his house to all and sundry (including slaves!) for religious meetings. The inscription tells about all this, and ends as follows: ‘Saviour Zeus, accept graciously this report and grant good return-gifts, health etc.” Ζεῦ σωτήρ, τὴν ἀφήγησιν ταύτην ἱλέως προσδέχου Kat

πάρεχε ἀμοιβάς, ὑγιείαν κ-τ.λ.5 By now we know that this turn of phrase is not a feature of religious sentiment in a Lydian backwater. On a stone in Thespiai (Boiotia) a poem is inscribed, addressed 8 CEG

275. The supplements are Hansen’s:

in the second line virtually certain,

cf. CEG 231, 258, 313, 321a; Raubitschek prefers for the first line [s μ᾽ εἴκον᾽ ἔθεκεν, for the third hölı σὺ τὸν ὀλβον. 9. Dittenberger, Sylloge 985. For some other instances of Hellenistic inscriptions which show the same sentiment of reciprocity see Hansen, CEG 818ii, 822, 863.

Giving and Thanksgiving in Greek Religion

133

to Eros. No doubt it had been composed by the hunter himself, the Roman emperor Hadrian, who presented his gift to the god. O boy, archer, son of sweetly-singing Aphrodite, living in Thespiai close to the Helikon, be merciful. Accept what Hadrian offers you: the best part of a bear which he killed all by himself, hitting it from horseback. In return for this, breathe down to him, through your own temperance, a favour from heavenly Aphrodite. ra) παῖ

τοξότα

Θεσπίαις ἰλήκοις"

Κυπρίδος

“Ελικωνίαισι τὸ

δέ

τοι

Auyeins ναίων,

δίδωσι

δέξο

ἀκροθείνιον Adpiavos ἄρκτου ἣν αὐτὸς κάνεν ἵπποθεν τύχησας σὺ δ’ αὐτῷ χάριν ἀντὶ τοῦ, σαόφρων, πνέοις Οὐρανίας ἀπ᾿ Ἀφροδίτας. UG 7, 1828)

The philhellene emperor did not only compose his piece in impeccable phalaecians; in the last two lines he unfailingly picked up the theme of reciprocity which is, as we have seen, important in the Greek tradition of prayer. To this section about gifts a clarification must be added, namely that all this ‘traffic’ between god and man should not be seen in a framework of contract (do ut des), but in one of goodwill and friendship. This has been argued in an important paper by Festugiére (1976). He states his view with admirable clarity (389, my trans.): ‘Human beings long for a relationship of friendship with gods; they believe in them because they feel their presence. Friends exchange gifts, and an entire book of the Greek Anthology, the sixth, is filled with epigrams accompanying gifts of a believer to her/his god.’ About 120 of these dedicatory epigrams can be attributed to the Hellenistic period, and in many of them the expression ‘in return for which’ (ἀνθ᾽ ὧν), or a comparable phrase, underlines the idea of reciprocity. Festugiere emphasizes ‘that this reciprocity of gifts between human and god has not the sordid quality of a business contract’ (413); ‘what is essential is not the value of the gift in itself but the gesture of giving it; and this presupposes that the giver is convinced that the gesture is valuable in the eyes of the god. A contract necessarily implies that both parties involved exchange goods of equal value; but this is not the case here’ (418). This is an important point: the essential asymmetry between human and god excludes ‘reciprocity of gifts’ in the sense of equivalence.'® 10 See oo above; also Parker, Ch. 5, 00 above.

134

Jan-Maarten Bremmer Ill.

HyMNs

There are hymnic texts from the Archaic period onwards, but no hymns bearing explicit markers which qualify them as expressing feelings of gratitude,'! as noted in the first section of this chapter. But this should not deceive us. The sheer fact that hymns commemorate and praise the gods for their presence, their power, and their gifts to mankind confers on these texts the status of thanksgiving. It is important to keep in mind that in ancient Greek, gratitude was expressed in terms of praising, an important point made by Quincey (1966). When Greeks wanted to say ‘thank you’, they said: “That is excellent, I praise you’, κάλλιστ᾽, ἐπαινῶ.132 Their habit in accepting an offer, a service, etc., was to confer praise. The difference between their usage and ours is not just a verbal one but reflects a fundamental difference of outlook. “The Englishman with his ‘thankyou’ is content to express his feelings; the Greeks saw an obligation created by a favour received, and sought, in their practical, direct way, to discharge it. And since praise was a commodity of which all men had an infinite supply and which all men valued, the obligation could always be discharged immediately. (Quincey 1966, 157)

The discovery of this Greek turn of mind brings us to the observation that in the Archaic and Classical period many hymnic texts of the Greeks did express ‘thanksgiving’. The praise of a god, the narration of her or his birth, famous deeds and gifts to mankind, all this functions as thanksgiving. The mythic narrative, so often the piéce de résistance in a hymn, is, when considered in this perspective, a ‘eucharistic’ prayer, if I may use this expression. When Greek worshippers sang their songs commemorating Dionysos’ miraculous birth, his victorious conquest of Greece, his gifts of wine and happiness and his power of bringing people together in one collective and religious ectasy (Qiacevew ψυχάς),13 all this can 11 Just as in the case of inscriptions (see n. 3 above), these explicit markers are found in the Roman period only. Aristides, having been saved from shipwreck, composes a prose hymn to Zeus (43, ed. Keil). In the first paragraph he qualifies this text (1) as a votive-offering: ‘Zeus, my King and Saviour, I bring you this gift according to my vow’ (τάδε ool κατ᾽ εὐχήν, Ζεῦ βασιλεῦ τε καὶ σῶτερ, δῶρα ἀνάγομεν); and (2) as ἃ gift of gratitude: ‘accept my hymn of thanksgiving as merci-

fully

as you

χαριστήρια).

have

saved

There

is also the hymn

my

life’

(ὥσπερ

ἔσωσας

εὐμενῶς

to Helios composed

καὶ

mpooot

by the emperor

τὰ

Julian:

ὕμνον τοῦ θεοῦ χαριστήριον (xiliv], 158 ed. Bidez-Lacombrade). 12 Ar. Ra. 508, taken with Dover ad loc.; also S. Aj. 536 and Pl. R. 338b. 13 See e.g. the parodos of E. Bakkhai; the paean by Philodamos of Skarpheia.

Giving and Thanksgiving in Greek Religion

135

be understood as thanksgiving. In one of the most venerable hymnic texts from antiquity, the hymn to Zeus by Kleanthes, this sequence of divine gift answered by praise (thanksgiving) is explicit: Father, disperse this ignorance from our soul, and grant us to find understanding, in force of which you rule the universe with justice. Then we, being honoured by you, will honour you in return, praising your works always. τὴν (sc. ἀπειροσύνην) σύ, πάτερ, σκέδασον ψυχῆς ἄπο, δὸς δὲ κυρῆσαι γνώμης, I) πίσυνος σὺ δίκης μέτα πάντα κυβερνᾷς, ὄφρ᾽ ἂν τιμήθεντες ἀμειβώμεσθά σε τιμῇ, ὑμνοῦντες τὰ σὰ ἔργα διηνεκές κιτ.λ. (SVF 1 537, 33-6)

In the field of hymnic poetry there is one kind which deserves special attention. In his life of Demetrios of Phaleron (5.76) Diogenes Laertius refers to a report that the philosopher was once struck by a disease which afflicted both his eyes. He happened to be in Alexandria when this occurred, and the powerful GrecoEgyptian divinity Sarapis healed him, and ‘it is said that this is why he composed the paeans which are still being sung nowadays’ (ὅθεν καὶ τοὺς παιᾶνας ποιῆσαι τοὺς μέχρι νῦν ἀδομένους). Can we describe paeans as cult-songs of thanksgiving? Yes, definitely. It is the merit of Lütz Kappel (1992) to have disclosed for the first time what a paean is. A religious poem is a paean not because it is addressed to one particular god, or because it is composed in one special metre, or because one particular phrase occurs in it (the socalled ‘refrain’, ἐπίφθεγμα, in té [acvév—although this helps in identifying fragmentary texts as such), but because of its pragmatic function (its Sitz im Leben): worshippers invoke the divinity with a paean because they hope that this god is going to rescue or heal them. If one looks (with Kappel, 63) at the sixth- and fifth-century evidence, one finds that paeans, in all cases where they are sung not in the context of cult and calendar, are directed at a specific divinity who is requested to come and heal one’s body or to save one’s life. The reason for the spontaneous invocation can be various: pest (Hom. Il. 1.472-3; S. OT 4-5), threat of war (A. Th. 268), imminent battle (Xen. An. 4.3.19; Xen. HG 4.2.19), eclipse of the sun (Pind. Pae. 9), earthquake (Xen. Hell. 4.7.4). The addressee of the paean is often Apollo, or Apollo and Artemis, but also Asklepios, Hygieia, Poseidon, Zeus, Dionysos, and even Sarapis as we saw just now.

136

Jan-Maarten Bremmer

Relevant for my argument is the fact that the Greeks often sang a paean also after the event, when they realized that they had been saved from the danger. At these moments the paean must have fulfilled the function of a thankful outburst in the direction of the saving god who had demonstrated that he deserved to be invoked as such. Besides this first category of spontaneous outburst of gratitude after the event, one can distinguish a second category of paeans which have become ritual and recurrent parts of the liturgical calendar, so to speak. I give first some examples of the first category. When in Euripides’ Erechtheus the messenger has related that the Athenians have obtained a victory over Eumolpos and his Thrakians, the chorus sings: ‘I shall shout a song of victory—ié paian—yelling all over the city! (... ava πόλιν ἀλαλαῖς in παιάν | καλλίνικον βοᾶσω μέλος.) Comparable is a passage in Timotheos’ lyric description of the victory of the Greeks in the bay of Salamis: “They erected a victory monument, a most sacred precinct of Zeus, and shouted in honour of the Lord, ié Paian’ (of δὲ τροπαῖα στησάμενοι

Atos

| ayvorarov

τέμενος,

[]αιᾶν

| ἐκελάδησαν

ζήιον

ἄνακτα κ.τ.λ. (196-9)."? In more prosaic reports of historians about more recent battles we find also paeans sung spontaneously right after victory.!® There is one particular case where we can be present, as it were, at a paean performed as a song of thanksgiving. In the sanctuary of Apollo and Asklepios at Erythrai a stone has been found bearing on its front a religious law (lex sacra) and on its back the full text of a paean. These texts have been published by Wilamowitz (1909) and more recently discussed by Graf (1985). This is the passage from the lex sacra which is immediately pertinent to our inquiry: All persons who—after a (successful) incubation—bring a sacrifice in return to Asklepios and Apollo, or who bring such a sacrifice according to a vow which they have made—when such a person puts the sacred portion [which is to be burnt] on the altar, then he must first sing this paean around the altar of Apollo, three times ié Paioon, o ié Paioon. u 000L

δὲ

2

L ἐγκατακοιμηθέντες

Ἀπόλλωνι

N

εὐὀξ

άμενοι

, θοσίην

θυσίην

5 7, ἀποδίδωσιν

ἀποδίδωσιν,

ὅταν

ny ΄, TWL Ἀσκληπίωι τὴν

ἱρὴν

μοῖραν

και

\

n τῶι

ἐπιθῆι,

14. Fr. 65, 5-6 E. Erekhtheus (Austin). Cf. Ar. Pax 554-5 15 Quoted from PMG 791. The Vita Sopheclis 3 (TrGF iv, p. 31, Radt) informs us that, when the Athenians celebrated the victory obtained in the bay of Salamis, Sophokles was one of the boys who performed the paean of victory, naked and anointed, even their chorus-leader: τοῖς παιανίζουσι τῶν ἐπινικίων ἐξῆρχε. 16 Hdt. 5.1.3; Thuc. 2.91.2; Xen. HG 7.2.23, 7.4.36.

Giving and Thanksgiving in Greek Worship παιωνίζειν τρίς"

ἰὴ

πρῶτον

Παιών:

ὦ,

περὶ ἰὴ

τὸν

βωμὸν

τοῦ

Ἀπόλλωνος

τόνδε

137 τὸν

παιῶνα

ἐς

ΠΙαιών.

Graf (1985, 254) comments that these regulations concern sacrifices of thanksgiving. It is because people have experienced a successful incubation (ἐγκατακοιμηθέντες) or because their prayers accompanied by vow have been fulfilled (εὀξάμενοι) that they perform these acts of worship. It is important to pay attention to the element ἀπο- in ἀποδίδωσιν: sacrifice and song come in return for the dream or the actual healing. It is not far from this kind of situation to the singing of paeans on regular or annual festivities. Of this second category, I give one example. Theognis is praying to Apollo. If the god saves Megara from the imminent attack of the Persians, then in the future at the (evidently annual)!” festival held in early spring the Megarians will thank him: Keep the sacrilegious army of the Medes away from this city! Then at each arrival of spring the people of Megara will bring you a glorious hekatomb in festive mood, taking joy in music on the cithara and lovely celebration, in the dancing of paeans and in exclamations around your altar. αὐτὸς δὲ στρατὸν ὑβριστὴν ήδων ἀπέρυκε τῆσδε πόλευς, ἵνα σοι λαοὶ ἐν εὐφροσύνῃ ἦρος

ἐπερχομένου

τερπόμενοι

παιάνων

κλειτὰς

κιθάρῃ

καὶ

πέμπωσ᾽ ἐρατῇ

ἑκατόμβας

θαλίῃ

τε χοροῖς ἰαχῇσί τε σὸν περὶ βωμόν. (775-9)

In conclusion, the opinions expressed by some scholars that the Greeks did not have prayers or songs of thanksgiving are not true. It would indeed be very surprising if this was so. Greeks did thank their gods in their own way by means of (1) votive offerings and the short but often eloquent texts inscribed on them; (2) hymns, because the element of praise, ubiquitous in these texts, can be seen as virtual thanksgiving; and (3), more specifically, paeans, sung at moments when they realized that a god had saved them from illness, danger, or imminent death, or at sacred moments of the year in which they recalled and celebrated the benefits of the gods. '7 The subjunctive of the present tense πέμπωσι is there to prove that the poet does not refer to a ceremony to be performed only once, but to a repeated event.

Harming Friends: Problematic Reciprocity in

Greek Tragedy ELIZABETH

BELFIORE

INTRODUCTION

Greek tragedy represents many terrible deeds among kin: parricide, incest, matricide, child-murder, fratricide. In Aristotle’s view, these events are central to the plots of the best tragedies: “When the pathé take place within piilia relationships, for example when brother kills or is about to kill brother, or does something else of this kind, or when son does this to father, or mother to son, or son to mother, these things are to be sought’ (Po. 1453°19—22).! Like

Aristotle,

modern

scholars

have

often

noted

that

many

tragedies have plots in which philos harms, or is about to harm, philas, or have called attention to the importance of philia in other aspects of Greek tragedy.? Neither ancient nor modern scholars, however, have fully appreciated how prevalent is the plot pattern praised by Aristotle. I argue that harm to philoi is a central element in the plot structures of nearly all of the extant tragedies. An act in which harm occurs or is about to occur among pilot who are blood kin is central to the plots of more than half of the thirty-cwo extant tragedies. In the major events of most of the other plays, such an act ΤΑ few Greek terms are left untranslated in this chapter: pathos (pl. pathé) means ‘terrible event’; phiha is ‘kinship’, or ‘friendship’; pAdlas (pl. phrloi, fem. philé, pl. philat) means ‘kin’, or friend’. Xenia refers to the institution of guest-friendship; a xenos (pl. xenot; in Homer, xeinos, xeinor) is a ‘stranger’, or a ‘host’ or ‘guest’, and hiketés (pl. hiketai) means ‘suppliant’. 2. On philia in the plot see especially Else (1967), 349-52, 391-8, 414-15; Gudeman (1934), 257-8; Vickers (1973), 63, 230-43. On philia in other aspects of tragedy see Blundell (1989); Goldhill (1986), 79-106; Schmidt-Berger (1973); Scully (1973); Seaford (1990, 1994); Simon (1988). Articles on individual plays are cited below.

140

Elizabeth Belfiore

occurs within relationships that bring outsiders into a philia group: marriage, xenia, and suppliancy. Harm to philoi is also important in less major incidents of nearly all of the tragedies. My study of violation of philia is relevant to the subject of this volume, reciprocity, in several ways. As just noted, the violence in tragedy to which Aristotle draws attention occurs between those who are philoi in a larger sense (suppliants and xenoi) as well as between family members. In the normative pattern assumed by the plays, reciprocity plays a crucial role ın all of these relationships. Suppliancy and xenia are initiated and maintained by reciprocation of favours, and family relationships, while based on blood kinship or marriage, are also characterized by reciprocation of favours or benefits. In tragedy, the norm is that ‘favour always produces favour’ (χάρις χάριν yap ἐστιν ἡ τίκτουσ᾽ ἀεί: Soph. Alas 522). What tragedy ernphasizes, however, is the portrayal not of this norm, but of its violation. In some cases, two philoi engage in reciprocal violence (for instance, Eteokles and Polyneikes); in others, only one piilos violates the norm (for instance, Agamemnon kills Iphigeneia, who has done him only good). The focus on the reversal or problematization of the normal is characteristic of the tragic genre, and can be highlighted by contrast with Homeric epic, in which violence between philoi does not have the same central role as in tragedy. The existence of these generic differences raises intriguing historical questions. It is surely significant that tragedy arises and develops at the same time as the polis. The predominance in tragedy of violation of philia may reflect a period and social context (fifth-century democratic Athens) in which reciprocal relationships between family members and other kinds of philei had become problematic, in a way that they were not in Homer, because of the emergence of new modes of social and economic life. This is suggested by Richard Seaford (1994) in his study of reciprocity and ritual in the context of the developing city-state; some other contributions to this volume point in a similar direction.4 In this chapter, I do not explore a historical line of explanation for the predominance of violence among philoi in Greek tragedy, but instead attempt to provide a typology of this aspect of tragedy. Nevertheless, my survey, in addition to contributing to an under3 See e.g. Missiou, Ch. g; Herman, Ch. 10; who argue that Afth-century democratic Athens rejected the ethic of reciprocity in inter-state and internal relations.

Problematic Reciprocity in Greek Tragedy

141

standing of reciprocity in literature, also provides information significant for the history of Greek attitudes towards reciprocity. 1.

THEORETICAL

ISSUES

In discussing plot patterns in tragedy, I begin with Aristotle’s explicit statements in the Poetics about philia, pathos, and recognition. Aristotle does not define philia, but he frequently mentions it in connection with pathos (for example, in Poetics 1453°19-22, quoted above) and, in the passages cited in the next paragraph, in connection with recognition. He defines pathos as ‘a destructive or painful event, for example, deaths vividly represented, and great pain, and wounds, and all things of this kind’ (Po. 1452>11-14). Pathos is one of the three parts of the tragic plot. Aristotle’s account in chapters 10 and 11 implies that pathos, unlike recognition and reversal, is part of all tragic plots, simple as well as complex. While a tragedy may have more than one pathos, the major pathos is an important event in the plot, one that arouses pity and fear, and that has important consequences for the good or bad fortune of the stage figures.* Recognition, in Aristotle’s account, is closely connected with both philia and pathos.’ In the best plots, philos harms philos, or is about to do so, in ignorance of the relationship. Recognition either occurs after the act, as happens in Sophokles’ Oidipous the King, or it prevents the act from occurring, as in Euripides’ /phigeneia in Tauris (Po. 14). According to Aristotle’s definition: ‘Recognition is . a change from ignorance to knowledge, either to philia or to enmity, of those marked out for good or bad fortune’ (Po. 1452°29-32). It is important not to confuse what Aristotle terms ‘recognition to philia or to enmity’ (avayvapıcıs . . . ἢ εἰς φιλίαν ἢ εἰς ἔχθραν), that is, recognition leading to a state of philia or enmity, with ‘recognizing philia’ (ἀναγνωρίσαι τὴν φιλίαν: 1453°31). In the case of Oidipous, Aristotle’s example of recognizing philia (1453°30-1), Oidipous recognizes that Iocaste and Laios are his parents. On the other hand, ‘recognition to philia or to enmity’ must involve more than knowledge of identity. Since harm to an enemy does not arouse pity in the best way (1453°17-18), recognition of the identity of an enemy plays no role in Aristotle’s + On pathos see further Belfiore (1992), 134-41. 5 On recognition see Belfiore (1992), 153-60.

142

Elizabeth Belfiore

theory of tragedy. Unlike simple recognition of identity, then, ‘recognition to philia or to enmity’ is the realization that one is in a state of friendship or enmity with one’s philoi, because one’s actions are, were, or will be those of a friend or enemy.® For example, Orestes discovers that Iphigeneia is his sister (recognizing philia), and that she is ready to act as his friend (recognition to philia), but Oidipous finds out that he has acted as an enemy to his own kin (recognition to enmity). In the Poetics, then, as in NE 8, Aristotle is concerned with the social aspects of biological kinship, which can be strengthened by acts of positive reciprocity, or weakened by negative reciprocity.’ The philoi in Aristotle’s examples are all close blood kin—parents, children, and siblings—and some scholars, for example, Gerald Else, hold that Aristotle excludes non-kin relationships.® In the case of pathos also, Aristotle emphasizes death and physical pain. However, there is good reason to hold that his examples of both philoi and pathé are paradigmatic rather than restrictive.? In defining pathos, he writes: ‘for example . . . and all things of this kind’ (145212-13), and, in giving examples of the best tragedies, he states: ‘for example . . . or does something else of this kind’ (145320-2). He certainly intended for other kinds of relationships and events to count as philia and pathé. Evidence that events other than death and woundings count as pathé is provided by the fact that Aristotle cites the Helle as an example of the best kind of plot, one in which a pathos between philoi is prevented by recognition. In this play, ‘son, being about to

® Konstan (19965) provides many useful examples of ‘Philos’ in the sense of someone who acts as a friend, but he goes too far in denying that the term can mean ‘kin’. 7 The combination of biological and social features in Aristotle’s discussions of kinship is discussed by Price (1989), 164-7, and Sherman (1989), 148-51. On the idea that recognition in tragedy involves acknowledgement of a social role see Simon (1988), 50-1; Belfiore (1992), 157-60. In E. Heracl., Iolaos first demonstrates that the children of Herakles are related to Demophon (207-13), and then urges the king

to

‘become

Demophon

kin and shows

friend’

(γενοῦ...

his willingness

συγγενής,

to act as kin

and

γενοῦ friend,

φίλος, Iolaos

229). says,

‘we

When have

found friends and kin’ (ηὕρομεν φίλους καὶ ξυγγενεῖς, 304-5). For a similar view of recognition in Homer see Goldhill (1991), 5-6; Murnaghan (1987), esp. 5-6, 22-5. 8 Aristotle's examples are given at Po. 14.1453>19-22, quoted at the beginning of this chapter. For Else, see n. 2 above. ° On ‘Aristotle’s inclination to start from the favoured case in explaining some important expressions and then move outwards’ see Owen (1986a), 219. I owe this reference to Norman Dahl.

Problematic Reciprocity in Greek Tragedy

143

hand over (ἐκδιδόναι) his mother, recognized her’ (1454°8).!° Since the pathos here is not murder with one’s own hand but betrayal to an enemy, failure to protect a philos or suppliant counts as a pathos. Another category of pathos would include sexual acts. Rape is a painful and socially destructive act that occurs or is threatened in a number of plays. For example, in Sophokles’ lost Tereus, mentioned by Aristotle at 1454°36-7, Philomela revealed by means of a woven picture that she had been raped by her brother-in-law 'Tereus, who then cut her tongue out to prevent her telling what he had done. It is probable that Aristotle would have counted not only the wounding but also the rape as a pathos, especially since it is so central to the story. It is also likely that Oidipous’ incest counts as a pathos. This act is not painful, but it is an event that is destructive (φθαρτική), in a social and religious sense, and in fact directly causes locaste’s suicide. Moreover, Oidipous’s relationship with Iocaste is explicitly said to be central to the reversal of the Oidipous, in which the messenger comes ‘to free Oidipous from his fear concerning his mother’ (1452725-6). There are also reasons to believe that philia includes more relationships than Aristotle’s paradigmatic examples of siblings, parents, and children. Aristotle divides all human relationships into only three categories—philia, enmity, neutrality (1453°15-16)— and he uses the plural in stating that the best pathé take place ‘within philia relationships’ (ἐν ταῖς φιλίαις: 145319). Greek kinship included many more blood relationships than those within our ‘nuclear family’. In fact, the Greek concept of kinship (ankhisteia) included relatives to the degree of children of cousins.!! In the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle notes the similarity between the relationship of cousins and that of brothers, and he draws no strict line between more and less distant relationships (1161°35-116274). In many tragedies, cousinship or descent from a common ancestor is represented as a strong claim to kinship (see Section IV). All of this gives us reason to believe that philia in the Poetics includes a wide range of blood relationships.

10 Nothing else is known

about the author or plot of this play. Cf. S. Ph.

1386,

‘you who wish to hand me over to my enemies’ (ὅς ye τοῖς ἐχθροῖσί μ᾽ ἐκδοῦναι θέλεις). 11 Lacey (1968), 28. Littman (1979), 6 n. 2, argues that the children of children of cousins are included.

144

Elizabeth Belfiore

Tragedy also represents pathé between spouses and xenoi, and between suppliant and supplicated. Which of these, if any, would Aristotle have counted as pathé among philoi? Although Aristotle does not mention spouse murder in his discussions of the house of Atreus, it is plausible to think that he would have counted Klytaimestra’s murder of Agamemnon, or Deianeira’s poisoning of Herakles, as the killing of a philos. While spouses are not blood relatives, they are an integral part of the household (οἰκία), and the household is mentioned at Po. 1454#12. It is less likely that Aristotle meant to include xenoi and suppliants as philoi, for the Poetics is silent on these categories of relationships, as it is on marriage, and xenoi and suppliants are not part of the household. Although we cannot be sure of Aristotle’s own views on the role in tragedy of relationships other than blood kinship, it is in the spirit of his views generally, and fruitful for a study of Greek tragedy, to adopt broader concepts of philia and recognition than the text of the Poetics explicitly warrants. According to this broader view, philia includes the relationships of marriage, xenia, and suppliancy, and recognition includes the acknowledgement and acceptance of outsiders as philoi. Marriage, xenia, and suppliancy are all formal relationships involving reciprocal rights and obligations, and are in many ways similar to blood kinship. In all of these relationships, outsiders are brought into a philia relationship by means of formal acts of reciprocity. To include reciprocal relationships as well as biological kinship is not only useful for a study of Greek tragedy, it is also consistent with Greek ideas about philia. While biological kinship normally also involves positive reciprocity, formal non-kin relationships initiated and maintained by acts of positive reciprocity (marriage, xenia, and suppliancy) are assimilated in turn to kinship in Greek thought.'? These are, in John Gould’s words, ‘social institutions which permit the acceptance of the outsider within the group and which create hereditary bonds of obligation between the parties.’'? Supplication, of course, may take place within an already existing philia relationship. The kind of supplication with which I am most concerned here, however, is that which seeks either to initiate a philia relationship where one did not previously exist at all, or to gain acknowledgement as a 12 On the central role of reciprocity in philia among both kin and non-kin in Greek thought, see Millett (1991), 109-59. 13 Gould (1973), 93. On suppliancy, xenia, and kinship see also Herman (1987).

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philos on the basis of a previous relationship that was dubious or tenuous, for example, distant kinship. This kind of supplication is hiketeia in the etymological sense of supplication by an ‘arriving stranger’ (hiketés). Xenia in the sense relevant here is a formal, hereditary relationship of ‘ritualized friendship’ initiated by specific actions.'+ The xenos in this sense differs from both the stranger towards whom one has no obligations, and the temporary guest or host towards whom one has only temporary and limited duties.'? Of the three reciprocal relationships, marriage is closest to blood kinship. Although the bride retains important ties to her family of birth, and is ‘foreign’ (ὀθνεία) to her husband’s family, spouses are members of the same household.'® While spouses are not usually blood kin, their relationship is like kinship in having its basis in ‘nature’ (NE 1162716-17). Moreover, marriage creates a biological tie between two spouses after children are born. In addition to being a ‘natural’ relationship, marriage creates important reciprocal relationships not only between the individual spouses, but also between their two families, who exchange gifts and services.'” Homer’s Alkinoos says: ‘Father-in-law and brother-in-law are nearest after one’s own blood and race’ (Od. 8.582-3). While xenia and suppliancy are less close to kinship than marriage, both are relationships that are ‘expressed in terms of the language of kinship.’!® According to Homer, ‘a xeinos and a suppliant are like a brother to a man’ (Od. 8.546-7). Xenoi have many of the same reciprocal obligations towards one another that blood kin do, including the giving of mutual aid, and acting as foster parents for each others’ children.'? On the other hand, reciprocity is essential to xenia in a way in which it is not essential to blood kinship, for kin may fail to keep their obligations and still remain kin, but xeno? must engage in reciprocal benefits if they are to become and remain xenoi.?® '4 See Herman (1987), esp. 41-72. 15 On the distinction between the ritualized friend and the temporary Donlan (19895), 7.

guest see

16 On ὀθνεία in E. Alc. (e.g. 646, 810) see Rehm (1994), 92-3. The bride’s continuing ties to her natal family have important legal aspects in the classical period (Hunter, 1994, 13-15), and frequently give rise to conflicts in tragedy (Seaford, 1990). '7 See Donlan (1982), 145-8; Littman (1979), 15-17. 18 Gould (1973), 93, citing Od. 8.546-7 and Hes. Op. 327-34. Herman (1987), 16-29. 20 Schwartz (1985), 487 and 495, argues that Greek £ev- words are derived from the Indo-European root meaning ‘to give in exchange or reciprocity, to requite’. Cited by Janko (1992), note on Il. 13.624-3.

146

Elizabeth Belfiore

Suppliancy, like xenia, is a reciprocal relationship, although this is less immediately obvious to us. A suppliant always has obligations to reciprocate if possible,?’ and a suppliant may offer substantial benefits to the person supplicated, such as those, for example, that Oidipous offers Theseus (Soph. Oidipous at Kolonos 576-8). However, just as the person supplicated has the power to harm the suppliant by a refusal, so the suppliant also has the power to harm, if rejected, for all supplication creates a strong obligation, supported by social and religious sanctions. Because the suppliant is protected by Zeus, supplication carries with it an implicit threat to the person supplicated, and to harm a suppliant is to pollute (μιαίνειν) the suppliant’s wreaths, the gods, and human laws (E., Heracl. 71, 264; A. Supp. 378). In particular, in classical times, the suicide of a suppliant, especially at an altar or other sacred place of refuge creates harmful pollution.?? Once successful, a hiketés enters into a reciprocal relationship with the person supplicated, becoming a dependent philos, or, if the two are social equals, a xenos. These three reciprocal relationships are similar to one another as well as to kinship. The xenos in the sense of ‘stranger’ who seeks to be accepted as a philos is in many ways indistinguishable from the suppliant,?? and xenia may be initiated by supplication. The marriage relationship can be seen as a particular form of xenia and suppliancy, for a wife is a xené, who comes to the hearth of her husband as a suppliant.?* The close connections among all of these relationships are also apparent from the fact that all arouse similar emotions. Violence to a suppliant or xenos is as shocking as kin or spouse murder, incest or cannibalism, crimes which tend to go together in Greek thought.?> Usually, however, aidés (‘respect’, ‘reverence’) prevents harm to kin, spouse, xenos, or suppliant. Even before 21 See Gould (1973), 92-3, citing Od. 16.422-3. See also E. Heracl. 503-6. 22 On these issues see Gould, (1973), 100; Delcourt (1939); Parker (1983), 9, 146-7. Parker notes a number of differences between Homeric and classical supplication (81-8), although he attaches less importance than many to the absence of ‘pollution’ terminology in Homer (130-43). 23 On the distinction see Gould (1973), 92-4; Roth (1993), 7, n. 15. 24 See Gould (1973), 97-8, citing Iamblichos, Life of Pythagoras 84 (58C4 DK) and ‘Aristotle’, Oeconomica 1344a (58C5 DK). See also Life of Pythagoras 48, and A. Eum. 660-1. 25 Isokrates, Panathenaikos 122, links murder of xenot with murder of parents and brothers, incest, and cannibalism. This passage is quoted by Herman (1987), 124, but incorrectly cited. For other examples of the association of incest with cannibalism see Moreau (1979); Seaford (1993), 138 ἢ. 102.

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being formally accepted as a philos, a suppliant has aidés for the person supplicated, and has strong claims to be treated with aidös in return.?° This fact has important consequences for an interpretation of suppliant plays. If aidös is characteristic of both hikeies and supplicated at the time of supplication, and if, as Gustave Glotz claims (1904, 138), philoi are those who are united by a feeling of aidés, then the suppliant is already in some respects like a philos, even before being fully acknowledged as such. Thus, even before being accepted, a hiketes is an outsider who nevertheless has strong claims to be treated as a philos. Correspondingly, to accept a suppliant is much like what Aristotle calls ‘recognition to philia’: recognition of identity that involves acting as a philos. These similarities between biological kinship and relationships based on reciprocity are strongly emphasized in tragedy. In this genre, harm to distant kin, and to suppliants, xenoi, and spouses has a dramatic function similar to pathé among close blood kin, and the acceptance of outsiders as philoi towards whom one has reciprocal obligations is represented as similar to the recognition of the identity of a blood relative that involves acting as a philos. 11.

PHILIA

IN

Eric

A brief survey of Homer’s very different treatment of violation of philia can illuminate the distinctive role played in tragedy by pathé among philoi.2” While pathé are important in epic as well as tragedy, in epic they tend to take place between enemies rather than philoi. This may be one reason why, in Aristotle’s view, tragedy develops out of and is superior to epic: tragedy has discovered that pathé among philoi best arouse pity and fear.?® Problematic phila relationships, of course, are important in epic as well as tragedy. The Trojan War began with Paris’ violation of xenia in Menelaos’ house, and the quarrel between Akhilleus and

26 In A. Supp. Zeus Hikesios is called Zeus Aidoios. On aidés and supplication see Gould (1973), 85-90; Glotz (1904), 138-42; Cairns (19936), 183-5, 189-93, 221-7, 276-87. 27 While this discussion is confined to Homer, there are indications in the fragments of the Epic Cycle that Homer’s treatment of pathé among philoi was not exceptional. See Seaford (1994), 360-2. 28 Pathé in epic: Po. 14597-15; tragedy develops from and is superior to epic: Po. 4 and 26; best pathé: Po. 14. See further, Belfiore (1992), 137-8.

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his friend?? Agamemnon occasions the wrath that is the subject of the Iliad. Akhilleus’ revenge on Hektor for the death of Patroklos, the friend whom Akhilleus accuses himself of failing to protect, is another central event in the poem. In the Odyssey, the marriage relationship between Penelope and Odysseus is threatened by Odysseus’ long absence, and proper xenia behaviour is neglected by the Kyklops and by the suitors in Ithaka.?° Epic differs significantly from tragedy, however, in its treatment of these relationships. First, an act of direct, physical harm among kin, spouses, xenoi, or suppliants is not central to the epic plots, as it is to the plots of most tragedies. Akhilleus’ wrath results in harm to the Greeks, and he even asks that they be killed (/7. 1.410) beside the ships. However, Akhilleus in the Jad is not related to Agamemnon or to Patroklos,*! and his role in the death of his friends is the indirect one of refusing to fight. The [iad goes out of its way to stress that he commits no act of violence against them, for Athene appears in /had 1 precisely in order to avert physical violence between Agamemnon and Akhilleus. Akhilleus does not curse the Akhaians, as Theseus curses his son in Euripides’ Hippolytos, nor does he pray directly to Zeus asking him to kill the Akhaians, as happens in Iliad 1.37-43, when Khryses prays to Apollo to punish the Akhaians and is immediately answered. Instead, Akhilleus takes a more indirect route, asking Thetis to ask Zeus to aid the Trojans and to punish the Akhaians (//. 1.407-10). Zeus’ will is carried out in a series of complex actions over the course of many books, so that Akhilleus’ responsibility is further diluted in the narrative. Nor is Akhilleus’ refusal to fight portrayed as direct harm to his friends, like murder or betrayal to an enemy. Indeed, his wrath is not blamed by his friends until he refuses the gifts in Book 9 (see 9.515-18, 523), and even after that point, no one holds him personally responsible for the deaths of his friends. Akhilleus blames himself for failing to protect Patroklos and his other friends (18.98-106), but he never suggests that he is a kind of murderer. Those responsible, according to Patroklos himself, are Zeus, Apollo, Euphorbos, and Hektor (16.844-50). 29 Agamemnon is included among Akhilleus’ ‘dear companions’ (φίλων ἑταίρων) at Il. 19.305. 30 On xenia in the Odyssey see Bader (1993), Levy (1963), Murnaghan (1987), 31 Akhilleus was a cousin of Patroklos fr. 212a VI-W: Eustathius, Hom. 112.44

(1976), Donlan (1982 and 19895), Lateiner Reece (1993). according to Hesiod, Catalogue of Women, ff.

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Central to the plot of the Odyssey is Odysseus’ restoration of order in his troubled household. He both renews his marriage with Penelope, which was threatened in his absence, and kills her suitors. However, Odysseus’ marriage is threatened not by Penelope, who is frequently contrasted with the faithless Klytaimestra, but by the suitors, and these men are not philoi who betray him, but simply his enemies (see Po. 145522). Instead of offending against an existing xenia relationship with Odysseus, the suitors refuse to enter into any positive reciprocal relationship in the first place, engaging in a purely ‘negative reciprocity’.”” Far from being his xenoi, the suitors have consistently refused to share a table with the disguised Odysseus.?? One exception proves the rule. Antinoos is the ringleader of the suitors (17.394-5), and his faults are recounted frequently and at length (for instance at 4.663-72, 16.364-92, 17.409-504). He is the only one of the suitors who is guilty of ingratitude to Odysseus as hereditary suppliant or xenos, for Antinoos’ father fled his own people and was protected as a suppliant by Odysseus. This fact, however, is mentioned in only a single passage (16.418-33), and is not alluded to when Antinoos is killed. In more minor events also, epic either lacks or fails to emphasize violent events among blood kin or spouses.”* There is no mention in Homer of a sacrifice of Iphigeneia by her father, and Oidipous continues to rule in Thebes after he discovers that he has committed parricide and incest (Od. 11.271-80). The murder of Agamemnon by Aigisthos (who is not said to be his kin) is mentioned many times in the Odyssey, but Klytaimestra’s killing of her husband is only rarely alluded to. Usually, she is represented as merely helping to plan the murder of Agamemnon.°? In contrast, it is Klytaimestra who does the deed in Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon, and Aigisthos who helps in the planning (1614, 1627, 1634-5, 1643-6). 32 Lateiner (1993), 182. He also notes: ‘The suitors . . . usurp social status as xeino? (181), and “The suitors have purposely neglected the obligation and privilege to reciprocate to men and gods’ (182). 33 'Thus, Odysseus is not guilty of killing his own guests, pace Nagler (1993), esp. 244. 31. "This fact is noted by Garvie (1986), pp. x-xi; Griffin (1977), 44; Simon (1988), esp. 1-2 and 13-26; Seaford (1989) 87, with n. 1, (1993), 142-6, (1994), 11--12. 35 Aigisthos is implicated in the murder of Agamemnon: Od. 1.36, 1.298-30,

3-193-8,

3.234-5,

3.248-50,

3.261-75,

3.303-10,

4.91-2,

4.518-37,

11.387-9,

11.409-39, 24.19-22, 24.96-7. Klytaimestra helps in the planning: 3.234-5, 4.91—2, 11.429-30, 11.439. Klytaimestra kills Agamemnon: 11.409-11, 11.453, 24.96-7, 24.199-200.

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Violence against kin is also unimportant in the epic pattern of the suppliant-exile, common in minor incidents of the plot.?° Often, the epic hiketes is an exile because he has killed someone and flees retribution from the dead man’s kin. Sometimes the person killed happens to be related to the murderer-exile. Tlepolemos (II. 2.662-3) killed his father’s uncle; Medon (I1.13.694-7) killed a kinsman of his stepmother, and Epeigeus (//. 16.571-4) came as suppliant to Peleus and Thetis after killing his cousin. The prophet Theoklymenos fled Argos after killing a ‘relative’ (ἄνδρα ἔμφυλον, Od. 15.2718). In these cases, however, kin murder is merely mentioned in passing, and does not become an important issue. When two disputants are very closely related, murder is avoided altogether. Phoinix, who, at his mother’s urging, slept with his father’s mistress, quarrelled with his father and was forced to flee his country. Thus, like the typical suppliant-exile, Phoinix fled his own country because of a quarrel, but, unlike the typical exile, he did not actually commit murder. On the contrary, Homer is careful to tell us that he refrained from parricide (II. 9.458-61).°7 Epic also differs from tragedy in that it does not represent harm to xenoi and hiketai as similar to harm to kin. While hiketai in tragedy are frequently kin, though the relationship may be a rather distant one, this is not the case in epic. An epic hikeies may be a god in disguise (for instance Od. 17.483-7),?? but is never suspected of being a distant cousin. Homer, moreover, tends to portray offences against xenia as refusals to enter into a reciprocal relationship in the first place rather than as betrayals from within an existing philia relationship. The Kyklops in the Odyssey offends against the rules of xenia in the most extreme manner possible, by eating his guests, but one thing he is not guilty of is betrayal of a philos. As I argued above, the suitors in Ithaka (with one exception) are not Odysseus’ xenoi. Actual betrayal within a pre-existing xenia relationship is either avoided in epic, or is given much less emphasis than in tragedy. In the Odyssey, Aigisthos kills Agamemnon after inviting him to a feast at his house, but this incident is passed over in two lines (11.409-11),

36 Schlunk (1976) discusses this pattern in Il. 37 On these lines, alleged by Plutarch to have been deleted by Aristarkhos, Hainsworth (1993), ad loc.; Janko (1992), 25-9. 38 'This theme in Od. is discussed by Kearns (1982).

see

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and the story οἵ Herakles’ murder of his guest Iphitos is mentioned only briefly (21.24-30). Scenes of supplication in epic also differ significantly from those in tragedy. In epic, as well as tragedy, Zeus Hikesios punishes those who fail to protect xenoi and hiketai, and the fear of his anger is explicitly or implicitly appealed to by the suppliant.?? That these issues are given less importance in epic than in tragedy, however, is indicated by the fact that in epic the decision made by the person supplicated is usually swift and without painful consequences.*® Moreover, references to pollution are absent from epic. 11.

PHILIA

IN

TRAGEDY:

OVERVIEW

Pathé among philoi are of much more central importance in the plots of tragedies than they are in Homer. In arguing for this view, I begin with an overview of the different kinds of relationship within which a pathos occurs, or is about to occur, in the major events of the plots of the thirty-two extant tragedies.*! I then examine the more controversial categories of xenia and suppliancy in tragedy. My grouping of plays according to pathé within categories of relationships is based on the broad concept of philia and recognition explained in Section I. This classification is not intended to be rigid or absolute, but merely to serve as one convenient way of grouping tragedies with similar plots. I. In seventeen plays, the central pathos is a violent act, actual or threatened, against a philos who is a blood relative. In Aiskhylos’ Seven against Thebes brother kills brother. In Libation Bearers son kills mother, and in Eumenides, mother, by means of her Furies, torments son. In Prometheus Bound, Zeus tortures his uncle

39 Examples: A. Supp. 359-60, 385; Od. 9.270-1. The view (held e.g. by Pedrick 1982) that Zeus does not play the same role as protector of suppliants in the [lad that he does in the Odyssey ignores the Litai speech in II. 9.502-12, well explained by Thornton (1984), and Priam’s request to Akhilleus to have aidés for the gods in Il. 24.503. 40 Although the Kyklops is punished by Odysseus for his abuse of suppliants, he is not represented as making an agonizing decision, and he says that he has no fear of Zeus (Od. 9.273-8). 41 While a study of the fragments is beyond the scope of this paper, there is reason to believe that the extant tragedies are not exceptional in their treatment of pathé among philoi. See, for example, Gudeman’s list of tragedies, including fragments, in which Philos kills or is about to kill philos (1934, 257-8).

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Prometheus.*? In Sophokles’ Oidipous the King, son kills father and marries mother, and in Elektra children kill mother. In Antigone, brother kills brother, and Kreon condemns his niece Antigone to death. Ten plays of Euripides are centred on pathé among kin. Mother kills child in Medea*? and Bakkhai, and in Ion, mother and son are about to kill one another. Father kills child in Herakles, Iphigeneia in Aulis, and Hippolytos. In Elektra, children kill mother.** The consequences of matricide are the subject of Orestes.*> The stage action of this play represents many pathé about to take place among kin. Grandfather (Tyndareus) harms grandchildren (Orestes and Elektra) by urging the Argives to punish them. Uncle (Menelaos) harms nephew and niece (Orestes and Elektra) by refusing to protect them. Nephew and niece (Orestes and Elektra) attempt to kill aunt (Helen), and cousins (Orestes and Elektra) threaten to kill cousin (Hermione). In /phigeneia in Tauris, sister is about to kill brother, and brother kills brother in Phoenician Women. Pathé among blood kin are important, though not central, to the plots of three of the four suppliant plays (see 11.3, below). In Aiskhylos’ Suppliants, cousins threaten violence (forced marriage) to cousins. The consequences of parricide and incest are the subject of Sophokles’ Oidipous at Kolonos. In this play also, Kreon attempts to harm his nephew Oidipous by forcing him to return to Thebes, Oidipous’ sons have harmed their father by allowing his exile, and Oidipous in turn curses them. In Euripides’ Children of Herakles, Eurystheus attempts to kill his cousin Alkmene and her children (987-8), and Alkmene takes vengeance on him in return. Pathé among blood kin play a more minor role in other tragedies. In Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon, father kills daughter, and in Sophokles’ Antigone Haimon attempts to kill his father Kreon. In Euripides’ Bakkhai, Dionysos leads the maenads to kill his cousin Pentheus, and in Euripides’ Helen, Theoklymenos threatens to kill his sister Theonoe. II. Central to a group of nine plays is a pathos among those in reciprocal relationships by means of which outsiders are brought within philia relationships: marriage, xenia, and suppliancy. #2 In Aiskhylos’ account, Prometheus is the son of Gaia (Pr. 209-10). On philia in this play see Griffith (1983), 14-15. 43 On philia in Medea see Schein (1990); Gill (1996), 154-74. Ἢ Konstan (1985) studies the meanings of philos and cognates in this play. 45 Schein (1975) discusses philia in Orestes.

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(1) In two plays, the central pathos is killing of husband by wife: Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon and Sophokles’ Women of Trakhis. Spouse killing plays a less central role in two plays of Euripides: in Herakles husband kills wife, and in Trojan Women Menelaos threatens to kill his unfaithful wife. (2) Violation of the xenia relationship is central in three plays. In Sophokles’ Philoktetes, Neoptolemos is about to betray and abandon Philoktetes, his xenos and suppliant. In Euripides’ Hekabe, Polymestor kills his xenos Polydoros, and is killed in turn by Hekabe, while being entertained as a xenos by her. In Euripides’ Helen Theoklymenos threatens to harm Helen, the hereditary xené who was entrusted to his father by Zeus (Section IV below). Violation of xenia is an important, though not central, issue in other plays. For example, in Aiskhylos’ Libation Bearers and in Sophokles’ Elektra Orestes kills his mother after being received as a xenos, and in Euripides’ Elektra he kills Aigisthos while he is a guest at the latter’s feast.*° (3) In four plays, the central pathos that is averted is harm between /iketés and supplicated: Aiskhylos’ Suppliants, Sophokles’ Oidipous at Kolonos, and Euripides’ Children of Herakles and Suppliants.*’ Supplication is also a minor event in most of the other extant tragedies.*° III. This leaves only six of the extant plays that do not appear to have a plot centring on harm to blood kin, xenos, spouse, or suppliant: Aiskhylos’ Persians, Sophokles’ Azas, Euripides’ Alkestis, Trojan

Women,

nevertheless

Andromakhe,

plays

and

an important

the

Rhesos.

role even

Violation

of philia

in a number

of these

46 According to the biology of A. Eum. 658-61, Orestes really is a xenos rather than blood kin of his mother. See also on xenia: in tragedy generally, Regenos (1955, 1956); in Dionysos myths, Massenzio (1970); in A. Oresteia, Roth (1993); in E. Ale., Schein (1988), Stanton (1990); in E. Ba., Burnett (1970). 47 On supplication in tragedy see Burian (1971); Gould (1973); Kuntz (1993), 59-84; Kopperschmidt (1967); Mercier (1990); Vickers (1973), 438-94. I follow Burian (1971), 1, and Lattimore (1958), 13 n. 2, in categorizing only these four as suppliant plays. However, Taplin (1977), 192, includes A. Eum.; Kopperschmidt (1967) includes A. Eum., Soph. OT, and seven other plays of Euripides, in addition to Heracl. and Supp. 48 Mercier’s (1990) “Table of Contents’ lists supplications in all of the plays of Euripides except Rh., Alc., and Ba., to which I would add Ba. 1117-21, where Pentheus supplicates Agave. In A. Eum. (40-5, 91-2, 232, 439-41, 474), Orestes appears as a suppliant, and the Chorus supplicate the gods in the Parodos of A. Th. (110-11). Supplications also occur in S. Ay. 1171-84, OT (Prologue), and Ph. 484-506.

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plays. Xerxes’ defeat in Persians is dramatized as an act by which he has harmed his own philot, the Persians; Aias kills himself, his own closest philos, and in Andromakhe, Neoptolemos injures his philoi by bringing a concubine into his house. Of the thirty-two extant plays, then, there are twenty-six in which the central pathos occurs among philoi, and only six apparent exceptions. Iv.

XENIA

AND

SUPPLIANCY

IN

TRAGEDY

A closer analysis of some plays in which pathé occur among xenoi and suppliants will help to show why they should be included within Aristotle’s category of the best tragedies. I argue that, in tragedy to a much greater extent than in epic, harm to suppliants and xenoi is represented as similar to harm to blood kin. Tragic hiketai typically supplicate people who are in fact kin, however distant, and they typically flee violence threatened by their own kin. Unlike epic, tragedy also represents offences against xenoi as betrayals of an existing philia relationship, represented as similar to kinship. Moreover, the tragic supplication plot as a whole resembles the tragic plot pattern of harm among kin averted by recognition. While hiketai are complete strangers in epic, in all but one of the four suppliant tragedies, suppliants are related by blood to those whom they supplicate, and they cite this relationship as a basis for their claim to protection. The Danaids in Aiskhylos’ Suppliants claim protection from Pelasgos on the basis of kinship, stressing their Argive origin in supplicating the king of Argos (for instance 274-5). They also claim protection from Zeus Hikesios on the basis of their kinship with him, as descendants of his son Epaphos (531-7; cf. ‘Zeus Forefather’, γεννήτωρ, 206). In Euripides’ Suppliants the Argive women supplicate Theseus on the basis of kinship, since they, like he, belong to the race of Pelasgos (263-4). In addition, Theseus’ own mother, Aithra, joins the women as suppliant (32-3, 93), and it is to her personal appeal as their representative that Theseus responds (359-64). In Euripides’ Children of Herakles the children supplicate their kin Demophon (207-13, 224, 240). Only in Ozdipous at Kolonos are the primary suppliant and supplicated (Oidipous and Theseus) not related by blood. Even in

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this case, however, Theseus’ sympathy for Oidipous is increased by the fact that the two men have had a common life as xenoi (562-8), and it is noteworthy that Antigone supplicates the Chorus (ἱκετεύομεν, 241), asking them to pity her as if she were kin (245-6). This play also has a minor supplication between kin: Polyneikes supplicates his father Oidipous.*? While suppliant-exiles in epic only rarely flee relatives who attempt to harm them, this pattern occurs in three of the four suppliant plays. The Danaids flee harm from their cousins in Aiskhylos’ Suppliants, and in Euripides’ Children of Herakles the children are pursued by Eurystheus, a cousin of their mother, Alkmene. In Sophokles’ Oidipous at Kolonos, Oidipous is pursued by his uncle, Kreon. Moreover, unlike the typical suppliant-exile of epic, Oidipous has fled his own country because he harmed his closest relatives. In Euripides’ Suppliants Adrastos and the Argive women do not flee harm from their own kin, but they are deeply involved in the plight of Polyneikes, whose uncle forbids his burial. The Argive king, Adrastos, became involved in the war against Thebes, though it was forbidden by the gods (155-60), after he married his daughters to Tydeus, who had shed kindred blood, and to Polyneikes, who had left Thebes to avoid fratricide in fulfilment of his father’s curse (144-50). Led by Adrastos and Polyneikes, the Argives attacked Thebes and its leader, Eteokles, and were defeated in a war in which the sons of Oidipous, Eteokles and Polyneikes, killed one another. When Kreon, Polyneikes’ uncle and ruler of Thebes, refuses burial to Polyneikes and to the other enemies among the Seven, the mothers of the dead Seven go to Athens to supplicate Theseus, asking him to give burial to Polyneikes and their sons. Thus, through their alliance and kinship by marriage with Polyneikes, Adrastos and the other Argives are involved in his fratricidal death, and in the harm done to him by his kinsman, who forbids his burial. All, as the Chorus state, have shared in the fate of Oidipous (1078). The tragic suppliant plot in all of these plays is similar to the plot pattern of the [phigeneia in Tauris, in which harm to kin is averted by recognition. Tragedy, unlike epic, dramatizes the danger of pollution to the person supplicated, as well as the danger of physical harm to the suppliant. Those supplicated experience aidös for the 49

Supplication in this play is discussed by Burian (1974).

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suppliant and fear of Zeus Hikesios so strongly that they are willing to risk war in order to protect a suppliant. Their very hesitation is an acknowledgement of the strength of the suppliants’ claims, and an implicit recognition that the suppliant is already in some respects like a philos. To fail to protect a suppliant, we are made to feel, is like harming a philos, and to hesitate fully to acknowledge a suppliant is like being about to harm a philos who is not yet fully recognized as such. When a suppliant is at last accepted, this act is dramatically and emotionally similar to the recognition of philia that averts harm in plays like the [phigeneia.°® These similarities are, in most cases, heightened by the fact that there is actual blood kinship of a distant kind between suppliant and supplicated. Aiskhylos’ Suppliants provides the clearest example of this pattern. Here, as in the other suppliant plays, the dramatic focus is on the relationship between suppliant and supplicated, instead of that between suppliant and pursuer. The altar at which the women supplicate is the centre of attention throughout the play, and the action moves from the Danaids’ bad fortune as suppliant-exiles to their good fortune as successful suppliants and accepted residents of Argos. The main threat in the dramatic action represented on stage is that Pelasgos (and Zeus Hikesios) will reject their supplication and hand them over to their enemies. This is the central pathos. The danger is two fold, for Pelasgos would harm the Danaids by allowing them to fall prey to their cousins, and they would also harm him by arousing the wrath of Zeus and creating pollution (ἄγος φυλάσσου, 375). The act of supplication gives the Danaids strong claims, recognized by Pelasgos, to be treated as philai, and their distant blood kinship with him strengthens these claims. Pelasgos’ initial hesitation is a failure fully to acknowledge and recognize these claims by acting as a philos and according them protection. In pressing their claims, the Danaids give proof of their kinship by relating the story of their Argive ancestor, Io (291-324), in a recognition scene very similar to that in the /phigeneia in Tauris, where Orestes gives his sister proof of his identity by recounting family history (806-26).°' Kinship figures prominently in the final decision of Pelasgos and the Argives, for it helps to create the possibility of ‘double pollu50 Kopperschmidt (1967), 52, notes a more specific pattern of recognition in suppliant plays, in which an apparent enemy is recognized as saviour, or vice versa. 51 See also Froidefond (1971), 87: ‘a real recognition scene’ (my trans.).

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tion’ against which Pelasgos warns the Argives (618-19).°? While Pelasgos’ recognition that a relationship of blood kinship exists (325-6) does not, as in the (7, lead immediately to full acknowledgement and acceptance of the Danaids as philai who must be protected, it helps to assimilate the threat of harm to suppliants to harm to close blood kin. Aiskhylos also uses explicit threats of suicide made by the Danaids to increase and dramatize the serious consequences of a rejection. The Danaids first threaten to go to the underworld to bring charges against Zeus himself, their divine host and kin (154-74). Next, by threatening to hang themselves from the city’s altars (457-67), they threaten Pelasgos with pollution for the entire city that will call down the wrath of Zeus Hikesios (473-9, 615-20) and create an ‘unsurpassable pollution’ (μίασμα οὐχ ὑπερτοξεύσιμον, 473).°> This threat of pollution helps to make harm to the suppliants just as pitiable and terrifying as harm to blood kin. Pelasgos shudders at the sight of the symbols of supplication (346) and states that the wrath of Zeus Hikesios is the ‘highest fear’ among mortals (479). When he finally yields to their threat because of this fear (478-9), he fully acknowledges philia by acting as philos and giving them protection. Danaos explicitly appeals to Pelasgos’ recent acknowledgement of himself and his daughters as philoi in his speech requesting an escort through the city to protect him from possible harm by the citizens: ‘For before now someone has killed a philos because of ignorance’ (kat δὴ φίλον τις ἔκταν᾽ ἀγνοίας ὕπο, 499). In Suppliants as in the Iphigeneia, harming a philos in ignorance is averted by recognition and acknowledgement of philia. In the three tragedies that focus on xenia rather than supplication, harm to xenoi is represented as the violation of an existing reciprocal relationship. In tragedy, in contrast to epic, a reciprocal relationship is first established, and then betrayal either occurs or is averted by recognition and acknowledgement of philia. In Sophokles’ Philoktetes the xenia relationship plays an essential role in the interactions of Neoptolemos and Philoktetes, as I have 52 ‘Speaking of a double pollution, from strangers and citizens at once’ (ξενικὸν

ἀστικόν θ᾽ ἅμα

| λέγων

διπλοῦν μίασμα). The pollution is ‘double’ because the

women are both xenoi and astoi, that is, Argives, since they are direct descendants of

Io. See Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980), on 618 (citing ἀστοξένων, 356), and on 619. 53 Trans. of Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980), on 473.

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argued elsewhere.’* After Neoptolemos and Philoktetes complete many of the acts that initiate venta, Neoptolemos is about to betray his xenos and suppliant. When he returns the bow, Neoptolemos finally acts as a xenos towards the older man. Euripides’ Hekabe represents betrayals of xenia that actually take place.°> Hekabe suffers as a slave after the Trojan War, caused by Paris (629-56, 943-51), who violated his xenia relationship with Menelaos. When she discovers Polydoros’ corpse and realizes that her xenos Polymestor has killed her son (681-720), a recognition that a philos has acted as an enemy occurs (recognition leading to a state of enmity). Hekabe persuades Agamemnon to allow her to punish Polymestor, ‘the most impious of xenoi’, who did ‘the most impious deed’ (790-2). She takes an appropriately reciprocal revenge on Polymestor by pretending to receive him as a xenos. She lures him to her tent and appears to treat him as a friend (ὡς δὴ mapa φίλῳ, 1152). Instead of wine, however, Hekabe offers Polymestor blood, killing his sons and blinding him. In Euripides’ Helen, the relationships among Zeus, Proteus, and Helen are much the same as those among Priam, Polymester, and Polydoros in the Hekabe.?° Zeus gave Helen to Proteus, the king of Egypt, to keep her safe for her husband while he was away at Troy fighting to regain the phantom Helen (44-8, 909-11, 964). This xenia relationship between Helen and Proteus has been inherited by Proteus’ son Theoklymenos, who, however, attempts to violate it by forcing Helen to marry him. This survey has provided evidence that tragedy, in contrast to epic, is characterized by its focus on harm among philoi. Kin murders, and violations of formal reciprocal relationships are notably either absent from epic, or, if mentioned, are little emphasized. On the other hand, violation of philia is an important element in most of the extant tragedies. To judge from the extant tragedies, violation of philia occurs not only in those tragedies Aristotle calls ‘best’; rather, it can also be said to be a defining characteristic of tragedy as a whole.*” 54 Belfiore (1994). 55 On xenia in Hekabe see Nussbaum (1986), 406-17. 56 T owe this interpretation of the Helen to Mikalson (1991), 78, and 261, ἢ. 48. 57 Earlier versions of this chapter were read at the Universities of Cambridge, Exeter, and Oxford, where I benefited from much helpful discussion. I am particularly indebted to two of the editors of this volume, Christopher Gill and Richard Seaford, for their comments on written drafts.

ὃ Herodotos on the Problematics of Rectprocity DAVID

1.

APPROACHING

BRAUND

Reciprocity:

A

CHARACTERIZATION

What is reciprocity? In view of the variety of ways in which that question may be answered, I shall outline my own conception of reciprocity first. To begin I shall offer not a definition, but a characterization of reciprocity,! designed to explain the way in which I use the term subsequently in considering Herodotos. The essence of my characterization is that reciprocity is the exchange of goods and services in any and every sense. I see nothing to be gained from discussion of its presence or absence: the important question is not whether but how reciprocity works, and when and where in a society or between societies. Accordingly, reciprocity is significant not only in the ‘primitive’ economies of antiquity, but also in the moderm market-place, where, for example, ‘goodwill’ is commonly acknowledged (and even priced) as a key feature of the retail shop. In principle I am willing to accept that, for the purposes of analysis, reciprocity may be divided usefully into sub-categories (for instance commercial reciprocity, however that be imagined in, say, classical Athens) but I do not see any of these sub-categories as distinct from reciprocity as a whole phenomenon.” ! Seaford (1994), p. xvii, characterizes reciprocity as‘... . a system of exchange in which the return of benefit or harm is compelled neither by law nor by force . . οἷ, The conferring of benefit or harm is clearly a central consideration: hence, a standard conception of justice in the Athenian pois was ‘helping friends and harming enemies’ (Blundell 1989). However, I do not see reciprocity as a system, nor do I see that (for all their importance) the pressure or compulsion of law or even force renders reciprocity inactive or irrelevant. ? "The introduction of coinage was, of course, important to exchange. However, value could be agreed and payment made well before, and without the use of, coinage: see further Millett (1990), 168-70; Seaford (1994), 199-206, who makes much of coinage, but allows that the world(s) of Homer and Hesiod can exchange

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Prices may be stated and may seem fixed, but they may often be changed in the course of the transaction, even in the unusually fixed-price world of developed Western economies. There is no real doubt that ancient markets had little to do with fixed prices: ‘haggling’, or better ‘bargaining’, was the norm. J. Van Baal (1975, 40) captures the point admirably: Fixed prices are a recent, Western development, and even then mostly in retail-trade, not on the international market. From time immemorial, trade had been associated with bargaining . . . Forced to partake in bargaining when visiting an Eastern market, Westerners tend to spoil the game. Paying the demand price too quickly, they walk off with a well-founded sense of humiliation, feeling that they have been cheated, little realizing that the vendor feels the same way and accuses himself of silliness because he did not ask a higher price.

Here Van Baal introduces a theme that will be of the first significance in this chapter: exchanges between and across cultures offer the greatest scope for confusion, dissatisfaction, and mutual misapprehension. At the same time, I insist upon the breadth and ubiquity of the concept of reciprocity in that I find reciprocity in all forms of human interaction. Indeed, I see reciprocity as a defining criterion of social relation itself. Relationship in itself entails and implies reciprocity, however different or apparently unequal may be the goods or services exchanged and however short-term, long-term, or otherwise imbalanced the relationship may be (Gouldner 1960, 164). The range of reciprocity is, on this view, immense.’ As Gouldner (1960, 171) boldly observes, ‘the norm of reciprocity is universal’. However, I have no wish to claim that reciprocity is the same, and functions in the same way, across time, space, and social and cultural distance. On the contrary, I shall contend that it patently does not, and that, in the case of reciprocity, pervasiveness ‘commodities’ without it. Well before coinage, Hesiod, for example, mentions need to pay a friend (Op. 371): Aristotle’s ready incorporation of that thought imagery of the market (EE 7.10.16) is a minor indication of the fact that in ancient Greek world there is much in common between market and non-market. further W. G. Davis (1973), 267-8.

the into the See

3 On the reciprocity of religion, see Parker, Ch. 5. For reciprocity between reader and writer, see Sartre (1967); cf. Sahlins (1972), 149; Nystrand (1986). On (mediated) reciprocity in existentialism, see Sartre (1976), esp. sections 1.2.3; 2.3.2} 2.7.1. On reciprocal relations between self and other in Aristotle, see Price (1989), 110-14, 120-4, and 164-3.

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is accompanied by important changes; such changes may be understood as part of its inherent uncertainty. Further, throughout this chapter, I insist upon the problematic nature of reciprocity. I do so not as a deconstructionist, but to underline the point that reciprocity entails interaction whose course, end, and interpretation are under-negotiated. The concept of ‘under-negotiation’ is central to my understanding of the problematics of reciprocity: I use the term to embrace under one heading all that is not explicit and not agreed in reciprocal exchange but which may impinge upon thoughts and actions surrounding that exchange or process of exchange. It is here that the uncertainties and problems inherent in reciprocity principally reside.* Of course, some forms of reciprocity are more negotiated than others: for example, there tends to be more negotiation in marketexchanges than in, say, gift-exchanges. I see the process of bargaining in the market neither (like Sahlins) as an attempt to get something for nothing, nor (like Polanyi) as an exchange which is antagonistic (in the everyday sense of that word), but as a form of negotiation, through which buyer and seller arrive at an agreement about the exchange, situated in its complete context as they perceive it.? Outside the market-place, away from explicit bargaining, undernegotiation dominates reciprocity; uncertainties abound accordingly. Even in direct gift-exchange within a culture, the exchange of gifts is risky and uncertain for agents and interpreters alike. Throughout, it is not only participants’ actions but also their attitudes, desires, and needs that matter (see Hertel and Fiedler 1994). At the same time, the participants in the exchange are themselves its interpreters, perhaps its most important interpreters; their attitudes may fluctuate as the exchange unfolds. Moreover, they each suggest their interpretations of the exchange, often verbally, in the process of gift and counter-gift. However, participants not only understand, but also misunderstand and even deny what may be at stake in their exchange (Bourdieu 1977, 7-8). Indeed, the repercussions of a particular exchange may be quite unimaginable. Herodotos shows as much in the story of Syloson + See Emerson (1981), who distinguishes reciprocal transactions from negotiated transactions by reference to the lack of explicit bargaining in the former and its presence in the latter. 5 See W. G. Davis (1973), 266-7, and, for Athens, Millett (1990). For a more sympathetic treatment of Polanyi and Sahlins, contrast van Wees, Ch. 1, 22-4 above.

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and Dareios. Syloson had been banished from Samos. When an unknown Persian approached him in the market-place of Memphis in Egypt and asked to buy the fine cloak he was wearing, Syloson declared that he would not sell it but would give it to the Persian. After the Persian had gone off with the cloak, Syloson regretted what he had done. Later, however, and with the unpredictability that one learns to predict in the Histories, the unknown Persian becomes King Dareios and, reminded of the cloak, responds by giving Syloson the island of Samos to rule.® Variability and uncertainty reside not only in the time, place, value-judgements, desires, needs, attitudes, and goods of exchange, but, all the more significantly, in the much wider matrix of interactions that surround even simple exchanges. As J. Davis (1992, 6) puts it: A simple gift has meanings which involve class, social mobility, matrimony, patronage, employment, manufacturing processes, issues of style, and of changing rituals or conventions of gift-giving. This encapsulation is a general characteristic of all exchange everywhere: it is not confined to nineteenth-century Britain, for you can trace out similar kinds of connections in all societies.

Praise or censure may itself be part of reciprocal exchange, a form of ‘service’.” Throughout, the point is not to respond equally, but to respond appropriately in the perceived circumstances.® It is precisely the under-negotiation of reciprocal exchange that leaves participants uncertain, with room to make choices in response and counter-response, whose appropriateness society can judge. How much more uncertain is reciprocity when it crosses cultural boundaries and operates between radically different world-views, as in Van Baal’s example of the Westerner in the Eastern market and as in the programme of Herodotos’ Histories.?

5. Hdt. 3. 139, taken with Herman (1987), 41. 7 Kurke (1991); see also 163-4 below on the song of the Sirens and Arion’s performance. 8 Sahlins seems too confident in determining participants’ intentions and the value of goods and services exchanged; extended criticism of Sahlins’s model is to be found in W.G. Davis (1973) and J. Davis (1992). ° See Sahlins (1985), still too confident in his own constructions. Such misunderstandings have often been the basis for exchanges between more ‘developed’ and ‘primitive’ societies which now seem to amount to crude exploitation: see the excellent study of Alpers (1975).

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Elsewhere in this volume, Anna Missiou (Ch. 9) builds a case for differentiating Athenian and Spartan thinking (and practice) about reciprocity. If reciprocity is fundamental to human society, we should expect it to be operated and conceptualized differently in different societies, not least because it is the very difference with regard to reciprocity that helps to render societies different. The democracy of Athens may be expected to take a view of reciprocity that is markedly unlike that in the peculiar oligarchy of Sparta or the imperial monarchy of Persia.'° Indeed, I am not aware of any period in Greek history—or any other history—where reciprocity was not problematic in the ways that I have outlined.'’ Democratic Athens provided an idiosyncratic context for the function and dysfunction of reciprocity: it is too often taken to be typical of the polis, however that may be conceived. While reciprocity constituted a threat to democratic society in so far as the wealthy and powerful could use it to build support to achieve their ends within the democracy or even to overthrow the democracy itself,!? it nevertheless remained central to social thought and practice even within the democratic polis.‘3 In particular, paying your debts and (the kindred concept of) helping friends and harming enemies remained central.'* Similarly, Xenophon has his more down-to-earth Sokrates present as obvious the benefits of direct reciprocity: as Sokrates’ interlocutor already knows, one who seeks a favour should first do a favour.'? Like the Sirens, those who wish to attract and keep friends must sing the particular song that suits their prey: they must not mimic the crude snatchings of a Skylla, which serve only to repel (Xen. Mem. 2.6.11 and 31). Xenophon’s image indicates that song too may be a form of service in reciprocity, as we 10 For direct Athenian observations on reciprocity in other societies, see for example Xen. Cyr. 8.2.7 and Thue. 2.97.2, taken with Herman (1987), 78. 11 Herman’s comparison (1987), 1-2, of Il. 6.224-36 (the unequal exchange of gifts between Glaukos and Diomedes (cf. Scodel 1992)) with Xen. HG 4.1.34-5 may illustrate the arrival of a more communal ethic (though Agesilaos is a king without a polis), but it also shows that reciprocity remained both important and problematic (see below on Xen. Mem.). Both stories illustrate the uncertainties of reciprocity: where Herman stresses change, I would also stress continuity. 12 Xen. Mem. 2.4.6; Thuc. 8.54. '3 See Millett (1989), 41; also Blundell (1989), ch. 2. 14 Note also ‘civic friendship’: Arist. EE 7.10 1242>21-1243*14 (brought to my grateful attention by Malcolm Schofield), taken with Price (1989), 195-205; also Gill, Ch. 14, 318-9. 'S See further Herman, Ch. 10, on reciprocity in sth c. Athens, analysed in terms of game theory.

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shall see in the case of Herodotos’ Arion. At the same time, Xenophon’s whole discussion in these chapters is driven by the under-negotiation of exchange: he perceives that engagement in reciprocity is an uncertain business and has Sokrates offer some broad guidelines, not least through an animal fable which highlights a point central to Herodotos—that in reciprocal exchange the apparently obvious may be far from the truth (Xen. Mem. 2.7.13-14). Il.

HERODOTOS

Reciprocity was also inherently problematic and all-pervasive elsewhere in the contemporary Greek and ‘barbarian’ worlds. The writings and life of Herodotos require an awareness of both Athenian and non-Athenian society, most importantly of Halikarnassos and western Asia Minor in general, which constituted (significantly, perhaps) a principal interface between Greek and non-Greek cultures and imperial structures. Herodotos presents himself, and is presented in such other information as we have about him, as a travelling man, concerned and involved with an immense range of cultures and sub-cultures and with the various lands where they occur.'® If, as argued above, the inherent problematics of reciprocity are multiplied substantially when reciprocity crosses cultural boundaries, we might expect reciprocity to bulk large as an issue in the narrative and in the analysis in Herodotos’ Histories, not simply because of Herodotos’ personal experience of a wide range of different cultures, but because his Histories had as their principal topic cross-cultural conflict. For the most part, recent scholarship on Herodotos has moved away from questions of truth or untruth, typically considered from a positivistic standpoint. In the development of new approaches, reciprocity (both in Herodotos’ narrative and in his modes of analysis) has already been recognized as a promising area of enquiry. Most research on reciprocity in Herodotos has sought to illuminate particular aspects of the broad phenomenon: the exchange of goods and services, vengeance (human and divine), the interplay of quan16 There is much debate about the extent to which Herodotos actually travelled: Pritchett (1993); also Redfield (1985).

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tity and quality, reciprocity between genders, reciprocity and the price of prosperity.'7 Moreover, the phenomenon of reciprocity as a totality in the Histories has been examined by Gould, who makes the fundamental point that reciprocity offers Herodotos not only a narrative structure across time but also a mode of analysing causation and offering explanations. Gould argues that, ultimately, it is reciprocity that gives grounds for the apportionment of responsibility, taking ‘who started it?’ to be the vital question in that apportionment, a question which Gould takes to be fundamental to the purpose of Herodotos’ Histories. At the same time, Gould indicates the central place of reciprocity in fifth-century concepts of justice, not least in Ionia: as we have seen, the association of reciprocity and justice is widespread and probably inescapable.'* At the same time, perhaps as significant as Herodotos’ concern with reciprocity in the Histories is his well-known and explicit concern for the exceptional and wondrous, evident from the proem onwards. Recently, Bloomer has offered an apt characterization of that concern as ‘a vision that sees not the average or the typical but the extreme as definitive and worthy of record’.'? Accordingly, given Herodotos’ interest both in reciprocity and in the extraordinary, it would not be surprising to find that the Histories display an interest in extraordinary reciprocity: we have already noted the case of Syloson and Dareios. In what follows it will be argued that we should extend Gould’s observation that reciprocity is the key to Herodotos’ narrative and analysis by examining whether the Histories not only employ reciprocity but are in some sense actually about reciprocity, explored in its more extreme manifestations, often as it operates across cultural boundaries. It will further be suggested that the reason for Herodotos’ particular concern with reciprocity resides in his very undertaking: his exploration and comparison of different societies and their interactions demands that he pay close attention to reciprocity, not least because reciprocity is, as we have seen, a defining criterion of society itself. 17 Flory (1987), esp. 90-3; Munson (1993); de Romilly (1971); Konstan (1987); Lateiner (1990); Dewald (1981); Lateiner (1982) and (1985). I am not persuaded that conceptions of geographical symmetry amount to reciprocity and therefore omit them from this discussion. 18 Gould (1989); cf. Gould (1991), stressing the ‘obligations of the gift’. See also Lachenaud (1978) on responsibility. 19 Bloomer (1993), 33, based on Barth (1968).

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The story of Hermotimos illustrates Herodotos’ concern for remarkable reciprocity. The story stands within Herodotos’ account of the withdrawal of Xerxes from Greece: it is framed by Xerxes’ decision to withdraw and the manner in which he did so. Herodotos introduces Hermotimos as the man who ‘of all the men we know, took the greatest vengeance on the person who had done him an injury’ (8.105): that is, Herodotos announces the story of Hermotimos as one of exceptional reciprocity. He proceeds to narrate the cause and nature of Hermotimos’ vengeance, how Panionios the eunuch-maker was himself made a eunuch by the vengeful Hermotimos, one of Panionios’ victims. We are told that Hermotimos forced Panionios to castrate his four sons, who were then forced to castrate their father. In consequence, Panionios, who had deprived Hermotimos of descendants, lost his own hopes of descent. The reciprocity was indeed remarkable, as Herodotos had suggested. Moreover, the story had further attractions for Herodotos. He makes the generalization that barbarians prefer eunuchs, because they consider them more trustworthy: in that way eunuchs offer an area of contrast between Greek and nonGreek customs, while Hermotimos’ cunning may raise a query about the barbarian notion of the trustworthy eunuch. The story also presents a striking example of another principal theme in Herodotos, the reversal of fortunes, brought about here, not for the only time, through reciprocal action. Panionios had both profited through castration and had suffered from it. Meanwhile, Hermotimos had been castrated and had become a gift, but he had risen to prominence at the court of the Persian king and had the power both to offer gifts and to castrate. When they met by chance, Hermotimos persuaded Panionios that he was grateful to his castrater, in view of the prosperity he had gained as a eunuch. But he was not: we are invited to consider the relative attractions of material prosperity as a eunuch, on the one hand, and life as an entire man, on the other. In that way the story encompasses another central concern in Herodotos, not only changes of fortune but also the relative merits of different fortunes (cf. 1.30-2). At the same time, we are invited to consider the justice of Hermotimos’ vengeance. Herodotos makes Hermotimos assert the justice of his vengeance and divine support, for he had suffered a serious wrong without giving any prior cause. Yet Herodotos introduces the story as one of the greatest examples of human vengeance: we cannot be entirely

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at ease with Hermotimos’ reciprocal vengeance or his protestations of justice. This is particularly so, since from the very beginning of the work Herodotos has presented the reciprocal process of vengeance as generating conflict between the Greeks and Persians, including the very invasion from which Xerxes is withdrawing as Herodotos recounts the story of Hermotimos. Panionios makes the mistake of many others in Herodotos (e.g. 3.120-5) when he crosses from his own sphere into that of another (his enemy), set upon his own gain; he is bent upon much taking and no giving. Panionios not only fails to offer reciprocal amends to his victim, but even hopes in his baleful ignorance to benefit further by gaining still more from the man whom he has already castrated and sold at good profit. While Panionios was on Khian territory he was safe, but he strayed to Sardis: he had allowed himself to be lured there by the appearance and misleading promise of easy prosperity, but he found only misfortune. From the first, Panionios’ conduct had been reprehensible, on Herodotos’ account: the injustice of his outlook is confirmed at last by his failure to grasp what was appropriate for him to receive from the man he had castrated. The story of Arion near the beginning of the Histories (1.23-4) had pointed in much the same direction (see Flory 1978). Here too those who wish to take and take, without giving, are seen to suffer for their injustice. Again, Herodotos’ inclusion of this story seems to indicate an interest in the exploration of relationships. Like the Egyptian thief of Book 2 whom Rhampsinitos could not better (Munson 1993), the weak Arion had an intangible resource with which he responded to, and overcame, overwhelming force. The reader is invited to look beneath the superficially ‘obvious’ in assessing the relationship of the lyre-player and the ship’s crew to see that the weak is strong and the strong is weak, so that any exchange between them may prove to be quite unlike (even the opposite of) what might first have been predicted. The problematics of reciprocity are presented more overtly in the interaction between Kambyses, mighty king of rich Persia, and the king of the simple Ethiopians, who is not even dignified with a name in Herodotos’ account. The simple Ethiopians defeat the great Persian king Kambyses, rather as Tomyris’ simple Massagetai defeated Kyros, his father: the defeats frame Herodotos’ disquisition on Egypt, in a way which invites the reader to connect them. Like Kyros, Kambyses first engages with his prey

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under false pretences: where Kyros had proffered marriage to Tomyris, Kambyses’ envoys proffer alliance and friendship (3.17). Of course, both Tomyris and the Ethiopians perceive the deception, their first step to victory. Like Tomyris, the king of the Ethiopians responds to the aggressor with good advice which shows an understanding of the true weakness of their opponent; to the envoys of Kambyses he replies: ... your king is not a just man: otherwise he would not have coveted a land which is not his own, nor brought slavery upon a people who never did him any wrong. Bear him this bow and say, “The king of the Ethiopians offers this advice to the king of the Persians: when the Persians can pull a bow of this strength, then let him come with an army of greater strength against the long-lived Ethiopians. Until then let him thank the gods that they have not put it into the heart of the Ethiopians to covet lands which are not their own.’ (3. 22)

The Ethiopian reply involves further explication of Gyges’ advice to Kandaules at the beginning of the Histories: not only is it practically right to look to one’s own, it is also morally right. It is unjust to look to another’s, particularly where the other has committed no prior wrong. The Ethiopian reply stresses that there is no preexisting relationship between the Ethiopians and the Persians, so that Kambyses’ invasion cannot be reciprocal or just. As for the gifts themselves, the Ethiopian king first reads the purple garments given him by Kambyses not as luxury goods, but as material deceit, for they were dyed to look something they were not. Next he reads the metal ornaments given him by Kambyses as would-be fetters, and bad ones at that: he does so in humour, but his comment again hints at the falseness of what Kambyses is offering. Next, he judges the myrrh of Kambyses as he had judged the purple garments, as a deception, in this case of the nose. Finally he approves Kambyses’ wine as being something at last in which the Persians surpass the Ethiopians, the only positive feature of their life-style and the reason that they came anywhere near the age of the Ethiopians (3.22). By contrast with Persian luxury and deceit, the Ethiopians show their own life-style to Kambyses’ envoys, which is as simple as it looks. Like the Massagetai of Tomyris, they live on meat and milk (3.23-4). Kambyses’ response to all this is irrational anger, illustrating the lack of reasoned self-control that characterizes bad kings (especially Kambyses, see 3.22-6). He

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rushes into the land of the Ethiopians without preparation and is conquered by the land itself: it is only when his men are driven to eat each other that he admits defeat. The problematics of reciprocity are exposed by an exchange of gifts. Kambyses’ attempt to impress the simple Ethiopian not only fails to impress but incurs displeasure. The gifts do not conceal Kambyses’ deceit but reveal them to his intended victim. At the same time, the exchange shows the simple Ethiopian to be wiser than Kambyses had anticipated in his folly: the primitive Ethiopian lifestyle did not mean, as Kambyses had falsely supposed, that the Ethiopian king was easily to be duped. Rather the contrary. Meanwhile, the Ethiopian’s gift of a strong bow to Kambyses was direct in its meaning, confirmed by the verbal exchange that accompanied it. As Flory well observes (1987, 90-3), the gifts exchanged by Kambyses and the Ethiopians both encapsulate their respective life-styles and indicate where greater military potential lies. At the same time, this case of gift-exchange highlights the importance of the attitude of the participants: the spirit of the exchange is hostile, the prelude to the ultimate expression of hostile relations between peoples, namely warfare. The response of the Ethiopians foreshadows the next book, in which the Skythians refuse to engage with Dareios, who seeks to impose a relationship which they deny. As the sailors with Arion, Dareios presents the Skythians with a choice that is no choice (4.126): he calls upon them either to fight or to offer submission. Idanthyrsos, the Skythian king, responds with the observation that he has no reason to fight Dareios, for he has no relationship with him; he is, he claims, simply going about his normal way of life by moving hither and thither. Like the Ethiopians, the Skythians choose to deploy against the Persian invader their particular strength, which is not the obvious power of their forces but the vast wilderness within which they live their own particular form of life. As Idanthyrsos states, it is precisely their lack of material possessions that gives strength to the Skythians: it is because they have no material wealth that they can employ their particularly effective tactic of persistent withdrawal (4.127). Once again, from a rather different perspective, Herodotos problematizes the relationship between material wealth and power, for the poor are seen to be strong, not weak, as it had seemed. The Skythians proceed to send gifts to Dareios, but not those of

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earth and water that he required as a mark of submission. Instead, they send him a bird, a mouse, a frog, and five arrows (4.130): their bearer refuses to explain, but says that if the Persians are wise they will find out the meaning for themselves. As with the gifts of the Ethiopians to Kambyses, the Skythian gifts contained a message, but in this case it was not verbalized. Characteristically, Dareios proves unable to decode that message. Rather, he chooses to interpret the Skythian gifts in line with his misplaced ambitions, and takes them to indicate a Skythian desire to surrender. The reader knows enough to be sure that such an interpretation cannot be right. By contrast with Dareios, Gobryas, an eminent Persian, explains the gifts differently: unless the Persians can fly like birds or burrow like mice, or hide in marshes like frogs, they will die, pierced by Skythian arrows (4.131-2). Herodotos does not confirm the truth of Gobryas’ interpretation, but the reader is tempted to accept it, knowing it to be at least closer to the truth than the fantasy of Dareios. In this way the stories of Arion, the Ethiopians, and the Skythians illustrate the problematics of reciprocal relationships, stressing the role of power in such relationships and, in the latter two cases, the overwhelming uncertainties of cross-cultural exchange and interaction. The goods and services exchanged in these stories are shown to require cautious and reasoned interpretation: Arion’s gift of a performance, Kambyses’ gifts to the Ethiopians, and the gifts of the Skythians to Dareios are all seen to be open to quite different interpretations. It is only the Ethiopian gift that is accompanied by a direct and plausible explanation of its significance, which would not otherwise have been entirely apparent. That directness is the appropriate foil (in the narrative and in the exchange) to Kambyses’ misleading offer. On the other hand, when Dareios makes a direct but arguably improper approach to the Skythians, demanding submission, the Skythians not only send gifts replete with uncertainty, but also refuse to offer explanation. Improper directness is met with indirectness, while improper indirectness is met with directness: in each case the response is appropriate and telling. The exploration of reciprocity in the Histories develops further with the stories of Demokedes, Amestris, and Themison, which illustrate the dangers of reciprocity when it is entered into blind. Here we are presented not so much with under-negotiation as with

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the explicit agreement not to negotiate at all (albeit within limits in Demokedes’ case, as we shall see). The stories are, as we might expect of Herodotos, extreme and extraordinary, but these stories of lack of negotiation also highlight the uncertainty and the undernegotiation that are fundamental to the problematics of reciprocity in general. Demokedes (3.125, 129-37) is able to cure Queen Atossa, who in turn agrees to reciprocate in a fashion that he will specify only after she has agreed and they have proceeded on that basis: ‘Demokedes said that he would make her well, but she must first promise him with an oath that if he cured her she would grant him whatever request he might prefer, assuring her at the same time that it would be nothing which she could blush to hear. On these terms Demokedes applied his art.’ There is thus a measure of negotiation, setting the limits within which reciprocity will be enacted. When the doctor’s cure works, Atossa is obliged to fulfil his request, which is specified only now: she persuades Dareios to send him to Italy, using the approach that Demokedes has scripted for her (Lateiner 1990, 232). Atossa had gained a cure and had lost nothing important by fulfilling her side of the bargain. But, even with Demokedes’ promised limitation, she took a great risk when she committed herself blindly to reciprocity, as the cases of Amestris (9.108-13) and Themison (4.154) further indicate. The cases of Demokedes, Amestris, and Themison show that blind entry into reciprocity gives power to the other party which may subvert ethical norms (cf. 6.62). However, in their different ways, they also indicate the dangers inherent in the abuse of that power and the possibility that it may be subverted in turn where specification is, as in the case of Themison, both unreasonable and insufficiently precise and enforced. Amestris leaves no room for evasion, but imperils her husband and herself in the process. Demokedes is benign enough, but even his negotiation, his setting of limits, reminds the reader of the dangers that lie in wait for those who enter blindly into reciprocity. These stories, each remarkable in its way, explore in unusual and extreme circumstances the consequences for participants of their failure to negotiate adequately or at all. The problematics of reciprocity are explored further in Herodotos’ account of the beginning of the feud between Aigina and Athens (5.82-9). In this case, it is the problem of reciprocal

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arrangements in the long term, when circumstances change. Do such changes affect reciprocal relationships and, if so, how? No answer is given by Herodotos’ narrative, though we may well suspect the Athenian insistence that changes do not matter. The people of Epidauros obtain olive-wood from Athens to make holy statues, on the understanding that they will bring annual offerings to Athena Polias and Erekhtheus at Athens. This they do, fulfilling the agreement. Problems set in when the Aiginetans seize the statues and set them up on Aigina. The Epidaurians now cease to send offerings to the Athenians, who send an embassy to Epidauros to complain. The Epidaurian response is that they are no longer under any requirement to pay, for they no longer have the statues upon which the arrangement was first constructed. The Epidaurians claim that the Aiginetans should send the offerings: that is, they claim that the obligation has shifted with the statues and is no longer theirs. The Athenian view of that claim is not discussed directly; but the Athenians are said to have sent to Aigina to demand the return of the statues. They seem not to have expected or wished the Aiginetans to assume the role of the Epidaurians, for they do not require offerings, but the return of the statues. But, from the Aiginetan perspective, the Athenian demand is unreasonable, since their raid on the Epidaurians seemed to be no business of the Athenians. Aiginetan refusal prompts an Athenian attempt to seize the statues by force, which fails with the death of an Athenian ship’s crew. In Herodotos’ narrative the story of the statues serves to explain Aiginetan zest in helping the Thebans against Athens. But there is no pressure in the narrative for any such explanation, let alone one so substantial. Of course, the perceived importance of hostility between Aigina and Athens may well have been regarded as reason enough. However, particularly in view of Herodotos’ interest in problems of reciprocity elsewhere, it may well be the problematic reciprocity found in the story that encourages its selection and presentation at length. 11.

CROSS-CULTURAL

CONFUSIONS

The Histories stress the problematics of reciprocity in general and of cross-cultural reciprocity in particular. The reader is presented with examples of the phenomenon in extreme and remarkable

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form, often involving large-scale conflicts, mayhem, and the reversal of fortunes, all replete with predictable unpredictability. In addition, the Histories illustrate the fact that each people has its own mode of existence, its own strengths and weaknesses, which may be far from obvious to the unwary and unwise. Meanwhile, in authorial persona, Herodotos observes: Thus it appears certain to me, by a great variety of proofs, that Kambyses was raving mad; he would not else have set himself to make a mock of holy rites and long-established usages. For, if one were to offer men to choose out of all the customs in the world such as seemed to them the best, they would examine the whole number, and end by preferring their own; so convinced are they that their own usages far surpass those of all others. Unless, therefore, a man was mad, it is not likely that he would make sport of such matters. (3.38)

For Herodotos, it seems, Kambyses’ madness entails his failure to appreciate that different peoples have different customs and that each improperly tends to privilege his own. Kambyses’ madness is proved by the depth of that failure, which is expressed by his mockery of Egyptian rites. However, Kambyses’ madness is presented as an extreme form of a much more commonplace dysfunction in cross-cultural interaction: this dysfunction is explained as the result of a human tendency to prefer one’s own. Herodotos drives home the general point by leaping forward in time to tell how Dareios explored the culturally significant and sensitive subject of the disposal of the dead with Greeks and Kallatians, a people of India. The Greeks cannot entertain the notion of disposing of their dead after the fashion of the Kallatians (by eating them), while the latter cannot bear even to hear the idea that they might, like the Greeks, cremate their fathers (3.38). Herodotos is careful to mention that interpreters were present to enable Greeks and Kallatians (and Dareios) to understand each other: language too is identified as a barrier to cross-cultural understanding (cf. 1.86.4). However, it is not only the language-barrier, but the whole pool of communication that obstructs and confuses relationships between peoples. Herodotos concludes his tale of Dareios’ discussion with the Greeks and Kallatians by quoting with approval from Pindar: nomos (‘law’, ‘custom’) is king of all. This thought is powerful as an oxymoron: as the debate of Book 3 shows, kings and nomoi were readily seen as opposites (cf. 7.204.4). In the context of Herodotos’ other observations, he evidently takes

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Pindar’s phrase to mean that the nomoi of a people determine their outlook, in particular their attitude towards the customs of others. As Herodotos makes clear elsewhere, exchange itself was established and governed by nomoi.?° In 7.152, Herodotos states, ‘This, however, I know—that if every nation were to bring all its evils to a given place, in order to make an exchange with some other nation, when they had all looked carefully at their neighbours’ evils, they would be truly glad to carry their own back again.’ Herodotos imagines a sort of market where the goods are evils and a form of barter is the mode of exchange; in such a market, he argues, no one would make an exchange when they had all looked carefully at their neighbours’ evils. Preference for one’s own is presented as a commonplace human tendency. People regularly prefer their own customs, even their own evils, though only after careful examination has taught them to do so. The imperialist and autocratic monarchs of the Histories fail to behave in this fashion, for they do not look carefully and do not prefer their own, but incautiously look to the goods of others. Even when they have a Demaratos to advise them, Herodotos’ Persians have no understanding of Greece, like Aiskhylos’ Atossa who does not even know where Athens is (Persians 231). They know nothing of the cause of their disaster, and this helps to explain their disaster. Kyros’ brief encounter with a Spartan herald early in the Histories illustrates a broader Persian tendency to misunderstand Greek culture, like some other cultures, and to perceive opponents as weak when they are in their own ways strong. In a passage often cited but seldom read closely, Herodotos has Kyros misconstrue the role and function of the market-place in Greek (specifically in Spartan) society (1.153). In reply to a Spartan herald who warns him to keep off the cities of Greece, Kyros is indignant. The king displays his ignorance first by asking who the Spartans are. He also asks how many they are, thus overlooking their quality: it was not in numbers that the Spartans were strong, as Xerxes would discover later. Finally he replies to the Spartan: ‘I have never yet been afraid of any men who have a set place in the middle of their city where they come together to cheat each other and forswear themselves. If I live the Spartans shall have troubles 20 Cf. Hdt. 6.89 on Korinth, taken with Millett (1990), 184 n. 37. Pindar’s tag could be quoted to different ends: contrast Pl. Grg. 484 (in the mouth of Kallikles, perhaps significantly).

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enough of their own to talk of, without concerning themselves about the Ionians.’ Herodotos appends an authorial explanation: ‘Kyros intended these words as a reproach against all the Greeks, because of their having market-places where they buy and sell, which is a custom unknown to the Persians, who never make purchases in open marts, and indeed have not in their country a single market-place.’ Herodotos’ claim that Persians had no market-places (whatever its historicity) is designed to explain the attitude that Kyros expresses towards the institution. For it is an attitude born of ignorance: not only is Kyros ignorant of Spartans and their quality, but he is also ignorant of a central institution of Greek social and economic life, the market-place (agora). Of course, his ignorance of the agora touches a chord of familiar anxiety in Greek society, namely that deceit and unfairness may be practised in the market-place.?! However, his blanket condemnation of the agora is surely recognizable to Herodotos’ readers as a warped judgement, perhaps especially so when that condemnation is levelled at the Spartans, whose austerity in such matters was a byword. Hence, Herodotos’ authorial remark: Kyros meant to reproach all the Greeks (not particularly the Spartans), while the inappropriateness of the king’s sneer even at that generalized level may be put down to his ignorance. And Kyros’ threat is soon shown to be empty: he does not live to trouble the Spartans, but dies at the hands of Tomyris’ Massagetai. Moreover, the Spartans’ role in the defeat of Xerxes (about which the fifth-century reader is unlikely to be ignorant even in Histories Book 1) shows Kyros’ confidence in his threat to be misplaced. As with their attacks upon the Massagetai, Ethiopians, and Skythians, so with their subsequent invasion of Greece, the Persians have much to lose and much less to gain. The Spartan regent Pausanias makes the point to his Greek forces by setting a Spartan banquet beside the royal trappings captured with the tent of Mardonios. Pausanias says: ‘I sent for you, O Greeks, to show you the folly of this Median captain, who, when he enjoyed such fare as this, must needs come here to rob us of our penury.’ (9.82; cf. 1.71). Pausanias underlines the folly of the Persians, when they chose not to look to their own, but to covet Greece too. The 21

Millett (1990), 172-3; cf. Konstan (1987) on quality and quantity.

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Histories soon concludes on a similar note with the wise injunction of Kyros, that the Persians should not seize the land of others, as had been suggested to him, but should live in their own land.?? The reminiscence of Kyros and the affirmation of the need to look to one’s own recalls the beginning of the Histories: the frame encourages an interpretation in terms of one’s own and others’ goods and of the problematic exchange between participants. The unjust imperialists of the Histories fail to appreciate that they are like their opponents and intended subjects: in mocking Egyptian customs, Kambyses reveals the humour in his own, and his complete ignorance of cultural relativism. As Herodotos states at the outset of the Histories (1.5) and as Kyros’ closing advice stresses, the respective positions of states are unstable and easily reversed: in that sense too they are the same. ιν.

HERODOTOos’

MIRRORS

Accordingly, the exploration of reciprocity is also an exploration of knowledge,” for reciprocity is shown in the Histories to be both fundamental and problematic, functional and dysfunctional. As others have observed, its workings are repeatedly seen to be unpredictable, unknowable, misleading, and ultimately inescapable, central to ‘the human condition’** and maintaining what Lateiner (1985, 96) terms the ‘delicate balance in the world’. As Gould (1989, 84-5) observes, Herodotos’ interest in reciprocity is symptomatic of contemporary philosophy, not least in Ionia. Moreover, Herodotos’ very project, his attempt to explain and explore the Persian Wars, can be considered as a study of reciprocity in cross-cultural interaction, not least because those wars were for Herodotos a stage in a reciprocal, cross-cultural process, as he asserts in the proem. Indeed, war itself may be seen as an exchange, a reciprocal undertaking: the tactics of the Skythian Idanthyrsos allow him to wage war while explicitly rejecting the relationship that war usually entails (Shipley 1993, 9). Herodotos’ origins in western Asia Minor, a key area of interface between Greek and non-Greek culture, may have led him to give 22 upon 23 24

Hdt. 9.122; cf. the Hippokratic Airs, Waters and Places on the impact of a land its people. On knowledge in Herodotos, see Dewald (1985). See e.g. Munson (1988), esp. 105-6 on Hdt. 1.32.

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particular thought to the issue of cross-cultural reciprocity, as also to the Persian Wars, for which the Ionian Revolt had been the catalyst, if not the cause. At the same time, the justice and injustice of imperialism remained a burning issue through the fifth century into the fourth, and not only Persian imperialism, but also Athenian, Spartan, and Macedonian (Sheets 1994). The Persian Wars were the great antecedents of the Peloponnesian War, in the early years of which Herodotos seems to have completed his work (Fornara 1971, esp. 79-85). The Persians themselves continued to play a major role in the politics of the Greek world: the onset of the Peloponnesian War seems to have inspired new attempts to deal with them, and with other non-Greeks, as indicated in comic style in Aristophanes’ Akharnians of 425 Bc.?° This is understandable, for it was to be Persian resources that would give ultimate victory to the Spartans in that war. Thus, it is quite possible that crosscultural reciprocity was a topical concern in Athens and elsewhere when Herodotos completed his work, though the issue had been close to the centre of Greek preoccupations at least since the time of the Persian Wars, Herodotos’ subject. The Persian Wars had reinforced a Hellenic self-image, defined by contrast with the ‘barbarian’ identity, and had thereby further problematized relationships between Greek and non-Greek. In particular, Greeks (especially Athenians, perhaps) could and did use their defeat of Persia as confirmation of a broader superiority over the barbarian.7° In exploring the difficulties of forming relationships with the ‘other’, Herodotos’ Histories present readers with failures and disasters, arising primarily from ignorance, over-confidence, and cultural chauvinism. There is a definite element of pessimism in the Histories, for the inability to penetrate beyond contingent nomoi and thereby to see ‘other’ as 861 2715 taken to be an observable feature of human nature, as manifested throughout the narrative. In particular, wars are seen to be the products of injustice and attendant ignorance. But there is also hope; for the author claims for himself the ability to rise above commonplace failings and offers to provide his readers with a better understanding of themselves, of others, and of reciprocity. Like Kroisos, the reader may pass into a 25 See Thuc. 4.50; note also e.g. Ar., Babylonians of 426 BC. 26 See Hall (1989); also Georges (1994). 27 A key concern of the existentialists; see Sartre (1976) refs. in ἢ. 3 above.

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state of deeper understanding through advice confirmed by experience. Where Kroisos had the advice of Solon and suffered personal disaster, the reader has the advice of Herodotos the author and suffers vicarious disaster, ‘experiencing experiences’ .78 Baldry notices that Herodotos calls into question the whole dichotomy between Greek and barbarian, when he presents the Egyptian perspective, according to which barbarians are not those who do not speak Greek, but those who do not speak Egyptian.?? At the same time, as Laurot has shown, Herodotos displays no interest in condemning barbarians as such, nor in subordinating them to Greeks. Rather, his presentation in the Histories of nomoi of the barbarian ‘other’ offers insights into the nomoi of the Greek ‘self’ (or better, ‘selves’), insofar as the various Greek nomoi constitute Herodotos’ principal frame of reference and benchmark.?° However, as Rosellini and Said valuably stress, Herodotos does not present the barbarian ‘other’ as a monolithic unity, any more than he presents the Greeks themselves as a unity: rather he ranges across the different nomoi that exist among barbarians and through the complexities of interaction between various barbarian peoples. The Histories are not so much a mirror, as Hartog would have it, but a hall of mirrors with multiple reflections.?! The key point is that in the Histories cultural differences, however profound they may be, are presented as secondary to a common human nature and a common human condition: in that sense 28 1 have borrowed the phrase from Ellis (1993). On Solon as Herodotos, see also Redfield (1985). 29 Baldry (1965), 21, on Hist. 2.158, an account which now seems under-theorized, but which finds in Herodotos a ‘spirit of lively interest in the foreigner and admiration for his achievements’. For a direct critique of the Greek-barbarian dichotomy, see Pl. Pit. 262d-e, taken with Miller (1980), 20-4; Skemp (1952), 131-2, indicates the roots of that critique in earlier literature, but ignores Herodotos. 30 On the barbarian in the Histories, see Laurot (1981), taken with Gould (1989), 63-85, on Herodotos’ bench-mark. Laurot, however, goes too far in claiming, ‘there emerges from the dialogue between Greeks and barbarians, not a condemnation of barbarians, but an exaltation of the Greek ideal’ (1981, 41, my trans.). 3! Rosellini and Said (1978), more nuanced than Hartog (1988), esp. pp. xxiii-iv on the title. Reviewers of Hartog’s important book rightly demand a more dynamic process of reflection than he allows, while they also insist upon Herodotos’ awareness and presentation of significant differences not only among barbarians but also among Greeks. For the pattern of thought, note Lloyd (1966). See also Giraudeau (1984), esp. 174, observing Herodotos’ respect for human diversity as a cultural relativist and also laying the foundation for a case that Herodotos is much less concerned with the mythical than often supposed.

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too Greek is barbarian, ‘self is ‘other’. The categories of Greek and barbarian are familiar to Herodotos, but on his view, as the proem indicates, they need not entail the subordination of the barbarian, whose achievements are to be celebrated also. For Herodotos, it is humanness that is the natural identity and the group identity that matters, and man-made variations are merely contingent, for all their exotic character and interest.3* Confirmation of such a view of Herodotos may be found in the condemnatory response of Plutarch, for whom Herodotos is far too positive about barbarians. The ferocity of Plutarch’s response (indeed, his very decision to write a response at all) further indicates the strength of the challenge that Herodotos’ case presented to the smug asseverations of Greek specialness that seem to have developed through the fifth century and which Plutarch in his day assumed to be right and proper (Mor. 85 4e-874c). Cross-cultural interaction was central to Herodotos’ project in the Histories. At the same time, the problematic nature of reciprocity—the uncertainty that arises from its under-negotiation—is particularly apparent in interaction across cultures. Indeed, Herodotos’ concern with the problematics of reciprocity as a phenomenon can be seen as intimately bound up with his concern with cross-cultural interaction. Of course, Herodotos’ starting-point is a matter of mere speculation. But we can and should observe the organic relationship between cross-cultural interaction, crosscultural reciprocity, and the problematics of reciprocity as a phenomenon. It is precisely within the problematics of cross-cultural reciprocity that the appreciation of cultural relativism is particularly necessary. Therefore, if we move from the claim, already mentioned, that there is a strong sense in which the Histories are about reciprocity to ask why Herodotos should be so interested in the phenomenon, I would suggest that an answer is to be found not in the topicality of reciprocity as a theme in the later fifth century, but in the rationale of Herodotos’ very undertaking. A broadlybased treatment of the Persian Wars by its very nature invites a simultaneous and inherent treatment of reciprocity as a phenomenon. To examine societies is to explore forms of reciprocities. All the more so, when societies invite comparisons through their 32 Similarly, at the divine level, Herodotos seems to envisage universal deities, to whom various peoples give various names: see Hall (1989), 183-4, taken with Burkert (1988). See further Cartledge (1995); Gray (1995); Shapiro (1994).

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warfare, which, as Herodotos observes in the ‘proem’ and elsewhere, is itself a reciprocal process. For Herodotos, it seems, the failure to understand fully the nature of reciprocity provides the impetus to imperialism, in the Persian Wars as in general. Those who would wage war, he suggests, make that choice in ignorance of the fact that in so doing they are choosing to attack themselves. A deeper understanding of the world and of the human condition will obviate imperialist folly (cf. 7.152). It is very much on that note that Herodotos chooses to bring his Histories to an end (9.122).33 33 I] am particularly grateful to Paul Cartledge, David Harvey, Stephanie West, and the Editors for comments on this paper at various stages in its production. All responsibility is mine.

9 Reciprocal Generosity in the Foreign Affairs of Fifth-Century Athens and Sparta ANNA

1.

MISSIOU

INTRODUCTION

In modern research, Sparta and Athens are usually considered to be archetypes representing opposite political and socio-economic systerns; but in studies of their inter-state relations modern scholars usually neglect to refer either to similarities or dissimilarities. However it is useful to explore the differences between these two Greek states not only in terms of socio-economic and military structure but also in terms of the ideology displayed in their diplomatic rhetoric.' Relatively little archaic and fitth-century Athenian and Spartan diplomatic rhetoric has survived. It is mainly in the works of Herodotos and 'Thukydides that we find, either in direct or indirect speech or in comments by the historian, versions of the arguments used to express or shape the views of Athenians and Spartans on various occasions in the fifth century. Although I am, of course, aware that a strong subjective element is inherent in the selection of cases presented by ancient historians, I take these versions as expressing the values and norms of contemporary diplomatic rhetoric. The main question I raise is whether reciprocity was expected to guide the behaviour of Athens and Sparta in their inter-state relations. But I am interested neither in reciprocity embodied in the institution through which citizens of one polis attended in their own city to the interests of another polis (proxenia) nor in reciprocity embodied in objective, determinate actions, such as the ritualized τ ‘Ideology’ signifies a society’s dual relationship, real and imagined, to its own reality; it is a relatively coherent system of beliefs and values, traditions, and purposes, connecting the institutional networks of a given society with its emotional affinities: see Althusser (1970); Ober (1989), 38-40.

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Missiou

exchange of oaths (a necessary condition for the establishment of truces or alliances between contracting cities). Nor do I focus on countermeasures in war, some of which were used as bargaining counters to extract concessions while negotiating for peace. Instead, I examine whether the Spartans and the Athenians customarily attempted to advance a claim by arguments based on reciprocity. My analysis is confined to the positive form of mutual claims and obligations of gratitude, which I call ‘reciprocal generosity’; I do not discuss negative reciprocity. I argue that, because of their contrasting socio-political systems during the fifth century, Athens and Sparta held divergent views about the notion of reciprocal generosity. I begin by placing Athenian and Spartan fifth-century attitudes against the background of earlier Greek thinking and practice. The centrality of reciprocity in Homeric society and in aristocratic cities in archaic Greece has been stressed in previous scholarship and elsewhere in this volume.? A Homeric incident that prefigures one of the issues to be discussed later is that of Diomedes and Glaukos (Il. 6.119-231). This not only illustrates the role of reciprocal exchange in establishing and renewing guest-friendship (xenia), but also shows that guest-friends on different sides might remain loyal to their guest-friendship rather than their communities. A further feature of reciprocity, underlined by Marcel Mauss, is that what we can call the ethos of the gift favours the initial giver. By initiating the three-fold process of giving, receiving, and repaying, the first giver set the level that the recipient had to match or exceed.? This point can be exemplified by Laertes’ comment that the receipt of ‘a good return for... presents and worthy hospitality . . . is the right that someone enjoys when he begins’ (Od. 24.285-6). A similar point is exemplified by the Herodotean story in which Kroisos, accepting Adrastos as a suppliant, underlines his right to claim in return an obligation from the other: ‘you owe it to repay me with good for the good I did you first’ (Hdt. 1.41-2). A number of incidents from our sources for archaic Greek history illustrate the importance of the ethos of the gift in creating a network of obligations which sustained the power of the nobility. ? See e.g. (on Homer) Finley (1978), 60-6; Morris (1986a); (on the Archaic Age) Kurke (1991); see also Chs. 2-4 above. 3 See Mauss (1970), 37-41; also van Wees, Ch. 1, Sect. v. On the ethical superiority of the benefactor in Greek thought, see Gill, Ch. 14, n. 45.

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These incidents show, among others, an Anatolian king, as well as Greek aristocrats and tyrants, recognizing reciprocity as a norm in diplomatic relations.* The Spartan willingness to make an alliance with Kroisos in gratitude for a favour which Kroisos had done them on a previous occasion shows that, in Sparta at least, constitutional governments also recognized the claim of reciprocity (Hdt. 1.69-70). A similar recognition of the claim of reciprocity is illustrated by evidence bearing on relations between Persia and Miletos and between Sybaris and Miletos.*

11.

ATHENIAN

AND SPARTAN RECIPROCITY

ATTITUDES

TO

Although it is sometimes claimed that Greek inter-state relations in the fifth and fourth centuries followed earlier patterns of aristocratic reciprocity,° this generalization overlooks significant differences between Athenian and Spartan practice in this respect. One relevant feature is the tendency for Athenian diplomatic rhetoric (as presented in our sources) to focus on the needs of the present or the immediate past rather than the more distant past and the obligations of reciprocity created over time. For instance, the speech of the Athenian envoys to Sparta just before the battle of Salamis focuses wholly on the needs of the present situation; it does not refer even to the reciprocal obligation created by the Athenians’ defence of Greece at Marathon.” In Thukydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War, this tendency is yet more marked and explicit. For instance, in the Melian dialogue (416 Bc), the Athenian envoys

* See e.g. Hdt. 6.125 (Kroisos’ gifts to Alkmaion in return for earlier services promoted Alkmaionid power in Athens); FGrH go F 65, Ael. VH 4.27.1-4 (Pamphaes of Priene repaid by Kroisos for financial support in hiring mercenaries); Hdt. 1.61.4, Arist. Ath. 15.2-3 (the help of Lygdamis of Naxos to Peisistratos in gaining power at Athens repaid by the latter’s help to Lygdamis in gaining power at Naxos). The historicity of such stories is less important than the way of thinking about giftexchange that they assume and illustrate. 5 See Diod. 10.25.4; Hdt. 6.21.1-2. 6 See e.g. Pearson (1957), 226-44; Adkins (1972), 133-9; Hooker (1974), 164-9; Karavites (1980), 69-79, and (1982), 106-11; Loraux (1981), 81; also, more generally, Austin and Vidal-Naquet (1972), 16. 7 Hat. 9.8; see also 9.27.4, where (although claiming the place of honour in the battle-line at Plataia because of their former exploits, 9.26-8) the Athenians also comment that past courage is a poor indicator of present actions.

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say: “We will not use fine phrases saying . . . that we hold the empire rightly because we defeated the Persians’ (5.89.1).® Thukydides’ report of the Kerkyraian debate (433 Bc) illustrates contrasting Athenian and non-Athenian attitudes to reciprocity. The speeches delivered by the Korinthian and Kerkyraian envoys both express the principle that generosity demands reciprocity. The term kharis, which may denote an action performed on someone’s behalf but also a return made for the initial favour, is found in both speeches but is especially prominent in the Korinthian one. The Korinthians refer to their past services to Athens: before the Persian Wars, they had lent them twenty ships to use against the Aiginetans and later they persuaded the Peloponnesians not to aid the Samians in their war against Athens (Thuc. 1.40.5; 41.2). They repeatedly plead that the Athenians should consider it their duty to return like for like (1.41.1; 42.1; 42.3; 43.2). The decision taken by the Athenians in favour of a defensive alliance with the Kerkyraians seems to indicate that, for the Athenians, a plea to return a kharis conferred some time ago could not outweigh the moral claims of the Kerkyraians’ argument, based on the right to repel the aggressor and wrongdoer (1.33.1-2; 1.34.2; 1.35-4). Thukydides’ account of the Mytilenaian debate offers another example of an unsuccessful rhetorical attempt based on reciprocity. The historian reports two speeches from the second meeting of the Athenian assembly over the fate of the surrendered Mytilenaians after the revolt of Lesbos in 427 Bc. Whereas Diodotos does not stress reciprocity in his speech, the belief in the principle ‘like for like’ is strongly articulated in Kleon’s speech. The expectation of receiving good for good appears in 3.39.3 and the obligation to return bad for bad occurs several times (1.39.5; 1.39.7}, most strongly in the closing paragraph of the speech. ‘Pay them back and do not become tender-hearted at the sight of their present distress, nor unmindful of the danger that so lately hung over you. Punish them as they deserve and give to your other allies plain warning that whoever revolts shall be punished with death’ (3.40.7). But Diodotos’ rebuttal of Kleon’s proposal to kill all the Mytilenaians of adult age carried the day. The assembly sentenced to death only the instigators of the revolt (3.48.2 and 50.1). Once again argu8 See also Thuc. 1.91.4-7 (arguments focus on present needs, not past events); 1.73.1-2, 74.1-2, 75.1; 6.83.2 (claims based not on past actions but on military superiority).

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ments based on reciprocity did not win the approval of the Athenian assembly.? On the other hand, in both Herodotos and Thukydides, the Spartans are represented as using appeals to ‘services done before’, either to support their own plea for help or to win points in the ‘international’ war for prestige by promoting themselves as grateful partners who would reward their allies. As we have already seen (Section I), the Spartans made an alliance with Kroisos ‘partly in gratitude for a favour which Kroisos had done them on a former occasion’ (Hdt. 1.69). We do not know whether the appeal to the past favour was part of the Lydian argument; none the less, the historian’s account of the Spartan response makes it clear that references to past events—more specifically, a repayment of a past favour—were not alien to the Spartans’ way of conducting diplomatic relations. This is also exemplified by Herodotos’ account of Sparta’s leadership of an expedition against Polykrates in 525 Bc. Some Samian exiles came to Sparta to ask for help against Polykrates. Although the content of their ‘long speech’ is not recorded, Herodotos reproduces what seems to have been the most important argument in the speech. He relates two versions of the motives that lay behind Sparta’s decision to help the Samian exiles. According to Herodotos’ Spartan informants, their ancestors did so not so much to help the Samians but to seek revenge against the tyrant whose pirates had stolen two diplomatic gifts from Sparta: an elaborate bronze krater which the Spartans had intended as a gift to the Lydian king Kroisos, and an embroidered linen breastplate which Amasis, king of Egypt, had intended as a gift to Sparta. According to the Samian informants of Herodotos, the Spartans did so in order to repay earlier assistance given to them by the Samians against the Messenians.!® The wording in Hdt. 3.47 suggests that the Spartans had rejected neither the Samian appeal nor the specific argument based on the appeal to ‘services done before’ and that the Samian version, which apparently figured as a very important argument in the ‘long speech’ of their envoys in 525, was ° On the Kerkyraian and Mytilenaian debates, see Missiou (1992), 121-30. 10 Cartledge (1982), has convincingly argued that the Samians ‘were referring to help given in the 7th c. by the landholding aristocracy of the Geomoroi, who individually or collectively gave the military aid’ (p. 259); see also Shipley (1987), 96-7.

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merely less decisive for the Spartans than other reasons for wanting to overthrow the tyrant.'! In Thukydides’ account, a Spartan belief in the binding force of reciprocity is implied in 2.13.1: the historian portrays Perikles as suspecting that the Spartan king Arkhidamos might spare Perikles’ land while ravaging most of Attika during the Peloponnesian invasion in 431, either as a personal favour due to their guest-friendship or at the bidding of the Lacedaimonians with a view to creating a prejudice against him .. . So he announced to the Athenians in their assembly that while Archidamos was indeed a guest-friend of his, this relationship had certainly not been entered upon for the detriment of the state. (Thuc. 2.13.1)!

Further, the Aiginetans who had been expelled from Aigina by the Athenians in 431 were given Thyrea in Kynouria by the Spartans to settle in. The Spartans, Thukydides tells us, were ‘moved to do this, not only by the hostility of the Aiginetans towards the Athenians, but also because the Aiginetans had done them a service at the time of the earthquake and the revolt of the Helots’.'3 In 425, Brasidas, the Spartan general, also appealed to the Peloponnesian allies at Pylos to sacrifice their ships for Sparta’s sake ‘in return for all the great benefits she had conferred in the past’ (Thuc. 4.11.4). Similarly, the spokesman of the Spartan embassy, addressing the Athenian Assembly during the Pylos affair, said that, if a victor treats his defeated enemy magnanimously, the latter ‘is bound to recompense his generosity with good’; by contrast, the victor who treats his defeated enemy with violence should expect his victim to pay him ‘with evil’ (Thuc. 4.19.3). This statement of the Spartan envoy, in line with the Archaic attitudes reviewed earlier (Section I), assumes the binding force of reciprocity in inter-state relations. 11.

THe

IDEoLoGY

OF

RECIPROCITY

Herodotos’ account of the Spartan attempt to intervene in Athens in c. 506 reveals another function that reciprocal generosity had in 11

Hdt. 3.47.1: ‘In making war against Samos, as the Samians

say, the Spartans

were paying back services done before (εὐεργεσίας ἐκτίνοντες), because they had previously helped (πρότεροι. . . ἐβοήθησαν) them with ships against the Messenians.’ 12 Trans. Smith (1919); see also Plu. Per. 33.3. 13 Thue. 2.27.2; cf. 4.56.2, where it is added that the Aiginetans who ‘had always sided with their policy’.

Spartans

rewarded

the

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Spartan diplomatic rhetoric: to berate Athenians for ingratitude while providing good excuses for aggressive action. In Hdt. 5.90 the Spartans are said to have been ‘very angry for two reasons’: first, because they had driven the Peisistratids, ‘their own guestfriends’, into exile, and, second, because they had not gained any gratitude from the Athenian people. It is significant that the alleged Athenian ingratitude is referred to again in their address to the Peloponnesian League, whom they had convened to consult about their plan of restoring Hippias to power in Athens by force. The Spartans are reported to have said: ‘we do acknowledge that we have done wrongly; for . . . we drove from their native land men who were our guest-friends and promised to make Athens dependent upon us, and having done this we delivered the city of Athens into the hands of an ungrateful people’ (Hdt. 5.91.2). This last passage indicates the historical changes underlying the distinctive attitude of fifth-century Athenians towards reciprocity.'* As Ober (1993) underlines, political conditions changed strikingly fast in Athens between 510 and 507. The so-called Kleisthenic reforms, which seem to have had the unanimous support of the people, enabled Athens to move from domination by the great families and by Sparta to being an independent city whose démos of small farmers successfully opposed the political dominance of the aristocratic families of large landowners. Once Athenian democracy became a reality, inter-state relations among the Greek cities were radically affected. With the intervention of the Spartan king Kleomenes on behalf of Isagoras and his supporters and the subsequent expulsion of the Spartans from the territory of Attika in 508-7 (Hdt. 5.72.1-2), a series of conflicts between Athens and Sparta had already started. Athens posed an unprecedented threat to the oligarchs of the various Greek cities, since democracy restrained the power of the propertied class in politics and ideology. The Athenian campaigns against Boiotia and Khalkis in 506 were predominantly ideological in character (Levéque and Vidal-Naquet 1973, 48). Athenians had to consider whether their foreign policy and their diplomatic rhetoric would be harmful or beneficial with regard to the internal tensions threatening the socio-political structure of their society. It should be stressed here that it is most unlikely that 14. For a different explanation, see Crane (1992), 15.

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all Athenians shared precisely the same beliefs about reciprocal generosity. But our sources suggest that the majority, the Athenian democrats, believed that their interests were not served by the old principles. In particular, the plan of the Spartans to restore Hippias to power over the ‘ungrateful démos’ of Athens in 506 might have been taken by the Athenian democrats as evidence that the function of the ethos of the gift, which favoured the first giver, was now to unite the opponents of democracy against their polity. Governments of a monarchic or aristocratic type seem to have needed and used the rhetoric of reciprocity in their foreign policy; for them, inter-state relations were personal relationships between members of their elite. In post-Kleisthenic Athens, however, political power (active participation in collective deliberation and decision-making on domestic and foreign policy) was accessible to every citizen; hence, conducting foreign policy on the basis of personal relations would have been seen as enhancing the superiority of the wealthy Athenians. Recognizing that the demand of reciprocation was not in the interest of their new constitution and that ‘from now on their past must coincide with their present’ (Levéque and VidalNaquet 1973, 51), the Athenians realized that they had to break away from the ethos of the gift and abandon arguments relevant to the past. Awareness of the malignant repercussions that the aristocratic ethos of the gift might have for their city may account for the abrupt tone in the reply which the Athenians allegedly gave to the Spartan envoys in early 479. The latter had come to Athens to dissuade her citizens from accepting Mardonios’ offers as well as to promise them aid. The Athenians thanked the Spartans for their kindness and made it clear that what they needed was not what the Spartans offered but a Peloponnesian army in Boiotia to prevent Mardonios from invading Attika. The following passage in the Athenian reply to the Spartan envoys is especially significant, since it is reported by Herodotos, who is alleged to have used ‘the model of reciprocity as the fundamental key to understanding and making sense of experience’.'5 The passage reads: We thank you for your kindness and thoughtfulness, in that you have offered to provide for our households in this time of distress. As for you,

the kindness is complete (καὶ ὑμῖν μὲν ἡ χάρις ἐκπεπλήρωται), nevertheless, for ourselves, we will insist on carrying on as best we can, without 15

Gould (1991), 12; cf. (1989), 44. See also Braund, Ch. 8.

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causing any burden to you. But now, as things are, send your forces as quickly as possible. . . . Now it is time for you to help us in Boiotia before [Mardonios] comes to Attika. (Hdt. 8.144.4)

The sentence ‘As for you, the kindness is complete’ (καὶ ὑμῖν μὲν ἡ χάρις ἐκπεπλήρωται), unique in Herodotos’ work, deserves special attention: it is ambiguous, and not merely because of the use of kharis as subject of the verb (as noted earlier, kharis may denote either an initial ‘favour’ or the ‘gratitude’ earned by this favour). The ambiguity of the sentence is enhanced by the use of the personal dative ὑμῖν. This could refer to the Lakedaimonians either as those who have offered the Athenians the full measure of their kindness (dative of agent with the perfect passive verb) or as those for whose benefit the reciprocation of the initial favour has been completed (dative of advantage). If the ambiguity has been correctly analysed, the sentence could be rendered in an English paraphrase (on the latter reading of ὑμῖν) as follows: ‘as this is all you have offered to us, we have also expressed to you our most complete gratitude: no more.’ The ‘politely sarcastic tone’ (Stein 1969, ad loc.) suggests not only the historian’s view ‘that Sparta had shown scant gratitude for the great service done her’ (How and Wells 1912, ad loc.), but rather the Athenian defiance of any Spartan calculations of outstanding debts. Recognizing that the demand of reciprocation was different from the recognition of benefaction seems to have given Athens a new potential to explore alternative approaches. For the Athenians the question was that of the methods to use to defend democracy. Thus, they explored an alternative approach to the standard of interest, which would not be incompatible with the expectation of a moral advantage. As honour was one of the basic concepts in their daring foreign policy (honour, τιμή, fear, δέος, and help, ὠφελία, are mentioned in Thuc. 1.75.3 and 76. 2), the principle of helping the weak and the wronged became a characteristic feature of Athenian diplomatic rhetoric (Missiou 1992, 109-39).!° It should '6 This has been overlooked by Crane (1992), 25, who claims that ‘coldness and emotional detachment openly characterize the Athenians in their dealings with other states’. De Ste. Croix (1972), 16, rightly emphasizes Thukydides’ ‘fundamental distinction . . . between the relations of individuals inside the State, where ordinary ethical considerations can apply, and... . the relations between States, where moral judgements are virtually inapplicable’ (his italics). But this does not decrease the significance of the fact that Thukydides does actually portray Greek cities as discussing inter-state relations in moral terms.

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also be added that their empire, qualitatively different from any other Greek alliance, enabled the Athenians to transform the initial refusal to reciprocate a favour into a way of praising their city. This is shown in the passage from the Funeral Speech where Perikles claims that the Athenians were unusual in their attitudes towards ἀρετή (here, this term signifies ‘generosity’ as distinct from other types of virtue.)'? Thuc. 2.40.4-5 is full of the vocabulary of reciprocal generosity, such as the nouns ‘favour’ (χάρις), ‘goodwill’ (εὔνοια) and ‘debt’ (ὀφείλημα), or the verbs ‘give back’ (ἀποδίδωμι) and ‘owe’ (ὀφείλω). This passage has been seen as an articulation of the basic feature of Athenian diplomatic rhetoric. However, scholars (for example, Pearson, Hooker, Loraux) have expressed doubts about the sincerity of Perikles’ claim that the Athenians were unique in their attitudes towards generosity.!® They claim that, in asserting that the Athenians were unusual in acquiring friends by conferring favours, Perikles was expressing a ‘realistic and aristocratic’ policy (Loraux 1981, 81) that was in accord with traditional procedures as evoked, for example, in the relationship between Kroisos and Sparta in Herodotos (Hooker 1974, 167; see also Section J). In short, Thuc. 2.40.4 has been considered as drawing a contrast between a partner who, in conferring a benefit, is a ‘firmer friend’? or ‘in a stronger position’ (Hooker 1974, 167) and a partner who, as the recipient of the benefit, is only half-hearted in the friendship and slower to act. An obvious question arises: how could Athenians be proud of acquiring their friends by conferring favours if such behaviour resulted in making only indifferent friends? I have argued elsewhere (Missiou 1992, 116-21) that 2.40.4 is inextricably connected with 2.40.5 and is written from the perspective both of the giver and the recipient of a favour. I present the translation offered there, with some modifications: And in the matter of generosity we are the opposite of most people: that is, we acquire our friends not by receiving but by conferring favours. If someone confers a favour out of good will he is in a better position to preserve the recipient’s feeling of gratitude as owed in the same spirit of good will; by contrast, if a person who owes a favour knows that his generosity will be '7 See Huart (1968), 75; de Ste. Croix (1972), 18 n. 34; de Romilly (1973), 30. 18 Pearson (1957), 229; Loraux (1981). 19 Smith (1919), 329; Jowett (1881), 120; Pearson (1957), 229; Harding (1973), 59; de Romilly (1973), 30.

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recognized not as a favour but as a repayment of debt, then he is less keen to remain grateful. Thus, we are the only people who help others not out of calculation of any profit or loss, but out of confidence in generosity,?° without fear of consequence.?!

I have argued that two kinds of benefactors and beneficiaries are contrasted in this section: one type of benefactor confers a favour motivated not by expectations to be repaid when in need, but by confidence in the intrinsic merit of actions freely undertaken; as a result, the beneficiary, who will not be asked to return the benefit, feels indefinite gratitude. The other type of benefactor renders a benefit, but also expects and demands to be definitely repaid; as a result, the beneficiary feels that he owes a debt and does not feel gratitude. The distinction drawn here is between the Athenians, who were unusual in their attitude in conferring benefits on others freely without asking for a return, and the other Greeks (especially, the Spartans) who, having conferred their favours out of calculation of ‘outstanding debts’, demanded the return of the favour when needed. Iv.

DEMOCRACY

AND

PERSONAL

FRIENDSHIP

In the previous section I focused on the incompatibility between the rhetoric of reciprocity and democracy. In this section I suggest that the Athenians’ distinctive attitude towards reciprocal generosity is paralleled by a distinctive attitude towards personal friendship indicated in anecdotes concerning Spartan and Athenian political leaders. Although their authenticity may be doubtful, these stories illuminate patterns of political behaviour and ethical motivation in these two contrasting cities. In Sparta, the moral imperative ‘help your friends and harm your enemies’ seems to have been ‘the most significant of the less public, even hidden, springs of politics’ (Cartledge 1987, 139). From this traditional city, where the struggle for power was very 20 T owe the translation of ἐλευθερία as ‘generosity’ (cf. Smith’s 1919, ‘liberality’) to a suggestion of Dr David Harvey, to whom I am grateful. 21 Thuc. 2.40.4-5: καὶ τὰ ἐς ἀρετὴν ἐνηντιώμεθα τοῖς πολλοῖς" οὐ yap

πάσχοντες εὖ, ἀλλὰ δρῶντες κτώμεθα τοὺς φίλους. βεβαιότερος δὲ ὁ δράσας τὴν χάριν

ὥστε

ὀφειλομένην

δι᾿

εὐνοίας

ᾧ

δέδωκε

σῴζειν:

ὁ

δὲ

ἀντοφείλων

3 , Sou EN »λλΈλ 2 ay ἐν νὸν , x ἀμβλύτερος, εἰδὼς οὐκ ἐς χάριν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐς ὀφείλημα τὴν ἀρετὴν ἀποδώσων. καὶ μόνοι οὐ τοῦ ξυμφέροντος μᾶλλον λογισμῷ ἢ τῆς ἐλευθερίας τῷ πιστῷ ἀδεῶς τινα ὠφελοῦμεν.

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intense and Lakonian training instilled into the citizens from their early childhood the desire to be ‘sensitive to public opinion’ (Plu. Lys. 2.2), stories have survived about influential men for whom private bonds, that is, family and friendship ties, took precedence over communal obligations. Several passages from Plutarch’s Life of Lysandros illustrate the significance of friendship as a substantial component of Lysandros’ political network, which the Spartan created in the cities of Asia Minor after his victory at Notion in 407. Deliberately promoting the belief that private attachment should be placed above common welfare, he successfully put in the minds of local eminent men ... the seeds of the revolutionary decarchies afterwards instituted by him, urging and inciting them to form political clubs in their several cities and apply themselves to public affairs, assuring them that as soon as the Athenian empire was destroyed, they could rid themselves of their democracies and become themselves supreme in power. Moreover, by actual benefits he gave them all a confidence in this future, promoting those who were already his friends and allies to large enterprises and honours and commands and taking a share himself in their injustice and wickedness in order to gratify their rapacity. Therefore all attached themselves to him, courted his favour and fixed their hearts upon him, expecting to attain all their highest ambitions if only he remained in power. (5.3-4; trans. Perrin 1916)

In proclaiming loyalty to friends as more important than common welfare, Lysandros awarded to his partisans prizes such as ‘irresponsible lordships over cities and absolute sovereignties’ (19.1). The value attached to friendship ties is emphasized in 19.3, where he is reported to have killed ‘untold numbers of democrats’ in order to ‘gratify the hatred and cupidity of his many friends everywhere’. In Sparta, the kings, more than anyone else, because of their birth, wealth, and institutionalized privileges, were in an excellent position to exploit the widely held belief that reciprocity was the constitutive quality of friendship. In our sources, Agesilaos II is represented as using friendship and family ties in his own interests very successfully at home and abroad during his long reign.?? In his encomium of the Spartan king, Xenophon openly stated that Agesilaos’ intervention to restore the oligarchic pro-Spartan exiles in Korinth, Thebes, and Phleious ‘was prompted by a spirit of true 22 See. Xen. Ages. 11.13; Cartledge (1987), chs. 3, 9; Hamilton (1991), chs. 4-5.

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comradeship’ (φιλεταιρία, Ages. 2.21). Xenophon stressed his hero’s belief that the ‘generous man’ ought to use his own money to help ‘his own people’ (Ages. 11.8). As the king’s protégé, the historian knew well that ‘by being zealous on behalf of his comrades Agesilaos turned them into unhesitating friends’ (Ages. 6.4). His zeal towards his ‘own people’ is exemplified in Xen. Ages. 1.17-19, where the king is said to enable his friends to get rich from selling booty plundered in Asia Minor. Also, in Plu. Ages. 4.1, he is reported to have distributed to the members of his own mother’s family the confiscated property of Leotychidas, his expelled rival to the throne. Convinced that dedicated family members could increase his political power in Sparta and abroad, Agesilaos succeeded in arranging the appointment as nauarchs of his wife’s inexperienced brother Peisandros and his own half-brother Teleutias, in 394 and 391 respectively (Plu. Ages. 10.5-6; 21.1). More important still, Plu. Ages. 5.1 reveals that Agesilaos held, as Lysandros did, the belief that loyalty to a friend had no restriction nor qualification: he would not injure his enemies without just cause, but joined his friends even in their unjust practices. And whereas he was ashamed not to honour his enemies when they did well, he could not bring himself to censure his friends when they did amiss, but actually prided himself on aiding them and sharing in their misdeeds. For he thought no aid disgraceful that was given toa friend. (trans. Perrin 1917)

Agesilaos’ association with the misdeeds of ‘his own people’ is illustrated by his intervention in Phoibidas’ trial regardless of the magnitude of the latter’s fault. Sparta had suffered heavily in reputation among Greeks because of Phoibidas’ treacherous seizure of the akropolis of Thebes, a neutral city, in time of peace, in 382. Even Agesilaos’ friend and admirer, Xenophon, regarded the seizure of the Kadmeia as an impious act which attracted the divine punishment of Sparta at Leuktra (7G 5.4.1). However, the life of Phoibidas, who was related to Agesilaos by marriage, was saved when the king argued that the Spartan commander’s bold action of seizing the Kadmeia had been advantageous to Sparta. In Sparta political leaders seem to have recognized, and promoted, family and friendship ties in their power-struggles. But in Athens the view that there was an inevitable conflict between the claims of friends or family and those of the city became held not

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only by some intellectuals, but also, gradually, by the ordinary people of the city.7? Plutarch’s account of Aristeides illustrates this point: [He] walked the way of statesmanship by himself, on a private path of his own, as it were, because, in the first place, he was unwilling to join with any comrades in wrongdoing, or to vex them by withholding favours; and, in the second place, he saw that power derived from friends incited many to do wrong, and so was on his guard against it, deeming it right that the good citizen should base his confidence only on serviceable and just conduct. (Aristeides 2.5; trans. Perrin 1914)

According to Plutarch, Aristeides, who realized that the obligations of friendship could lead one to subordinate the common good to private favours and interests, self-consciously adopted an attitude towards politics which was completely different from the traditional one based on friendship and reciprocation. An anecdote about Ephialtes indicates that Aristides was not unique in his belief that ‘power derived from friends incited many to do wrong’. According to Aelian (late second or early third century AD), Ephialtes, the leader of the democratic revolution of 462/1, was offered ten talents by some friends, but decided to turn this down (Varia Historia 11.9). Although Aelian does not elaborate on Ephialtes’ reasons for turning the offer down, Xenophon (Memorabilia 1.5.6) provides evidence of a popular belief that accepting money from someone ‘makes one endure the most shameful form of slavery’ (see also Euripides, Hekabe 866). Aristeides’ ‘private path’ to politics is also found in Plutarch’s story about Perikles: He was to be seen travelling on one street only in the city, the one which led to the agora and the council chamber. He declined invitations to dinner, and all such activities of social and familiar character, so that during the long period of his political involvement, he did not attend a single friend’s house to dine, except that of his kinsman Euryptolemos at his wedding feast; there, he stayed until the libations were made, and then immediately departed. (Pertkles 7.5)

According to Plutarch (7.6), such abstinence from social and familial gatherings was due to Perikles’ desire to save his reserve and dignity. He recognized that politicians are especially vulnerable to 23 See e.g. (on Attic drama and oratory) Pearson (1962); Missiou (1992); Ober (1989).

Blundell

(1989);

Goldhill

(1986);

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suspicion and misrepresentation. It is significant that this passage occurs in the section where Plutarch discusses the ways in which Perikles ‘began to fawn upon the many’ while refuting the suspicion of aiming at tyranny which people had of him because of his birth, wealth, and striking resemblance to the tyrant Peisistratos (7.1-4). This is Plutarch’s way of saying that Perikles’ aloofness from friends was approved by the multitude and was a ‘means of winning the support of the démos of the city’. It also matters considerably that Thukydides and Plutarch both stress that Perikles was incorruptible (ἀδωρότατος) and superior to fortune (κρείσσων xXpnpatwv).24 A similar attitude is attributed to Kleon, another fifth-century Athenian democratic leader: ‘Kleon, when he first decided to take up political life, brought his friends together and renounced his friendship with them as something which often weakens and perverts the right and just choice of policy in political life’ (Plu. Mor. 806F-807A, trans. Fowler 1949). The awareness that communal interest conflicted with the claims of family as well as friends is illustrated by Xenophon’s account of the trial of the six generals who had returned to Athens to face trial after the Arginousai battle in 406. Euryptolemos, son of Peisianax, is reported to have said before the Athenian assembly that it would be wrong for him to value the interests of his relative, Perikles (the son of Perikles and Aspasia), more than those of the whole city (HG 1.7.21). Thukydides 2.13 also shows that Perikles acknowledged that his political power derived not from his noble birth and wealth but from the trust placed in him by the Athenian démos. Convinced that communal interest was superior to the bond of guest-friendship, he converted his estates into public property to prevent his land being treated preferentially by the Spartan king Arkhidamos (who was Perikles’ personal xenos) when the Peloponnesian army was ravaging Attika in 431. Perikles knew that any such preferential treatment would discredit him very seriously as well as being detrimental to the city by fragmenting the unity of the Athenian people. Of these democratic leaders only Ephialtes was not a rich person.?° Aristeides, Perikles, Kleon, and Euryptolemos must have 24 See Thuc. 2.60.5, 65.8; Plu. 15.3, Comp. Per. and Fab. 3-4. See also Connor (1971), 121-2; Stadter (1989), 90-8; Pelling (1992), 27. 25. Ael. VH 2.43. On Aristeides as well-off, in spite of his reputation for poverty, see J. K. Davies (1971), 51.

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been familiar with aristocratic values and beliefs from an early age. They were all members of Athenian propertied families and so belonged to circles which embraced aristocratic traditions.?° All these stories, though less numerous than the anecdotes about loyalty to a friend (studied by Connor 1971), portray Aristeides, Ephialtes, Perikles, Kleon, and Euryptolemos as political leaders who, having developed a strong belief in common welfare, deliberately distanced themselves from practices that benefited the few. In addition to these moral and political reasons for the abandonment of the aristocratic tradition, the significance of inter-generational conflict, apparent in communities which are undergoing a profound change from one type of society to another, should not be neglected.?” Also, Aristeides’ and Perikles’ plausible or reported acquaintance with professional teachers who considered ethical or political matters may have helped them to recognize the incompatibility of the aristocratic ethos of the gift with the new democratic way of life.?® v.

EPILOGUE

In this chapter I have presented reciprocal generosity, considered as a manifestation of the aristocratic ethos of the gift, as an element of diplomatic rhetoric which was used by monarchs, tyrants, aristocrats, and oligarchs, but was incompatible with democracy. I have argued that, whereas the Spartans believed that reciprocity might guide a city’s behaviour in inter-state relations, the Athenians rejected this belief; they did not like to be reminded of a favour, but also did not demand the return of it. The emergence of the Athenian democracy constituted the specific historical determinant of this distinctive attitude towards reciprocal generosity in foreign affairs. Athenians had to ensure that the diplomatic rhetoric of their foreign policy would not endanger the socio-political structure of their city, whose démos of small farmers curtailed the political dominance of the propertied families. Later, their empire enabled them to transform the initial refusal to reciprocate a favour 26 See J. K. Davies (1971), 318, 377, 450. 27 On inter-generational conflict, see Bottomore (1975), 301; Strauss (1993), 86 ff. and 156 ff. 28 On Mnesiphilos, see Plu. Them. 2.6; on Damon, see Plu. Per. 4.1; on Anaxagoras, see Plu. Per. 4-6, 8.

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into a way of praising their city. The Athenian attitude towards reciprocal generosity in foreign affairs is paralleled by a different attitude towards personal friendship in Athens, as illustrated by some stories regarding Athenian political leaders, who attempted to redefine the hierarchy of duties in favour of communal obligations.

Io

Reciprocity, Altruism, and the Prisoner’s Dilemma: The Special Case of Classical Athens GABRIEL

HERMAN

‘Towns are like electric transformers. They increase tension, accelerate the rhythm of exchange and customarily recharge human life. Ἐς Braudel (Sokrates) was always on public view, for early in the morning he used to go to the walkways and gymnasia, to appear in the agora as it filled up, and to be present wherever he would meet with the most people. Xenophon

I The first two themes of my title belong most naturally to the domain of ethical values and morality, and it is within this context that they have customarily been approached in modern studies. This approach has yielded important insights, but has also generated some difficulties which cannot, in my view, be resolved satisfactorily within the limits of the presently accepted paradigm.! I am not alone in this view. Discussing the problem of penetrating the meaning of value terms found in literary works, Adkins (1987, 332) spoke of the ‘ever-present danger that one hears reflected from the text merely the echo of one’s own voice’. There is indeed a danger that the interpreter may unwittingly inject his own values into ' The fullest and most up-to-date bibliographies of relevant works are to be found in Cairns (19935) and Zanker (1994). By ‘difficulties’ I mean, for instance, the polemics concerning competitive and co-operative values, on which see Gagarin (1987), Lloyd-Jones (1987), and Adkins (1987). Williams (1993) and Seaford (1994) have been brought to my attention too late for systematic consideration.

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his texts; it is one which can be so potent that the interpretation ends up reflecting norms which may superficially appear to be ancient, but are in reality modern in almost every single respect. In this chapter I attempt to show that it is possible to adopt an alternative approach which considerably diminishes this danger. Starting from the proposition that the observation of behaviour, real or expected, is a safer road to moral norms than the interpretation of value terms, I argue that, by taking this road, we may be able to strengthen our analytic framework with the introduction of some new elements. The first theme of my title, reciprocity, also belongs to the field of concrete, empirically observable behaviour—to ‘give and take’, to borrow a phrase from Gould (1991). It is one of the remarkable qualities of our written sources that they reveal the way in which ‘give and take’ was meant to be effected. In subtle ways, they convey invaluable information about how a person was expected to react to a ‘good turn’ (perhaps a gift, a service, or a favour), or respond to a ‘bad’ (a provocation, an insult, an injury). Since these prescriptions reflect the power structure and the degree of cohesion within a particular society, there are significant differences in how they are construed. A good turn, for example, might be reciprocated with a gift or a service of inferior, equal, or superior value, or go entirely unreciprocated. A bad deed, likewise, might be met with the infliction of a lesser, equal, or greater injury, or might be allowed to pass without any reaction at all. As time is another variable—reciprocal acts may follow promptly upon the initial ‘good’ or ‘bad’ deed, but may also be delayed for various lengths of time—a whole spectrum of patterns can be envisaged. This spectrum appears in practice as clearly as in theory; each of the ‘reaction strategies’ outlined above has been adopted by one or another of the various societies described by the anthropologists.” The institutions which go by names such as kula, potlatch, or burita’ulo could, after all, be broken down so as to fit into the pattern of reciprocity outlined above—at least insofar as ‘positive’ reciprocity is concerned. This approach has three advantages. Firstly, by distancing reciprocity from the moral context in which it is embedded (by avoid? See further van Wees, Ch. 1; for further bibliography, see J. Davis (1992), 91-6. My distinction between ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ reciprocity is inspired by Gouldner (1960). Donlan (1981-2) following Sahlins (1974), adopts a different conception of hostile exchanges.

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ing, for example, questions such as, ‘Is this or that act in itself “good”?’, or, ‘Is this or that virtue competitive or collaborative?’) it allows us to bring to the fore some features of reciprocity which are normally lost in a sea of anachronistic norms. Secondly, by bringing ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ reciprocity under the same heading, it permits us to draw together into a single comprehensive whole all the interactions in which an individual is involved. (Former approaches have tended to treat positive reciprocity as a category distinct from what is here labelled ‘negative reciprocity’.) Thirdly, it allows us to make some interesting comparisons: since every society might be said to possess, in respect of reciprocity, its own characteristic features (one might almost be tempted to say, its own ‘signature’), this approach renders it possible for us to assess these features against an independent standard. II In this chapter I endeavour to describe the ideals that governed reciprocal action in classical Athens by reference to a computerized programme in game theory known, somewhat misleadingly, as “The Iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma’. The ‘Prisoner’s Dilemma’ has received much scholarly attention in the last decades. With some complex ramifications, and many surprising applications, it has left an indelible imprint on a variety of disciplines (biology, economics, political sciences and history, and, of course, the behavioural sciences).? It has in the process engendered a massive body of literature—so vast, in fact, that it would be impractical to attempt to cite even a fraction of it. I have instead decided to make use of the account of the game’s essential features given by Robert Axelrod (1984), its initiator and most authoritative exponent.* ‘Under what conditions will cooperation emerge in a world of egoists without central authority?’ asks Axelrod (1984, 3-4), and the relevance of his argument to ancient Greek history is immediately apparent. The answer each of us gives to this question has, according to Axelrod, important consequences for our social, 3 Exciting examples of its relevance to the theory of evolution may be found in Dawkins (1989), ch. 12. Many wild animals and plants are, according to Dawkins (203), ‘engaged in ceaseless games of Prisoner’s Dilemma, played out in evolutionary time’. For its relevance to the study of early religions, see Burkest (1996), 139. * In doing so, I shall leave out certain details in Axelrod’s book which are not immediately necessary to my purposes.

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political, and economic relations with others. The answers given by others have considerable significance for their readiness to cooperate with us. Important though it is, the matter has never been considered critically within the European tradition. The tone set by Thomas Hobbes over three hundred years ago has proved an enduring one. Hobbes argued, pessimistically, that before governments existed society was dominated by the problem of selfish individuals who competed ruthlessly with one another. Life was consequently ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’. Hobbes considered a central authority indispensable if changes were to be made and co-operation brought about. European thinkers have been obsessed ever since by the question of whether co-operation is possible at all in the absence of any authority capable of policing the situation. Dissatisfied with this state of affairs, Axelrod turned to the Prisoner’s Dilemma for guidance. The hypothesis of this game is that two prisoners are suspected of having collaborated in a crime. They are invited to betray each other, neither knowing how the other has responded to this invitation. The moves made by each prisoner give rise to a series of interesting combinations. If either prisoner betrays the other by throwing the blame entirely on him, while the latter remains silent, thus rendering plausible his partner’s story, the betrayer gets off scot-free and the other receives a heavy gaol sentence. If each prisoner betrays the other, both will be convicted of the crime; each can expect a fairly stiff sentence, but one somewhat reduced as a reward for giving evidence. If, finally, neither betrays the other (they ‘co-operate’ with each other by refusing to speak), neither can be convicted of the main offence; each is likely to receive a short sentence for a lesser offence. In the computerized simulation of this situation, two players must choose between ‘co-operation’ (i.e. refusing to speak) and ‘defection’ (betraying one’s partner). They must make their moves simultaneously, neither knowing what the other will do (Axelrod 1984, 7-10). As defection always yields a higher payoff than cooperation, this leads to a dilemma: if one player defects while the other co-operates the defecting player does better than the cooperating player, but if both players defect, both do worse than if both had co-operated. According to the choices made by each player (the ‘Column’ and the ‘Row’ player), there are four possible

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being the Reward for mutual co-operation; (2) if both players defect, each gets P=1 point, P being the Punishment for mutual defection; (3) if the Column player co-operates while the Row player defects, the Row player gets T=5 points, Τὸ being the Temptation to defect, and the Column player S=o points, S being the Sucker’s payoff; (4) if the Column player defects while the other co-operates outcome 3 is reversed.’ These outcomes are indicated schematically in Figure 1. Figure 1 The Prisoner’s Dilemma Column Player

Co-operate

Defect

R=3,

S=o, T=5

R=3

Reward for mutual co-operation

Row player Defect

NOTE:

Co-operate

T=5, S=o

Sucker’s payoff, and temptation to defect P=1, P=ı

Temptation to defect and sucker’s payoff

Punishment for mutual defection

The payoffs to the Row player are listed first

Which strategy, then, will give a player the highest possible score? Axelrod’s answer is that no best strategy can exist independently of the strategy being used by the other player. He further distinguishes between games allowing the contestants a finite number of moves (‘The Prisoner’s Dilemma’) and those allowing any number of moves (‘The Iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma’, hereafter the IPD) that is, the same game repeated an unspecified number of times. 5 Note that the four payoffs from best to worst run T, R, P, S, and that the reward for mutual co-operation is greater than the average of temptation and sucker’s payoff.

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One intriguing feature of the IPD is that because its interactions are unlimited the players can respond to one another’s behaviour. The game, in other words, gives the players the opportunity to develop strategies in which human responses such as forgiving and avenging, trusting and mistrusting, reciprocating and placating, are played out in computer language. Another intriguing feature of the IPD is that it allows the players to maximize their rewards without necessarily doing so at each other’s expense. Unlike chess, in which one player’s game is another’s loss (a ‘zero sum game’), the Prisoner’s Dilemma is a ‘non-zero sum game’ in which the players can score at the expense of an imaginary ‘banker’. But how? In order to understand this process better, Axelrod announced a ‘computer tournament’. Without some such simulatory device it is virtually impossible to predict the consequences of iteration. The human mind is particularly ill-adapted to foreseeing the long-term effects of small, step-by-step adjustments that occur over lengthy periods; it is no better suited to detecting how piecemeal changes manifest themselves in the operation of a larger system of which they are a part. Axelrod therefore invited professional game theorists to send in programmes written in accordance with the rules of Prisoner’s Dilemma. A single computer was used to set each of the fourteen entries submitted against each of the others in turn. Amidst general surprise, the simplest programme of all those submitted, TIT FOR TAT, won the tournament. A second round of the tournament was then announced, the first round’s results being made available to the contestants before they submitted their entries. The second round was far more sophisticated than the first, and there were many more participants. The winner, however, was again TIT FOR TAT. The main features of the strategy employed by TIT FoR TAT are defined by Axelrod (1984, 20) as follows: ‘avoidance of unnecessary conflict by co-operating as long as the other player does, provocability in the face of an uncalled-for defection by the other, forgiveness after responding to a provocation, and clarity of behaviour so that the other player can adapt to your pattern of action’. Further points of interest emerged from the analysis of the overall results of the tournaments. A single property distinguished the higher-scoring from the lower-scoring entries: “This is the property of being nice, which is to say never being the first to defect .. . Each of the eight top-ranking entries (or rules) is nice. None of the

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others is.’ (1984, 33, his italics). “Of all the nice rules, the one that scored lowest was also the one that was least forgiving. This is FRIEDMAN, a totally unforgiving rule that employs permanent retaliation’ (1984, 36). As already remarked, the success of a programme depended upon the responses of its adversaries, and in retrospect it was easy to find rules that would have performed substantially better than TIT FOR TAT. “The existence of these rules’, wrote Axelrod, ‘should serve as a warning against the facile belief that an eye for an eye is necessarily the best strategy.’ Of the three rules that would, if submitted, have won the tournament, I shall mention only the first. This programme: defects only if the other player defected on the previous two moves. It is a more forgiving version of TIT FOR TAT in that it does not punish isolated defections. The excellent performance of this TIT FOR TWO TATS rule highlights the fact that a common error of the contestants was to expect that gains could be made from being relatively less forgiving than TIT FOR TAT, whereas in fact there were big gains to be made from being even more forgiving. The implication of this finding is striking, since it suggests that even expert strategists do not give sufficient weight to the importance of forgiveness. (1984, 39)

Finally, something of the contestants’ psychology was revealed by the games that they themselves (rather than the programmes they wrote) played. When psychologists set up games of IPD between human players, the latter in general tended to be too egoistic, too competitive for their own good, too imbued with the spirit of vengeance and retaliation, and too pessimistic about their opponents’ responsiveness. Nearly all players allowed these qualities rather than ‘nice’ ones to come to the fore and dominate the game. As Dawkins put it, ‘it seems that many people, perhaps without even thinking about it, would rather do down the other player than co-operate with the other player to do down the banker’ (Dawkins 1989, 220).

Ill A computer game is not reality, but an abstraction of moves which take place in reality. This means that although it faithfully reflects certain features of reality, others are reflected only partly or in a

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distorted fashion, or left out altogether. Axelrod (1984, 19) himself acknowledges these omissions: ‘Examples of what is left out by this formal abstraction include the possibility of verbal communication, the direct influence of third parties, the problems of implementing a choice, and the uncertainty about what the other players actually did in the preceding move.’ Many further omissions could undoubtedly be registered, but none that could invalidate the basic resemblance between the interaction of the Column Player and the Row Player of the IPD and that of people encapsulated within tightly-knit social systems such as that of ancient Athens. The people of Athens, too, were involved in an indefinite series of reciprocal actions, motivated by a desire to maximize individual rewards. They too were tossed on the horns of the dilemma: ‘if I cooperate, I may reap a small reward, but I also risk being cheated out of what I have; if, on the other hand, I defect, I may reap a great reward, but I also risk being punished for my defection.’ They too solved this dilemma by developing, through an indefinite number of reciprocal interactions, a strategy which they believed to be preferable to all the others, an ‘official’ strategy, so to speak—a strategy which might be likened to a programme submitted to Axelrod’s tournaments. It can, of course, be objected that in real societies people do not employ a single strategy to maximize their rewards while at the same time satisfying moral requirements; they employ several alternately. Furthermore, it could be argued that, even if there were one dominant strategy, it would be utterly impossible to unsnarl it from the tangle of the ambiguous, confusing statements which are constantly made in every living society. I countered these objections, obliquely, in three essays which I composed while still unaware of the IPD.° I here attempt a more systematic treatment of the subject. It is certainly the case that in most societies several, often contradictory, competing strategies of reciprocity co-exist from which people choose at their convenience, and Athens was no exception to that rule. Athens was, however, exceptional in certain other respects, of which I shall name three. Firstly, Athens had neither ‘strong government’ nor ‘central authority’, to revert to Hobbesian terminology, but rather an egalitarian distribution of power 5. Herman (1993), (1994), (1995). Herman tion of this chapter.

(1996) was written after the comple-

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amongst the members of the citizen body (one important implication of this is that there was nobody to ‘tell’ the people what to say or think). Secondly, the most important decisions regarding private and public matters were taken by plenipotentiary popular juries consisting of hundreds of these citizens (Arist. Ath. 9.1). Thirdly, and most importantly, these juries were predisposed to be swayed by legally irrelevant moral appeals to an extent unparalleled in the legal systems familiar from European history. Sokrates, it will be remembered, was condemned to death for challenging the jury’s most deeply held moral convictions, not for being found technically guilty of transgressing the law. The question therefore arises, by what sort of moral appeal did the litigants hope to win the support of these juries? To narrow this question down, what were the ideals of reciprocal action which they chose to parade before the juries in an attempt to enlist their favour? The answers to this last question are mutually consistent; they are—when comparable societies are considered—highly unusual, and they were often given by people in a position of grave jeopardy (failing to reproduce the juries’ ideals correctly could result in loss of property, banishment, or even execution). For all these reasons, we are entitled to identify them as classical Athens’ dominant strategy of reciprocity. Thanks to the survival of more than one hundred speeches which were delivered (or meant to be delivered) in the Athenian law courts,” we can easily disentangle this dominant strategy from certain rival strategies which were no doubt employed in other contexts, but were not allowed to interfere with the central mechanism regulating life. The mobilization of public opinion was in Athens a necessary precondition to scoring a victory over an opponent, and public opinion was most effectively mobilized by appeals to the public’s central belief system. The power structure of classical Athens therefore made it possible for just one strategy of reciprocity to come to the fore. Before we explore the characteristic features of this strategy, a further difference between the computer game and Athenian social interaction must be noted. The computer game consists of an indefinite number of reciprocal interactions between two participants. Athenian social life additionally involved an indefinite 7 On these speeches, and for an analysis of their evidential value, see Todd (1990); also Millett, Ch. 11.

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number of reciprocal interactions between more than two participants. The main complicating factor, however, is the fact that, apart from some objects exchanged as gifts, no traces whatever survive of any of these interactions. Instead, we are left with certain descriptions or evaluations of them, cast in an idealized mode. Two examples will suffice to indicate what is here meant by ‘idealized’. The first, which may be regarded as a typical case of ‘positive’ reciprocity, comes from a speech in the Demosthenic corpus: Nikostratos, whom you see here in court, men of the jury, was a neighbour of mine in the country, and a man of my own age. We had long known each other, but after my father’s death, when I went to live in the country, where I still live, we had much more to do with one another, since we were neighbours and men of the same age. As time went on we became very intimate; indeed I came to feel on such intimate terms with him that he never failed to win any favour he asked of me; and he, on his part, was useful to me in looking after my affairs and managing them, and whenever I was abroad on public service as trierarch, or on any private business of my own, I used to leave him in charge of everything on the farm. ([Dem.] 53.4)

The second paragraph, also taken from the Demosthenic corpus, may be regarded as a typical instance of ‘negative’ reciprocity. Ariston describes his response to a series of insults and injuries which Konon and his sons have allegedly inflicted upon him: When matters had gone thus far, it was natural that after our return home there should exist between us feelings of anger and hatred. However, on my part I swear by the gods I never saw fit to bring any action against them, or to pay any attention to what had happened. I simply made this resolve—in future to be on guard, and to take care to have nothing to do with people of that sort. (Dem. 54.5-6)

It is immaterial to my purposes whether Apollodoros and Nikostratos were really involved in these positive interactions, or whether Ariston really refrained from violent retaliation; it would not even matter if their stories were fictitious from beginning to end. What matters is that both Apollodoros and Ariston took the utmost care that their stories should correspond to the juries’ ideals. Their descriptions of a certain pattern of reciprocity were intended to cast a favourable light upon them and an unfavourable one upon their opponents. Apollodoros’ story reaches its climax when, following a whole series of ‘fair’ reciprocations, Nikostratos ‘defects’, to use the language of IPD; the point of Ariston’s story is

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that, even though Konon and his sons were throughout the interaction offensive, aggressive, and violent, he, Ariston, throughout showed self-restraint and willingness to forgive. Nor does it matter whether norms such as these were always observed in real life—in fact, we can be quite sure that they were not. What matters is that they were evoked by people in critical predicaments in an attempt to elicit popular support, and were therefore probably involved in moulding social life to a far greater extent than any of the rival norms. By ‘idealized’ I mean, therefore, that by means of an indefinite number of moves, intended not only to maximize individual rewards but also to promote communal welfare (a further point of difference between the computer game and real life to which I shall return), the Athenians had worked out an ideal of reciprocity against which all concrete reciprocal acts were to be measured. Representations such as those of Apollodoros and Ariston were the end product of a lengthy Darwinian (so to speak) process of selection, in the course of which scores of strategies were discarded and only one retained—the strategy which, given the circumstances, appeared to the communal mind most desirable. This was the strategy which the litigants continually tried to tap when presenting their cases before the courts. The statements of Apollodoros and Ariston, in short, correspond neither to a single move in the IPD nor to a whole series of moves, but rather to Axelrod’s evaluations of the programmes in terms of ‘niceness’, ‘co-operation’, or ‘forgivingness’. It is my contention that a single strategy of reciprocal action, repeatedly adverted to in the forensic speeches, had gained the upper hand in Athenian public life. That strategy was what Axelrod called TIT FOR Two TATS: the programme, it will be remembered, which resembles TIT FOR TAT in co-operating for as long as the other player does, but surpasses TIT FOR TAT in willingness to forgive, defecting only after the other player has done so not once but twice. IV I propose to validate this contention by surveying three Athenian ideals: ‘positive’ reciprocity, ‘negative’ reciprocity, and something which the language of IPD would call a strategy of permanent retaliation: revenge. By way of contrast, I shall compare these

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ideals with the ideals of a society which came at an earlier phase in Greek culture—the society reflected in the Homeric poems. The Nikostratos passage cited above is typical of the entire pattern of ‘positive’ reciprocity in classical Athens. The assumption is always that the gift of goods or the supply of services renders the recipient indebted, from which state he can extricate himself by giving goods and supplying services in return. These ‘returns’ need not be forthcoming at once, and need not be of the same order as the original goods or services, but must, in the long run and allowing for temporary imbalances, be equal in value and mutual in benefit.® It is further assumed that deviation from these norms might destabilize the relationship, or even bring it to an end. Compliance with them, on the other hand, helps to generate between the partners special relationships of trust (such as intimacy, friendship, or even love) whose effect is to introduce a certain laxity into the pattern of indebtedness: the partners may cease, after a while, strictly to reckon the value of the benefits bestowed or received, even allowing uncertainty to creep in as to who is in whose debt. At first glance it might appear that the Athenian ideals of positive reciprocity paralleled the ideals which emerge from the Homeric poems in almost every point. In the poems, too, the heroes engage in the exchange of goods and services (the former most commonly designated ‘gifts’); in Finley’s words, ‘always there was frank reference to adequacy, appropriateness, recompense’.? Again the exchanges were intended to forge binding relationships between the partners (friendship, marriage, ritualized friendship) from which a long and unspecified series of renditions of mutual assistance could be expected to flow. Closer examination, however, reveals subtle differences between the two systems, and it is to the examination of these differences that we now turn.'°

8 'The most important passages bearing out this generalization are conveniently assembled in Millett (1991), ch. 5. 9. See Finley (1978), who also provides the justification for treating the Homeric evidence as I do. The claim sometimes made in modern research, e.g. Hooker (1989), that the features of Homeric gift-giving revealed by Finley existed in poetic fantasy rather than social reality is contradicted by the recurrence of these features in later non-poetic descriptions of gift-giving. See further Gould (1991), Herman (1987); also Donlan, above, Ch. 2, Sect. 11. 10 See Millett (1991), 121 ff., for a similar comparison between Homeric and Classical Athenian society which, however, takes lending and borrowing as its starting point.

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While Odysseus is still believed to be dead, Laertes remarks to one of Odysseus’ xenoi, ‘the countless gifts which you gave, you bestowed in vain’ (Od. 24.115-29). Laertes’ words might seem to be paralleled perfectly by the appeal supposedly made, years later, by Themistokles to the Persian king: ‘I deserve to be repaid for the help I gave you’ (Th. 1.137). Both remarks, after all, refer to obligations, and both remarks imply that gifts and services should be reciprocated. In Odysseus’ case, however, the obligations have no implications whatever outside the interacting partners themselves (and perhaps their closest circles of kin and friends). In Themistokles’ case, by contrast, the obligations transcend the interests of the partners and have important implications for the community. Thukydides makes it clear that the first half of Themistokles’ reciprocal action (the help he gave Artaxerxes)—the other half of which was expected to be Themistokles’ recruitment to the Persian court—posed a threat to the community to which no Athenian could afford to be indifferent: Themistokles’ apparently private business has turned into a public affair. Contrasting classical Athenian with Homeric society therefore allows us to register a change in the degree of communal involvement. The Athenian community seems to have taken a great interest in its members’ reciprocal dealings, the more so when gifts were exchanged with outsiders. In such situations the gift, which in the Homeric poems is almost without exception adjudged ‘good’, could become redefined as ‘bribe’.'! But not even reciprocal acts conducted within the city’s bounds escaped the community’s watchful eyes. The point of the Nikostratos passage is, after all, that, if one partner defected, the other could enlist public opinion in his favour, using it as a sanction against the defector. If, moreover, we compare the Homeric ideal of adequacy, appropriateness, and recompense (or, better still, the Hesiodic formulation of this ideal: ‘Give to one who gives, but do not give to one who does not give’, Works and Days, 354) with that of the Athenians, we can see that the latter seem to have carried the idea of reciprocity one step further. ‘When we do favours to others’, says Perikles in the Funeral Speech, singing the praises of the people of Athens, ‘we do not do them out of calculations of profit or loss; we do them without afterthought relying on our free liberality’ (Th. 11 This point is dealt with at length in Herman

(1987), ch. 4.

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2.40.5).'* Even though ‘we’ refers to the Athenians as a whole, there can be no doubt that the idea has been derived from the sphere of moral norms governing interpersonal relationships. This implies that interaction between Athenians in general (not only between those who were bound by kinship or friendship) no longer demanded as a precondition that strict accounts be kept of benefits received. It is not hard to find the idea’s rationale: the rewards which were due to one in return for a favour could be expected to flow, in part at least, indirectly from the civic system (rather than directly from the beneficiary). To put it another way, the Athenians seem to have discovered that everybody was better off if favours were done in a liberal spirit. A justification was perhaps not all that difficult to find: the parties to the reciprocal transactions were citizens, citizens were in one sense kin, and kin bestow benefits in a spirit devoid of calculation. As one of Lysias’ clients says of his father, ... he also [in addition to his numerous costly liturgies] joined privately in providing dowries for daughters and sisters of certain needy citizens; there were men whom he ransomed from the enemy, and others for whose funerals he provided money. He acted in this way because he conceived it to be the part of a good man to assist his friends, even if nobody was to know.

(Lys. 19.59) The cynic could argue that this man’s actual intention was probably to build up a body of obedient clients.'? For our purposes, however, whatever he meant to achieve is beside the point. What matters is the way in which litigants chose to represent actions, and this speaker, in attempting to ingratiate himself with the jury, chose to attribute to his father motives of selfless generosity. His portrayal must be taken as a faithful reflection of what the people wanted to hear. Where negative reciprocity is concerned, communal intrusion into people’s lives is even more marked. Some remarkable features of the Athenian value system stand out here, and a comparison 12 Commenting on this passage, Gomme (1959) was of course right in pointing out the discrepancy between this ideal and subsequent Athenian political behaviour. He seems, however, to have missed the novelty of the passage within the history of the idea of reciprocity. See also Missiou, Ch. 9, 190 above, who also cites this passage as evidence of Athenian repudiation of reciprocal ethics. 13 I find myself, however, in full agreement with Millett (1989), 18, that ‘deliberate and in large measure effective steps were taken to minimize the scope for patronage in Classical Athens’.

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might help to throw these features into sharper relief. In most societies, ancient and modern, it is held that, upon being provoked, offended, or injured, a person should react in accordance with either the ‘eye for an eye’ or the ‘head for an eye’ principle.'+ The reaction of the victim, in other words, is expected to be either commensurate with or in excess of the initial provocation, offence, or injury. The Athenian ideals, however, held that, upon being provoked, offended, or injured, a person should by no means retaliate. Instead, he should exercise self-restraint, avoid violence, and compromise; only as a last resort should he appeal to the courts. I have already marshalled the details which support this generalization in the articles cited earlier (n. 6 above). However, since these details are surprising, I reproduce them here. The pattern of action presented as desirable closely follows that espoused by Ariston in the passage cited above. The speaker in Lysias 3, for instance, claims to have put up with a long series of insults and injuries, preferring ‘to go without satisfaction for those offences rather than be thought lacking in sense by the citizens’ (Lys. 3.9). Astyphilos is said to have treated Kleon harshly only in not speaking to him, even though Kleon’s father was responsible for the death of his own father (the two fathers were brothers, Isaeus 9.19). Similarly, Demosthenes has allegedly refrained from reacting to Meidias’ provocations and offences, satisfying himself for a long while with keeping a record of them. When Meidias punched him in the face, Demosthenes took pride in not retaliating immediately. Instead, he entered a complaint, but dropped the charge in return for a payment from Meidias, even though he could easily have won the case (Dem. 21, Against Meidias).'° It is clear that the reactions are presented in this way because people were aware of the punitive potential of the polis. Even acts of self-defence are said to have been conducted under the community’s protective umbrella. For instance, a client of Demosthenes '4 The most influential formulations of both principles are to be found in the Bible: ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe’ (Exodus 21: 24-5); ‘Adah and Zillah, listen to me; | wives of Lamech, mark what I say: I kill a man for wounding me, | a young man for a blow. | Cain may be avenged seven times, | but Lamech seventy-seven’ (Genesis 4: 23-4). We have, however, no way of knowing whether any non-mythical Biblical society ever put these principles into practice, whereas we do have such knowledge concerning classical Athens. 15 Fora very similar (and, Iam happy to say, independently reached) interpretation of Demosthenes’ Against Meidias, see Ober (1994).

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relates how, upon being struck by a man into whose house he went to seize goods as security, he first called upon those who were present to bear witness to what had happened, only then, remarkably enough, returning the blow (Dem. 47.38)! With respect to negative reciprocity, classical Athens contrasts with the world of the Homeric poems. It is true that in Homer also, more forgiving values put in an occasional appearance, and that balanced reciprocity is often expected,'® but one has only to consider the poems’ climactic episodes to realize that excessive retaliation is by no means ruled out. In the last scene of the Odyssey, the hero creates a bloodbath in retaliation for no more than the material damage done him by the suitors, whose behaviour seems to some extent excusable in the light of the fact that they did not know whether Odysseus was alive or dead. Expelling the suitors from his house or ‘punishing’ them in one way or another would clearly not have appeased Odysseus’ anger. Similar overkill appears in the Iliad in the actions of Akhilleus, from whom Agamemnon took the girl Briseis. The purloining of one captive woman amongst thousands might, objectively, seem a minor offence, but to Akhilleus it appeared an insult so grave that not even ‘seven tripods .. . ten talents of gold, twenty glittering cauldrons, twelve prize-winning racehorses and twenty Trojan captives and seven cities’ could redress it. Rejecting these extravagant gifts, he withdrew from the battle, thereby inflicting immense sufferings upon the Akhaians. Akhilleus’ actions here fall neatly into the category of slight insults or injuries which trigger off exceedingly harsh, destructive responses, as does his response to the killing of Patroklos by Hektor: he threw four horses on to the pyre, and butchered and burned twelve captive Trojans U//. 23.174, cf. 21.27-33). In situations such as these ‘a tooth for an eye’, let alone ‘a nail for an eye’, could hardly have been thought to be appropriate. We turn finally to revenge. All the available evidence seems to suggest that the Athenians made every effort to deny legitimacy to this scourge of tribal existence. The Oresteia didactically enacts the replacement of tribal vengeance by state-inflicted punishment; the same idea re-emerges every now and then, in various guises, in 16 See Zanker (1994), and Ch. 3, esp. Sect. rv. For different interpretations of the Homeric material discussed here, which lay stress rather on the idea that the retaliation taken is in line with the ethics of reciprocity, see Donlan, Ch. 2, Sect. v, also Donlan (1993); Postlethwaite, Ch. 4; Gill, Ch. 14, Sect. 11.

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the speeches of the Attic Orators. One clear example is the speech made by Euphiletos, a cuckolded husband charged with the murder of his wife’s lover Eratosthenes. Euphiletos goes out of his way to claim that his act was prompted not by lust for revenge, but by a civic-minded desire to implement the law (Lys. 1).17 That the Athenians were successful in minimizing the influence of revenge upon their everyday lives is confirmed by a series of concrete details (such as the practice of going unarmed, and the suppression of blood-feud, the vendetta, and various other violence-generating institutions) and by the capacity of the political and judicial systems to prevent conflicts from escalating and flaring up into civil war.

Quite

unlike

their

Homeric

forefathers,

the

Athenians

took

measures to suppress strategies of permanent retaliation with some determination. It could be suggested that the Athenians’ proclaimed compliance with the ideals of self-restraint and non-retaliation made of them either saints or suckers. (In the language of the IPD, ‘suckers’ are people who allow their partners to cheat and to exploit them with impunity.) Nothing could be more inaccurate. The idea underlying the passages I have been citing is that immediate, heated reactions and passionate acts of revenge were unnecessary as strategies of interpersonal behaviour, being rendered redundant by the community’s capacity to administer punishment effectively.'® The Athenians were neither saints nor suckers because the wrongs which they suffered were not left unpunished (so, at least, the speakers pretend). On closer inspection, the rhetoric of selfrestraint and non-retaliation used in the law courts boils down to homage to the city’s coercive power. We are now in a position to summarize our findings. The ideal pattern of reciprocity in Athens, as it emerges from the forensic speeches, appears closely to resemble that computer programme 17 Anyone who finds this logic unsurprising should perhaps be reminded that in many tribal societies the killing of an adulterer, far from being thought of as murder, is regarded as a duty, the successful completion of which bestows honour upon its perpetrator, and that, according to the rules of crime passionnel today, the murderer gets off scot free if he can show that his act was committed on the spur of the moment in hot blood. 18 See Herman (1994). See e.g. Dem. 21.74-5, which spells out this associative pattern in full: a man should not, he says, react violently when provoked, but should seek redress from the people and from the city’s laws. For a contrasting view of punishment in classical Athens, according to which judicial institutions serve as a communal context for negative reciprocity, see Allen (1996).

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which co-operates for as long as the other player does, and is forgiving in that it defects only after the other player has done so twice. In other words, the Athenians appear to have developed an ideal of reciprocal interaction which, if translated into computer language (a task by no means impossible), would have scored very high indeed in Axelrod’s tournament. At this point we should perhaps re-examine the methodological foundations of this conclusion. Considered in isolation, statements such as those made by the Athenian litigants are limited in value. In fact, they tell us about as much about the actual workings of Athenian society as moral principles such as “Turn the other cheek’, ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself’, or noblesse oblige tell us about the reality of Christian, Jewish, or noble societies respectively. The fact, however, that they stem from a social context whose mechanism can be decoded makes an enormous difference, and this lends the Athenian statements an unusual force. This proposition can best be illustrated by means of a counter-example. The seventeenth-century Italian miller Menocchio was, according to Carlo Ginzburg (1980, 39), brought to trial by the Inquisition because his views were heretical. During one interrogation, the inquisitor asked Menocchio to specify ‘the works of God’ by means of which one went to heaven. Menocchio’s reply included a long list of moral injunctions: ‘love [God], adore him, sanctify him, revere and thank him; and also one should be charitable, merciful, peaceful, loving, honourable, obedient to one’s superiors, pardon injuries, and keep promises; and for doing this one goes to heaven, and this is all we need to go there.’ Menocchio’s expressed attitude to willingness to forgive differs markedly from that of his Athenian counterparts. His ‘pardoning injuries’ can be presumed to have been inspired by a booklet written half a century earlier by one Tullio Crispoldi, according to which ‘the essence of Christianity was the “law of forgiving”, the forgiving one’s neighbour so as to be forgiven by God’ (Ginzburg, 1980, 40). To the Inquisition this ideal was unacceptable, as it placed one’s duty to one’s neighbour on a par with one’s duty to God. To Menocchio’s fellow-countrymen in Montereale it was probably totally unknown. In the society in which Menocchio lived, the pardoning of injuries appears not to have been a dominant strategy of reciprocity; nor was it an ideal informing the actions of that society’s Procrustean power agents. Menocchio was a social rebel, a non-

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conformist attempting heroically to derive moral support from views shared only by a minority. The litigants in the Athenian courts, by contrast, were social conformists who attempted to elicit support by harnessing the majority’s central belief system to their purpose, or, to put it another way, by tapping the norms of a tribunal of justice whose outlook (and consequently verdict) was second to none in moulding societal behaviour. It follows that we are not licensed to apply the IPD to Menocchio’s utterances, or, for that matter, to any of the Christian, Jewish, or ‘noble’ injunctions listed above. We are, on the other hand, fully licensed to apply it to the imperatives alluded to by the Attic Orators. This offers us a rare opportunity, allowing the historian to take the unusual leap of establishing a link between the overall characteristics of Athenian society and its members’ particular strategy of reciprocity. It permits him to bridge the gap between the short-term individual and the long-term cumulative effects of one particular strategy of interaction. ν The (potentially) high score of TIT FOR TWO TATS suggests that there must have been a great deal of collaboration within Athenian society. It further implies that the people of Athens must have maximized their own rewards by using this particular strategy. The question now arises of whether or not this prediction is borne out in detail by our evidence. It is in order to answer this question that it becomes necessary to introduce the second theme of this paper, altruism. I use the term ‘altruistic behaviour’ to describe acts which benefit the community in general or other members of it in particular, but which may be detrimental to the person who performs the acts, whether physically or economically.'” This definition narrows down the term’s semantic range somewhat, while retaining the meaning given in the Oxford English Dictionary: ‘regard for others as a principle of action’ (‘others’, in the context of this discussion, means ‘the community’, in other words, people who are connected neither by kinship ties nor friendship with the person performing 19 I have adopted this definition from a biologist, even though his title (“The Evolution of Reciprocal Altruism’) involves a contradiction in terms: see Trivers

(1971), 35.

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the acts). This definition has the further advantage of sidestepping the thorny question of ‘pure’ altruism—of whether acts harmful to their performers but beneficial to others can ever be carried out without some expectation of reward.?° Constant preoccupation with this question seems to have frustrated attempts to achieve a deeper understanding of the mechanisms by which certain communities more than others succeed in inducing their members to make sacrifices on their behalf. The definition of altruism which is here being offered will serve to illustrate the extent to which the Athenians performed acts of self-abnegation on their community’s behalf. Curiously enough, Thukydides, the historian who allegedly inspired in Hobbes his pessimistic view of human nature, here takes an optimistic view. Throughout his work, Thukydides draws an implicit contrast between the brutal, pre-polis past and the refined, civilized present (for instance, 1.5, 1.7). Devotion to the community and the feelings and emotions which prompt people to prefer communal to private interests are, according to Thukydides, signs of civilized life. Any weakening in such emotions, on the other hand, foreshadows the breakdown of the social order; an upsurge of pre-state lawlessness and wanton violence marks their total disappearance. Thukydides occasionally observes the operation of communal altruism at close quarters. During the plague in Athens in the year 430 BC, most of the people who died had caught the disease while nursing the sick (2.51). As soon as this became known, people faced a dilemma: should they yield to their instincts and avoid the sick, or comply with social norms and visit them? Either alternative was unattractive: in the first case, they risked not being looked after if they themselves fell ill, in the second, they risked contracting the disease at once. Nevertheless, writes Thukydides, there were people who chose to visit and nurse the sick because ‘they made it a point of honour to act properly’, and ‘felt ashamed to think of their own safety’. To put it another way, some people, acting under the constraint of social norms, took a course of action which ran contrary to the desire for self-preservation, their wish to act in the interests of society outweighing even the fear of death. The significance of this observation for our purposes is as follows. A distinc20 On this issue, see e.g. J. Davis (1992), 15 ff. On ‘altruism’ (and Greek ethics), see also Zanker, Ch. 3, esp. 74-6; Gill, Ch. 14, esp. ἢ. 5.

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tive feature of the altruistic acts observed in both human and animal societies is usually that they confer great benefits upon the recipient at a relatively low cost to their performer (Trivers 1971, 36). Quite the opposite can be said of our Athenians, however: their beneficial acts conferred relatively small benefits upon the recipient at an enormously high cost to the performer. That we are observing a pattern is indicated by the recurrence of similar types of altruistic act in other fields of activity: the institution of liturgies immediately springs to mind. A liturgy was ‘a device whereby the non-bureaucratic state got certain things done, not by paying for them from the treasury but by assigning to richer individuals direct responsibility for both the costs and the operation itself’ (Finley 1973, 151). The enormous sums which some of the richer Athenians donated towards equipping a trireme (the socalled trierarkhia) and towards the performance of theatrical shows at state festivals (the so-called chorégia)—particularly during the fourth century, when the profits of the empire dwindled—cannot fail to impress.?! Even though there were times when these donations were compulsory rather than voluntary, even though some of them brought, indirectly, certain tangible benefits to the liturgists (Millett 1991, 85-7), the fact remains that the rich gave lavishly and took pride in their donations. ‘No one today’, writes Finley, ‘boasts in a persuasive way of the size of his income tax, and certainly not that he pays three times as much as the collector demands’.?? Strange as it may seem, the Athenian liturgists did far more than merely boast of the size of their donations: they often borrowed money or mortgaged property (and sometimes lost it) as they strove to outdo each other in public outlay.?? From a strictly economic point of view, their ruinous donations may conveniently be regarded as instances of ‘conspicuous expenditure’; from a moral point of view, however, they clearly belong to the category which is earlier called ‘altruism’. 21 On the trierarchy, see now Gabrielsen (1994); on the chorégia, see Davies (1971); on epidoseis, a special sort of contribution for communal purposes, see Kuenzi (1979); on eisphorai, see Millett (1991), 67 ff. 22 Finley (1973), 150-1. A good symbolic illustration of this point may be found in the declaration of Theophrastos’ boastful man (!) that during a famine his outlay came to more than five talents in presents to the distressed citizens (Char. 6.15). 23 See Millett (1991), ch. 3; see also Dem. 20.10: “You [i.e. the Athenians collectively] are more concerned about good reputation than about material goods, and this is not only true of you but was true of your forefathers also.’ On the reciprocal ‘return’ expected for liturgies (as indicated in law-court speeches), see Millett, Ch. 11.

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The IPD suggests a further point about liturgies. Within what has until recently been described as class struggle, liturgies have been viewed as a manipulative tool: the rich would give in order to appease the poor, perpetuate economic inequalities, and enhance their own power.** The liturgies may indeed have had such effects; all complex social institutions fulfil, after all, a multiplicity of functions. The analogy with the IPD, however, seems to suggest that they were primarily a by-product of the particular strategy of reciprocal action adopted by the Athenians. More precisely, they were one manifestation of the intense communal spirit which this strategy engendered—of the sense of duty which demanded that each citizen contribute in direct proportion to his bodily abilities and economic means. It may be more than coincidence that the two slogans used by the great populist Demosthenes in appealing to the people (as noted by A. H. M. Jones 1957, 23) were ‘pay war tax’ (eispherete) and ‘serve in the army yourselves’ (autoi strateueste). How essential a notion this was, and how deeply entrenched within democratic ideology, will emerge most clearly from what has in recent times come to be known as ‘patriotism’. The message, driven home through a multiplicity of channels, was that the individual should make sacrifices in order that the community might thrive. Needless to say, in Greek history this was a strikingly bold and novel idea. The Homeric hero fought, and possibly died, in a selfregarding attempt to assert his vast prowess and outshine all others in glory (Finley 1978). The Athenian ‘hero’, by contrast, was expected to fight, and perhaps even to die, to defend his city-state. He was expected to be driven by a feeling for others which was supposed to take precedence over his individual feelings and emotions. Even the actions of the common people of Athens were supposed to be informed by this imperative. “You should, rather, put away your grief for private ills and devote yourself to the safety of the community’, Perikles tells the relatives of the victims in the Funeral Speech (Th. 2.34). In another speech, preserved by Plutarch, Perikles likens those fallen in the war to the gods, ‘for we cannot see the gods .. . but we believe them to be immortal from the honours we pay them and the blessings we receive from them, and so it is with those who have given their lives for the city’ (Plu. Per. 28.3). 24 See de Ste. Croix (1981), 305-6.

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In Thukydides’ history, Alkibiades, in the same vein, declares himself to be a lover of his city, generalizing that ‘a man who really loves his country is not the one who refuses to attack it when he has been unjustly driven from it, but the man whose desire for it is so strong that he will shrink from nothing in his effort to get back there again’ (Thuc. 6.92). However one interprets this passage (or, for that matter, the numerous passages in the Attic Orators referring to loyalty to the state and devotion to military service)? it is hard to miss the intensity of the patriotic feelings which democratic Athens sparked off in its citizens. In the light of this, it should come as no surprise that one of the most evocative symbols of democratic Athens may well express the idea of patriotic self-sacrifice. If Connelly’s interpretation is correct (1993, 1996), the Parthenon Frieze does not Just vaguely reflect some sort of procession; instead, it relates the tragedy of the mythical King Erekhtheus, who sacrificed his daughter at the bidding of an oracle in order to save Athens from invasion. This reinterpretation has been made possible by drawing on some fragments from a lost Euripidean tragedy and some newly discovered papyri from Egypt. The former contain a speech by Praxithea (the mother of the virgin daughters) which offers one of the strongest expressions of all time of the patriotic idea: We have children on account of this, so that we may save the altars of the gods and the fatherland of the city; the city has one name and many dwell in it. Is it right for me to destroy all these when it is possible for me to give one child to die on behalf of all? The ruin of one person’s house is of less consequence and brings less grief than that of the whole city. If there were a harvest of sons in our house rather than daughters and a hostile flame came to the city would I not have sent my sons into battle, fearing for their death? I hate women who in preference to the common good, choose for their own children to live. (E. fr. τὸ = Lykourgos, Against Leokrates 100, trans. Mabel Lang)?°

To sum up, then, the three different types of activity which we have been considering seem to have been animated by one underlying sentiment, dictating that the individual should make 25 See Herman (1987), 156-61; also 26 The speech was provoked by the and Lykourgos cites Euripides because, foster a love of country in the souls of Kearns (1990).

perhaps Lys. 16.21 and 31.7. unpatriotic desertion of a certain Leokrates, according to him, the playwright wanted to the citizens. On tragic self-sacrifice, see also

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sacrifices for the communal good. Foreshadowing the Christian ideal of self-renunciation in the name of God, the Athenian moral climate fostered self-abnegation in the name of the state. This conclusion has an important bearing on the first theme of this chapter. Expressed in terms of reciprocity, so fierce a sense of communal devotion must surely imply that great benefits accrued to the individual through channels other than that of ‘give and take’. We therefore see another contrast with the world reflected in the Homeric poems: in that world, avenues for the provision of goods and services hardly existed outside ‘give and take’. In what follows, I briefly review the benefits that the Athenians derived from their democratic system. Vi ‘In consequence of the discovery of the mines at Maronea’ [i.e. Laurium] (483 BC), we read in the Aristotelian Athenaiön Politeia, ‘the working of which had given the state a profit of a hundred talents, the advice was given by some persons that the money should be distributed among the people.’ It is further related how Themistokles, rather than yielding to this temptation, used the money to build a fleet of a hundred triremes, with which the Athenians won the battle of Salamis (4th. 22.7). What we have here is not just another instance of selfabnegation, of putting aside personal desires in order to promote communal interests. The passage affords a rare glimpse of how the strategy of foregoing private gratification for the sake of a higher good was applied on the communal level, and how the rewards which began to accrue to the citizens (in this case, victory over the Persians) acted as a feedback mechanism, reinforcing the strategy still further. Success was to breed success. After the war, the Athenians set up an empire from which they derived considerable booty, tribute, taxes, and confiscated lands. These proceeds enabled them to maintain more than twenty thousand men at the public expense (Arist. Ath. 24.3). They distributed their new assets not, as has nearly always been the case throughout history, among a select few, but among the members of the lower classes (Finley 1981). The entire system, indeed, rested in one sense upon the steady supply of state benefits to the ‘many’. Magistrates, members of the council, and jurors were all paid for their services, at various

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rates. During the fourth century citizens who attended the assembly were also paid,?” and the attendance of citizens at the theatre was also subsidized. Invalids were given a grant to cover the cost of food, at the public expense (Lys. 24, Arist. Ath. 49.4). Add to this the advantages that accrued to most of the citizens from the generosity of the rich and the self-sacrifice of the idealists, and it will not be difficult to see why the Athenians should have ‘preserved well their democracy’—as an embittered enemy of the regime was once constrained to admit ([Xen.], Ath. 3.1). The list of the fields of activity in which co-operation was the norm has by no means been exhausted. Take, for instance, the case of the eranos loan, which could be a large amount of money supplied by a number of lenders together to one needy borrower (Millett 1991, 153-4). We do not know how common the practice of making these loans was, but since it became subject to the procedure of ‘monthly suits’, while its terminology was extended to express the idea of patriotic self-sacrifice (Th. 2.43.1-2, Lyc. 1. 143), it was probably widespread. Or take the case of ordinary loans. In ancient societies these were as a rule made against securities—preferably worth more than the amount of the loan—and interest was charged on them. In Athens, by contrast, a surprisingly high percentage of loans were made without securities being demanded or interest charged (Millett, 1991, 127 ff.). Lack of space prevents any systematic investigation here of the implications of this conclusion for the debate over the nature of Athenian economy, whether primitivist or modernist,?® but the suggestion may be risked that this sort of uncalculating co-operation militated in Athens against any wholesale commercialization of reciprocal interactions. VII I conclude this chapter by spelling out its central assumptions, at the same time introducing some qualifications. People have to make up their minds how to respond when others interact with them in what they consider to be a ‘positive’ or a ‘negative’ manner. In 27 See Markle (1985). Passages such as these are sometimes taken in modern literature as evidence of the partial breakdown of the democratic ethos. For the alleged ‘decline’ of Athenian democracy in the 4th c., see Eder (1995). 28 See Millett (1991); Cohen (1992): also Morris (1994).

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tightly-knit social systems their reactions will be neither random nor arbitrary, but will follow certain socially defined conventions. Out of a wide repertoire of possible responses, people in general prefer the one which commands society’s strongest approval. This does not mean that all members of a society will necessarily employ this particular strategy of interaction; most will probably observe it, many ignore it, and some defy it. It does mean, however, that the communal mind has managed to convert one particular strategy of interaction into the dominant one. It is the historian’s task to identify this strategy and to unravel its mechanism. Because suitable documentation is frequently lacking, this process will be more successful with respect to certain societies than to others. In the case of ancient Athens, it is rendered easier by an unusual set of circumstances: the city’s peculiar power structure, and the survival of the speeches of the Attic Orators. Such an identification is of little intrinsic worth; without the aid of some simulatory device, it is virtually impossible to predict the consequences of any identified strategy for communal life. It is at this point that a game-theory computer programme becomes useful. The application of such a programme to Athens’ dominant strategy of interaction yields an interesting result, suggesting that the strategy endorsed by the Athenians attained an optimal balance between communal co-operation and individual reward maximization. I do not draw morals from this conclusion, nor do I wish to drag it into the debate over the modern image of Classical Athens. The strategy which I have described was restricted to a citizen élite constituting only a minority within the population; the city’s (by no means negligible) slave population was excluded from it. A totally different, fully institutionalized and legally enforced strategy of exploitation applied to slaves, a strategy which, in Gouldner’s words, was characterized by ‘the right to something for nothing’.?? Nor do I wish to imply that this strategy was the only key to Athens’ greatness; the entire economic domain, at least in that aspect which bears on human interaction with the material world, has here been passed over.*° It is my claim, however, that human 2? Gouldner (1960), 165, citing a catch-phrase from Veblen. 30 Other issues not pursued here (for lack of space) include: (1) the Athenian ethic of self-restraint and the Sokratic repudiation of retaliation (see Herman 1995, also Vlastos 1991, ch. 7); (2) possible links between the Prisoner’s Dilemma model and

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societies differ markedly as a result of the interactive strategies they adopt, and that the Athenians of the fifth and fourth centuries Bc adopted the very strategy of interaction that, at the end of the twentieth century AD, was found by a computer to be the best.?! Greek ideas about justice as a ‘social contract’; on the latter see e.g. Guthrie (1969), ch. 5; Kerferd (1981), ch. 10; Long and Sedley (1987), sect. 22. 3! Tam grateful to Avner Offer and to the Editors for helpful comments and criticism.

11

The Rhetoric of Reciprocity in Classical Athens PAUL

I.

ONE

GOOD

TURN

MILLETT

DESERVES

ANOTHER?

‘Towards the middle of the fourth century Bc, the professional speechwriter Isaios composed a lawcourt speech that has been preserved in its published form as On the Estate of Nikostratos (IV). It was written on behalf of two brothers, Hagnon and Hagnotheos, who were laying joint claım to the estate of Nikostratos son of Thrasymakhos: a mercenary soldier who had died away from Athens, leaving a substantial fortune of two talents. Competition in Athens to inherit the estate was apparently keen, with at least seven rival claimants (7-10). The brothers based their claim on considerations of kinship, being first cousins of the deceased. Their opponent in court was one Khariades, himself a soldier of fortune, who claimed that Nikostratos, before his death, had drawn up a will adopting him as son and heir. The speech composed by Isaios was actually delivered on behalf of the two brothers by an unnamed person, who identifies himself as a close friend of the family (1).' The contents of the speech conform to the usual pattern of Isaios’ orations. There are elaborate (and uneven) arguments to persuade the jury that Hagnon and Hagnotheos are, indeed, first cousins of the deceased and his closest surviving relatives, while the will leaving everything to Khariades is denounced as a manifest

1 The date of 0.350 BC is supported by Wevers (1969), 9-33, on stylistic grounds, though it entails rejection of Valckenaer’s almost universally accepted emendation in 7 which gives a date ¢.370. No credence need be given to the assertion in the ancient summary prefacing the speech that it was delivered by Isaios himself (in spite of the Loeb translator’s repeated and gratuitous insertion of the phrase ‘my clients’).

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forgery. What might at first sight appear the concluding section of the speech seems to sum everything up (26):? Whatever each of you [members of the jury] considers worthy, determine the same thing for these young men. They have produced before you witnesses to prove, first, that they and Nikostratos are first cousins, the sons of own brothers; second, that they never had any quarrel with him; third, that they carried out his burial; and, further, that Khariades was never intimate with Nikostratos—either here in Athens, or in the army; and, last, that the supposed association (koinönia) between them, on which Khariades most depends, is a pack of lies.

Were this speech being delivered in an English court of law, there the case might be expected to rest. But the speaker continues

(27-8): Apart from this... . it is only right that you should consider what kind of people both sets [of claimants] are. Thrasippos, the father of Hagnon and Hagnotheos, has before now performed liturgies and made contributions, and generally been a keen citizen (spoudaios). The brothers themselves have never gone away [from Athens], unless they were sent by you; and, while staying here, they are not unhelpful (akhréstoz) to the polis: they serve in the army, they make contributions of tax (eisphora), and—as everyone knows—they behave in an orderly way (Rosmious parekhousin). It is therefore much more fitting that they should claim to receive the property of Nikostratos by gift (kata dosin) than Khariades.

The speaker then draws a sharp contrast with the past behaviour of Khariades, who, ‘when residing here, was first caught in the very act of theft and thrown into prison’. There follow alleged details of how Khariades was illegally released, resulting in what the speaker implies was the mass execution of the eleven officials responsible for letting him go; after which he was denounced before the Council as a malefactor (kakourgos), before quitting Athens for seventeen years, returning only on the death of Nikostratos. The speech closes with this denunciation (29-30): He has never once served on your behalf as a soldier, nor paid up any eisphora—except, perhaps, since he laid claim to the estate of Nikostratos; nor ? The translations from the Orators that follow are taken, with minor adaptations, from the Loeb editions. Square brackets enclose additional material intended to make clearer the sense of passages quoted out of context. In the belief that virtually all speeches preserved under the name of Demosthenes are genuine productions of the fourth century, I have not indicated cases where the attribution to Demosthenes is in doubt.

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has he performed any other liturgies. And now, though such is his character, so far from being content if he avoids punishment for his misdeeds, he actually claims the property of others . . . Remember the laws and oaths you have sworn, and also the witnesses we have brought before you, and vote for what is just.

That peroration is a prime example of what might be called the ‘public service theme’, a motif which, in one form or another, is a commonplace in the forensic speeches of the Attic Orators. In its simplest form, the litigant seeks to win over the jury by parading the services he has performed for the polis, regularly claiming to have carried out more than the bare minimum required by law. By the same token, opponents are blackened by accusations that they have skimped on their public obligations. The key term here is ‘liturgy’ (discussed further below), which might be rendered literally as ‘service to the people’. “This man deserves no mercy’, says one of Lysias’ clients (31.12), ‘... for he did not lack the means for performing liturgies, as I shall establish. If, then, he was as ill-disposed as he was able to help, how should he not be hated with good reason by all of you?’ 11.

THE

PUBLIC

SERVICE

THEME

The theme of public service with all its ethical and judicial ramifications runs right through the corpus of the Orators. Among the earliest surviving examples of forensic oratory, dating from the later fifth century, are the so-called Tetralogies or ‘practice speeches’ of Antiphon: stripped-down pairs of law-court speeches, presenting in skeleton form arguments for or against an imaginary 3 Cf. Dem. 65.66: opponent is wealthy enough to give dowry of 100 minas but has never performed any liturgy; Dem. 42.3: opponent is far richer than speaker but has never taken on liturgies or paid up eisphkora. Public services tend to get mentioned close to the beginning or end of a speech where they might be expected to catch the jurors’ attention: Isaios 4.45, denunciation in peroration of failure of opponent to expend resources on polis; Lys. 21.24-5: ‘In performing liturgies I never counted the cost and therefore ask for the kharis from you of which I am worthy’ (cf. And. 4.42; Lys. 3.47; Dem. 27.24). Alternatively, litigants might contrive to refer to their public services in passing, as if casually. Dem. 45.3: ‘my opponent married my mother while I was away from Athens serving as trierarch “for you”’ (repeated 46.20); Dem. 53.4-5: ‘my neighbour looked after my affairs whenever I served as trierarch; on the occasion in question I left in a hurry to carry the elected ambassadors to Sicily’; Dem. 45.54: ‘because of my liturgies and eisphora payments some of my belongings are acting as security, the rest have been sold’ (cf. Is. fr. 34)

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case.* In the second speech from the First Tetralogy (12), the pretended speaker is being accused of murdering a person who threatened to bring him into court. I myself, as you will see by examining my past life, do not form plots. On the contrary, I have made many substantial eisphora payments, I have many times served as a trierarch, and I have furnished a brilliant chorus. [He then details his private virtues, helping out friends with interest-free loans and the like.] If my character is such as this, you must not deem me guilty of anything sinful or shameful.

Service as trierarch refers to the bearing of the considerable cost of maintaining and perhaps commanding a trireme for a year; furnishing a chorus meant carrying as khorégos the main expense of a production (dithyramb, tragedy, or comedy) in one of the dramatic festivals; eisphora payments were required of wealthy citizens and metics when the state funds were low. All were the preserve of the wealthy.> The speech for the prosecution that follows in the Tetralogy gives his opponent’s imagined counter-argument (3.8): ‘His eisphora payments may be sufficient indication of his wealth, but they are the opposite of evidence for his innocence. It was precisely so that he should not lose his fortune that he killed the man [and so stopped him bringing his case to court].’ The public service theme recurs in Antiphon’s ‘genuine’ law-court speeches. The non-Athenian defendant in the speech On the Murder of Herodes tells how his father often acts as khorégos for Mytilene and always pays the taxes he owes to Athens (5.77).° In both passages from Antiphon, and often elsewhere, public services are ostensibly mentioned as proof of good character (‘how, then, can I be guilty of the charge against me?’); but always implicit + The authorship and precise date of the Tetralogies remain in dispute but the work is generally agreed to have been written in the lifetime of Antiphon. For basic bibliography and possible purpose behind its composition see Carawan (1993). 5 'There are brief entries on ‘trierarchy’, ‘choregia’, and ‘eisphora’ in the Oxford Classical Dictionary.? Liturgists as the wealthy: Gabrielsen (1994), 213-17; as pointed out by Cohen (1992), 196, the cheapest liturgy (300 drachmas) was roughly equal to the annual earnings of a skilled workman. ὁ "The choruses presumably refer to local festivals in Mytilene (cf. Isoc. 19.36 for Siphnos); the mysterious taxes (tele) owing to Athens are tentatively identified by Maidment, the Loeb editor, as ‘nothing more than the payment of harbour dues’. An alternative would be to take the speaker’s father as one of the wealthy Mytileneans (he acts as khorégos) on whom the burden fell of paying the annual tribute levied by the Athenians. Another speech of Antiphon, On the Khoreutés (6), defends a khorégos accused of administering poison to a member of his chorus.

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is the idea of reciprocity: giving something good to the polis that deserves an appropriate return. Elsewhere, the motive of reciprocity is made more explicit. There is the celebrated (or notorious) twenty-first speech of Lysias, in which the unnamed speaker defends himself against a charge of taking bribes. What survives seems to be a fragment: the peroration of a longer speech. The speaker opens these concluding remarks as follows (1): ‘In regard to the counts of the accusation, men of the jury, you have been sufficiently informed; but I must ask your attention also for what has yet to be added, so that you may understand what kind of person I am before you cast your votes.’ Again, there is the notion that the crime of which the litigant stands accused is entirely out of character; and there follows, by way of illustration, a catalogue of his public services. The list takes up three pages of text (1-5), and totals up to an expenditure on liturgies over an eight-year period of approximately nine-and-a-half talents; by itself an impressive fortune. The speaker claims that this was more than four times the amount he was obliged by law to expend (5).” Moreover, it was thanks to his lavish expenditure on hiring skilled oarsmen and a steersman, who was (as he says) ‘the best in Greece’, that his was one of the few ships to escape from the disaster at Aigospotamoi (10). Eventually, the speaker explains, in lightly veiled terms, what he would like in return for all this (11-12): After so many dangers encountered in your defence, and after so many benefits (agatha) bestowed on the polis, I do not, as do others, ask for a gift (dorean) in return for these things, but rather that I be not deprived of my property. ... It’s not that I mind having to give up my possessions, but I could not endure insult; nor the impression it must produce on those who dodge their liturgies that, while I am without gratitude (akhartstos) for what I have spent on you, they prove to have been rightly advised in giving up to you no part of their own property.

Although this statement goes to the heart of the idea of reciprocity inherent in appeals to the public service theme, there is, as often, some elaboration. The significant term here is kharis, which is either a favour bestowed or one owed in return.® The speaker in the 7 Davies (1971), 593, makes out a plausible case for the speaker as over-spending on liturgies in order to compensate for his father’s (and possibly his own) known oligarchic sympathies (see below, n. 37 for the differently motivated Apollodoros, son of Pasion). 8 On Rharis see Millett (1991), 123-6; also MacLachlan (1992). Arist. NE 1133°2-4 emphasizes the part played by reciprocity in bonding the community

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Lysias fragment wants to be shown kharis by the jurors: if they find against him, he will be, as he says, ‘without kharis (akharistos)’. But he presents the kharis he requests as something modest: not a return gift in the sense of something extra; rather, he merely wants to continue to enjoy his property unmolested. In his closing words (24-5), he is more explicit, telling the Jury that, in return for his expenditure and the risks he has run, ‘I expect from you the kharis of which I am worthy’. Other litigants are equally open about their motives. The speaker of another speech of Lysias, who stands accused of subverting the democracy, enumerates his public services (five times trierarch, four sea battles fought, many contributions of eisphora in wartime, numerous other liturgies), and then says bluntly (25.13): ‘My purpose in spending more than was enjoined on me by the polis was to raise myself higher in your opinion, so that if any misfortune should befall me, I might stand a better chance in court’.? The idea of a quid pro quo for public services is regularly extended into a conditional promise for the future. Typically, the litigant suggests that a verdict in his favour will actually be in the material interests of the jurors themselves. Here is how the motif is handled by the nine-and-a-half-talent liturgist (21.12-14): If you are persuaded by me, you will vote for what is just (ta dikaia) and also choose what is to your own advantage. You see, men of the jury, how slender are the revenues of the polis, and how even these are pilfered by the persons set over them. You ought, therefore, to see the surest revenue for the polis in the fortunes of those who are willing to perform liturgies... . And I think that you are all aware that you will find me far superior, as steward of my property, to those who control the property of the state. together: “That is why men give a prominent place to a shrine of the Kharites, so that there will be a return of benefits received. For this is what is special to kharis: when someone has shown kharis to us, we must do a service for him in return, and also ourselves take the lead in showing kharis again.’ In Athens, there was a shrine to the Kharites (also to Demos and Aphrodite Leader of the People) hard by the north entrance to the agora, itself scene of the courts where many of the speeches with which we are concerned were delivered. On the relationship between reciprocity, democracy, and the Athenian agora see Millett (forthcoming). ° See also Lys. 20.31, 16.17: ‘I made contributions to fellow-demesmen marching out and fought bravely so, if ever I were involved in any unjust prosecution, you would have a better opinion of me’; Pap. Ryl. 3.489 col. 3 lines 60-76 (On behalf of Eryximakhos, charged with having stayed in the city): ‘I ran risks and spent lavishly on your behalf so that the state might be prosperous and, if ever I were in court on a false charge, I might feel more confident.’

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Similarly, the speaker in On the Property of Aristophanes (19.64) combines a plea for justice with an appeal to enlightened selfinterest. After outlining his present and potential public benefactions (acting as trierarch and providing sums of money for the public good), he ends the whole speech with the words: ‘In taking this course, you will be voting for what is just, and also advantageous to yourselves.’ Demosthenes closes his Second Speech Against Aphobos (29.24) with an identical appeal: how the rightful restoration of his property will result in kharis to the démos, leading to liturgies. In this way, the cycle of reciprocity between litigant and démos is conceived as extending into the future, without the precise balance being struck that might signal reciprocal relations were at an end. ‘Do not deprive yourselves of what you can reasonably hope for from me, and I from you’ are almost the last words Andokides addresses to the jury in his speech On the Mysteries (150).1°

Although the ultimate motive behind these appeals is undeniably that of self-interest, the relationships between litigant and jurors are marked out in language entirely appropriate to reciprocity. The speaker in Isokrates’ Against Kallimachos (18.66-8) is scrupulous in his appeal for fair exchange. He details honours he and his brother received for services rendered in the latter stages of the Peloponnesian War (see below), and argues that: ‘We showed ourselves worthy of this honour. . . so that with the mass of the citizens there might be kharis owed to us. It is this we beg of you now, not seeking to have more than is just. . .. Similarly, the defendant in Lysias 18, threatened with the loss of his property, describes the trierarchies and eisphora payments he and his brother have borne. He continues (20-3): ‘. . .this is the sole kharis that we ask you for all we have done—that you do not allow us to be reduced to destitution.’'! 10 For the notion that imbalance in what is given and given back ensures the continuation of reciprocal relations, see Millett (1984). William Faulkner’s Intruder in the Dust (1948), set in the American South, gives a vivid if fictional illustration of the failed attempt of a white boy equally to match favours with an elderly negro (23): ““Here’s something for you,” she said. It was a gallon bucket of fresh lemonade sorgum molasses... And that was all. They were right back where they had started; it was all to do over again.’ 1! More complex is the rhetoric of Andokides’ appeal for kharis in On his Return (2.10-23). He wishes to be allowed back from exile. According to his reckoning, he was unjustly banished. To be allowed to come back is therefore his due. If the jurors will not swallow that, in Athens’ hour of need he has arranged for a substantial

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Modern reactions to the blending in Athenian courts of the public service theme with the rhetoric of reciprocity have varied from shocked indignation to amused indulgence. By way of illustration, there are the observations from the early years of this century by William Wyse (1904), the great commentator on Isaios, in his introductory note to the section of the speech On the Estate of Nikostratos quoted earlier. Apart from its tone, the passage also serves to introduce some of the main ways in which the public service theme is manipulated by the Orators. The intrusion of the public services of Thrasippus and his sons [Hagnon and Hagnotheos], when the matter to be decided was the genuineness of Nicostratos’ will, appears to a dispassionate reader unseasonable and improper. Athenian pleaders, aware of the frailties of their audience, knew that extraneous considerations of this sort were not to be neglected, especially in a peroration. What in this case is notable is the orator’s moderation; probably his material is meagre . . With what exuberance Isaeus can amplify this topic, even when most irrelevant to the issue, will appear in [two later speeches of Isaios] V.35 sqq., VII.37 sqq. In this respect, he is neither better nor worse than his brother practitioners [of forensic oratory]. The appeal to the pockets of the judges in VI.61 is not one whit more impudent and coarse than Demosthenes’ peroration in the second speech against Aphobus . . . The well-to-do Athenian, who in private groaned over the burdens of democracy and the ‘tribute’ (phoros) exacted by the people. . . descanted on his generosity and public spirit (philotimia), when confronted by rows of jealous democratic judges, and asked, sometimes very plainly, for a recompense from the people’s representatives .. . The adversary’s trump card was a longer list of benefactions . . . If poor, his resource was to denounce the mendacious boasting . . . and general insolence of the rich, and to remind the judges of the solemnity of their office: “This is not the question on which you have to pronounce under oath,’ “The world will conclude that you have put this money before the laws and your oaths’ . . . Old men, who earned their living by attendance in the courts, must have been familiar with every move in the game.'? amount of grain to be imported from Cyprus. In return for this great benefit, he requests a tiny amount of kharis (kharin mikran). So he is either asking for what he is owed anyway (aitö), or asking for a return favour (apaité). 12 For the sake of convenience, the supporting references given by Wyse are here collected separately. Groaning over the burdens of democracy: Xen. Smp. 4.32; Lys. 29.4; Isoc. 8.128; 12.145; Dem. 24.198, 38.26, 47.54; Thph. Char. 26.6; Anaximenes c.2 Rh.Gr. Ip. 22, 5 (In a democracy . . . care must be taken that the laws may prevent the people from plotting against those who hold property and may inspire in the wealthy a voluntary ambition to undertake the common liturgies.’) Plainly asking for a recompense: Lys. 3.47, 7.31, 21.12, 25; Isoc. 16.35, 18.58; Dem.

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This judgement reflects the broadly negative view that used to prevail of the Athenian legal system. The inescapable comparison, so far as Wyse and others were concerned, was with the judicial process in contemporary English courts of law.'? It so happens that, in English courts, there was then, and still is today, strict control on what is admissible as evidence. For example, in a criminal trial, prosecuting counsel may not ask the defendant about his or her character. But should a defendant volunteer evidence that he or she has a good character, then cross-examination may then take place to show that the defendant has, in fact, a bad character. There are further complications arising out of attacks by the defendant on the character of a witness for the prosecution, and also the concealment by defendants of previous convictions by declining to enter the witness box. In fact, it could be argued that some of the anomalies of the Criminal Evidence Act of 1898 (still the basis of the law relating to criminal evidence) make the Athenian system of ‘anything goes’ seem positively attractive. It may be significant that the one early commentator who has a kind word for the Athenian approach should be Charles Rann Kennedy, the Bohn translator of Demosthenes, and himself a barrister.'* More than a century later, textbooks on advocacy written for the modern English legal profession have little or nothing to say about the construction and deconstruction of character. Far more space is given over to the art of

20.151, 21.151, 25.76, 78, 36.41, 38.25, 40.48. Longer list of benefactions: Dem. 21.154. Denouncing mendacious boasting: Isoc. 7.53; Dem. 36.40. Putting money before the laws: Dem. 21.169, 225, 22.43, 45, 36.42; Lyc. 139, 140. '3 Such is Wyse’s judgement on Athenian courts in his brief, synoptic treatment of ‘Greek Law’ in Whibley (1931), 43: ‘. . .the speeches of the orators are a convincing proof, if proof be needed, of the vices inherent in such a system. The amount of injustice done cannot now be estimated, but it is sufficient condemnation of the courts, that appeals to passion and political prejudice, insinuating sophistry and outrageous misrepresentations of law were judged by shrewd and experienced observers suitable means to win a verdict.’ For collected opinions of a similar stamp: Bonner and Smith (1938), ii. 288-306; more recently: J. W. Jones (1956), 121: ‘this darker side of the democratic picture’. For explicit contrast with English judicial practice: Powell (1988), 299. '4 See his forward-looking ‘Character of the Athenian Tribunals’; Appendix v1 to Kennedy (1848), iv. 351-77, esp. 355. Kennedy’s appendices to the Bohn Demosthenes were not bettered as an introduction to Athenian economy and society until well into the present century. For Kennedy’s mixed fortunes as a barrister and his varied literary output, see vol. x of the original Dictionary of National Biography.

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cross-examination, which hardly finds a place in the Athenian legal process.!° Comparisons with modern legal practice are helpful not so much in making moral judgements as highlighting significant differences between the two systems. The Athenian courts might usefully be thought of as aiming not at the delivery of verdicts in accordance with some abstract concept of ‘justice’, but rather the settlement of disputes in the interests of the wider community.!° Such a reading would help make sense of repeated appeals based on the principle of reciprocity, so familiar to the jury, combined with the promise of benefits for the future that older commentators find problematic. Of course, even Athenian litigants had to pay at least lip-service to the idea of justice (Lys. 19.64: a verdict both financially expedient and also just). After all, the oath sworn by all jurors contained the injunction to hear each side impartially and give the verdict strictly on the charge named in the prosecution (Dem. 24.151). It will be recalled how Isaios’ On the Estate of Nikostratos (30) ends with an appeal for the Jury to reach a verdict in accordance with the laws, their oaths, and what is just.'”

15 Almost one third of the classic study of The Art of the Advocate by Richard du Cann (1964) is given over to the technique of cross-examination. The helpful chapter on ‘Evidence of Character’ in Evidence and Advocacy by Murphy and Barnard (1986), 77-93, makes it all too clear why (as they put it) "The value of calling character witnesses is sadly underestimated in modern trial practice’ (79). In fact, the scope for demonstrating good or bad character is hedged around with complex restrictions. The distinguished barrister, Patrick Hastings (1949), 13-20, vividly records the risk he took at the beginning of his career in attacking the character of a litigant he suspected of fraud. 16. The ‘otherness’ of Athenian law was a major theme of Todd and Millett (1990); see further Todd (1993), 3-29; Allen (1996). Note also the brief but judicious survey by Carey (1994), esp. 182-4: character assassination and self-praise were not quite the whole story in securing a verdict. 17 Adkins (1960), 201-5, makes uncharacteristically heavy weather of the supposed distinction between what is advantageous to the polis and what is, in the strict sense, just. Surely no litigant would make so bold as to even hint that a verdict in his favour, however beneficial to the community, would be unjust (see above, ἢ. 9)! The case cited by Adkins (Lys. 27.1-2) reports what the speaker’s opponents are alleged to have done: secured convictions by arguing that the jurors’ pay was at stake. No doubt in the original trials (if they ever took place) both sides felt free to argue that awarding them the verdict would be both just and advantageous. As a parallel might be cited the Athenian attitude towards the receipt of political gifts: only a ‘bribe’ (and reprehensible) if taken against the interests of the polis (Hyp. 5.24-5). But, as Harvey (1985), 108-13, reminds us, ‘public interest’ was open to fiercely conflicting interpretation.

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The final part of Wyse’s digression on the Nikostratos speech calls for further comment: his idea that old men, earning their living through jury pay, would be ‘familiar with every move in the game’ of manipulating the public service theme. The problem here is not so much Wyse’s over-literal reading of the Wasps, as the implication that variations on the theme of reciprocity represent empty posturing. The difficulty arises because of Wyse’s tendency to read forensic speeches off the page as if pieces of theoretical literature rather than speeches subject to the constraints of the courtroom. This is evident in his conviction that the rhetorical tricks and devices detectable in every one of Isaios’ speeches mean that he never had a client who was in the right: a manifestation of the deeprooted conviction that rhetoric must necessarily be the enemy of truth and sincerity.!® Against Wyse’s reading, the frequency of the public service theme, the subtlety with which it is manipulated, and the length to which it is occasionally drawn out, all mark it down as more than a mere rhetorical game. Why else would litigants regularly make a point of undercutting their opponents’ actual or predicted appeals to liturgies (Lys. 12.38, 26.3; Dem. 21.225, 25.76)? Several speeches have extended treatments of the theme that are integral to the wider presentation of the case. Here, the speakers make the idea of public service do far more for their cause than simply stake out a claim for a suitable return. In Lysias’ On the Property of Aristophanes (19), the defendant seeks to persuade the jury that his late father had not embezzled any of Aristophanes’ estate, which he was holding in trust. He argues initially that his father was hardly the kind of person to covet the property of others (9-10): ‘. . . in all his life he spent more on the polis than on himself and his family: twice the amount that we have now, as he often reckoned in my presence. So you must not rashly convict of guilt the man who spent little on himself but a great deal on you each year.’ Towards the end of the speech (37-9) there is 18 In the case in question, Wyse argues that the speaker has failed to prove the key point at issue: how Nikostratos was the son of Thrasymakhos and not (as claimed by Khariades) son of Smikros. But this underplays the fact that the surviving speech is supplementary to a preliminary address by one of the brothers. A powerful historical case is made ‘in defence of rhetoric’ by Vickers (1988). For an occasion on which manifest rhetoric was coupled with sincerity of emotion see the eyewitness account of Churchill’s BBC broadcast on the death of King George VI by Lord Moran

(1966), 372-3.

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read out to the jury a detailed account of the father’s activities across fifty years as khorégos, trierarch, and public benefactor, on which the son sets a cash value of nine talents, two thousand drachmas. As already explained, the speech closes with the promise that the son will, if acquitted, emulate his father in his own public services. Elsewhere in the speech (29), the theme of public service is manipulated by the speaker to account for the smallness of Aristophanes’ estate as handed on by his father. In the space of four or five years, supported by only a small plot of land, Aristophanes twice acted as khorégos, served three times as trierarch, and made many contributions of eisphora. It is subsequently claimed, after a detailed breakdown (42-3), that these expenditures totalled almost fifteen talents. The problem faced by Thrasyllos, the speaker in Isaios’ speech On the Estate of Apollodoros (7), lay in persuading the jury that he had a stronger claim to the estate of his adoptive father than his rivals, who relied on closeness of kinship. Among other arguments, Thrasyllos contrasts the meanness of his opponents (32), who ‘have allowed a family to die out which was obviously capable of supporting the expense of a trierarchy’, with Apollodoros’ alleged conviction that he (Thrasyllos) would follow his own example in acting as khorégos, trierarch, and going on active service (35). As evidence that Apollodoros’ trust was not misplaced, Thrasyllos points to his service in the current year as gymnasiarch at the Festival of Prometheus, which he performed ‘with philotimia (desire for honour), as all the tribesmen know’ (36). After calling witnesses to bear this out, he launches into his peroration (37): “These are the just grounds on which we claim we are entitled to keep the estate; and we beg that you help us for the sake of Apollodoros and his father, for you will find that we are not unsupportive citizens and are as prothumotatoi (zealous as possible) in your interests.’ He goes on to stress how the father of Apollodoros, in addition to other liturgies, served continuously as trierarch without the permitted interval of two years and also without the support of any co-trierarchs. Apollodoros himself receives lengthy and extravagant praise as one who, unlike the rival claimants to his estate, made no attempt to conceal his wealth, which was used primarily to perform public services (39-40). The speaker neatly brings this point to bear on his claim by reminding the jurors that (41): ‘Such was Apollodoros; and you would justly give back kharis if you confirmed his inten-

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tions as to the disposal of his own property.’ This is followed up by a reminder of how his opponents have frittered away a five-talent estate, which had previously funded the trierarchy, whereas he has already performed liturgies and will continue so to do, if only Apollodoros’ property is given back to him (42). Of the forty-four sections of the speech, ten are concerned with some aspect of public service. Here and elsewhere, a litigant would presumably not want to waste his ration of water in the clock on empty rhetoric. The rest of this chapter explores some of the implications that the public service theme and its deployment seem to have had for wider socio-political relationships within the democratic polis.

11.

LITURGIES

AND

THEIR

SCOPE

The range of activities a litigant could cite to his own advantage (and against his opponent) was extensive. So far, we have encountered: acting as khoregos, serving as trierarch, paying up eisphora and other taxes, serving in the army (cf. Lys. 7.41, Lyc. 140), and— in the case of Hagnon and Hagnotheos—simply staying in Athens and being ‘not unhelpful’. Among other services mentioned in forensic texts are the making of epidoseis, or voluntary contributions to state funds (e.g. Is. 5.37-8; Dem. 18.171, 312), serving as stratégos (Lys. 10.27, 11.9), and providing grain for the polis (Dem. 34.38-9). Services are not always listed in detail, but may be hinted at by the use of praeteritio (mentioning things while claiming to pass over them). A case in point is the peroration to Demosthenes’ speech Against Konon (54.44), where the speaker tells the jury that: I might have much to say .. . about how we have been useful to you, both myself and my father, while he lived, as trierarchs and in the army, carrying out whatever was laid upon us; and I could show that neither my opponent nor any of his sons have done anything. But there is not enough water, nor is it now a question of these things...

In which case, why mention it at all?'? On that occasion, the speaker adopts the common device of appropriating for himself the public services of his father. We have met this before with reference 19 Similar cases of praeteritio: Isoc. 18.58: ‘I shall say nothing about all my other liturgies’ (two pages follow); Dem. 38.25-6: ‘all this (skimping on liturgies) I shall pass over’ (embedded in a page of accusations); Dem. 8.70: the litigant refuses to respond to imaginary challenge to say what good he has done for the polis by declining to mention his trierarchies, choruses, eisphora payments etc. etc.

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to the trierarchies and contributions of the father of Hagnon and Hagnotheos and also of the defendant’s father in On the Property of Aristophanes.?° It was also apparently legitimate to widen the net beyond immediate family, and appeal to the deeds of one’s ancestors (Dem. 59.117). Such is the technique of Andokides in his speech On the Mysteries, where imagination is let loose to the point of fabrication. Andokides reminds the jury of the leading role played by his great-grandfather Leogoras in crushing the tyranny of Peisistratos at the Battle of Pallene (106). In the Herodotean version (1.62-4), it was by his victory at Pallene that Peisistratos finally established his control over Attica. In his peroration, Andokides once again calls to the minds of the jurors the services of his ancestors (147-8). He says: “Yet never once has any member of my family appeared on trial before you and asked you to show kharis for these deeds. So, although they are dead, at least do not forget what they did. Remember their achievements. Imagine that you can see them in the flesh, begging you for my life.’ He won his case. By the same token, it was open to a litigant to attack the alleged misdeeds of his opponent’s ancestors (Lys. 14.24, 30.1). Nor was it necessary to call a halt with the doings of one’s family. If Lykourgos can be believed, kharis in return for public service could be a transferable commodity even between those who were not related by birth or marriage. In his Against Leokrates (135-9) he expresses exasperation that the speakers supporting his opponent will cite their own liturgies on his behalf. Ingenuity could be brought into play in other ways to create an impression of public service. The speaker in Lysias’ In Defence of Mantitheos (16) has to persuade the jury that he is a fit and proper person to serve on the Council of Five Hundred. Not possessing the wealth to perform the usual liturgies, he therefore tells the jurors about all the negative things he has not done (11-12): how he has not got mixed up with the ‘fast set’ who spend all their time drinking and gambling; how he has not been involved in any scandalous court case. ‘Yet (he says) you see others frequently involved 20 Cf. Dem. 25.78, 45.85. Variations on the parental theme: Isoc. 16.35: speaker claims to be too ashamed to talk about the services of his father (Alkibiades) as khorégos, gymnasiarch, and trierarch as being so dazzling as to make everyone else’s seem trivial; Dem. 42.22: attack on opponent for not emulating his own father and fatherin-law, both of whom set up tripods for choregic victories. On the inheritance of parental liturgy obligations, see Gabrielsen (1994), 60-7.

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in such trials.’ Finally, if all else failed, it was possible to write one’s own ticket as to what really mattered. According to a fragment of Isaios (fr. 35), ‘I consider that the best kind of liturgy is orderly and sober conduct in everyday life (cf. Lys. 21.19). Alongside all this self-praise are the attacks launched on opponents for failing to come up to scratch. There are the inevitable accusations of falling down on obligations as liturgists and skimping on eisphora payments: Dinarchos (1.69) accuses Demosthenes of contributing only fifty drachmas out of a fortune of twenty talents; Demosthenes (19.282) accuses Aiskhines and his family of never contributing anything. There are also charges of avoiding service in the army (Isoc. 18.47), and even being responsible for the deaths of some of Athens’ best men (Lys. 13.62-4). Again, it was possible with a little ingenuity to raise up prejudice against those who might otherwise seem blameless. So Demosthenes accuses his opponent Androtion of failing to prosecute people who ought to have been prosecuted (22.66). And if your opponent had indeed been performing his liturgies, all was not lost. The speaker in Lysias’ speech On the Scrutiny of Euandros (26.3-4) tells the jury that he hears that his opponent intends to say very little about the facts of the case, but to rely on the extent and grandeur of his family’s liturgies. ‘I find no difficulty in countering these statements’, he says, and goes on to argue that all those liturgies of Euandros’ father leave a bad taste in the mouth. It was by performing them that he won the confidence of the démos, which he subsequently betrayed, giving his support to the Thirty Tyrants. Alternatively, there is the technique of Isaios (5.36), who has a litigant concede that his opponent three times acted as khorögos, but put on such feeble displays that he twice came last.?! Looking at the different types of public service mentioned in the Orators, only one trend is discernible over time: the decline in references to horse-breeding and chariot-racing identified by J. K. 21 "This belittling of choregic service is part of an extended attack (41) on the opponent’s failure to use his allegedly large fortune in the public interest (he promised in the assembly a contribution of three hundred drachmas—less than even Kleonymos the Cretan—and still failed to pay it). There was obvious scope for greater or less ostentatious expenditure as a khorégos. Arist. NE (1123*23-4) characterizes the man given to vulgar excess as one who sponsors a chorus and “brings them on to the stage in purple as they do at Megara’. A fragment of the fourth-century comic playwright Antiphanes (Kock fr. 204) jestingly refers to khoregoi who dress their choruses in gold cloth, reducing themselves to rags.

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Davies (1981, 102-3).”? Perhaps provision of grain has, as might be expected, a higher profile in post-imperial Athens (Isoc. 17.62; And. 2.19-22; Dem. 34.38-9). Lykourgos, speaking under the shadow of Macedon, can argue that expenditure for ‘display’ purposes on choruses, horsebreeding, and the like does not deserve any Rharis (139). What really matters, he says, is service as a trierarch, providing walls for the city, and making contributions towards the safety of the polis as a whole. But that is an isolated statement, in part intended to undercut the claim to kharis of those speakers supporting his opponent. What seems striking is actually the stability of the references to public services. The Orators keep coming back to the same three things: serving as a khoregos, as a trierarch, and paying eisphora—the triad mentioned by Antiphon in his Tetralogy (cf. Lys. 7.31, Dem. 18.27). Concerning the scope of liturgies, the study by Lewis (1960) of ‘Leitourgia and related terms’ is fundamental. Briefly, Lewis identifies four broad and overlapping meanings which emerge over time. The original sense of leitourgia is the technical meaning referring to specific state services required of wealthy citizens and metics. In the time of Demosthenes, there were approximately one hundred liturgical appointments each year, of which the trierarchy and the khorégia are the best known. The others were mainly concerned with supervision of athletic contests (gymnasiarkhia) and religious ceremonies involving banqueting (hestiasis) and processing (arkhitheoria). From the end of the fifth century, leitourgia took on the broader meaning of any service to the community. As we have seen, this ambiguity is regularly exploited by the Orators to give an impression of formal liturgical obligations which may not have existed. The third meaning (found from the later fourth century) designates a service of any kind, where the beneficiary need not be the community; and the fourth meaning is the one surviving in common use today, of cultic service to a divinity. In what follows, it is liturgy in its original, technical sense that is under scrutiny.”? 22 For the ambivalent, but broadly suspicious, attitude of the mass of Athenians towards their cavalry and those breeding horses for it, see the detailed accounts by Spence (1993), 216-30; Burgh (1988), 120-83. The speaker in Lys. 19 (62-3) is at pains to stress that his father’s breeding of fine horses and scoring victories at the games was intended to bestow honour (time) on the polis. 23 Including payment of eisphora. Certainly classed as honorific was being nominated as payer of proeisphora: a pre-payment of eisphora on behalf of a designated

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In broad terms, ways in which liturgies are conceived and presented seem to exemplify some of the tensions present in the polis, and also to hint at ways in which those tensions might be resolved: conflict, as it were, under control. A crucial quality of liturgies is that they were simultaneously obligatory and honorific. As Isokrates put it (12.145): ‘liturgies are burdensome to those to whom they are assigned, but do bestow a kind of status (timé).’ The intersection of those two elements and the tension between them makes liturgies a potentially fruitful field for understanding Athenian social relations. There is, of course, nothing new about this idea. J. K. Davies (1971, 1981), Ober (1989), and, most recently, Gabrielsen (1994) have made liturgies central to their explorations of politics and society in Athens. But things remain to be said, and their analyses can be extended and qualified.?* Iv.

LITURGIES

AND

SOCIAL

RELATIONS

Particularly influential has been the analysis of liturgies by J. K. Davies, as presented in his Athenian Propertied Families (1971, pp. Xvli-xx), and at greater length in Wealth and the Power of Wealth in Classical Athens (1981, 88-132). Davies argues that the Athenian élite (or a part of it) fought back against the egalitarian tendencies of democracy by the systematic deployment of wealth, particularly through the performance of liturgies: what he calls ‘Property Power’. Ober’s presentation is more difficult to sum up (1989, 226-30), but he sees liturgies and the way they are introduced into forensic speeches as one way, and a major way, in which mass and élite in Athens reached an accommodation with one other. As he puts it (226): “The rich man’s ability and willingness to contribute to the state, and the sense of gratitude the recipients [the démos] felt toward the donor, were primary sources of the positive impressions group of citizens. For details of types and numbers of liturgies (arranged by festival) see J. K. Davies (1967); basic bibliography collected by Wankel (1976) i. 568-9, ii. 1125-7. The older compilation on ‘The Official Services’ by Kennedy (1848) 3, 242-50 is still helpful. Liturgies also took place locally in the demes; for what little is known, see Whitehead (1986), 152 and index. 24 What is sorely needed is a detailed study of the liturgy system in all its aspects. Thanks to Gabrielsen (1994), this now exists for the trierarchy. For brief accounts from complementary perspectives see de Ste. Croix (1953); Hands (1968), 26-48; Adkins (1972), 119-26; Lauffer (1974); Veyne (1976), 185-200; MacDowell (1978), 161-4; Finley (1985), 150-4; Rhodes (1982); MacDowell (1986); Christ (1990); Cohen (1992), 194-201.

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which interacted with the negative impression of wealth to produce a constant tension within the ideology of wealth.’ To an extent, I would agree; but if this was a case of ‘conflict under control’, it was under circumstances in which the démos had the upper hand. The relationship was one of what might be termed ‘lop-sided’ reciprocity, with the wealthy humbly petitioning for a return and the démos, in the person of the jurors, responding as they saw fit.?° This notion of popular control over reciprocal arrangements cuts across Davies’s conception of ‘Property Power’. Here is his wellknown summary statement (1971, xix). Some members of the élite: . counter-attacked, by deploying their assets in the active and artful build-up of a political investment in goodwill. The channels of this investment included public service and the discharge of office, conspicuous consumption on horses, houses, gastronomy, or mistresses, ready willingness in paying levies and subscriptions, but above all ostentatious generosity in the performance of the liturgies which sustained Athens’ navy and adorned her innumerable religious festivals. The motivation was philotimia, the objective /amprotes, and the reward a steady income of kharis from one’s fellow citizens, to be exploited as a lever to office and as a refuge in times of trouble.

The idea of liturgies as constructing a ‘refuge’ presents no difficulty; but calculated expenditure as a positive ‘lever to office’ is more problematical. The main plank of Davies’s argument is the opening section of the speech placed by Thukydides in the mouth of Alkibiades, seeking command of the expedition to Sicily (6.16.1-4): Athenians, I have a better right to command than others . . . The things for which I am abused bring fame to my ancestors and to the country profit besides. The Greeks, after expecting to see our city ruined by the war, concluded it to be even greater than it really is, by reason of the magnificence with which I represented it at the Olympic Games [of 416], when I sent into the lists seven chariots, a number never before entered by any private person. I won the first prize and was second and fourth, and took care to have everything else in a style worthy of my victory. Custom regards such displays as honourable, and they cannot be made without leaving behind 25 Things work differently in our own democracy. Shortly before the Exeter conference, there appeared an article in the Daily Telegraph (26.6.93) in which Mr Stanley Kalms (Chairman of Dixons and reputed to have given £100,000 in personal donations to the Conservative Party) was reported as saying: ‘I expect a Conservative Government for my money’.

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an impression of power... . This is no useless folly, when a man at his own private cost benefits not himself but the city: nor is it unfair that he who prides himself on his position should refuse to be on an equality with the rest.

It goes almost without saying that this forceful statement cannot be taken at face value. The interpretation of speeches in Thukydides is problem enough without the added difficulty of attribution to Alkibiades, who is hardly your typical Athenian politician. A possible reading would be to understand the sentiments expressed as specific to the congenitally outrageous behaviour of Alkibiades, here conceived as a throwback to an earlier phase of Athenian history.”® In fact, Alkibiades’ attitude in the assembly, as portrayed by Thukydides, is reminiscent of the behaviour of Kimon, whom I described as controlling the démos through a kind of ‘personal patronage’ (Millett 1989, 23-5). I also argued there that, as the fifth century progressed, this style of patronal control of the démos became increasingly inappropriate, with the events of 462 Bc and the subsequent ostracism of Kimon as symbolic of the shift in ideology. To put it another way, the relationship with the démos envisaged in Alkibiades’ statement before the assembly is not reciprocal in the sense of an exchange between equals, but vertical, as if between patron and client. Such is the implication of Alkibiades’ alleged refusal to accept that he should be on an equal level with the rest of the démos. It may therefore be unrealistic to take Alkibiades’ statement as illustrating élite behaviour in the later fifth century. With good reason does Demosthenes in his Against Meidias (21.143-50) choose to compare the hubris (insolence) of his opponent with that of Alkibiades (‘made into an outlaw and driven out’). The broad testimony of the Orators suggests that through most of the fourth century the démos were dominant partners in the power play based around public service and reciprocity.?” 26 ‘There are helpful (if conflicting) readings of Alkibiades’ speech by Cornford (1907), 212-13; Westlake (1968), 219-22; Macleod (1983), 68-87; Forde (1989), 75-95. On Alkibiades and Athens in general, see Gribble (1994). 27 Such seems to be the conclusion of Gabrielsen (1994), 226, who begins and ends his study with the thought that fourth-century statements of the public service theme (he cites Lys. 19.62) would have had a ‘disconcertingly alien ring’ to the élite of the earlier fifth century as represented by Kleinias, father of Alkibiades. Carter (1986), 103-5, also identifies the Athenian élite as being ‘on the defensive’ so far as liturgies are concerned.

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One passive response open to the élite was to deploy their ingenuity in concealing quantities of wealth from public view and so lessen or even escape entirely the burden of liturgies. Whatever the scope of this defensive strategy, it is regularly exploited by the Orators as a means of attacking an opponent (Dem 45.66, Aesch. 1.97, 101). The speaker in Lysias’ On Behalf of Polystratos (20.23) reverses the motif by stating that his father must have been démotikos (‘a friend of the people’) because: ‘he might well have made his property invisible and not helped you, but he preferred that you should know about it in order that, even if he chose to behave badly, he could not do so and has to pay eisphora and perform liturgies’ (cf. Dem. 28.3).7° A further problem prompted by Alkibiades’ outburst in the assembly (as reported by Thukydides) is the means by which less flamboyant members of the liturgical class routinely expressed or enjoyed their enhanced status. Material signs of prestige are not immediately obvious. To be sure, for the victorious khorégos for dithyramb and possibly tragedy, there was the possibility of erecting a monument with a suitable inscription to show off the prize tripod. This could have given scope for ostentatious display, though the honour was possibly shared by the tribe appointing the khoregos (Dem. 21.5). The speaker in Isaios’ On the Estate of Dikaiogenes (5.41, cf. 7.40) talks of liturgists setting up ‘dedications, such as the tripods they had received as prizes for choregic victories, in the sanctuary of Dionysos or in the shrine of Pythian Apollo’. We hear from Plutarch of two notable Athenians having choregic tripods in the sanctuary of Dionysos: Aristeides (1.3) and Nikias, whose tripods surmounted a ‘temple’ (3.3; cf. Pl. Grg. 472a). Pausanias describes the ‘Street of Tripods’, leading from the Prytaneion to the sanctuary of Dionysos (1.20.1); so-called because of ‘temples built in 28 A persuasive case for widespread concealment is made out by Gabrielsen (1994), 53-60, also (1986). Concealment of wealth is also stressed by Cohen (1992), 199-201, who mistakenly takes this as evidence that wealthy individuals hardly ever competed to expend wealth in public services. He argues that the existence of the antidosis procedure and its use ‘is very much at odds with the romantic notion that Athenian taxpayers gloried in paying charges and contended in agonistic fervour to advance ever-greater sums’ (198-9). But the references that follow simply show how understandably reluctant liturgists turned to rhetoric to make the best of a bad job. Throughout this chapter, I have tried to show the tension between the practical necessities of politics in democratic Athens and the natural preference of the Athenian élite to preserve their property intact.

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proportion to support a series of bronze tripods, with some very interesting works of art inside’. It could be argued that the location of the tripods in a sanctuary and along an adjoining street had the effect of somehow containing the scope for personal display. Certainly, if every triumphant khoregos had taken up the privilege of setting up a tripod-monument, the area would have been getting crowded by the later fourth century. The behaviour of Theophrastos’ ‘Mean Man’ (26), who wins as khorégos, but sets up only a wooden board with his bare name on, hints at possible alternatives to a tripod monument.?? Appropriately enough, the definition of ‘meanness’ (aneleutheria) which prefaces the character—and may be a late addition—specifies ‘absence of philotimia (love of honour)’. Philotimia is, along with prothumia (see below), the quality often set down in law-court speeches as a motive for taking on public service.?® The enjoyment of conspicuous distinction by members of the Athenian élite seems associated not so much with private display as with acclamation in the assembly and similarly public places. Liturgists who were in some way outstanding in the performance of their services might meet with direct civic recognition. The essential quality to claim here was prothumia or eagerness to serve the polis (as in Lys. 7.31). At its lowest level, this might mean volunteering for liturgies when not under any obligation to do so or spending more than was strictly necessary. It was thought even more praiseworthy to ignore a previous grant of ateleia (exemption from liturgies). Carrying out a liturgy under difficult circumstances might be publicly rewarded. The law protected individuals from carrying 2? 'Themistokles is supposed to have commemorated his victory as khorégos with a plaque (pinakion) including the names of successful poet and archon (Plu. Them. 5.6; cf. Arist. Pol. 1341235). The nature and location of tripod monuments might repay further study (see also n. 35 below). Is it coincidental that the elaborate choregic monument of Thrasyllos which stood apart from the rest of the monuments was (just) post-democratic (320/19)? For a vase painting possibly illustrating the dedication of a choregic tripod, see Edmonds and Austen (1904), 32. 30 Or, as Gabrielsen has it for philotimia, ‘honourable ambition’. The term is briefly but cogently discussed by MacDowell (1990), 378-9, with respect to Dem. 21.159. Demosthenes observes that philotimia properly applies not to conspicuous consumption, after the fashion of Meidias, but rather to the performance of public services. MacDowell notes that this conforms to the ‘new’ and positive appreciation of philotimia common from the later fourth century; see Whitehead (1983); Sinclair (1988), 61-5. For the wrong kind of ambition, see Theophrastos’ ‘Man Suffering from mikrophilotimia’ or ‘Petty-proud Man’ (21).

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out two liturgies simultaneously. When Apollodoros, son of Pasion, was appointed trierarch and, at the same time, detailed off to pay proeisphora, he did not seek exemption, but borrowed extensively to fulfil these heavy obligations (Dem. 50.8-9). He tells the jury how (13), “When the démos heard of this, they gave me a vote of thanks and invited me to dine in the Prytaneion’. The speaker in Isokrates’ Against Kallimakhos (18.58-63) chooses to pass over ‘all my other liturgies’ in order to concentrate on a specific public service. He explains how he was one of the few trierarchs who escaped with his ship from Aigospotamoi and how he and his brother afterwards continued to resist the enemy when all other trierarchs had given up hope. He also made so bold as to escort grain ships to the Peiraieus when Lysander had declared this to be a capital offence. ‘In return for which, you voted that we should be honoured with crowns, and that in front of the statues of the Eponymous Heroes, we should be proclaimed as the authors of great blessings.’3! Public recognition commonly took the form of bestowal of a crown. In his speech On the Crown (18.113-14), Demosthenes lists holders of public office who were granted crowns in return for additional benefactions. Later in the speech (257), he reviews his own career in which he ‘renounced no philotimiai either public or private . . When I decided to engage in public affairs, the policies I chose were such that I was frequently honoured with a crown.’ Appeals for contributions to public funds (epidoseis) would typically be made in the assembly where the scope for publicity might encourage competitive gift-giving (Plu. Alc. 10). Theophrastos’ ‘Mean Man’ (22.3) subverts the process by either keeping his mouth firmly shut or getting up and leaving.? 3! The monument of the Eponymous Heroes in the Agora was also an appropriate place for bad publicity. A speech of Isaios (7.38) refers to a blacklist, posted there, with a rubric which read: ‘These are the men who voluntarily promised the people to contribute money for the salvation of the pelis and failed to pay the sums promised.’ 32 Volunteer liturgists: Christ (1990), 156 ἢ. 41 (add Isoc. 15.145); lavish expenditure on specific liturgies: Gabrielsen (1994), 50, 122 (and see n. 33 below); the possibility of liturgy-exemption: Gabrielsen (1994), 85-90 with Dem. 20; dinner at the Prytaneion as a public honour: Osborne (1981); publicity for crown-winners: ‘Before the tragedies [at the Great Dionysia] began, first the names of the citizens on whom the special honour of a crown had been bestowed for civic duties were read out before the whole audience. To be so proclaimed before such a vast gathering of citizens was a considerable honour’ (Goldhill 1986), 76; testimony on epidoseis in Athens: Migeotte (1992), 9-46.

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Apart from exceptional performances, were there opportunities for liturgists to publicize their routine services in popular, public contexts? Those active in politics would presumably need to be well supported with liturgies or risk gibes such as Demosthenes threw at Aiskhines and his ancestors (19.282): “What horse, what trireme, what expedition, what chorus, what liturgy, what eisphora, what goodwill, what danger faced—which of these has the polis ever received from them?’ For the opposite extreme from the later fifth century, there is the case of Nikias who, according to Plutarch (Nik. 3.1-2), compensated for what he lacked in Periklean eloquence and charisma through unparalleled expenditure on liturgies.°? But it is difficult to imagine the assembly as a regular arena in which the élite might hold forth repeatedly and unchallenged about their liturgies.3+ As an illustration of the dangers, there are Demosthenes’ sharp comments about Meidias’ alleged harping on his liturgies. ‘We are the liturgists, we are the proeisphora payers, we’ve got loads of money ... In this way, he bores us at every assembly with these tasteless and tactless boasts’, says Demosthenes in his Against Meidias (31.153). This is followed up by a lengthy examination and denunciation of Meidias’ record as a liturgist from every possible angle. It takes up about eight pages of text (151-74) and is a revealing compendium of ways in which an apparently respectable array of public services could be devalued. Demosthenes begins by reporting how Meidias’ associates tried to warn him off the prosecution not on the grounds of his innocence, but because of the range of trierarchies and other liturgies to which he could appeal (151-2). Demosthenes then proceeds to compare unfavourably the range of liturgies which Meidias performed under duress with his own longer list of voluntary services (154-7); Meidias’ gift of a trireme was through a cowardly desire to escape more dangerous service with the cavalry (160-7); moreover, Meidias contracted out his command to another party and eventually used his trireme to 33 Plutarch (3.3) preserves an anecdote about Nikias which, if in any sense historical, illustrates how lavish liturgical spectacle could, with skilful stage-management, enhance reputation with the démos. Nikias publicly granted freedom to one of his slaves who, dressed as Dionysos, was a great success with the audience. 34 Nor were private élite gatherings apparently the right venue. Snide comments from one of the guests at Xenophon’s Symposium (4.32) on how the burdens of wealth make it more enjoyable to be poor, imply that these occasions saw more complaining than boasting (compare the hostile tone of Xen. Oec. 2.5-6; Isoc. 8.128).

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ferry cargoes for his personal profit. In short, Meidias has already received from the démos more than adequate kharis for his modest liturgies so that nothing further is owed to him in his quarrel with Demosthenes (171-4). It is this adversarial aspect of liturgies that I believe needs greater emphasis: not (like Davies) as a route to political power, nor (like Ober) as accommodating rich and poor; but rather as disruptive of élite cohesion. Liturgies were a weapon that the rich turned against each other as much as against the egalitarianism of democracy. What Meidias should have done, says Demosthenes, if he was determined to oppose me, was to set himself up as a rival khorégos (21.68).75 The destabilizing effect of liturgies worked in a variety of ways. On a personal level, the speaker in one of Antiphon’s speeches (6.11) explains how, when he was appointed khorégos, he recruited his chorus ‘without inflicting a single fine, without extorting a single pledge, and without making a single enemy’. Others, presumably, did not emerge unscathed. The accidental poisoning of a chorus member in a misguided attempt to improve his voice was presumably exceptional (Antiph. 4). But forensic oratory provides ample evidence of antagonism arising out of liturgies. Demosthenes (21.13) records the acrimonious exchanges between archon and tribesmen in the attempt to find a khorégos. Another speech attributed to Demosthenes (51) relates the bitter dispute which arose between rival claimants for a crown awarded for the trierarch who was first to have his ship ready for service. Demosthenes’ speech Against Euergos and Mnesiboulos (47) had its origins in the alleged refusal of Theophemos as trierarch to return his ship’s equipment to the public store. Responsibility for its recovery was vested with the plaintiff who, among other misfortunes, ended up trading punches with Theophemos (Gabrielsen 1994, 164-6). The peak for potential disruption was reached through the antidosis procedure, whereby a reluctant liturgist could challenge another citizen, whom he claimed to be wealthier, to take on the liturgy in his place. Should the offer be refused, the challenger could insist that an exchange (antidosis) of properties take place. So 35 For the ‘hiring out’ of liturgies: Gabrielsen (1994), 95-102; private profit from liturgies: Millett (1991), 86-7. For a detailed discussion of Against Meidias 151-74, see the commentary by MacDowell (1990). In portraying Meidias as opposed to paying out for liturgies (203-4) Demosthenes reinforces the impression given elsewhere (esp. 158-9) that his opponent is unsympathetic to democracy.

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drastic are the implications of this process that legal historians have doubted that it ever took place. But even if the full exchange never, or hardly ever, occurred, the preliminaries could still generate overpowering resentment. Demosthenes’ speech Against Phainippos (42) was delivered in a dispute arising out of an antidosis, with the plaintiff complaining that his opponent had concealed part of his property. Demosthenes, in his quarrel with his guardians, gives some inkling of the way in which the antidosis might be manipulated as a weapon. He claims that his opponents sought to embarrass him in his case against them by causing a challenge to exchange properties to be made against him (28.17). His only recourse was to take on the trierarchy in question, which meant borrowing on the security of all his property.?® Underlying the tendency towards personal antagonism lay the danger of excessive expenditure on liturgies. I have tried to show elsewhere how the competitive pressure to over-perform liturgies and other public services regularly resulted in the Athenian elite overreaching their often modest resources. This may in turn be tied in with the instability of wealth that seems to have been a feature of fourth-century Athens.’ v.

THE

OLIGARCHIC

REACTION

The testimony drawn on in this chapter to reconstruct something of the rhetoric of reciprocity has been overwhelmingly that of the 36 At a later date, Demosthenes gave a vivid (though partial) account of the violent and abusive behaviour of those pressing him for an exchange of properties (21.119-21). For legal historians unpersuaded about the reality of antidosis: Todd (1993), 119-21; apparent evidence for full antidosis: Gabrielsen (1994), 92-5, esp. 93 (with Gabrielsen 1987). It is over the impact of antidosis that I exceptionally part company with Gabrielsen’s acute analysis. He stresses two positive functions of the process (94-5): temporarily relieving those who were less wealthy against public service; ensuring those dropping out of the liturgical group found their own replacements. But that leaves out of account the scope for disruptive antagonism, well brought out by Christ (1990), 160-6. 37 Millett (1991), 64-71, to which add the following expressions of financial exhaustion through zealous public service: Lys. 26.22: an estate of more than eighty talents, the whole of which was allegedly consumed in supporting the polis during the Peloponnesian War; Hyp. 1.16: litigant claiming to spend more than his substance could bear on the breeding of horses (for the cavalry). But the classic case of near-impoverishment through excessive expenditure on liturgies must remain Apollodoros, son of Pasion; for details, see Millett (1991), 68-70. As the son of a former slave, Apollodoros felt he had something to prove (Dem. 45.78); his career is the subject of a revealing analysis by Trevett (1992) esp. 39-41.

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popular courts. The presence in most cases of mass juries made it crucial for litigants to strike the right democratic note. Traces survive, however, of an alternative, somewhat submerged ideology. Not surprisingly, the negative aspects of liturgical rivalry were part of standard oligarchic discourse. Theophrastos has his ‘Oligarchic Man’ (26.4) ask rhetorically, ‘When will we cease being ruined by liturgies and trierarchies?’ In posing the question, he echoes the mood a century or so earlier of the author we call “The Old Oligarch’. The latter points out, apparently from exile, how the wealthy in Athens pay for choruses and athletic contests and equipping triremes while the démos get paid for singing, running, and rowing (1.13). As a result, he complains, the poor get rich and the rich become poorer.?® More muted, but similar in their sympathies, were the complaints voiced in mid-fourth-century Athens by the cryptooligarch Isokrates. In On the Peace (8), he presents an overdrawn picture of the rich being moved to lamentation and self-pity by the poverty forced on them by liturgies and taxation and exchanges of property; better by far to be poor than possessing wealth (128). Elsewhere, in the Areopagitikos (7.52-3), Isokrates compares the deficiencies of the democratic present with an imagined past. In the Good Old Days, writes Isokrates, ‘even the public festivals, which might otherwise have drawn many into the city, were not conducted with extravagance or ostentation, but with sane moderation. People then measured their well-being not by their processions or by their efforts to rival each other in fitting out the chorus, but by the sobriety of their daily lives.’ The past as conceived by Isokrates bears a striking resemblance to what we would call ‘oligarchy’. As I have tried to show in this chapter, the liturgy system, as adapted by the Athenians of the later fifth and fourth centuries, was an integral part of the democratic politeia. When, after the Makedonian takeover, democracy in Athens was replaced by oligarchy, the

38 'Thukydides hints that disgruntled liturgists were a force behind the antidemocratic coup of 411 BC (48.1, 63.4). Ongoing attempts to reshape the trierarchy may reflect awareness of the danger inherent in persistently overburdening the wealthy; for details, see Gabrielsen (1994), 173-213. Aristotle plainly saw a direct connection between liturgical organization, stasis, and shifts between democracy and oligarchy (Pol. 1304°20-1305*7, 1309%14-20, 1321°31-45). His disapproval of unnecessary expenditure on festivals gains the approval of Cicero (Off. 2.16).

The Rhetoric of Rectprocity in Classical Athens competitive liturgy system was also dismantled pay and selection for office by lot.??

253

along with public

3? Tt is no coincidence that the death of democracy also saw the ending of the great tradition of Athenian Oratory, closing off our major source of information on liturgies. But one measure firmly ascribed to Demetrios of Phaleron during his ten-year domination of Athens (317-307 BC) is the destruction of the liturgy system: ‘the quintessence of “progressive” taxation’ as Cohen (1992), 194, terms it. Plutarch in his essay on ‘Whether the Athenians were more famous in war or in wisdom’ (Moralia 345C) tells tales of choruses being fed by Rkhorégoi like fighting cocks, topped off by the comment ascribed to Demetrios that tripod monuments were ‘empty memorials of their vanished estates’ (349A—B). Henceforth, festivals and the depleted navy were to be supported from central state funds; see Ferguson (1911), 55-8, who regarded this change as ‘the lifting of a terrible incubus from the backs of the propertied classes’.

12

The Commodification of Symbols: Reciprocity and its Perversions in Menander SITTA

VON

REDEN

INTRODUCTION

In this chapter I aim to show that reciprocity is not only a socioeconomic practice but a local concept of order, peace, and social cohesion.! More precisely, by looking at the images of commerce in New Comedy, I shall argue that the confrontation of reciprocity and commodity exchange, which occurs in more than one play, was a metaphorical confrontation of order and disorder, civic community and its corrosion.” Menander’s motif of the ‘commodification of symbols’—that is, his representation of civic symbols as objects which have a price and are transacted arbitrarily—suggests that commodity exchange was regarded as the moral opposite of civic exchange and thus in certain circumstances detrimental to the polis. Conversely, the moral improvement of characters and the dramatic climaxes of various plays seem to make sense against a background in which the good life was linked to reciprocity and gift exchange. ! Already Marcel Mauss’s Essa? sur le don had an implied philosophical agenda. It not only offered an ethnography but aimed to show that the system of the circulating gift was the foundation of early society; gift exchange meant abstention from violence in favour of solidarity, peace, and community. Thus, he suggested that the gift was the primitive parallel to the social contract regarded in early modern political philosophy as the origin of society. See Mauss (1925), cited from (1990), 65-71, 79-80; also Sahlins (1972), 168-83; Douglas (1990), pp. vili-x; Van Wees, Ch. ı, Sect. iv. ? It thus starts from, and attempts to confirm, the assumption that in the Greek polis the distribution of symbolic goods, such as power, civic and connubial status, as well as divine blessing, could still be envisaged in terms of reciprocity and gift exchange. See Kurke (1991); von Reden (1995); Seaford (1994) argues, by contrast, that the development of the polis and the spread of market exchange and coinage, which was related to it, tended to dissolve notions of reciprocity and gift exchange; thus also Gernet (1981).

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The argument implies two assumptions about the nature of Menandrian comedy which may not be shared by all critics. The one relates to the influence of history on the imagery of comedy and the other to the political direction of Menander’s plays. First, we have to ask whether the interplay between images of the market, of money, and commodity value, and those of reciprocity and gift value should be understood as reflecting a real transformation of the Greek economy. Karl Polanyi (1957) interpreted the expansion of trade and the decline of the polis in the early Hellenistic period as the transformation of an embedded into a disembedded economy. He saw in this period the transformation of morally controlled forms of exchange such as reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange in politically controlled markets into market exchange proper, guided by the profit motive and controlled by the mechanism of supply and demand. Should we assume that New Comedy simply reflects the increasing commercialization of the Greek world? I shall suggest that more complex socio-political issues are at stake. Secondly, we have to ask whether the normative statements that lie behind the motif of the commodification of symbols belong to an intellectual environment which had emerged in opposition to democratic Athens. Arguably, Menander’s representation of the city as a household is a distinctly anti-democratic statement, as it associates civic relationships with those, notably hierarchical ones, of the household (oikos). Reciprocity, too, is a practice that confirms and underwrites asymmetrical relationships. Both anthropologists and classical scholars believe, moreover, that reciprocity is a practice typically found in either para- or prepolitical communities, such as stateless societies, the family, the community between humans and gods, and so forth.? There is thus some reason to argue that systems based on reciprocity and those based on law and a constitution reflect two substantially different systems of power.* 3 See

esp.

Sahlins

(1972),

172-9;

and,

in relation to the

Greek

polis,

Seaford

(1994), 1-10. + Mauss regarded reciprocity as a practice of stateless and marketless societies, while contractual relationships and market exchange require a state to stand over and above the interests of individual communities of exchange. Thomas Hobbes also made the authority of the state the crucial condition for the keeping of contracts, including the social contract, while seeing reciprocity as a force entailed in the laws of nature. See Hobbes (1651), cited from (1968), 209; Sahlins (1972), 176-9. For Rousseau, too, reciprocity lay beyond justice created by the social contract; reciprocity was not historically prior to, but morally beyond, the duties of the state. On Rousseau see, with reference to ancient ideas, Still (1989).

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Although the political plea for reciprocity in the fourth century can hardly be regarded as an attack on the polis as such, it might, nevertheless, imply different thinking about the relationship between oikos and polis from those that had developed in Athens in the previous two hundred years. In particular, it might have meant that power should be based on informal reciprocal relationships, for example that of patronage,? rather than on the vote of the assembly. I would suggest, therefore, that Menander’s representation of household relationships implied an ideological statement about the polis, that it was directed against the political constitution and practice of democratic Athens, and that his insistence on reciprocity was the ethical parallel to this political conception. His contempt for market exchange, and his representation of the illicit commodification of symbols, had little to do with economics, but symbolically rejected the fact that in a democracy politics were influenced by the agora (market place) rather than individual oikoi.* This supposition is strongly supported by the fact that, from the fifth century, Athens had been represented in comedy and rhetoric as a market and its politicians as merchants.’ Seen from this perspective, Menander’s ethical and political assumptions have a much deeper ideological foundation than is suggested by those who simply stress his debt to Aristotle and his school. They rest on, and take further, a political tradition that goes far beyond philosophy. Before turning to the main part of this chapter (11), I discuss the anthropological relationship between reciprocity and commodity exchange, and their use as social metaphors in Greek literature before Menander (1). In conclusion (111) I contrast my reading of Menander with those more commonly found in classical scholarship. 1.

RECIPROCITY,

PEACE,

AND

SOCIAL

COHESION

One of the main problems involved in the concept of reciprocity is that it constitutes a system of economic exchange aimed at the satisfaction of needs, on the one hand, and an ethical principle 5 That the oligarchic model of civic relationships patronage has been argued by Millett (1989), esp. 27; 109-10. © For the importance of the agora in the democratic Osborne (1985), esp. 68-9, 88-92; Ober (1989), 149 ff.; 7 See further von Reden (1995), 105-68.

was indeed comparable to see also von Reden (1995), development of Athens see von Reden (1995), 106-13.

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concerned with social peace and cohesion, on the other (cf. Van Wees, Ch. 1, Sects. rv and v1). While nowadays we tend to see a tension between ethics and economics, reciprocity seems to entail both without the question of priorities: do ut des. Altruism is here the first step in a strategy that also serves self-interest. As Christopher Gill suggests (Ch. 14, 308 below), reciprocity, rather than advocating the ethical priority of others, recommends the co-operative pursuit of common objectives for mutual benefit. Since, in this respect, reciprocity (like commercial exchange) gives scope for selfinterest and the profit motive, it is not obvious why reciprocity is sometimes regarded as a social bond which is destroyed by commodity exchange. Gouldner (1960), has offered the most useful explanation. He suggests, like Mauss, that it is the delay of the return which makes the gift bind people together and thus renders reciprocity a concept of social cohesion. Every exchange creates a debt for a time and it is impossible not to have a relationship with someone to whom one is indebted. As long as valuables are in motion, there will always be society. He makes a further observation that is important for differentiating between the relationship to social cohesion of reciprocity, and of commodity exchange. The continuity of debt relationships in systems of gift exchange is guaranteed not only by the delay of returns but also by the fact that repayments of debts are never quantitatively equivalent to the original gift. This ‘induces a certain amount of ambiguity as to whether the debt has been repaid and, over time, generates uncertainty about who is in whose debt’ (1960, 175). The indeterminacy of both the timing and value of the return makes reciprocal exchange perform its function as an ethical principle and image of social cohesion. Commodity exchange sets an end to the indeterminacy in timing and in the value of the return. The value of commodities is assessed and compared in terms of (quantitative) units of account—such as money—and they are normally exchanged instantly. Although market-places are sites where such exchanges concentrate, the emergence of commodities is not linked to the emergence of markets, but to the transformation of relationships within a community.? Such changes may involve an increasing inadequacy of debt 8 'The classic analysis of the contrast between Gregory (1982). 9. See esp. Sahlins (1972), 204-10.

gift and commodity

exchange

is

Reciprocity and its Perversions in Menander

259

relationships as a framework of politics, or an increasing number of people participating in the network of exchange. Yet it is important to realize that not only economic change but changes within the social, political, and metaphysical order are correlated with exchange behaviour. If this interdependence is acknowledged, we begin to understand why social and political change may result at first in a confusion about the established norms of exchange.!° It has been pointed out, furthermore, that in commodity exchange the most relevant feature is the exchangeability of objects. Objects exchanged as commodities cease to be singular or unique, but instead become arbitrarily exchangeable and commonly available.'1 However, since some exchanges symbolize a society’s most important relationships, not every object can turn into acommodity. As Kopytoff has argued, every culture sets aside certain objects which must not become commodities. As he puts it (1986, 64), °... from a cultural perspective the production of commodities is a... cognitive process . . . Out of the total range of things available in a society, only some of them are considered appropriate for marking as commodities ... Such shifts and differences in whether and when a thing is a commodity reveal the moral economy that stands behind the objective economy of visible transactions.’ Valuables that are most likely to be excluded from commodification are those things which form the moral inventory of a society: public lands, monuments, state art collections, the paraphernalia of political power, royal residences, chiefly insignia, ritual objects, and so on (Kopytoff 1986, 73). Since these objects give their owners determinate places in a social hierarchy, they must not be exchanged freely. If we understand particular exchanges as being the result of particular social systems, and particular objects as symbolic of these, it may become clear why exchange is such a powerful metaphor for social relationships and their transformation. It may also become clear why, in ancient and subsequent

10 This problem has been discussed by Elwert (1987), and is one of the theoretical explanations of bribery, for which see Schuller (1982), 8-29. τ Appadurai (1986a), 6-16; also Kopytoff (1986), 64-8. This approach is developed in conscious contrast to the concept of commodity in political economy where commodities are defined as things produced for the market. This definition, however, makes the concept of commodity exchange dependent on the emergence of markets, which does not account for all those types of exchange which are immediate and based on fixed exchange rates but are not linked to markets.

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Sitta von Reden

literature, disorder is represented in terms of corrupted or unjust exchange.!? Evidence for interpersonal gift exchange within the classical polis is scarce; private gift-giving within the public institutions of democratic Athens was even prohibited. Yet it appears in Greek texts as an image with which community is conceptualized. Most frequently it occurs as a metaphor for the imaginary exchanges between humans and gods, and between the living and their ancestors; but it served also as an ideological description of hierarchical relationships within and between city-states.'? Parallel to this, we find that the failure of individuals to enter relationships of reciprocity—whether on a social, economic, sexual, or religious level— is treated as indicative of social instability and disruption. Alongside representations of physical violence or the refusal to enter relationships at all, we find commerce, money, and counterfeit as metaphors for corrupt relationships and for the decline of values. In the context of political discourse they express an anxiety that the reciprocities on which civilized societies were thought to rest were violently abused or ignored. In tragedy, to take only one genre of Greek literature,'* manifestations of injustice are frequently expressed through the imagery of commerce or corrupted exchange. In a crucial speech about the role of women in the polis, Medeia bewails that women have ‘to buy’ a husband with an excess of wealth, which indicates that she realizes that connubial exchange in the polis is no longer serving its proper function (E. Med. 233-5). Hippolytos, who refuses to marry, thereby setting himself apart from society, exclaims that legitimate offspring should be bought from temples rather than produced by wives (E. Hipp. 620). Moreover, Zeitlin (1965) and Goldhill (1986) have shown how in the Oresteza the disorder of the house of Atreus is reflected in the corruption of a network of interdependent exchanges. Most significant in this context is that Agamemnon calls the purple carpet ‘bought with money’ (argurénétos), before stepping on it to walk to his death. The purple carpet, stripped of its symbolic value by the language of the king, becomes his disas12 On this point in non-classical literature see e.g. Smith (1987); Tanner (1980). 13 It is argued in von Reden (1995) that gift exchange in Homeric epic should not be regarded as the reflection of a working social system but as the narrative complement to rituals of ancestor worship. For gifts to and from gods, see esp. 37 ἢ. 6. For gift exchange and symbolic exchange within the polis, see Kurke (1991). 14 See further von Reden (1995), passim.

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ter.'> In all these instances the language of finance and commodity exchange is a metaphorical expression of the distortion of society (for instance, of marriage, legitimacy, and just rule). Conceptual relationships, too, were sometimes represented as commerce in order to mark misconceptions about them. Thus Sokrates, discussing the meaning of piety in the Huthyphro, asks Euthyphro whether sacrificing meant giving gifts to gods, and whether praying meant asking them for favours. If, moreover, praying means asking the gods for things that one needs, and sacrificing means giving the gods what they need, should this not be called ‘trade’ (emporiké)? Euthyphro gives a positive answer to both these questions and Sokrates does not object (Euthph. 14d-e). A slightly more complicated scenario is presented in the competition of speeches between the tragic poets Aiskhylos and Euripides in Aristophanes’ Frogs. The competition is about giving the best political advice, and, by implication, about the criteria on which such assessments should be based. Specimen lines from the plays of both tragic poets are weighed on a scale. As in another passage (1369) the scale serves to weigh cheese in the market, so here it functions as a symbol of commodity exchange. Aristophanes seems to suggest that in Athens the quality of poetic performance is judged by weight, like any other commodity. For him, it is indicative of the decline of Athenian standards of value that politics and poetry had become commodities.!® These examples, though few in number, illustrate that the representation of social, political, and metaphysical relationships as commodity exchange had become a tradition in Greek literature prior to Menander. However, the tension expressed in such imagery does not derive from that between economy and society, ethics and economics, or morality and self-interest. Rather, it derives from that between (1) relationships that were regarded as socially binding and those that were not, and (2) the type of value (price) of things that can be purchased and the (indeterminate) type of value of civic symbols, which made these symbols objects that could not be exchanged without creating a debt.'” 15 A. A. 947; taken with von Reden (1995), 161-4; on financial language as indicating corrupted reciprocity, see also Millett (1991), 7. 16 For the idea that, as far as poetry is concerned, Aristophanes pursued a personal agenda in Frregs, see Cartledge (1990), 29-31. '7 On the difference between the value of symbols (agalmata in Greek myth) and the value of money (e.g. commodities) see Gernet (1981), esp. 112.

262 1.

Sitta von Reden THE

COMMODIFICATION

OF

SYMBOLS

IN

MENANDER

Even a first reading of the extant work of Menander reveals a striking insistence on the idea that everything in his society is purchasable, has a price, and is desired because of its exchangeability for things that give pleasure. Tokens of recognition, dowries, sacrificial paraphernalia, and other valuables of symbolic significance have a monetary value and their quality is judged in these terms by the characters of the plays. Moreover, the costs of prostitutes (hetairai, pallakai, pornai) are compared to the value of marriage, the costs of bringing up a child with the value of a legitimate heir, and the costs of a cook/butcher (mageiros) to the value of sacrifice. The limited focus on the monetary price of valuable objects and people has the function of reducing the high discourse of politics and ritual to the low discourse of everyday concerns. It aims to bring out the citizens’ lack of authority in the symbolic economy of communal life which they have sacrificed to their greed for money and bodily pleasures. Moreover, the commodification of symbols is set in the context of unstable social relationships, that is, philia based on utility. Civic Friendship In the Duskolos, which was produced in 316 ΒΟ, the main character Knemon, who is an elderly peasant of moderate wealth, isolates himself from society because he has come to the conclusion that the people with whom he lives are bad. Not only does he withdraw from social life and do all the work on his farm by himself (31-2), but he also prevents his daughter from marrying. As Konstan remarks, this expresses a failure to take responsibility for the continuation of his household and cuts the household off from the network of connubial relations that underwrites membership of the polis.'® In the eyes of the others, his solitary life is abnormal and thus bad, yet on closer inspection he seems to have resorted to bad social behaviour because he has come to the conclusion that his fellow citizens on their part do not maintain proper social relationships. Duskolos, literally meaning ‘someone who is hard to satisfy with food’,!® refers to someone who refuses the convivial company 18 Konstan (1995). See also Lowe (1987), 130. 19 LSJ s.v. duskolos. The term may derive from to kolon = he trophe (‘food’). It more frequently occurs in connection with character; but for the antonym eukolos (‘well-tempered’), too, the dietary usage is attested (LS7s.v. eukolos and he eukolia).

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263

of his community. Yet, as we will see below, Knemon is the one who is hard to satisfy with food in a society of gluttons. Attention is drawn to his fellow citizens and their social behaviour. The second major character, Sostratos, a young and wealthy Athenian townsman, woos Knemon’s daughter without success. Although this appears to be a consequence of Knemon’s unwillingness to enter proper social relationships, the language used suggests that the social habits of the suitor are also far from ideal. Asking a friend for a favour he says, ‘I am sure you can be quite useful to me’ (χρήσιμος γ᾽ ef). ‘Useful? How?’ (τί χρήσιμος} is the reply (320-1). The term khrésimos which is emphatically repeated in the reply, calls to mind Aristotle’s distinction between different types of friendship:*° Those who love for the sake of utility [dia to khréstmon philountes| or pleasure [dı’ hédonén] love because of what is good or pleasant for themselve 5, and not in so far as the one loved is who he 15 [i.e. his essence], but in so far as he is useful and pleasant. Therefore, these friendships are just contingent [or ‘incidental’, kata sumbebökos], since the person is loved not in so far as he is who he is but in so far as he contributes benefit or pleasure. So these sorts of friendships are easily dissolved, when the friends do not remain similar [to what they were]; for if someone is no longer pleasant or useful, the other stops being his philos.?!

It is clear from other passages that the association of Sostratos with friendship based on utility (dia to khresimon) and pleasure (di’hedonén) is not an isolated feature but indicative of the soci Ly Knemon rejects. In the conversation just quoted, Gorgias, Sostratos’ friend, talks disapprovingly about Knemon: “He won't have any help—no farm servant, no locally hired labour, no labour

to lend a hand. His chief pleasure (ἥδιστόν ἐστ᾽ adr) is never to set eves on another human being” (330-3). Knemon is criticized for inverting behaviour thought to be normal: while he takes pleasure in having no friends, others have friends to obtain pleasure. Gorgias actively supports the principle of entering into friendship based on pleasure. In another passage Sostratos joins in someone else’s sacrifice uninvited and even invites other people too: ‘TI go >® Parallels between Menander and Aristotle are too frequent to be missed; see Tierney (1936). But this does not mean that the Duskolos was simply derived from Aristotle’s ethical teaching on friendship; see Hunter (1985). 21 Arist. NE 1156°15-20; see further on Aristotle’s theory, Konstan, Ch. 12, Sect. 1; Gill, Ch. 14, Sect. rv.

264

Sttta von Reden

just as I am and invite the young man here, and his servant, to join us. For if they share in the sacrifice (κεκοινωνηκότες | ἱερῶν), they will be more useful allies to support my wedding plans in the future (χρησιμώτεροι | ἡμῖν ἔσονται σύμμαχοι πρὸς τὸν γάμον, 558-61)’. Not only does Sostratos entertain friends at others’ expense, he also makes friends in order to have safe support for his social expenditure.?? It becomes a programme of its own that the duskolos refuses to share the company of such people. He expects the same of them as they do of each other, but he draws different conclusions. Approached by a cook who would like to borrow a libation cup, he opens the door in a bad temper as he expects that the man wants to collect a debt (469-71). Knemon thinks that a sumbolaion (contract) exists for this loan, which was the case only in a very specific kind of debt. Sumbolaia were drawn up only in instances of professional money-lending, usually involving foreigners and high interest rates. Sumbolaia will in most cases have been written for maritime loans as only in these cases were they legally required. In a civic context loans were much more frequently given on a voluntary basis, or reciprocally between neighbours. In these cases, no contracts were written and their return was based on trust.?? If Knemon assumes that the cook is collecting a debt based on contract, he implies that he is treated like a foreigner. Moreover, in Theophrastos’ Characters money-lending at high interest to petty customers is the sign of ‘moral insanity’ or ‘recklessness’ (aponoia, 6.9). For Aristotle, lending at interest was a step further removed from friendship based on utility. Both were inappropriate for the maintenance of relationships between eleutheroi, ‘liberal’ and ‘free’ men. Yet, while in the one case friendship was created for reciprocal profit, in the other unreciprocated profit was made without the involvement of friendship.?* In any case, collecting a contractual 22 "This is exactly the strategy which Xenophon advocates: making gifts to friends secures you a circle of allies when you are in need; see esp. Xen. Cyr. 8. 2. 13-19; also von Reden (1995), 86-7. 23 See Millett (1991), 129-59, 179-96. 24 Arist. Pol. 1257°31-2; also NE 1121531-4; see also the analysis of the relationship between commercial relations and types of friendship in NE 1162>22-1163%9, EE 1242631-1234"14, noted by Gill, Ch. 14, text to his n. 34 below. See also Millett (1991), 179-83, who draws attention to the parallels between Aristotle’s ethical works and Theophrastos’ Characters. On parallels between Theophrastos and Menander see Tierney (1936).

Reciprocity and its Perversions in Menander

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debt suggested maintaining financial relationships with foreigners, and taking large interest rates from them. At the end of the play, Knemon changes his mind and admits his faults. But this is not a simple happy ending where the bad is persuaded by the superior principles: One mistake I did perhaps make, in thinking that I could be completely self-sufficient [autarkés|, and would never need any one’s assistance. Now ... 1 realize that I was stupid to take that line. You always need to have— and to have handy—someone to help you. When I saw how people lived, calculating everything for profit, I swear I grew cynical, and I never even imagined that any man would ever do a kindness to another. (713-21)

The impression remains that he, by being self-sufficient, had been noble all along and quite rightly isolated himself from a community of ignobles. The reasons for his withdrawal are by no means negated at the end of the play. Sostratos, though ostentatiously giving up his idle urban life, remains a rich, profit-orientated man who regards social bonds as a matter of utility. In the last scene of the play he begs his own father to give his daughter to Knemon’s stepson. The arrangement involves the negotiation of dowries. To his father, who is reluctant to give his daughter with an expensive dowry to a family of little means, he says (797-812): Oh, you are talking about money, a very unstable substance. If you’re sure it will stay with you for ever, then be careful never to share what you have with anyone. But when you’re not the absolute owner, when you hold everything on a lease from Fortune, then don’t grudge a man a share of it, Father. For Fortune may take it all from you and bestow it on another, perhaps less deserving person. That’s why I tell you, Father, that while you have control of it use it generously, help everyone, and by your own actions enrich as many people as possible. Such generosity never dies, and if ever you have a fall, it will ensure the same generosity for you in turn. An evident friend [emphanés philos| is much better than hidden wealth [p/outos aphanés].

Although Sostratos advocates generosity and friendship, it is the economic profit that can be derived from friends which he regards as the main benefit. There is a pun involved in the term ploutos aphanés (‘hidden wealth’) which is contrasted to philos emphanés (‘evident friend’). Ploutos aphanés can refer to wealth hidden in the ground, but also carries an allusion to ousia aphanés which in the Attic orators appears as a euphemism for money lent at interest (as

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Gernet points out, 1981, 343-51). Sostratos’ remarks can thus equally well be interpreted as recommending to use friends rather than money for breeding interest. A few lines later, the daughters are exchanged and the value of the dowries compared—three talents to Knemon as opposed to one to Sostratos’ father. Perhaps not accidentally, Knemon’s social strategies have played a profit into his hands after all. Menander judged social relationships based on utility and pleasure as an inferior mode of social interaction. Some parallels can be seen between the ideas of Menander on the one hand and Aristotle and Theophrastos on the other. According to Aristotle, such friendships were unstable in the long term (NE 1156?%21-®6) and thus, we can infer, inappropriate for those who should govern a polis. If we relate Menander’s representation of exchange and friendship to our theoretical model of reciprocity and commodity exchange, its symbolic contours come out more sharply. Those relationships where exchangeability of objects (whether material or non-material) was the most relevant feature, where there was no room for debts based on trust, and where the exchange rates were calculated even in politically meaningful transactions such as dowries, were contrary to political life. Social debts, which were supposed to be created by exchange between citizens, were ignored or eliminated. Sacrifice The representation of sacrificial paraphernalia as bought commodities, together with that of the mageiros (cook) hired in the market, is a further means by which the image of social instability is created. Scodel (1993a, 164-5) has argued that Menandrian representations of sacrifice form part of a tradition which made sacrifice central to drama. In fifth-century tragedy, a proper sacrifice is the ritual symbolization of order, while the interruption, pollution, or perversion of the ritual typically mark failure to establish stable situations of authority. Menander seems to use this motif but transforms it for his own purpose. The inability of the characters to conduct a sacrifice properly indicates their inability to create that order with which they are excessively concerned. The mageiros is a character that enters almost every play. In the real world he was responsible for the order of a sacrifice. It was his duty to slaughter and butcher the animal, to prepare the meat for the feast, to lay the table for the correct number of attendants, and finally to distribute

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the meat according to each person’s place in the social and religious order. He was a specialist who was usually employed, like other specialists in a household, but there was no rule that prohibited sacrificers from fulfilling these tasks themselves (Scodel 19934, 162). The fact that cooks in Menander’s plays are hired is thus not itself abnormal, yet that they are represented as greedy hirelings who are remarkably slow and yet very self-important is significant.?5 It seems that, for Menander, their greed for money and their inefficiency are linked. One is immediately reminded of the representation of seers in tragedy, where the lack of faith in augury presents itself as a lack of trust in seers who are suspected of having nothing in mind but a high reward. Yet the society that Menander represents is not too concerned about the inefficiency of the mageiroi as ritual authorities. The mageiroi are regarded, essentially, as chefs, and their quality is judged above all by that of their cooking (for instance, in Epit. 206-11). Rather than questioning the integrity of mageiroi, Menander questions the rectitude of the people who have the sacrifices carried out on their behalf. We have here a particularly interesting example of the combination of defective reciprocity and defective ritual, as the person who symbolizes the order of ritual is a hired labourer who is arbitrarily exchangeable. This is significant since, as has been argued by Richard Seaford (1994, p. xvii and passim), reciprocity and ritual seem to have been in a process of combined transformation in Athens during the classical period. The combination of the image of commerce (bought labour arbitrarily exchangeable) and of ill-performed ritual (discussed shortly) seems to take up this link, suggesting that, from Menander’s perspective, the commodity nexus between mageiroi and sacrificers was symbolic of the decline of polis rituals. From the Methé only one fragment is preserved, but it illustrates well the point in focus: Our fortunes and our offerings are very much on a par. I bring to the gods a satisfactory little sheep that I bought on the market for ten drachmas, while flute-girls and scent and guitar players, Mendian wine, eels, Thasian wine, cheese and honey came to quite a lot (mikrou talantou)! The benefit (agathon) that we receive back is worth ten drachmas if the gods approve of our sacrifice and you deduct the costs.?® 25 See e.g. Sam. 285-93, 356-89; Epit. 206-11; Aspis 216-17, 223. 26 Fr. 319 (K) = Athenaios 364d. The passage goes on for four more text and meaning are uncertain.

lines, but

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Other passages which are better contextualized go in the same direction. In the Samia, Parmenon is the clever shopping-slave of the ignorant Demeas. Demeas is a bachelor who has adopted a son who is about to marry. In the middle of the wedding preparation, he discovers that his concubine has a child and suspects his own son of being the father of the child. Yet, as Parmenon knows and Demeas does not know, the child has been born by the son’s bride and is in fact Demeas’ grandchild. The knowledge of the slave, whose sole function is to do the shopping in the market, is in sharp contrast with the ignorance of the father, who ought to generate authority and legitimate descent, a role which he has proved incapable of filling.2” Moreover, Demeas’ lack of success in creating legitimate descent corresponds with the fact that he orders Parmenon to buy up the market to equip the sacrifice for the wedding of his son.?® Priamenos (‘buying’) is repeated noticeably three times in the short conversation in which Demeas orders not only to ‘buy’ up the market for the animal and garlands but to ‘buy’ a cook as well. The idea that people purchase the offerings to the gods is coupled with the idea that they mistake sacrifice as a clearly calculable exchange between humans and gods. Thus Nikeratos, Demeas’ neighbour and the father of the bride, satisfies his sense of duty by sending the gods what ‘they need’ (ὧν χρεία ᾽στι, 402, that is, blood, bones, and gall-bladder of the sheep) and sending his friends the skin of the sheep, and rejoices in keeping the rest for himself. He calls the sheep for his sacrifice ta nomima (‘the customary things’), which puns pregnantly on the word for ‘coinage’, nomisma.*? In the Duskolos Knemon is, as was mentioned at the 27 Characters of inferior or slave status are frequently contrasted with their ignorant masters in possessing knowledge vital for resolving the confusion of the play. Thus Habrotonon in the Epitrepontes knows that a maiden was raped, Khrysis in the Samia knows Moskhion’s and Plangon’s secret, and Glykera in the Perikeiromene knows that Moskhion is her brother. See Henry (1985), 110. 28 Sam. 189-95; Gomme and Sandbach (1973) ad loc. discuss problems of translation since they doubt that a cook can be bought alongside other commodities on the market. Yet it is well known that people for hired labour (notably prostitutes) were available on the Athenian market, and it adds to the significance of the passage that not only the offerings to the gods but also the person in charge of the benefit to the human attendants is bought on the market. 29 Menander uses here the same language as Aristotle in his well known passage on the function of coinage. Khreia are for Aristotle those needs which are satisfied by commodity exchange (e.g. the products of farmers and artisans) and nomisma the means of exchange which people use among themselves to satisfy such needs; see NE 1133%21-33.

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start of this section, ‘the one who is hard to satisfy with food’ in a society of gluttons. The point is elaborated throughout the play. Not only does he remark more than once that his fellow citizens use a sacrifice to have a good breakfast (ariston, 560-2, 612), but he also complains that in all sacrifices they cater for their own bellies better than for the gods: Look at the way they sacrifice, the devils. They bring hampers and bottles of wine, not for the gods’ benefit—oh no!—for their own. Piety extends as far as the incense and the cake: that’s all put on the fire, so that the gods can have that. They allow the gods the tail-end, too, and the gall bladder—they are not edible. But everything else they polish off themselves. (448-52)

The association of sacrifice with monetary expenses, hired labour, and gluttony represented the disorder of a polis which was an association of individuals unable to celebrate community through ritual. Marriage The bond which most strongly symbolizes social and religious order is that of marriage. The confusion of marriage with other sexual relationships is thus a particularly effective way of implying that society is in disorder.?® Desire, moreover, is a transgressive force in comedy, generating absurd and abnormal situations such as the crossing of status boundaries, the production of illegitimate offspring, or the neglect of civic duties. That desire is typically associated with purchasable courtesans reveals an anxiety about the destructive potential of relationships formed in commodity exchange. Much scholarly discussion has been devoted to the question of what norms underlie Menander’s presentation of love.?! Menander clearly distinguishes between the status of prostitutes, concubines, and wives, but then makes his characters ignore the distinction. While some scholars emphasize that Menander tried to question such boundaries, others argue that his comedies are directed at confirming them.?? Seen from the perspective of the polis, love affairs 30 However, the playful confusion of wife with hetaira appears already on late archaic vase-painting. See e.g. the discussion of the red-figure kylix from Toledo, Ohio, no. 1972.55 by Beard (1991). 3! See esp. Anderson (1984); Henry (1985); Gilula (1987); Wiles (1989); Konstan

(1989), (1994); Brown (1990). 32 See Brown (1990); Wiles (1989); as against Anderson Gilula (1987); and Konstan (1989), (1993).

(1984); Henry

(1985);

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between citizens and prostitutes pose a threat to the stability of the citizen body, as they threaten the production of legitimate offspring. Some scholars have therefore interpreted the plots in which a relationship to a prostitute is preferred to marriage as an indication of the decline of the values of the polis and of the emerging recognition of romantic love that is stronger than statusboundaries.** Yet if, as suggested earlier, Menandrian comedy is conservative rather than progressive, it is more likely that concubinage was constructed by Menander so as to expose its absurdity as civic behaviour. However, it is important to recognize that there is no simple opposition between wives and concubines or between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ hetairai.”* What is at stake is not the character of women, or of love, but the quality of the behaviour of different types of men. Also, as Konstan has pointed out (1995, 9), ‘all those who either will not enter into the nexus of connubial exchange . . or who cannot do so because of a fault of status, as in the case of foundlings or resident aliens, inhabit the perimeter of the social space.’ Men who wish to enter long-term relationships with bought women cannot be central to the polis. In relationships of prostitution both men and women are presented in Menander as obsessed with personal profit. Not only are men concerned only with the satisfaction of their own needs, but they are aware also that relationships with foreigners do not create stable moral relationships. In the Dis Exapatön, which is probably the best example of this, the women involved remain in the background. Sostratos, who has fallen in love with one of them, plans to spend on her all the money that he is supposed to hand over to his father. He does not doubt, however, that her interest in him is nothing but greed for money: ‘Oh to hell with her... I am completely her slave, but just let her try her wiles on a man with empty pockets. P’ll give the money back to my father’ (24-7). Also, later: ‘Now that my pockets are empty, I think I’d like to see my fine lady-love making up to me, and expecting . . . all the cash I’m carrying. [She will say to herself] “he’s got it all right, and he is certainly generous—the very best—and I have earned it”’(91-5). Sostratos takes it for granted that he has to pay for the love of a prostitute, and that his desire for the woman is reciprocated by her 33 See e.g. Webster (1974); Wiles (1991). 34 See esp. Brown (1990), in contrast to Plutarch’s assessment in Mor. y12c; for a different view, see Anderson (1984); Gilula (1987).

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greed for money. His hope to win her is not coupled with the hope that his love will be returned. His only wish is to get a good exchange ratio or even to strike a good bargain. This renders his passion for the woman comparable to the courtesan’s passion for money, and it seems to be the intention of the play to draw this out. The money nexus and passionate love of an alien are symbolic of each other, conveying the idea that both are inappropriate for properly conducted social relationships within the polis. Menander contrasts relationships for which the male partner pays a fee to an alien with those which take place within civic borders and in which the male partner receives a dowry. The relationships between men and courtesans are typically presented as the logical inversion of civic marriage. In the Perikeiromene Glykera is the concubine of Polemon, a mercenary soldier. She is not a slave, but she is not marriageable either, since she lacks a kurios (legally responsible male relative) who could give her into marriage. When Polemon assaults her, she quits his household and takes refuge with his neighbour, whose adopted son is her brother—a fact which she knows but which the son does not. Later in the play her parentage is discovered when Pataikos, a friend of Polemon, recognizes some keepsakes he had given to her when he had exposed her as a child. This had happened because his wife had died and he had lost his ship from which he had earned a living (806-10). This dramatic climax leads to the reconciliation of Polemon and Glykera and to a happy marriage. Prior to the conclusion of the play, as Konstan’s (1989) excellent analysis brings out, the normal patterns of authority are reversed, while all relationships are either concealed or in a state of disorder. While a normal wife has no power over herself, Glykera is her own legal guardian (kurios). While a husband normally has the power to keep his wife in the house against her will, Polemon does not have this power. And while normally a father is the kurios of unwedded daughters, Pataikos is not, since he is unaware of his relationship to Glykera (Konstan 1980, 137). Most importantly, the abnormal situations of authority are paralleled by property relationships which were regarded as inappropriate for the good life in the polis. Pataikos used to earn a salary (trophé, 805) as a shipowner, instead of living off the produce of an oikos; Polemon earns money as a mercenary soldier (stratiotés, 146) instead of serving in the citizen army of his own polis; and Polemon and Glykera are not tied by marriage but by a bond in which the

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woman is materially compensated for providing sexual satisfaction and in which no debts are created. Thus, at three levels the play symbolizes disorder: lack of male authority, ignorance about family relationships, and the impossibility of maintaining a peaceful relationship which generates offspring—by the characters’ preference for commercial relationships. It is typical of Menandrian society that the flow of material goods is regarded as important not only in non-marital relationships but also in those that lead towards marriage. It was noted earlier that in the Duskolos the value of the dowries is a matter of economic calculation, while in other plays the size of the dowry is taken as the greatest benefit of marriage. In the Aspis, another aspect of this mentality is shown. A young Athenian serves as a mercenary soldier because he has to earn money to provide for the dowry of his sister (9-11). An entire monetary economy here replaces the aristocratic ideal of citizen soldiers on the one hand and marriage financed from the wealth of an oikos on the other.?? The emphasis on the cash value of a dowry stresses its exchangeability for other purchasable items and brings the satisfaction of personal desires into focus. Moreover, the representation of dowry payments in terms of money that must be earned and can be spent arbitrarily reduces marriage to a financial affair with no long-term effects for the household.

Legitimacy A society that is prepared to put its future at risk by sacrificing marriage to sexual desire and personal profit is unlikely to recognize the value of symbols of legitimacy. The recognition of legitimacy was a constant problem in a society where citizenship and the devolution of property was dependent on legitimate descent. If no witness could attest the identity of a person, legitimacy could be tested and accepted by the recognition of tokens, which made recognition scenes a repeated element of epic and tragedy. Scenes of recognition exploited the double meaning of recognition (anagnörisis) which is in fact both a visual and a cognitive process. Recognition, moreover, has social as well as political effects, assigning to the person recognized a social identity and a political role. Recognition 35 Such ideals were still alive in anti-democratic circles by the 4th century. Millett (1989).

See

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thus always implied at the same time the acknowledgement of social identities and of political roles (Goldhill 1991, 5 ff.). The Epitrepontes stages ‘recognition refashioned’ (Goldberg).?° Two parties negotiate the claims to recognition-tokens of an exposed child. Daos, a shepherd, who had found the child with some jewellery had kept the latter and given the child to fosterparents, claims that the valuables are his because he had found them. Syros, a charcoal-burner, argues that they must go to him, because he is bringing up the child. From the outset the original function and the symbolic value of the tokens are underplayed by both parties. Both are interested in them because they are valuables. Syros’ argument makes the situation rather clear: “This child claims his necklace and his tokens of recognition, Daos. He points out that they were put there for his own adornment, not to keep you in food. And I associate myself with his claim . . . (303-7). Later on, he does mention that the valuables might have the meaning of recognition-tokens and that they could not therefore be spent like ordinary goods; but, representing this as the stuff of myth and theatre, he somewhat ridicules the force of this argument: A further point, sir. This child may come from a noble family, and may one day look far beyond the life of the working folk who reared him. He may rise to his own level as a freeman and find the spirit for some gentlemanly exploit (τὴν αὑτοῦ φύσιν digas ἐλεύθερόν τι τολμήσει movelv)—lion hunting, army service, or athletic prowess. You’ve been to the theatre, I’m sure, and know all the stories about heroes such as Nereus and Peleus who were found by an old goatherd, dressed just like me, and when he realized that they were of a class superior to his own, he would tell them the story how he’d found them and taken them home. He’d give them a bag of tokens, from which they’d discover the true story of their birth. Men who had lived till then as goatherds would turn into princes. Now, if Daos had taken these tokens and sold them to put a few drachmas in his pocket, these noble princes would have remained undiscovered all their lives. It’s really not fair that I should feed and clothe the child, sir, while Daos takes his only hope of rescue and makes it disappear. (320-40)

The fact that Syros is interested in the tokens primarily for their cash value already indicates a lack of respect for legitimacy and 36 See esp. Goldberg (1980), 59-71. There are other plays in which recognition scenes occur but which do not entail a parody of their expected form; see Glykera’s reunion with her father in the Perikeiromene or the reunion of father and child in the (very fragmentary) Hero. See further Goldberg (1980).

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social hierarchy. But Menander does not simply make one slave a representative of political misbehaviour. Rather, as Goldberg argues, the Epitrepontes presents an entire reworking of the motif of recognition, thus rendering the whole play a parody of the issues involved. The person who is identified by the tokens is not a central figure; it is a baby and hardly more than something that comes with the jewellery. When the tokens are given to Syros—who wins the case—it seems that the baby changes hands together with the valuables, rather than the other way round (179-206). The normal centrality of the person recognized is thereby given to the tokens and to the people who recognize them. Rather than focusing on the problems of social identities and political roles—as epic and tragedy had done—Menander shifts the attention to the way that people negotiate social and political roles. The play represents citizens who are, first of all, unable to create legitimate family bonds in their oikos (Konstan 1994, 228-30). Pamphilia, the child’s real mother and a rich married woman, gives birth to the child five months after her marriage and is therefore abandoned by her husband. She exposes the child and returns to the household of her father. Yet it turns out that she had been raped by her own husband before marriage when he was drunk at the festival of Artemis. Pamphilia’s father, Smikrines, acts as the arbitrator in the conflict over the tokens, which accidentally brings together the grandfather and the foster parents of the child. Although it is the slaves who haggle over the tokens, the free citizens of the play are not much better. Smikrines is a miserly, stingy, and greedy man. Learning that his daughter has been divorced by her husband because of the illegitimate child, he is only worried about the safe return of the dowry (137). His daughter’s ex-husband Kharisios is represented as a spendthrift and thus nothing but the counterpart to the money-minded father-inlaw. According to Smikrines, he squandered the dowry with prostitutes, and lived a luxurious life on expensive wine and harp-girls (128-40). When drunk, he lost the ring that later identifies the lineage of the child (210 ff.), and is thought likely to have given away the ring as security for a loan or to have spent it on gambling (312-13). Above all, the ring is a fake (305 ff.). It is therefore not surprising that Menander lets the happy ending—the recognition of the child’s descent and the reunion of the family—be brought about by a prostitute, worth twelve drachmas, who seems to be

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the only person interested in the correct identification of the baby. Smikrines acts as arbitrator not only in a private dispute over valuables but also as grandfather in the case of his own grandchild. It is therefore significant that he does not object to the terms in which Syros represents the case, that he is persuaded by the better argument, and that he assigns the winner both the child and the jewellery, like any other kind of object. In a way, he thus treats the political identity of his grandchild (in the form of its symbols) like private property, disregarding thereby its profoundly public meaning. The very fact, moreover, that the symbols of social and political importance become the objects of private arbitration at all marks the misconception of legitimacy which has affected Menander’s society of comedy. Once again, civic symbols are reduced to objects which have a price and which serve to satisfy the material desires of individuals. It only increases the feeling of confusion produced by the turning of the symbols into commodities that in the end the tokens do enable proper recognition, even though this is brought about by a courtesan. 111.

MENANDRIAN

COMEDY

AND

ATHENIAN

SOCIETY

The aim and concerns of Menandrian comedy have been assessed in various ways by recent critics. Despite their rather different approaches, all seem to share the assumption that New Comedy had moved away from the public sphere of the polis. Thus Hunter (1985, 153, 173) writes: ‘ . with politics in comedy, as with its music and poetry, one can point to a declining trend, to a shift of interest elsewhere . . . Its characters and stories offer many people an escape into a world of wish-fulfilment, a world with which they can easily identify, but neater and more entertaining than the real one often is.’ Webster (1974, 23) stresses the importance of romantic love as opposed to civic marriage: ‘A marriage arranged by the two fathers is always an obstacle and, I think, never comes off. In the marriage with which the play ends the youth and the girl are always in love ... Menander says clearly that status does not matter.’ Handley (1989, 12) assumes that New Comedy is exclusively concerned with the family: ‘Whereas Aristophanic drama can fulfil the grandiose wishes of the whole state, in New Comedy the unit of solidarity is the family; when the plays conclude with the promise

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of children to come, it is the family, not the individual, which has triumphed.’ Wiles, finally, connects the theme of romantic love with the rise of the individual: ‘Menandrian comedy marks the point of departure from Aristotelian thinking, and could be said to dramatise the emergence of the individual.’ Autonomy is symbolized by the decision to marry for love. Fifth-century tragedy characteristically asked its audience to consider the question ‘who are you first—a member of your oikos or a member of your polis? New Comedy posed a rather different question: ‘who are you first—a member of your polis or ἃ member of humanity?’ In the preceding argument I have suggested, by contrast, that Menander played out the discrepancy between the political reality of democratic Athens and the political values defined for the polis in anti-democratic circles. The intellectual links between Menander, Aristotle, and Theophrastos have been noted by earlier scholars,?® but it has not been sufficiently recognized that in Menander too the οἶκος served, as it did for Aristotle, as a model for life in the polis. Préaux (1957, 91) comes closest to this view when arguing that in Menander the problems and anxieties of an upper class are inscribed into the everyday situations of a petty bourgeoisie. Everyday settings in New Comedy, she suggests, served the same function as utopias, mythologies, and past worlds had served in Old Comedy. They projected problems on to a world that was unreal to the audience and thereby channelled into laughter anxieties and taboos treated in the plays. Not only is the social environment displaced, but the affairs of the polis are disguised as those of families. As Preaux also states (1957, 99-100), the control of passion, the protection of legitimacy, and the observance of communal ritual constituted the obligations of an élite who saw themselves responsible for establishing what Aristotle called the good life of the polis. Moreover, Menandrian comedy has been described by Wiles (1991, 14) as a system of signs to which the plots provided only the narrative substructure. While the plots removed the common concerns of author and audience into settings of invented individuals, the standardized behaviour of the characters and their names, masks, and movements drew all the plays together and linked them 37 Wiles (1991), 30; see also (1989), 38-9. 38 See e.g. Tierney (1936); Post (1963); Ramage (1966).

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to a general sociological plan.?? Each character represents a political role or its opposite: citizen farmer, townsman, citizen, mercenary soldier, old man, young man, pallaké or hetaira, wife or bride, household slave, cook or butcher. Their relationships and conflicts symbolize the ambivalence of ideals and the tension with their opposites: farming and mercenary service, town and country life, marriage and prostitution, feasting and gluttony. One example is that of Knemon in the Duskolos, who embodies the ambivalence of the role of the farmer in the polis, representing both a civic ideal and an unsociable bore.t? Another example is the mercenary soldier in the Aspis who fulfils his civic duties by entering a discredited occupation. The ambivalent behaviour of characters stands for the tensions that life in the polis implied. Just as Theophrastos presented political criticism in terms of paradigms of character, Menander’s characters embodied behaviour that in politics and political philosophy had been identified as good, bad, or ambivalent. This strategy should not be interpreted as an emerging interest in the individual but as a focus on the human being as a ‘political animal’ zöon politikon. The Macedonian empire put the Athenian government into the hands of people who had opposed democracy but at the same time divested the polis of its autonomy. The Macedonian leanings of oligarchic Athenians in the fourth century have frequently been emphasized, and Aristotle is probably the best example of an intellectual who both argued against democracy and had strong links with Macedonia. Menander’s audience, too, was no longer the democratic citizen body supported by the theoric fund to attend the theatre, but a self-selected group of people who had leisure and money to go to the theatre. Historical change had turned comedy 3? New Comedy operated with a limited range of names and masks. How far specific names were related to specific masks, and how far both referred to stereotyped roles is, however, controversial. While MacCary (1969), (1970), (1971), and (1972), aimed to show that names and masks conveyed information to the audience, Brown (1987) has argued against him. The evidence hardly supports any obvious link between names, masks, and roles. For a more subtle analysis of a possible pattern in the use of masks and stage movements see Wiles (1991), chs. 3 and 7. See also, more generally, Préaux (1957), 87. 40 See Post (1963); Ramage (1966); Konstan (1995), 200 ff. As all three point out, the Duskolos fits the Aristotelian and Theophrastean description of the rustic (agroikos) as an unattractive character. But, while Ramage has argued that Menander takes over their negative attitude, Konstan and Post stress that in Knemon the negative image of rusticity and uncouth unsociability is coupled with positive virtues such as noble independence and innocence.

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into an interesting hybrid. Having developed out of the rituals of the democratic polis, its themes were generically linked to the polis. Yet, being performed under new political conditions, it ceased to have the politically integrative function that Old Comedy used to have. The plays of Menander seem to reflect upon, and mock, the social reality of a polis after a century of radical democracy, addressing a small audience that most likely identified itself with the Aristotelian eleutheroi. For them, as for Aristotle, relationships of reciprocity were threatened by civic equality and the accumulation of wealth in the hands of the wrong people. This threat was symbolized by the motif of commodity exchange replacing relationships of reciprocity. Commodity exchange, making objects commonly available to the highest bidder while leaving the exchanging partners in no relationship of debt, put at risk the exclusivity of civic roles and social difference on which the good life was thought to rest.

13 Reciprocity and Friendship DAVID

KONSTAN

Reciprocity is the essence of friendship

(Reohr

1991, 85)!

Reciprocity theory is not really applicable to friendship (Hutter 1978, 18)? A certain reciprocity is essential in friendship (Weil

1973, 204)

The Greco-Roman model [of friendship] appears to be marked by the value of reciprocity (Derrida 1993, 385)

1.

INTRODUCTION

Friendship is a relationship that is presumed to involve reciprocity. As an elective association, friendship seems to be predicated on the voluntary exchange of benefits, underwritten by feelings that are understood to be mutual. While expectations of fair return may sustain an informal ethical code of friendship, acts of friendship are not perceived as obligatory or contractual, and are normally outside the jurisdiction of the state, both modern and ancient. Reciprocity presupposes the ability to reciprocate. For Aristotle and many other Greeks, friendship was ideally a relationship between equals. Friendship among people of different stations was regarded as an inferior form, although a semblance of equality might be achieved if exchanges were proportional to wealth and other qualities, such as moral worth. The emphasis on equality between friends is above all characteristic of the Athenian democracy, although comradeship obtains ! See Lepp (1966), 33: ‘Friendship . .. is inconceivable without reciprocity’, cited by Reohr (1991), 85. ? See Hutter (1978), 3: ‘Even though some writers who focus on the concept of reciprocity attempt to transcend the purely egoistic connotations of such a view of friendship by invoking a more generalized form of reciprocity, it would seem that the concept of reciprocity cannot exhaustively explain the content of a friendship relationship.’

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between equals in the archaic age (for instance, Odysseus and Menelaos in Homer’s Odyssey) and equality continues to be a value in discussions of friendship in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In the epoch dominated by the Athenian democracy, moreover, relations between equal friends are grounded in a discourse of mutual assistance in times of crisis. This conception stresses the reciprocal dependency of friends and their equal vulnerability to circumstances. Correspondingly, false friends are identified in this period primarily by their failure to provide help in time of need: they are fair-weather friends. Although the motif of reciprocal aid persists into the Hellenistic period and later, it is supplemented and largely replaced in later discourses on friendship by an emphasis on the value of friends as good counsellors and a concern with honesty or frankness between friends. Accordingly, the problem of false friends is increasingly seen as a function of flattery and of the capacity of pretended friends to insinuate themselves into the good graces of others. This development is co-ordinate with an increased attention to friendships between people of unequal station, as in the case of patrons and clients, or rulers and counsellors. The emphasis on equality and reciprocal help in the classical period, I suggest, depends not so much on informal economic exchange among smallholder citizens as on the requirements of the democratic ideology, which projected an image of equal citizens bound by mutual loyalties. The democracy thus tended to repress discourses involving hierarchical relations of friendship between leaders and followers or wealthy men and their dependents, although traces of such relations, cast in the form of archaic or barbarian institutions, may be discerned in the literature of classical Athens. In the Hellenistic age and later, when unequal friendships were again valorized, especially in the context of monarchical courts, the basis of reciprocity between friends was reconceived, or reappeared, as a relationship of mutual honesty or candour. I suggest that this kind of reciprocity once again was not a reflex of the actual needs of kings and potentates so much as a discourse suited to a society based on class relations of dependency.

Reciprocity and Friendship Il.

INTIMACY,

OBLIGATION,

AND

281 RECIPROCITY

The question of reciprocity exhibits a paradox at the core of the notion of friendship. The modern ideal of friendship places great emphasis on the spontaneous and voluntary nature of the bond. A sociologist and historian of friendship sums up the current consensus: ‘friendships are voluntary, unspecialized, informal and private. They are grounded in open-ended commitments without explicit provision for their termination . . . Friendships so conceived turn on intimacy, the confident revelation of the self to a trusted other, the sharing of expressive and consummatory activities . . . The behaviour of friends to each other is appropriately interpreted through knowledge of the other’s inner nature’ (Silver 1989, 274; cf. Allan 1989, 13-20). Friendship is conceived of as just that universe of relations that is not subject to formal or institutionalized constraints. It is constituted in the domain of the private and personal, as opposed to the public sphere of laws, contracts, debts, and obligations. Eighteenth-century liberal philosophers such as Adam Ferguson and Adam Smith imagined that friendship in the modern sense was enabled precisely by the universalization of commercial or market relations characteristic of commodity capitalism. The emergence of an independent realm of economic relations governed by market rules and commercial interests opened up a space for free and disinterested personal ties that were no longer the basis of material production and exchange. The other side of the coin to the advent of homo economicus was the birth of intimacy (Silver 1990). This is not to say that no rules pertain to modern ideals of friendship. It remains possible in the contemporary world to be a bad friend, even if the concept of friendship has been etherealized and tends to be grounded in such abstract values as authenticity and self-disclosure. As a relationship, friendship presupposes certain forms of equivalence and exchange.” Hence, the definition endorsed by Treadwell acknowledges that friendship entails significant duties or responsibilities: a friend is: . .a person with whom one has had long-term contact (two years or more for starters), involving sharing of intimate information, exchange of 3 Cf. Allan (1989), (1986), 12-16.

20-4,

53-9;

Fleming

and

Baum

(1986);

Perlman

and

Fehr

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mutual support and continuing interaction usually involving at least one serious test where a sacrifice to sustain the relationship was required. (Phillips and Goodall 1983, 64, cited by Treadwell 1993, 9)*

The ancient thinkers were in general less abashed than moderns about the utilitarian benefits that derive from the possession of friends. Whether their pragmatic approach to friendship reflects the fact that the ancient economy was embedded in a matrix of personal relations to a greater degree than is modern capitalism, with its semi-autonomous

market

relations,

remains

to be determined.

The eighteenth-century liberals supposed, as we have seen, that pre-modern friendship is necessarily implicated in the selfish business of commerce and the distribution of wealth (Silver 1990), and a version of this view is still vigorously represented in the works of Karl Polanyi and Moses Finley, who denied that ancient societies possessed an economy in the modern sense of the term.? Nevertheless, classical treatments of friendship also posit selflessness or altruism as constitutive of the bond between friends. Aristotle, for example, in his discussion of friendship at the beginning of Nicomachean Ethics 8, stipulates that friends must desire the good of the other for the other’s sake rather than their own (8. 2, 115531). Self-interest and disinterestedness seem to meet upon the terrain of friendship.® If we take for granted the division between a private sphere of intimacy and a public world of legal and financial relations, ancient friendship may seem to straddle both domains. Alternatively, it * The tension implicit in Treadwell’s analysis, according to which friendship is conceived of as ineffable and is simultaneously subject to rules of obligation, reproduces a dilemma that, according to Derrida (1993), 382, has plagued all the major philosophical discussions of friendship: ‘On the one hand, friendship seems to be essentially foreign or resistant to the res publica and thus could not found a politics. But, on the other hand, as we know well, from Plato to Montaigne, from Aristotle to Kant, from Cicero to Hegel, the great philosophical and canonical discourses on friendship will have linked friendship explicitly to virtue and justice, to moral reason and to political reason’; see also Fraisse (1974), 11-17. 5 See Polanyi (1968); Finley (1985); cf. Millett (1991), 15-23. 6 See also Fraisse (1974), 119; Yack (1985) argues that Arist. EE recognizes the tension between a friendship based on virtue and one based on interest in the constitution of political sociability, and that consequently ‘distrust is an inescapable feature of political friendship’ (106); see also 107: ‘Aristotle’s analysis of political community and communities makes, I believe, a persuasive case that neither contract nor camaraderie provides an appropriate model of political friendship.’ The necessary co-existence of the two renders the political sphere essentially a domain of conflict: see also Yack (1993), 25-43, 109-27.

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may appear to occupy an intermediate arena of informal, customary constraints that are the locus of personal obligation in premodern societies. The separation between the economy or the state on one side, and the personal world on the other, is understood to be still inchoate: the space between is, in fact, the social whole, constituted by networks of moral ties sanctioned by public opinion and tradition. In place of the polar opposition between the purely voluntary actions of the private individual and the objectively constrained behaviour enforced by the market and the law, there is a universe of informal interactions and transactions conceived simultaneously as voluntary and enjoined, spontaneous and socially regulated. Such nexuses, of which friendship might appear to be the ideal type, are governed by a code of reciprocity, understood as ‘the principle and practice of voluntary requital, of benefit for benefit οὖν or harm for harm’ (Introduction, p. 1 above). Ill.

GREEK

FRIENDSHIP

AND

RECIPROCITY

One feature that makes the classical Greek concept of friendship particularly amenable to such a formula of reciprocity is its close connection with other social ties. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 8-9, and Eudemian Ethics 7, are devoted to an analysis of the Greek term philia. Under this heading, Aristotle discusses not only what we would think of as ‘friendship’, which is to say elective associations based on good will between people who are normally not otherwise related, but also a wide range of bonds including those between parents and children, husbands and wives, fellow citizens and fellow tribesmen, comrades in arms, fellow travellers, and kinsmen in varying degrees. If all affective relationships, from the immediate family to the community as a whole, may be subsumed under a single category, there would appear to be no distance between private and public affiliations. Where we would distinguish voluntary from ascribed or formal relationships, Aristotle collects them all under a rubric that is commonly translated as ‘friendship’, but manifestly has a much wider semantic range than that. For Aristotle, the entire spectrum of relations from kinship through friendship to civic or communal identity participates in a common structure that is accordingly neither wholly personal nor again wholly institutional and objective. In fact, however, Greek friendship is not so completely

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embedded in the totality of social relations as the semantics of the abstract noun philia might suggest. Aristotle sorts the several types of philia under different kinds or species (eidé), which are clearly demarcated from one another. Thus, he speaks of hetairiké philia as the bond specific to comrades or heiairoi, and of politiké philia as the relation characteristic of fellow citizens or politai, that is, those who are members of the same polis.” For the first of these notions, we might employ the term ‘comradeship’; the second corresponds, perhaps, to ‘social solidarity’. Philia in the restricted sense of the English ‘friendship’ has no special qualifier, but, as I have argued elsewhere, it is distinguished by the fact that those related in this particular way are the only ones designated by the concrete noun philos, which may thus be rendered more or less adequately by the English “friend’.® Aristotle’s usage in this respect is consistent with ordinary Greek practice in the fifth and fourth centuries Bc and later, as indicated by the common triad of friends, family, and country.” Friends proper conform to the description or definition provided in Nicomachean Ethics 8.2, which specifies three conditions of friendship: (1) mutual good will; (2) consciousness that the good will is reciprocated; and (3) desiring the good for the sake of the other (8.2, 1155>31-1156%5; cf. the definition in Rhetoric 1.5, 1361®36-7: ‘a philos is one who effects what he thinks is good for another, for the other’s sake’). Friendship in this restricted sense is the subject of Nicomachean Ethics 8.3-8 and not, as is commonly supposed, the whole of Books 8 and 9, which are in large part devoted to other forms of philia. When Aristotle mentions bonds that are not mutual and do not admit of reciprocity, such as the love of a mother for her infant child, he is not discussing relations between philoi, but rather another type (eidos) of philia that is not necessarily symmetrical. Insofar as friendship proper is concerned, mutuality is central to the relationship. 7 politiké: NE 8.11, 1160°8, cf. EE 7.9, 1241513-17; hetairiké: NE 8.6, 1157523; both types: NE 8.12, 1161>11-36. 8. See Konstan (19965); for a different view, see Millett (1989), 41: ‘relatives, neighbours and friends . . . may be subsumed under the single term philoz’; also Whitehead (1986), 231-2. A few passages in tragedy seem to designate members of one’s family as philoi or ‘friends’, but in general tragedy conforms to ordinary usage. For full discussion, the reader is referred to Konstan (1996a and 5); and, for a different version of the connotations of philia in tragedy, see Belfiore, Ch. 7 above, Sect. I. ° See Xen. Cyr. 1.2.6, 8.7.3; Mem. 3.6.2, quoted below; [Plato] Ep. 9, 358a; Isoc. Ep. 2.4, Oration 15.99; Plu. Mor. 465C.

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We must look, then, to the specific kinds of actions and attitudes relevant to the bond between friends as opposed to other relationships. Within the domain of friendship itself there is, as I have suggested, a tension between an other-regarding imperative to desire the good for the sake of a friend rather than oneself, and what appears to be a calculating concern for benefits and what is due that leaves friendship looking more like an investment than a spontaneous expression of emotion.!® Related to the utilitarian aspect of friendship is the common assumption that the Greek notion of philia refers to a semi-contractual bond and not to a relationship based on personal feeling such as characterizes friendship in the modern sense.'! The reciprocity among philoiis construed, accordingly, as grounded in objective obligations and services, like the quasi-formal duties owed by a son to a parent. Someone who has been the beneficiary of a favour owes kharis, a term that includes both gratitude for the benefaction and the service that is due in return. Friendship thus rests upon a network or economy of loans and debts.'? This description of philia begs the question, however. The issue is not whether the Greeks felt that a loan placed the debtor under a moral burden of gratitude, but whether the sense of indebtedness was perceived as the consequence of the affective bond denoted by the term philia, which is the abstract noun corresponding to the verb philein, ‘to love’.'3 As is well known, Aristotle lists as the three grounds of friendship: character or éthos, pleasure, and utility. While the first of these motives, which depends on virtue, seems high-minded and disinterested, pleasure and utility—especially the latter—appear to have a quid pro quo basis in which reciprocation of services is a condition of friendship. Failure to provide or repay help in time of 10 See Gill, Ch. 14 below, Sect. rv, for the claim that mutual benefit, rather than the egoism-altruism contrast, is the key ideal of interpersonal ethics in Aristotle. τ See e.g. Hands (1968), 33: ‘Little or no mutual affection was essential to the relationship of either philia or amicitia’; Fisher (1976), 18; Springborg (1986), 198;

Heath (1987), 73-4. 12 See Millett (1991), 109-26; for the comparable role of gratia in the Roman value system, Pöschl (1940), 97-109; Earl (1967). 13. Joly (1968) has demonstrated that by the fourth century Bc the verb philein had already begun to give way to agapan as the ordinary word for ‘love’. Aristotle indeed employs philein frequently in NE 8 and g, but according to Joly this reflects the continued use of the word as a technical term in philosophical discussions. While philia and philos retain their currency in post-classical Greek, philein tends to be restricted to the sense ‘kiss’, which is first attested in the 5th ce. Bc and appears gradually to have displaced the more general significance of the verb.

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need is a violation of the bond. Friendship thus appears to be an objective status or relation that depends upon appropriate behaviour; mutual services are not an expression of good will but an obligation entailed by the relationship. Aristotle does not assert, however, that people who exchange services are friends. He says rather that friends whose relationship is based on utility ‘feel affection for each other on account of the useful’ (διὰ τὸ χρήσιμον φιλοῦντες ἀλλήλους, NE 8.3, 1156?10-11). The philia or love that obtains among pfiloi has its source in the benefits that they are in a position to confer upon one another, but it is not reducible to such services. Mutual usefulness is one of the circumstances under which the reciprocal good will characteristic of friends may arise. It is not a rule constitutive of friendship, but a reason why pfilia comes into being: people come to like one another because they value the services actually or potentially provided.'* Thus, although friendship is not just an exchange of benefits, Aristotle acknowledges reciprocal help as part of the matrix of social relations in which friendly feelings come to exist. ιν.

MUTUAL

HELP

BETWEEN

FRIENDS

The practical utility of friends is affirmed in a wide variety of classical Greek texts. Some of the aphorisms in the collection attributed to the comic playwright Menander may be cited to illustrate the view. ‘When you have friends, consider yourself to have treasures’ (Il.zı); ‘in necessity, a friend is better than money’ (214); “worthy friends are a refuge for all’ (261; cf. also 456, 575). In turn, many of the sayings recommend loyalty in friendship: ‘Be reliable and you will have reliable friends’ (100), and ‘Assist your friends in hard times’ (219; cf. also 208, 357). Friends, provided they are good friends, are necessary: “Take care not to be friendless in life’ (89). The Menandrean aphorisms are alert to the danger of false friends who vanish when the going is tough, and emphasize the importance of a reliable or worthy character in the choice of friends. Thus: ‘Circumstances [Rairos| test friends, just as fire tests 14. Tam broadly in agreement with the view of Cooper (1980), 11, that Aristotle is making ‘the psychological claim that those who have enjoyed one another’s company or have been mutually benefited through their common association will, as a result of the benefits or pleasures they receive, tend to wish for and be willing to act in the mterest of the other person’s good, mdependently of consideration of their own welfare or pleasure’. See also Gill, Ch. 14, 318-21 below.

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gold’ (1x.8—9; cf. x1.2); ‘When a man is doing poorly, his friends are gone’ (34), and, contrariwise, “When a man is doing well, his friends are on hand’ (71; cf. 238). It is important, accordingly, to be able to judge the nature of a person before rewarding him with one’s trust: ‘Know the character of your friends before you become a friend’ (v111.7; cf. 638). The fear of betrayal centres largely on the failure of friends to provide help in emergencies, indicating that one of the chief values of friendship was assistance. Thus Paul Millett (1991, 118) summarizes the Greek attitude: ‘In choosing friends, primary considerations were willingness and ability to repay services in full’, although it is services as such rather than repayment that the aphorisms stress. The collection also contains cautions against hypocrisy. For example, one must be on guard against those whose sole interest is one’s wealth or largesse: ‘Many are friends of the dinner table, not of their friends’ (682). Such types resort to shameless flattery, and it is important to distinguish hangers-on from true friends. Thus, in a rather banal poetry contest in which Menander and another comic playwright called Philistion are represented as exchanging commonplaces on various topics, we find the following verses in the section subtitled ‘On a Friend’: ‘a friend who flatters another who is lucky in his circumstances is a friend of the circumstances, not of the friend’ (85-6). On the whole, however, the gnömai do not display a great preoccupation either with hypocrisy or with spongers of the sort that frequented the houses of the rich. There is a pervasive anxiety that friends may let one down in times of peril, but little is said about the subtler strategies of insincerity on the part of those who would insinuate themselves into friendship. The implied reader of this proverbial wisdom literature is evidently a person of middling fortunes, liable to ruin in bad times and thus dependent on the good faith of friends, rather than a powerful and wealthy figure subject to exploitation and deception by selfish companions. The aphorisms or sentences ascribed to Menander are a motley collection, containing some material deriving from Menandrean comedy and earlier sources, such as the perennially popular tragedies of Euripides, and a substantial number of nondescript verses culled from plays or independently composed in dramatic metre (Jaekel 1964, pp. xvii-xviii; Spoerri 1967, 826). Perhaps, as Jaekel suggests, they were assembled for use in schools. But the

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view of friendship that they represent has its origins in the classical Athenian tradition, and a survey of the relevant passages in Greek tragedy, in oratory, and in philosophical writings of the fifth and fourth centuries BC would reveal much the same emphasis on mutual help as the touchstone of friendship (see Fraisse 1974, 76-8, on Euripides). Thus, Sokrates, in Xenophon’s Memorabilia (3.12.4), observes that by caring for their bodies men may come safely out of battle and ‘help (bo&thousi) their friends and benefit their country and thereby earn gratitude and acquire a great reputation and attain the finest honours’. Again, Glaukon, the brother of Plato, declares that it is good to be a political leader in the city since ‘you yourself will be capable of attaining whatever you desire, being strong enough to assist (6phelein) your friends, and you will increase your paternal estate and augment your country, and you will be famous in the city, then in Greece’, perhaps even, he adds, among the barbarians (Memorabilia 3.6.2). The ideal is to be able, in one’s private relations, to come to the aid of friends, and in the public sphere to increase the stature of the city.'> Also in the Memorabilia (2.9.8), Xenophon represents Sokrates as recommending the kind of friendship in which one ‘is granted services (euergetoumenon) by worthy men and performs services in return (anteuergetounta) (cf. 2.10.3: Hermogenes ‘would be ashamed if he were assisted by you and did not assist you in return’ (antöpheloié)).1° The emphasis on reciprocal assistance in times of crisis persists as a topos into much later times. What is rather more remarkable is that the topic of friends versus flatterers is almost wholly absent in texts from the classical period.'” 'S Thukydides (3.10.1) explicitly draws the analogy between philia among individuals (idiötai) and co-operation (koinönia) between cities; see Morrison (1994), 528; Xen. Cyr. 1.45. 16 Examples are easily multiplied: see E. HF 1425-6, with comment of Bond (1981), ad loc.: “Whoever wishes to acquire wealth or strength more than friends thinks wrongly’; Or. 1155-7 (trans. West, 1987): “There’s nothing better than an unmistakable friend: not riches, not monarchy. Incalculable in amount is the exchange value of a genuine friend’ (cf. Hdt. 5.24.3); Hec. 984-5, trans. Collard (1991): “What help ought a fortunate man to give to friends in their misfortune? Be sure, I myself am ready’; on the friendlessness of exiles, E. El. 82-5, 605. '7 On the topos of assistance to friends, see Blundell (1989), 32-7. For the contrast between a friend and the kind of parasite who is concerned for his belly in archaic poetry, see Archil. fr. 124b3-5 West (1980). Arist. Pol. 5.11, 13114%1-4 contrasts the verbal forms kolakeuein and philein, which are characteristic respectively of servile and liberal (epieikeis) individuals; see also NE 4.3, 1125%1-2, where Aristotle labels all flatterers as hirelings (thetikoi) and all men of low station as flatterers. For

Reciprocity and Friendship v.

UNEQUAL

289

FRIENDS

It is in discussions of friendship in the Hellenistic period and later that the focus shifts from concern for the provision of assistance in time of need to caution about the danger of dishonesty and selfinterest among pretenders to friendship. Treatises on friendship such as those by Plutarch and Maximus of Tyre address as a central issue the problem of discriminating between a flatterer and a true or sincere friend. Whereas false friendship had formerly been represented chiefly in the failure to provide reciprocal succour, it tends now to be located rather in the anxiety that selfish individuals may insinuate themselves into the graces of another. In place of the syndrome of the fair-weather friend the Hellenistic discussions concentrate on the devious and exploitative individual who seeks to profit from personal intimacy with another. In brief: the classical concern is with the acknowledged friend who does not give, while the Hellenistic interest is in the subterfuges by which a potential friend or impostor strives to gain. This difference in the angle from which the dangers inherent in friendship are perceived is co-ordinate with a shift in the way the character of the relationship is represented. Friendship in classical texts is seen primarily as a relation between equals. It is an equality of social station, and not just the mutuality characteristic of friendship in all epochs, that Aristotle emphasizes in his discussion. Hutter (1978, 6) defines clearly the generalized quality of mutuality: ‘friendship is a relationship between persons paired in the same role (e.g., friend-friend rather than parent and child, husband and wife, buyer and seller, etc.).” As opposed, for example, to the bond between parent and child or especially between lover (erastés) and beloved (masc. erömenos; fem. erömene), the noun philos is not differentiated with respect to superior and inferior or active and passive functions. Each party is the pfilos of the other. the flatterer as a deficient or inferior type of friend, see NE 2.7, 1108°26-30, 8.8, 1159*14-15. The Souda attributes to Antiphon the remark that ‘many who have friends do not recognize them, but make comrades (hetairous) of those who are fawners upon their wealth and flatterers of their fortune’ (87 B 65 DK); the aristocratic sophist gives evidence of a concern among the rich to discriminate flatterers from friends in the classical period of the democracy. See also Isoc. Ep. 4; if genuine, it is the earliest text known to me in which the contrast between flatterer and friend is elaborated, although the theme is adumbrated in Pi. P. 2.81-8 in the contrast between ‘fawning’ (sainön) and ‘straight-speaking’ (euthoglössos), in the context of the proper relationship between friends (philon εἰδ philein).

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Correspondingly, if two men are described as philoi in ancient Greek they would normally be understood not to be erastés and erömenos. In addition to this symmetry of roles, however, the literature of the democratic city-states, or at least of classical Athens, is marked by a strong sense that equality of social station is a prerequisite for friendship, at all events for the ideal type of friendship. Aristotle quotes a popular saying, philotés isotés, ‘friendship is equality’, or, to preserve the jingle, ‘amity is parity ’ 18 and the view was commonplace. Seven hundred years later, the orator Themistios was still cautioning that inequalities of wealth or distinction can destroy a friendship.'? But in the classical epoch of Athens the insistence on equality all but rules out hierarchical relations that, in the literature of the Hellenistic period and beyond, were deemed entirely compatible with friendship. To be sure, Aristotle also discusses friendship between people of unequal station. In this case, he argues that there must be some proportional exchange of benefits, which bestows a distributive equality upon the relationship. Such unequal friendships are of an inferior sort, according to Aristotle (in the Eudemian Ethics, indeed, Aristotle appears to disqualify such relationships from being friendships at all), and are impossible when the difference in station between the parties exceeds a certain limit.2° For this reason it is not strictly appropriate to speak of friendship between a mortal and a god, a master and a slave (qua slave as opposed to gua human being), a parent and a child, or a husband and a wife.?! Later discussions, however, tend to focus on friendship between people of different social status, in which a man of inferior position and wealth may be suspected of exploiting a connection with a person of power. Thus Plutarch, in How One may Distinguish a Flatterer from a Friend, observes: “To put it concisely, the one [i.e. the flatterer] believes that he must (dein) do everything so as to be pleasing, while the other [i.e. the friend], doing always what he must, is often pleasing and often unpleasing’ (55A). In the latter 18 NE 8.5, 1157536; cf. 8.8, 1159>2-3, EE 7.4, 1239%1-6, 7.10, 1242°9-11. 1%? Themistios 274d-275a = Schenkl, Downey, and Norman (1971), 64.21-65.13. 20 On the differences between NE and EE on friendship, see Pakaluk (1993). On unequal friendship, see also Gill, Ch. 14, text to nn. 33-4. 21 NE 8.7, 1158°33-7 on friendship with gods or kings; NE 8.11, 1161°32-116158, Pol. 1.6, 1255%12-15 on slaves. On friendship with gods, see also Parker, Ch. 5, Sect. 111.

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portion of the treatise, which forms a separate section devoted to the idea of parrhésia or frankness, Plutarch draws most of his examples from the sphere of kings and courtiers (Engberg-Pedersen, 1996). Oration 22, entitled ‘On Friendship’, by the fourth-century AD rhetorician Themistios reproduces many of the traditional topo of the genre: ‘For a friend (philos) is nowhere near a flatterer (kolax), and is furthest removed in this, that the one praises everything, while the other would not go along with you when you are erring; for the former is set on making a profit or stuffing his belly by his efforts, and is not impressed with you, but with your money or your power (dunasteia).’?? vi.

FRANKNESS

AND

FLATTERY

As both Plutarch and Maximus of Tyre make clear in their advice on how to distinguish a true friend from a hypocrite or toady who affected a semblance of benevolence but was in fact self-interested and insincere, a real friend could be counted upon for honesty and candour, while the mere flatterer, however subtle, was betrayed by an excessive compliance with his companion’s desires, without regard to the demands of virtue or honour. The opposing qualities characteristic of the true and the false friend are thus frank speech, or parrhésia, and adulation, or Rolakeia. Because mortals are fallible, Themistios observes, we all have need of honest criticism. The same idea, more picturesquely expressed, is attributed to the Cynic Diogenes by the compilator John Stobaios, in the section devoted to frankness (Peri parrhesias, 13.44): “Diogenes said: Other dogs bite their enemies, I [bite] my friends—so that I may save them.’?? In documents of the classical period the problem of loyal friendship is not usually associated with the polar dyad of frankness and flattery. The word parrhésia, which in later usage signifies openness or candour between personal acquaintances, refers in the context of the democratic city-states, and in particular Athens, to what we call freedom of speech, and is a political liberty characteristic of the free 22 'Themistios 276c = Schenkl, Downey, and Norman (1971), 66.18-23. 23 In the Roman period, there are signs of a new emphasis on the ideal of interpersonal honesty among friends. This sense of parrhésia, which approaches that of our modern term ‘sincerity’, may have been influenced by the therapeutic practices of the philosophical schools, including frank criticism as a form of pedagogy; see esp. Philodemos, Peri parrhésias; also Konstan (1994); Glad (1996).

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citizen.”* For example, Phaidra, in Euripides’ Hippolytos, declares: ‘May free men, flourishing in freedom of speech (parrhésia), dwell in the city of renowned Athens.’?> In the Phoinissai, Iokaste asks her son: ‘What is the wretched thing for exiles?? To which Polyneikes replies: ‘One thing above all, that he does not have parrhésia.’ lokaste comments in turn: “What you’ve said pertains to a slave, not to say what one thinks’ (390-2). In his survey of the six types of constitution, Plato says of those who live under a democracy: ‘First, aren’t they free, and the city full of freedom (eleutheria) and free speech (parrhésia), and there it is possible to do whatever one wishes?’ (R. 5574-6). Flatterers or kolakes, in turn, are seen as servile types, like the hangers-on or parasites who attached themselves to the houses of the well-to-do, and are a stock character in New Comedy, in which they apparently wore a characteristic mask.*° But their relationship to their patrons is not normally described in the language of friendship, and there was no substantial literature designed to help one distinguish flatterers of this sort from genuine friends. Indeed, the comic mask would suggest that the characters in drama were understood to recognize the parasite at once; there was, accordingly, no danger that he would be mistaken for a true friend and equal. Aristotle, in the Politics, had commented on the tendency of the democracy to demand subservience, and it was common since the time of Aristophanes to represent would-be friends of the démos as flatterers.2” The same idea is implicit in Isokrates’ reproach to the Athenian assembly in his oration On the Peace (8.14): ‘I know that it is difficult to oppose your opinions, and that although there is a democracy, there is no freedom of speech .. . but toward those who rebuke and advise you you are as grudgingly disposed as toward those who are doing the city harm.’ Here we see the tension in nucleo between flattery and free speech in the sense of honest criticism. A little earlier, Isokrates had castigated the behaviour of those who mislead the populace by ‘agreeing to your desires (epithumiais) (3), and reproached the Athenians ‘because you know 24 25 26 27

See Scarpat (1964), 29-37, 46-69; Momigliano (1973), 258-60. 421-2; Barrett (1966), 236, on 421-5 cites [on 674-3. Pollux, Onomasticon 4.148; cf. 6.123; Wiles (1991), 74-90. Ar. Eq. 48; Arist. Pol. 4.4, 1292*15-17 on the potentially tyrannical nature of the démos; cf. Pol. 5.11, 1314%1-4, where flattery is associated with servility; Ribbeck

(1883), 9-14; de Romilly (1975), 43-7.

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that many and great houses become ruined by those who flatter (tön kolakeuontön), and although you hate those who possess this art in private situations, you are not disposed in the same way toward them in public situations’ (4). There is an implicit contrast between the vice of flattery in the state, and the virtue of honest criticism, but Isokrates makes no mention of friendship. The need for candour and the danger represented by flattery first found expression in connection with friendships between men of unequal status or power. This context is still visible in the passage from Themistios cited earlier. While the reference to stuffing the belly conjures up the figure of the comic parasite, Themistios is chiefly concerned with those who insinuate themselves into the company of wealthy potentates, fawning on their superiors in hopes of personal gain.

vil.

KINGS

AND

COUNSELLORS

The emphasis on unequal friendships in the Hellenistic and later texts answers to a concern with relations between powerful lords and their retinues. As is well known, the immediate entourage of the Hellenistic kings, in particular those of Macedon and, perhaps somewhat later, of Syria and Egypt as well, were called hoi philoi. As Frank Walbank (1984, 69) puts it, ‘Friends are to be found in all the Hellenistic courts, where they form a council of state in daily session, advising the king on matters of policy—though it remains his prerogative to take the decision’ (69). Walbank (1984, 68) describes the institution as follows: the king was surrounded by his Friends [p/iloz], whom he appointed to a position close to his own person, where they enjoyed an intimate relationship profitable to both parties, and he often rewarded them with gifts of land which established them among the propertied class, whose support was vital to the security of his rule.?®

Although the philoi of the Hellenistic monarchs enjoyed a quasiinstitutional status, much of the counsel proffered in treatises on the proper choice of friends evidently concerns the retinues of supporters and advisers attracted to the rich and powerful in general. 28 Compare New York Times, 6 Nov. 1992: A18, concerning then president-elect Clinton’s personnel: ‘And there are the “Friends of Bill”... who have known Mr. Clinton for years and share many of his goals and instincts.’

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It is interesting in this connection to compare the double perspective implicit in the text of Vettius Valens, an astrologer active at Rome in the second century AD, who wrote a handbook in Greek on the meanings of heavenly birth signs. A number of predictions involve recourse to the assistance (boétheia or öpheleia) of friends in times of stress.” In these contexts, it is assumed that friends are to be relied on for mutual help. Sometimes, the stars point to future betrayals. Thus, ‘Aphrodite and the Moon . . . bring jealousies and enmities and crimes or disturbances among relatives or friends.’3° There are, however, signs that promise highly advantageous kinds of friendships. If Zeus, the father of the gods, and Ares are in conjunction, they indicate that those born under this sign will be ‘famous, ostentatious, friends of greater men or of kings, generals . unsteady in life and character and causing losses of what has been acquired’ (1.19.12 = 38.8-12). Apart from the warlike associations specific to Ares, the celestial connection between a lesser and a greater deity suggests relationships among unequal mortals, and, more particularly, the good fortune of being a friend of royalty or of people in positions of power. Similarly, if the Sun joins other signs in a certain position, it indicates ‘friends of potentates (megistanes), closeness to kings, authority over sacred rites’ (2.11.6 = 64.27-8). One man, in conformity with his horoscope, ‘became ambitious and political and liberal with gifts and obsequious to the masses and a friend of kings and rulers’ (2.21.35 = 82.4-5). Another man became ‘a friend of rulers and kings’ (4.8.17 = 159.21), while a certain conjunction is said to indicate ‘friends of potentates’

(2.32.7 = 98.33). Clearly, a connection with powerful rulers or kings represents a special category of friendship for Vettius Valens. Alongside the kind of friends on whom one hopes to count in times of crisis, normally one’s peers, there is also a manifestly unequal relationship with royalty or other great men that offers its own route to influence and prestige. The different treatment accorded to equal and unequal friendships in Aristotle, who distinguishes them as two distinct forms or species of philia, anticipates the two types of association discriminated by Vettius in astrological lore.

29 eg. 4.8.20 = Pingree (1986), 159.33-4; 5.6.117 = 219.17; 5.6.121 = 219.26. 30 1.19.17 = 39.1-4; cf. 2.16.62 = 72.23-4.

4.21.1

=

184.22;

5.6.114

= 219.12;

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We can see the beginnings of this kind of discourse on friendship with the powerful in Isokrates, a sympathizer of the Macedonian court, particularly in his treatise on correct conduct composed for the benefit of the young Demonikos, to whom he was obliged by relations of friendship with the boy’s father (1.1). While the precise identity of Demonikos remains uncertain, the context indicates that he lived under a monarchy, and there is some reason to suppose that his home may have been on Cyprus. In the proem, Isokrates remarks that the greatest difference between serious (spoudaioi) and worthless men is to be found in their treatment of friends. Demonikos’ father, according to the orator, was a man of great refinement (philokalos . . . kai megaloprepés) who was nevertheless available (Roinos) to his friends, and admired those in his entourage (pert hauton) who were eager and earnest (spoudazontes) more than those who were connected by kinship (12). Isokrates further advises the young man to ‘make no one your friend before you have examined how he treated his previous friends’, and adds sententiously: “Become a friend slowly, but once you have become one try to remain one; for it is equally disgraceful to have no friend and to adopt in turn many friends’ (24). A safe method for testing friends is to pretend to be in need (24); what is more, it is wise to come of one’s own accord to the assistance of friends, rather than waiting to be summoned (24-5). While some of Isokrates’ homiletics on the subject of friendship are reminiscent of the sayings ascribed to Menander that we examined above, the advice to Demonikos envisages a quite different kind of addressee. Demonikos is in need of caution because unprincipled or duplicitous individuals may be disposed to insinuate themselves into the graces of a wealthy and distinguished young man. The danger, then, is from those seeking to gain an advantage from an association with a powerful figure. The orator is worried not so much that unreliable friends may desert Demonikos in time of need, which is the emphasis in the Menandrean aphorisms, as that they may lead the youth astray and induce him both to squander his patrimony and abuse his authority. Isokrates’ counsel presupposes that economic or social inferiors may pretend to friendship, and may exert an unhealthy influence on the young man through flattery and deceit. So too, in his address to Nikokles, the son of the Cypriot ruler, Isokrates advises that the young man show his magnificence by

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‘services to friends’ (2.19), and he further recommends: ‘honour the closest (oikeiotatoi) of your friends with appointments to office (arkhai), and those who are most well-disposed with the most significant ones’ (20). He continues: ‘Do not acquire as friends all those who wish to be, but rather those who are worthy of your nature, nor again those with whom you will spend your time most pleasantly, but rather those with whom you will manage the city in the best way’ (27). We may note here the commonplace contrast between companions who provide only pleasure and those who are concerned for the welfare of the community over which the ruler presides. So too, Nikokles is encouraged to associate only with those who will improve him (29). vIIl.

DEMOCRACY

AND

INEQUALITY

There is some evidence of a discourse of friendship between superiors and inferiors earlier in the classical period as well. Although Walbank dates the earliest reference to friends of the king to a letter by Lysimakhos addressed to the city of Priene ¢.285 Bc ‘in which the king, the Friends and the army are said to have received greetings of goodwill from Prienean envoys’ (p. 69; Wells, RC 6), the queen Atossa in Aiskhylos’ Persai seems to anticipate this usage when she consistently refers to the chorus of old and trusted advisers as philoi.*' There is also a passage in Sophokles’ Azas in which the chorus of sailors sing philosophically about the exposure of great men (megalot, 154) to slander, which fails to touch ordinary people such as the chorus itself (emou, 155). They add: ‘And the lowly (smikroi) are a fragile defensive tower without the great; for a small man (baios) would do best with the great and a great man might be propped up by smaller’ (158-61). The chorus conclude by apostrophizing Aias himself with reference to the bout of madness that has driven him to slay his cattle instead of the Argive generals who have offended 31 "The vocative phile or philoi need not imply that the party so addressed is a friend as opposed to a relative or anyone else who might reasonably be called ‘dear’; but the queen’s consistent use of the term philoi in this way suggests a semi-technical usage. Apart from Macedon, the term may have antecedents also in Near Eastern courts, e.g. ‘in the Achaemenid kingdom and its Mesopotamian predecessors’, Musti (1984), 179. See also Xen. Cyr. 8.7.13; which describes Kyros’ friends as the ‘sceptre of the king’ (8.7.13); for possible Spartan influence on this usage, see Cartledge (1987), 139-59.

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him: ‘we have no strength to be safe against such things apart from you, o lord.’ The chorus are represented several times within the play as philoi of Aias (349-50, 406); and Blundell (1989, 73) observes that the chorus in the Azas articulates ‘an ideal of philia between unequals’.?? Each of the parties renders to the other a distinct kind of assistance: the great man is sustained by his loyal supporters, while the sailors enjoy the security provided by a powerful lord. It is of particular interest that the chorus is composed of sailors, who were normally drawn from the poorer stratum of the citizen body and were the staunchest supporters of the democracy. The character of Aias in Sophokles’ tragedy is anachronistic within the play. He represents an archaic ideal of individual power and honour that is anomalous in the civic world represented by Odysseus, Agamemnon, and Menelaos.77 Whereas Aischylos’ Persai describes a hierarchical relationship characteristic of the barbarian East, Sophokles examines an antiquated form of patronage that was absent from the political discourse of the classical democracy. The two plays are not exceptions to the rule that friendship was conceived of as a bond between equals in fifth- and fourth-century Athens. Rather, they exhibit, by contrast with (what are imagined to be) foreign or primitive social relations, the prevailing association between friendship and equality in the classical age. The fourth Epistle ascribed to the orator Isokrates is a letter of recommendation on behalf of a disciple named Diodotos, addressed to Antipater, the regent in Macedonia during Philip’s absence. If the text is genuine (so Lesky 1976, 618) and not a later composition passed off as classical, it may be dated to c.340/39 Bc. In the letter, Isokrates praises Diodotos as a companion and says that he possesses parrhésia (frankness) in the highest degree—not crass outspokenness, but the kind that indicates good will toward philot. Isokrates asserts that sensible princes recognize the usefulness of such candour, ‘for it stands to reason that monarchies, which entail many inevitable dangers, cannot endure in power by relying on those who elect always to speak with a view to pleasing; not even 32 It is worth noting that Aias does not think of Tekmessa as being among his philoi, though Tekmessa, Aias’ captured concubine, also regards the chorus as friends (328-30). 33 See Goldhill (1986), 156, 160-1; Winnington-Ingram (1980), 19.

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civic polities can do so, and they have more security’. Isokrates’ adds that Diodotos’ parrhésia has landed him in trouble with some Asian princes with whom ‘the flatteries (Rolakeiai) of men of no sort weighed more greatly than the good services of this man’. Isokrates expresses his confidence, however, in Antipater’s awareness that ‘the most pleasant and profitable thing of all is to acquire and treat well friends who are trustworthy and useful by virtue of their good services’ (4-7, 9, 13).°* Isokrates’ letter, if authentic, is early evidence of a developed discourse on friendship between superiors and dependents beyond the radius of the Athenian city-state. IX.

FRIENDSHIP

AND

IDEOLOGY

Between the classical democracy and the Hellenistic monarchies, there is a change in the treatment of friendship. Although there are signs of a concern in Athens with friendship between parties of different social status, and with the kinds of reciprocity that such relations supported, in the texts that survive the dominant note is that of mutual help between equals in time of crisis rather than the asymmetrical exchange of protection and support between great men and their entourage. If there were other voices, and it appears that there were, the success of Athenian democratic rhetoric effectively drowned them out. That a new discourse emerged as dominant is evidently associated with changes in social life that took place after the cultural dominance of Athenian democracy ceded place to that of the Hellenistic kingships. Can we say more about the nature of this shift? In particular, can we indicate the reasons for the pairing of mutual help with equality in the discourse concerning philia in the classical period, and the social practices underlying such discourse? The emphasis on reciprocity in the classical city-state has been associated with an economy based on smallholders. The importance of mutual assistance is obvious in a community of farmers who are at the mercy of the weather, war, and personal catastrophes within the family. Thomas Gallant (1991, 98, 143) suggests that Greek peasants used their surplus ‘to create bonds of obligation through participation in reciprocal feasting with co-villagers’, and 34 See also Pl. Ep. 6 (323a-c), recommending his pupils Erastos and Koriskos as friends to Hermeias, the tyrant of Atarneus; on friendship in the Platonic epistles, see Holzberg (1994), 12.

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produced what he calls a ‘support network’ comprising kinsmen, neighbours, friends, and patrons. Gallant’s analysis of village cooperation applies to bonds of many sorts, including—perhaps especially—relations among neighbours, to which the language of equality and reciprocity associated specifically with friendship does not necessarily pertain. There is no reason to suppose that such obligations of mutual assistance diminished in the Hellenistic period. While exposure to risk may have led to a high valuation of mutual assistance in interpersonal relations, the particular emphasis on equality and mutuality in the classical ideology of friendship does not appear to have been a direct reflex of economic necessity. The egalitarian ideal of friendship seems to have been a feature rather of the radical democratic ideology that excluded unequal relations among citizens. While there may be some truth in the observation by Barry Strauss (1986, 22-3) that ‘the Athenian system of instrumental friendship, for all its egalitarian features, shows many similarities to a patron-client system’, the critical point is that patron-client relations were excluded from the discourse of the democracy, where the image of friendship presented in the Azas, at least prior to the suicide of the hero, is anomalous. Paul Millett has argued plausibly that egalitarian friendship, with its ethic of mutual assistance among peers in times of need, served precisely as a safeguard against social dependency. Millett (1989, 43) speaks of the obligations between philoi as ‘effective antidotes’ to patronage, and of ‘the maintenance of an equilibrium through reciprocal exchanges between people of similar social status’.*5 Whether economic support among social equals in practice served as a brake upon tendencies toward quasi-feudal class relations in democratic Athens lies outside the scope of this paper. The rise of the Macedonian hegemony and the subsequent decline of the Athenian democracy in the period of the Hellenistic kingdoms permitted a relaxation of the democratic emphasis on equality among friends, in which frankness or parrhésia was not so much a 35 See Strauss (1986), 22-3: ‘Athenian culture placed an extraordinary emphasis on personal autonomy, and the average Athenian had the economic wherewithal to protect his status’. Gallant (1991), 145, observing that ‘the social image of equality often masks a social praxis of inequality’, speculates that relations of clientship must also have existed in the classical city-state. On the definition of clientship, see Saller (1989), 49; Saller (1982), 8-11. Millett (1989), 16, remarks that there is no evidence to suggest that such relations exerted ‘any pronounced influence on the ordering of society’ comparable to their central role at Rome.

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virtue as a sign of popular freedom or outspokenness while flattery was deemed a base quality characteristic of marginal or declassed people such as parasites. When the focus shifted to the behaviour appropriate before rulers and other men of wealth or influence, it became necessary to discourage the practice of flattery and to promote a willingness to express honest judgements even if they might be offensive, in the short run, to powerful friends. Kings do not need to be encouraged to speak candidly to their subordinates; it is only the counsellors and companions who must be urged to maintain a high standard of honesty.?® The ideology of the Athenian democracy, like all ideologies, was based on certain exclusions. In the case of friendship, the democracy encouraged an ideal of equality that was a model for relations among fellow citizens. To be sure, the triumph of a regime of smallholders, developing its politics in struggle with aristocratic and oligarchic tendencies, provided the conditions for a radical egalitarianism. But the equality and reciprocity characteristic of friendship were not a direct function of the economic necessities confronting subsistence farmers. Rather, the association between equality and reciprocity was an expression of a political ideal that was developed through historical antagonisms and served social interests. In an ethos in which labour for hire was considered tantamount to servitude, friendship was constituted as a sphere free of domination and subordination. Traces of other models of relations among philoi persisted, but they were driven to the margins, as in the case of queen Atossa’s counsellors or the archaic structure of relations centred upon the hero Aias. Certainly, there remained forms of philia that were not predicated on equality or reciprocity. Parental relations are a prime example; so too is erotic love. Interactions with gods could be reciprocal but hardly equal. Only with the passing of the democracy in its radical form, however, were other, non-egalitarian relations fully articulated (and in part, no doubt, recovered) in the language of friendship or bonds among philoi. While notions of proportional 36 In an interview with a member of Gorbachev's circle that appeared in La Repubblica on 28 Dec. 1991 (anno 16, numero 281, p. 7), Aleksandr Nikolaevic Jakovlev comments: ‘Around Gorbachev in these days there have remained only those who have never spared him criticisms, when they were necessary. Another proof of a law of life: your true friends are those who tell you the truth.’ For the reverse side of flattery as prompted by fear rather than greed or ambition, see Bartsch (1994), 24-5, 148-87.

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reciprocity might be invoked to salvage something of the classical ideal of equivalence, relations among friends of widely divergent status were no longer seriously regarded as predicated on equality. Mutuality of feeling and parity of social position, which were paired in the hegemonic democratic discourse, were now decisively separated. The idea of a community of equals, sustaining its solidarity through a commitment to mutual assistance, was not simply a feature of a pre-modern economy in which personal relations took on some of the functions later assumed by strictly market transactions. The obligations associated with friendship were conditioned less by material necessities and a lack of differentiation among social spheres than by the political imperatives of the democratic ideology. Friendship was not so much a bulwark against financial ruin as an expression of the mutual dependency of citizens on one another in an egalitarian regime, in which ideals of amicable relations between unequal parties were effectively repressed. The tension between selflessness and duty—between altruistic sentiment and extrinsic responsibility—was a feature of this vision of friendship, just as it is today, albeit in a different register and for somewhat different reasons. This tension is a sign that the division between private associations and public obligations was as typical of ancient as of modern life, and it runs counter to the idea that reciprocity marked off an intermediate domain between the private and the public in the Greek ideal of friendship. If the classical writers nevertheless placed a greater emphasis upon mutual assistance than we are accustomed to do in connection with friendship, this is not because reciprocity governs relations in pre-modern economies but rather—or at least as much—because such assistance was deemed characteristic of a community of equals, and equality was the primary value represented by friendship in the ideology of the classical democracies.?? 37 I wish to thank the editors of this volume, the participants in the original conference, and Pura Nieto for comments that have substantially changed and, I hope, improved this essay.

14 Altruism or Reciprocity in Greek Ethical Philosophy? CHRISTOPHER

1.

GILL

INTRODUCTION

In this chapter, I consider the implications of recent work on reciprocity in Greek culture, including that represented in this volume, for the study of interpersonal and social ideals in Greek ethical philosophy. My starting-point is the willingness of much recent scholarship in ancient philosophy to consider the possibility that Greek ethical theory can accommodate the positive valuation of altruism. This tendency represents a modification of a prevalent earlier view that Greek ethical philosophy was basically egoistic in outlook and, therefore, from a modern perspective, not properly moral philosophy at all. The earlier view was based partly on the fact that Greek ethical philosophy takes the pursuit of one’s own happiness as the overall goal, and partly on specific arguments (notably Aristotle's ideas about self-love) which seem to presuppose the priority of selfinterest. More recently, scholars have emphasized that, in some theories at least, happiness is realized in and through the practice of the virtues, including virtues that benefit others, such as justice, and that a positive valuation is sometimes placed on other-benefiting motivation. To this extent, it is suggested, the happiness-centred character of Greek ethical thought is not inherently egoistic, and is compatible with the valuation of altruism.! I accept that the present scholarly situation represents a much better basis than has existed previously for engaging in intercultural ‘dialogue’ with Greek ethical thought. However, this dialogue can be taken further by bringing the study of interpersonal ideals into closer contact with work on reciprocity in Greek culture. ' For the earlier view, see e.g. Ross (1923), 203; Prichard more recent view, see refs. in nn. 2, 22, 28-9 below.

(1968), ch.

1. For the

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As Hans van Wees brings out (Ch. 1, esp. Sect. 1), negotiation between the ethical categories of our own and other cultures has been at the heart of anthropological research on reciprocity for much of this century; and some of the issues treated in this research have a direct bearing on Greek ethical ideals. In recent ancient philosophical study, I think that there has been a tendency to place an undue emphasis on one interpersonal ideal, namely ‘altruism’; and also to assume that the significance attached to this notion in modern thought (notably that of disinterested concern for others) is, by and large, the same as that attached to it in Greek thought. I think that this approach fails to recognize the complexity of the negotiation needed between modern and Greek ethical categories. It also understates the range and complexity of human thinking about the motives and ideals that lead people to benefit others. In particular, it understates the significance of the ideas of mutual benefit and reciprocity in Greek ethical thought; and the extent to which those ideas can provide a framework that motivates otherbenefiting actions and attitudes. I develop this last point by outlining a general model in which to locate different ways in which other-benefiting motivation can be conceived. I define this model, in the first instance, by partial contrast with the approach taken by Julia Annas in her important and wide-ranging study of Greek ethical theory, The Morality of Happiness. In considering Greek thinking about interpersonal ethics, Annas avoids the terms ‘egoism’ and ‘altruism’, as having misleading modern connotations, preferring the more neutral, and more general, categories of ‘self-concern’ (not necessarily a vice) and ‘other-concern’. None the less, her account of the history of Greek ethical thought from Aristotle onwards implies a strong thesis about the significance in Greek thought of forms of otherconcern that we (moderns) would regard as altruistic. In particular, she suggests that Aristotle’s theorization of other-benefiting friendship set ethical standards against which later thought appraised, for instance, the Epicurean theory of friendship. She also suggests that the Stoic view that other-benefiting actions and attitudes should be extended to any human being (a view often associated in modern thought with the idea of altruism) set ethical standards whose validity was recognized by, for instance, later Academic and Peripatetic thinkers such as Antiokhos and Arius Didymus. Thus, her study combines explicit attention to the cul-

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tural context of ethical ideas such as altruism with strong implied claims about the intuitive appeal of certain ideas (if supported by sound philosophical argument). Her position combines an acknowledgement that ethical ideas are, to a degree, embedded in their cultural context with the thesis that some ethical ideas, including those that we associate with ‘altruism’, have an objective validity that is recognized in both Greek and modern culture. The latter thesis might be rephrased as the idea (as it is sometimes put) that different thinkers, despite operating with culturally different terms of reference, ‘converge on the truth’, in this case, the ethical power of what we call ‘altruism’.? I now outline a general model for locating different types of other-benefiting motivation. As in Annas’s account, this model is designed to allow for cultural variation in ethical categories, while also bringing out the element that is shared by different cultures. However, whereas Annas sees this element as inhering in the recognition, in Greek and modern ethics, of the validity of certain types of altruism (though not necessarily conceived under that description), I see it as inhering in a more general pattern of ethical thinking which accommodates various types of ethical motive. The essential feature of this model is this. Other-benefiting motivation arises out of the application of total ethical commitment to one or more of a set of ideals governing social relationships: this set includes solidarity, reciprocity, and altruism. The commitment to these ideals is put into effect in one or more of a number of interpersonal or social contexts, such as family, friendship-bond, nation. This model thus involves three different levels. (1) Commitment and Return. In every ethical system a central role is played by the idea of complete, willing commitment or engagement with (among other ideals) an ideal pattern of interpersonal or social relationship. This commitment is taken to bring with it a certain kind of return or corollary. The form of this return varies; but a key point is that the return is compatible with the idea of total and unqualified commitment. (2) Social Ideal. The social ideals to which commitment is given include solidarity (identification of one’s own interests or concerns with a specific group or specific relationship), reciprocity, altruism, benevolence, generosity, Christian love or ‘charity’. Such social ideals form a subdivision of 2 Annas (1993), part 3, esp. 225-6, 239-42, 267-75, 278-9, 282-7. On ‘convergence on the truth’, see (from a critical standpoint) Williams (1985), 140-52.

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the norms or virtues on which ethical commitment is focused. (3) Social Context. The practical expression of commitment to these ideals is located in one or more of a number of social contexts. These contexts include (in the Greek world) the family, chieftain-follower bond, friendship bond, city-state. These contexts are often regarded as the primary locus of ethical engagement; but the nature of that engagement is decisively shaped by the character of the social ideal assumed (for instance, reciprocity or altruism). The three levels involved are graded on two, related scales: from the more general to the more specific, and from the more abstract and reflective to the more concrete and practical. (1) At the first level, I take the idea that unqualified ethical commitment is correlated with an appropriate kind of return to be common to all ethical systems, though the nature of the commitment and the return are differently conceived in different systems. Ethical reflection, at its most fundamental, centres on the nature of this commitment and its return (and on the larger world-view in which this pattern is conceived).” A crucial point is that this kind of reflection enhances and deepens ethical commitment rather than undermining it.* (2) Different social ideals, or different forms and combinations of ideals, figure in different ethical systems. They serve as a focus both for practical ethical life and for ethical reflection, though at a less fundamental level than the pattern of commitment and return. (3) Any given social ideal within any one ethical system can inform practical ethical life in any one of a number of social contexts (household, city, and so forth). Although ethical engagement is often seen as directed at the maintenance of a specific social context, the relevant social ideal shapes what it means to maintain interpersonal life in that context. The salient difference between the model just outlined and Annas’s approach is that the universality or ‘convergence’ envis3 e.g. in Greek thought commitment and return are, typically, analysed in terms of virtue and happiness; in Christian thought, as the idea that love of God and neighbour brings union with God and salvation; in some modern thought, as the idea that altruism constitutes the deepest kind of self-realization. * A further crucial feature of this model is that such reflection depends on (though deepening) pre-reflective ethical commitment; contrast the idea that reflection can play an ‘Archimedean’ role in creating ethical commitment, e.g. through ideas such as the Prisoner’s Dilemma or the Veil of Ignorance. On the Prisoner’s Dilemma, see Ch. 10, Sect. 11; on ‘Archimedean’ ideas, see e.g. Williams (1985), ch. 2, also 77-80; MacIntyre (1985), chs. 4-5; on this question and Greek thought, Gill

(1996), 424-43.

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aged in this model is at a more general level than in hers. Where different ethical systems or theories converge is not in recognizing the validity of altruism, when this is given effective articulation. The ‘convergence’ lies in the general pattern, that is, the application of total ethical commitment, with the expectation of the correlated return, to one of a number of possible social ideals, including (but not restricted to) those we associate with altruism. The claim is not that the application of such commitment in connection with any of these social ideals produces precisely the same kind of other-benefiting actions and attitudes that are associated with ‘altruism’ in modern ethical thought. The claim is, rather, that the application of ethical commitment to any one of these social ideals generates a form of other-benefiting motivation, and that this is a universal characteristic of ethical systems. Differences in the conception of other-benefiting motivation can be illustrated by reference to altruism, as this is typically understood in modern thought, and, in Greek thought, solidarity and reciprocity, conceived as modes of mutual or shared benefit. Altruism (that is, ‘other-ism’), by contrast with egoism or selfishness, presupposes a sharp ‘self-other’ contrast as the basis of ethical evaluation. A related concern is with separating purely altruistic motivation from that which is directed at one’s own interest or benefit. A feature sometimes associated with altruism is the idea that you should aim to bring about what the other person regards as good for her, whether or not you share that view. A further feature is the idea that altruistic motivation is displayed, above all, in wanting to benefit anyone, regardless of whether the person is connnected with you in other ways; such a wish demonstrates the purity (lack of self-interest) of the motivation. Altruism, as noted earlier, can be regarded as a universal norm, whose validity is recognized in different cultures. But it is possible to isolate certain key influences, or influential statements, of the modern Western version of this norm. Christianity has been hugely influential in promoting the idea that the desire to benefit others (any others) and to negate oneself is central to morality. Kant’s stress on the idea of treating others as ends, not means, provided a secular statement of the importance of non-instrumental treatment of others and also of respecting other people’s view of their own good. In the nineteenth century, when the term ‘altruism’ was first coined, the idea expressed the kind of generalized benevolence that

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was central both to Utilitarian theory and to much moral thought of the period (which stressed the value of benefiting society as a whole). Like other types of social ideal, altruism is compatible with the idea of a return, as the correlative of total ethical commitment. A distinctive modern formulation of this return (which reflects the ‘self-other’ contrast fundamental to altruism) is the idea that altruism, if properly understood, constitutes the deepest type of selfrealization.? In Greek thought, by contrast, both reciprocity and solidarity, as social ideals, are associated with the idea of mutual benefit (whether shared or reciprocated). It may, therefore, be unclear how these ideals can provide the basis for other-benefiting motivation. However, as I explain more fully shortly, there are at least two main ways in which they do so, at least in a cultural context in which they serve as vehicles for total ethical commitment. One is that it is seen as a mark of a properly reciprocal or shared relationship (and a precondition of the relationship providing mutual benefit) that each partner wishes to benefit the other partner. The second, which is an extension of the first, is that each partner is willing to act in a way that is damaging to his own interests but beneficial to that of his partner if that is required by total ethical commitment to the relationship. Either of these two features can be described as wanting to benefit the other ‘for his sake, not one’s own’; and we sometimes find such language in Greek thought, especially in Aristotle. But this language is combined, in Aristotle as elsewhere in Greek thought, with the assumption that the ideal state of affairs is a relationship that confers mutual benefit (whether shared or reciprocated) and not one which is valued only or primarily because it provides an opportunity for benefiting someone else. In other words, these ‘altruistic’ features are motivated by an ethical framework centred on mutual benefit rather than altruism of the type described in modern thought.® 5 On the thinking about ‘altruism’ summarized above, see further Gill (1996), 335-40. As noted by Seaford, Introd., 6 above, ‘altruism’, according to OED?, was coined by Comte (meaning acting ‘for another’, Fr. autrui), and introduced into English as a result in 1853 onwards. The OED definition is ‘devotion to the welfare of others, regard for others, as a principle of action; opposed to egoism or selfishness’; see also Zanker, Ch. 3, 75-6 above. 5. In general terms, the motivational pattern present in Greek thought is one in which each partner (1) wants to benefit the other and (2) does so for the sake of the other, i.e. he is not only or primarily motivated by the expectation of benefiting himself in the long run. (I take it that this is implied in the idea that the social ideal is a

Altruism or Reciprocity in Greek Philosophy? It.

RECIPROCITY:

THE

HOMERIC

309

PATTERN

My main concern in this chapter is with Greek ethical philosophy; but I begin with Homeric ethics because this provides a context in which to meet a possible objection to my approach. The objection is that reciprocity, as distinct from altruism or solidarity, cannot serve as a vehicle for total ethical commitment in a way that creates other-benefiting motivation. This is because the expectation of a return, in material goods or social attitudes, qualifies the sense in which we can describe the ethical commitment as ‘total’. This can also be seen as qualifying the sense in which the motivation yielded is other-benefiting (since it depends on the expectation of social or material good for the agent). According to this view, when we find motivation in which the expectation of a return is absent, we should describe it as ‘altruistic’, rather than based on commitment to reciprocity. Graham Zanker, writing in this volume on Homeric ethics, presupposes this type of view. He presents Homeric ethics as, in effect, a two-tier system. Homeric society as a whole functions on the basis of reciprocity (which Zanker sees as not providing the basis for genuinely other-benefiting motivation, because of the expectation of a social or material return). But Zanker sees Akhilleus, in particular, as questioning the ethical validity of reciprocal ethics in his great speech in Iliad g. Also, by his generous response to his enemy, Priam, in [Mad 24, Akhilleus displays a form of altruism (wanting to benefit anyone) that Zanker sees as valued in some later Greek thought as well as in modern ethics.’ The idea that reciprocity is characteristic of ethically secondclass relationships, and that first-class ethical relationships are marked, rather, by more genuinely other-benefiting attitudes (such as altruism, benevolence, or Christian love) is a relatively common modern one.? However, I do not think that Homeric ethics constitutes a two-tier system of this kind. Although reciprocity, arguably, co-exists with solidarity (the latter being the dominant ideal within vehicle for total ethical commitment.) However, such motivation is accompanied by, and compatible with, the thought that a relationship of this kind (one in which each partner wants to benefit the other for the other’s sake) is mutually beneficial; and this mutual benefit forms an important part of the ‘return’ that is yielded by ethical commitment to the social ideal. 7 See Ch. 3, esp. Sects. I and Iv. 8 This view underlies Gouldner’s cence, (1973), chs. 8-9.

sociological

essays on reciprocity and benefi-

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the household), the ethical issues which are most central, and most problematic, in each poem, arise out of relationships shaped by reciprocity.? Zanker’s view that Homeric ethics forms a twotier system might, more plausibly, be made with reference to the distinction drawn by Donlan (1981-2) between ‘balanced’ reciprocity, in which a fixed return is stipulated, and ‘generalized’ reciprocity, in which there is no such stipulation, though there is the broad expectation of balance in the exchange. Generalized reciprocity is, typically, found in relationships continuing over time (between chieftains, or between chieftains and followers); and these relationships display, within the framework of reciprocity, features that can reasonably be seen as indicating total ethical commitment. These features include the willingness, by each partner, to play a reciprocal role in a spirit of unqualified generosity, as a ‘favour’ (kharis), and not under fixed terms or compulsion. (This stress on generosity or ‘gratuitousness’ is often noted as characteristic of the motivation of appropriate acts in cultures pervaded by reciprocal ethics.)!° They also include the willingness, under appropriate circumstances, to act in a way that is potentially damaging to oneself but beneficial to others (such as risking one’s life in battle for one’s fellow-chieftains or followers), if that is what the reciprocal relationship requires. The fact that there is an expectation, in principle, of social or material return over time does not negate the unqualified status of the commitment on any one occasion or the other-benefiting character of the act on that occasion. This pattern can be illustrated by a speech often cited in this connection, Glaukos’ speech to Sarpedon in Iliad 12.310-38, which presupposes the ethics of reciprocity, and Akhilleus’ great speech in Ihad 9, often seen as questioning these. Glaukos, urging Sarpedon to fight, and perhaps die, in battle, grounds his advice on the claims of the reciprocal relationship in which chieftains undergo such risks in return for special material and social privileges in life and fame after death. The type of reciprocity involved is what Donlan calls ‘generalized’; and Glaukos’ urging implies that the chieftain should undergo these risks willingly, as a ‘favour’, ° See further Seaford (1994), ch. 1, esp. 7-13, 25-9; Postlethwaite, Ch. 4. 10 See e.g. Seaford, Introd., 2-4 above; van Wees, Ch. Donlan (1981-2), 142, 159-67; Gill (1996), 138-9.

also

Donlan,

1, 18-20

Ch.

above;

2; also

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and not as a determinate (quasi-contractual) quid pro quo for determinate privileges and status.!! The return that Glaukos envisages is thus consistent with the ethical model outlined in the previous section, in that the privileges and fame are the correlative of, and depend on, unqualified ethical commitment to the relevant social ideal, namely reciprocity. His speech also shows that, although relationships are conceived, in this ethical framework, as a context for mutual benefit, rather than for benefiting others for its own sake, the framework also provides the motivation for actions which benefit others, but are potentially damaging to the interests of the agent. I think that a similar point is implied, though in a more complex way, by Akhilleus’ great speech ({|. 9.308-429). Although this speech is often taken, for instance by Zanker, as a rejection of the exchange of risk-taking for honour, we can also read the speech, taken as a whole, as reinforcing, rather than rejecting, the ethics of reciprocity. Akhilleus’ key point is that Agamemnon’s seizure of Akhilleus’ prize-bride has been so unjustified, and so out of line with normal patterns of reciprocity, that Agamemnon cannot now be treated as an acceptable donor of compensatory gifts. Also implied, in the way that Akhilleus rejects the compensatory gifts, is that the scale and magnificence of Agamemnon’s gifts amount to an attempt to reassert his authority over Akhilleus by gaining the added status that comes from superiority in gift-giving. Agamemnon’s double failure in generalized reciprocity thus undermines the framework in which Akhilleus and the other Greek chieftains risk their lives in battle as a generous gesture or ‘favour’ (kharis), rather than under compulsion or enforced obligation. Akhilleus’ reference to a ‘choice of lives’ in this connection might be taken to imply that ungrudging risk-taking is recognized as an integral part of a way of life (that centred on reciprocity, especially between chieftains). Akhilleus’ grudge against Agamemnon is, thus, not only that he fails to provide appropriate reciprocation, but

11 Claus’s stress on the role of the ‘gratuitous’ in heroic ethics in (1975), 17-25, despite some overstatement (criticized by Zanker, 86-7 above), constituted an important anticipation of Donlan’s emphasis on this feature of reciprocal ethics (n. 10 above); see also Il. 17.220-32 (discussed by Claus); Gill (1996), 131-5. In Ch. 2, 56 above, Donlan sees as characteristic of the chieftain-people relationship ‘balanced reciprocity that verges towards the generalized pole’; Glaukos seems to me to underline the ‘generalized’ aspect of the relationship.

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that, by failing to provide this, he prevents his fellow-chieftains from living this (worthwhile) way of life.’ I also differ from Zanker on the question of the social ideal by which we should explain Akhilleus’ response to Priam’s supplication in Il. 24. The kind of fellow-feeling established between the killer of Hektor and the father of the killer of Patroklos is extraordinary; it is only partly explained by the fact that Priam, in supplicating, offers gifts of exceptional quality. A further explanation, stressed by Norman Postlethwaite (Ch. 4) in response to Zanker, is Akhilleus’ exemplary commitment (as part of his continuing grudge against Agamemnon) to the highest standards of generalized reciprocity, here expressed in an exceptional favour to a suppliant. In addition, this exceptional response is structured, formally and conceptually, by the standard norms of Homeric ethics (which I take to be solidarity and reciprocity) rather than altruism. Supplication, in its normal form, can be understood as a means of temporarily widening friendship or family-status to include the suppliant.'? Here, exceptionally, Priam tries to associate himself with Akhilleus’ aged father; and Akhilleus’ positive response is mediated by a shared grief in which each partner mourns for his own philos (24.486-5 12). Against the background of this abnormal extension of fellow-feeling, Akhilleus sees their experience as exemplifying the general human experience of unmerited suffering (525-51). This fellow-feeling is further embodied in the quasi-funeral rite, shared meal, and shared sleeping that represent the consequence and the extension of Akhilleus’ acceptance of supplication.'* Although Akhilleus universalizes their situation, and extends friendly concern to his greatest enemy, it does not follow that his response is best explained in terms of the kind of altruism in which beneficence is directed, as a matter of principle, to anyone. This exceptionally other-benefiting action and attitude, while displaying the application of total ethical commit12 This reading links the rejection of gifts in Il. 9.378-97 with the complaints about defective reciprocity in 315-43 (esp. 334-41); and takes Akhilleus’ ‘choice of life’ in 410-16 as a response to Agamemnon’s failure in reciprocal ethics. For a detailed defence of this reading, see Gill (1996), 131-52; also Donlan (1993), 318-20, 406-9, cited by Zanker, 85-6 above, as rejecting reciprocal ethics, need to be located in the argument of the speech as a whole. 13 Cf. hospitality (xenia); see further Seaford (1994), 71 ἢ. 161, referring to Gould (1973), 93. See also Belfiore, Ch. 7, 145-7 above. 14 Tl. 24.571-676; see also Seaford (1994), 70-1, 173-6, esp. 176.

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ment, is best explained by reference to social ideals other than altruism (whether conceived in Christian, Kantian, or Utilitarian terms) which might motivate a seemingly similar response in modern thought.!° 111.

GREEK

PHILOSOPHY:

PLATO

Before turning to this issue in Greek philosophy, a prior question is this: how far did changes in Greek society after the Homeric period diminish or alter the significance of reciprocity in Greek ethical thought? It has been argued, for instance by Richard Seaford, that reciprocity is especially associated with the dominant role of chieftain-chieftain and chieftain-follower relationships in Archaic Greece, and that subsequent state-formation, combined with the development of monetary exchange, renders solidarity (especially within the polis) a more important social ideal than reciprocity.!® Partly parallel to this view are the claims made by Anna Missiou and Gabriel Herman in this volume (Chapters 9-10) that the distinctively democratic ethos of fifth-century Athens was associated with the valuation of generosity and self-restraint, rather than reciprocity, in inter-state or intra-state relationships. (Herman, in particular, argues that those virtues emerged as more important because they had been found to be more effective in creating social cohesion, and thus strengthening solidarity, within democratic society.) On the other hand, Paul Millett, in Chapter 11, underlines the continuing role of reciprocity in the economic and social relationships of individuals and groups (between aristocrats and the démos, for instance) in Athens of the fifth and fourth centuries.'? Sitta von Reden (Ch. 13, esp. Sect. 111) suggests that, in Menander’s comedies, the erosion of the ethic of reciprocity at the expense of commercialization is presented as an index of social and ethical decline. Her view implies, at least in (broadly) aristocratic circles in the late fourth century, a continuing adherence to the ideal of reciprocity, a point of special interest in view of the connection often seen between Menander and the school of Aristotle. 15 For Zanker’s reading of this scene in terms of altruism (noting the difference of view from that taken here), see Ch. 3, Sect. Iv, esp. 88-92 above. 16 Seaford (1994), chs. 6-10, esp. ch. 6, also 338-44, 382-405. '7 See also Allen (1996), arguing that the Athenian democratic courts in the same period provided an institutional framework for negative reciprocity.

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The outcome of this (highly selective) survey of opinion on this question is not univocal. However, the rather complex picture that emerges matches what are (as far as I can see) the assumptions underlying Greek ethical philosophy in the fourth and third centuries BC and beyond. Other-benefiting motivation (even in its most ‘altruistic’ form) still seems best explained by reference to a combination of the social ideals of solidarity and reciprocity, even though the social contexts assumed are in some ways different from those of Homeric society. In particular, we can find in Plato, Aristotle, and Epicurus, analogues of the pattern examined in Homer, in which commitment to the norm of the mutually-benefiting relationship motivates actions in which one partner acts in a way that is disadvantageous to himself but beneficial to the other partner. A further feature of Greek ethical philosophy, by contrast with Homer, is that we find explicit theory, and not simply assumptions or implications, about what were described in Section I as the three levels of the ethical model. In general, the focus of attention in Greek philosophy is on the first level. Especially for Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics, the central ethical topic is the analysis of what I am calling ‘total ethical commitment’ (for them, virtue, as variously conceived), and the relationship between this commitment and the correlated ‘return’ or corollary, namely happiness. There is much less evidence of innovative theorizing about the second level, that is, about whether ‘virtue’, in its other-benefiting aspects, should be defined in terms of reciprocity, solidarity, altruism, or other social ideals. Some of what seems to be innovative thinking about this level (such as Aristotelian ideas about benefiting friends or Stoic ideas about benefiting anyone) are best explained as consequences of innovative thinking at the first level, and those consequences are worked out largely in terms of solidarity and reciprocity. Gregory Vlastos argued that we could find in Sokratic and Platonic ethical arguments evidence of an explicit rejection of the ethics of reciprocity, especially in its negative or retaliatory side, the returning of harm for harm.'?® One of the difficulties in Vlastos’s claim is that it is based on certain localized arguments (notably in Crito and Republic 1) rather than on analysis of the social ideals of a dialogue (or set of dialogues) taken as a whole. The 18 Vlastos (1991), ch. 7, esp. 194-9, referring to Cri. 48b-c, 49a-d, R. 335a-d.

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appearance of (at least) positive reciprocity at a key point in the argument of the Republic runs counter to the view that Plato wanted to repudiate this ideal. The question of how to overcome the reluctance of the philosopher-rulers to reduce their share of the greatest human happiness (philosophical contemplation of the Good) and to go back as rulers into the ‘cave’ of pre-reflective society is marked as an ethical crux by Plato’s own presentation in Republic 7.15 What social ideal does Plato assume in specifying, or resolving, this crux? In general, the dominant social ideal in Plato’s portrayal of the ideal state is solidarity. The members of the auxiliary class are to regard themselves as members of a single family (as far as possible a single person) with shared interests, objectives, and standards. Although the different classes in the state have complementary functions, those functions are defined as ‘doing their job’ within a unitary organization, which serves all of their interests, rather than being defined as reciprocal exchange of complementary ‘goods’ (though Plato indicates his familiarity with the latter model).?® It is the more striking, then, that the crux of the philosophers’ re-entry to the cave is resolved in terms of reciprocity. We are told that the philosopher-rulers (if their obligations are explained to them) will be ‘not unwilling’, even ‘keen’, to ‘pay back’ (ektinein) the upbringing (tropheia) that has prepared them to play their unique role both in coming to know moral truth (the Good) through philosophy and in shaping the state in the light of this knowledge.! What does Plato’s use of the latter type of language tell us about his thinking about what constitute valid social ideals? One move that is, I think, unhelpful in this connection is to translate the ethical crux into the terms of egoism versus altruism, by characterizing the philosophers’ reluctance to re-enter the cave as selfish, or, at least, as showing a deficiency in altruism. Irwin’s two readings of this passage embody a sophisticated (and increasingly nuanced) version of this move. He takes the implied resolution of the crux to be that the educational programme of the philosopher-rulers provides the recognition that the deepest kind of self-realization 19 R. srgb-521c; on ‘compulsion’ as needed to overcome reluctance, see 519c4-d7, 64, 520a8-9, c1, 521b7—-10. 20 R. 462a-466d (solidarity among auxiliaries); 433a-434c (justice as ‘doing your job’); 369a-372a, esp. 369c, 372a (justice as reciprocal exchange). 21 R. 520a9-c1, d6-8; on their dual role, see 5ıgb-d, s2obs—c6.

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inheres in the development of altruism. Thus, he suggests, going against the literal content of Plato’s text, that the philosopherrulers will be motivated by their contemplation of the Good to want to perform their other-benefiting (understood as altruistic) role of re-entering the cave.?? I have argued elsewhere that Irwin’s readings introduce a characteristically modern way of defining and resolving moral issues, in terms of the idea that moral development consists in the recognition that altruism constitutes the deepest kind of self-realization.?? I think that the Homeric material discussed earlier provides an alternative ethical paradigm which is more relevant to the Platonic passage. What is presupposed is the type of relationship (conceived in terms of reciprocity or solidarity) whose maintenance may make very great demands on either party but which is, taken as a whole, mutually beneficial. A recurrent feature of this pattern, exemplified by Sarpedon or Akhilleus in Homer, is that the partners may need to give up something that is of great value to them to meet these demands, but that they are willing to do so in the context of properly reciprocated actions and attitudes. In the Republic, Plato underlines both that the philosopher-rulers are giving up continuous enjoyment of the highest possible human activity (philosophical contemplation) and that they are ‘not unwilling’, even ‘keen’, to do so in reciprocation for the education that gives them access to this activity.** Plato’s presentation is much more difficult to correlate with an altruism-centred framework, in which benefiting others, rather than oneself, has overriding priority, and in which the surrender of one’s own benefit is not acknowledged as a serious loss (or a loss at all). The crux which is resolved in this way derives from a feature of Plato’s thinking at what I am calling the first level of ethical thinking, that relating to total ethical commitment (virtue) and its return (happiness). The problem arises because of Plato’s view that, although both the practical and contemplative aspects of virtue are constitutive of human happiness, they are not equally so; and, though interdependent, they are also in competition (as activities 22 Irwin (1977), 242-5, also 233-7; (1995), 298-301, 313-16; see further Gill (1996), 301-2. 23 Gill (1996), 326-30, 334-40. 24 On (1) what the philosopher-rulers are giving up, see R. 519c4-6, 519d—520a (esp. 519d2-9), 520d2-7, 520e4—-521a4, b9-10; on (2) their willingness to do so, see 520b4, d7. See also Gill (1996), 302-4.

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that have to fit within a single life). The language of reciprocation (‘paying back’, ektinein) derives from this necessary tension. Going back into the cave is the price that must be paid (though it must be paid willingly) for going out of the cave towards knowledge of the Form of the Good.?? The fact that Plato couches the resolution of this crux (in so far as it is soluble) in terms of reciprocity, in spite of the prevalence of the ideal of solidarity elsewhere in the argument, implies that Plato does not see reciprocity as a social ideal to be repudiated. He is ready to combine it with solidarity in presenting this paradigmatic, though problematic, instance of otherbenefiting motivation. Iv.

ARISTOTLE

Aristotle’s theory of friendship (philia) is one of two Greek theories (the other being Stoicism) in which it seems plausible to say that we find an equivalent for the modern conception of ‘altruism’. The question I pursue is how far the features of Aristotelian thinking that support this view can be explained better by reference to ethical commitment to the social ideals of solidarity and reciprocity. One relevant feature of Aristotle’s theory is that he presupposes the cultural availability of an idea, ‘wishing the friend well for his sake, not one’s own’ that seems to correspond with at least one modern sense of ‘altruism’.*° Aristotle also gives this idea special theoretical weight, offering his own normative account of what it means to wish another well ‘for his sake’. A further relevant feature is that the kind of friendship which meets Aristotle’s normative conditions is analysed as a vehicle for (virtuous) ‘self-love’ and a means of extending one’s own happiness.?” Although the latter move was taken, in earlier scholarship, as undermining the apparent altruism of conventional thought by translating it into egoistic terms, more recent scholarship has argued that Aristotle reinterprets altruistic friendship in a way that does not negate its

25 On the language (combining ‘compulsion’ with ‘willingness’) that conveys this necessary tension, see nn. 19, 21, 24 above. See further Gill (1996), 304-5, 308-14; also 370-83 on a similar tension in Arist. NE 10.7-8. 26 NE 115531, 1159*8-10, 1166%2-4; EE 1240%23-5; Rh. 1380°36-138171. The relevant sense of ‘altruism’ is ‘the disinterested desire to benefit another’; on ‘altruism’, see n. 5 above, text to n. 36 below. 27 On the structure of the argument, see ἢ. 31 below.

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altruism.?® Irwin’s interpretative formulation (ethical development leads to the recognition that altruism constitutes the deepest kind of self-realization) can be ‘mapped’ more easily on to the language of Aristotle’s theory than on to that of Plato’s Republic.*? Aristotle’s account, more than other Greek theories, offers linguistic and conceptual equivalents for the ‘self-other’ contrast which is fundamental to modern thinking about ‘altruism’ (‘other-ism’, by contrast with ‘self-ism’).3° However, in gauging the significance of these points, we should note that Aristotle combines the ‘self-other’ contrast with language that suggests, rather, the social ideals of solidarity or reciprocity, and does so with no obvious sense of tension between this contrast and those ideals. The ‘self-other’ contrast is combined with these ideals in all three stages of Aristotle’s argument (his account of conventional ideals, his own stipulations for ideal friendship, and his analysis of the implications of this ideal).?! In Aristotle’s account of conventional thinking about friendship, we find (alongside the idea of wishing the other well ‘for his sake’) that of friendship as ‘alliance’ or ‘partnership’ (mutual wellwishing expressed in practical action), or ‘shared life’.4? These ideas may be taken as versions of ‘solidarity’ (identifying one’s interests and concerns with that of a group or relationship), or of reciprocity. Of these two norms, most recent work has been on (what I am calling) ‘solidarity’; but both the Zudemian and Nicomachean Ethics contain (relatively unexamined) treatments of conventional fourth-century thinking about reciprocity. These include the question how relationships between unequal partners (superior and inferior) can be conducted in a way that is beneficial to both partners (this is assumed to be the overall goal of relationships, including that between benefactor and benefited). A recurrent idea is that such inequalities can be ‘equalized’ by 28 For the earlier position, see e.g. Ross (1923), 208; for the more recent, Annas (1977), esp. 542, 544; Kahn (1981), esp. 28-9; Kraut (1989), ch. 2, esp. 131-44; Annas (1993), 253-61. 29 Trwin (1988), 389-97, also 376-81; text to nn. 22-3 above; Gill (1996), 326-30. 30 See ἢ, 5 above. 31 For these three stages, see (1) NE 8.2, EE 7.1; (2) NE 8.3-5, EE 7.2; (3) NE 9.4, 8, 9, EE 7.6, 12. See also Price (1989), ch. 4, esp. 103-14; Gill (1996), 346-50; Konstan, Ch. 13, Sect. 11. 32 See further Price (1989), 114-20, 157-61; Sherman (1989), ch. 4, esp. 128-36; Osborne (1994), 142-52.

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‘proportionality’ (to analogon) of some sort, for instance, when the superior (the benefactor) receives honour in proportion to the other’s advantage.?? Another relevant topic is the subdivision of “utility-friendship’ into ‘legal’ or ‘ethical’ types, and (in NE) the subdivision of ‘legal’ friendship into ‘commercial’ (agoraia) and ‘more generous’ (eleutheriötera) types (the latter distinction being close to that drawn by Donlan between ‘balanced’ (or contractual) and ‘generalized’ reciprocity.*+ These points may help us to define what Aristotle means by wishing someone well ‘for his sake not one’s own’, and to distinguish this meaning from some of those attached to it in modern thought. Clearly, Aristotle does not have in view the kind of altruism that consists in wanting to benefit, in principle, any other, regardless of his relationship to oneself (an idea that seems not to have been formulated in these terms in Greek theory prior to the Stoics). Aristotle locates well-wishing firmly within close interpersonal (and mutual) relationships, and not in one-way actions or attitudes. The fact that Aristotle links well-wishing with the social ideals of solidarity and reciprocity (within close interpersonal relationships) suggests that he sees well-wishing ‘for the other’s sake’ as part of what it means to have a fully ‘shared’ or ‘reciprocated’ relationship.7> The concern is not, as in some modern thought, with ensuring that well-wishing contains no reference to one’s own interests or benefits, on/y that of the other (that the other is, in this sense, not a means but only an end in herself). The ideal is, rather, that in which each partner acts fully in the interests of the other and in which that concern is reciprocated or shared, thus generating maximum benefit to both partners (the other is both end and means). Another feature of modern thinking about altruism not present in Aristotle’s account is the idea (sometimes also associated with the ‘end-means’ distinction) that altruism means promoting the other’s good as the other sees it, regardless of whether or not you agree with the other’s view of what is good. On the contrary, 33 See NE 1158523-8, 116252-4, 1163>11-12, 32-3; EE 1163°32-3. 3+ See NE 8.13, 1162>22-1163%9; EE 7.10, 12423 1-1243*14; also Price (1989), 155-7; (on FE 7.9-10) Schofield (forthcoming). 35 See (combining the ideas of well-wishing and shared life) NE 1166°2-9; EE 1240%21-30; Rh. ı1380°35-1381*12; (friendship as reciprocation, antiphilia, antiphilésis, and as reciprocal choice, antiprohairesis) NE 1155>28-1156%s, 1156533-5; EE 1236%14-15, P3-6, 1237°30-4; see also text to nn. 41-2 below, and Gill (1996), 350-1.

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Aristotle stresses that his ideal of reciprocated well-wishing includes having a shared conception of the good.?® These general points hold good not only for Aristotle’s characterization of conventional ideals, but also for his stipulations for ideal friendship, and his analysis of what this ideal implies. Although Aristotle’s thinking is, explicitly, innovative, it is not innovative in introducing any of the (modern) senses of altruism just noted: wanting to benefit any other, removing any reference to self-interest, respecting difference of viewpoint. Aristotle’s innovations regarding friendship are best understood as deriving from his overall thinking on what was described earlier as the first level of the ethical framework. At the heart of Aristotle’s ethical theory is the specification (in terms of virtuous character and reasoning) of what I am calling ‘total ethical commitment’, and of the return or corollary (happiness) that derives from the actualization of this commitment.?’ Correspondingly, in his stipulations for ideal friendship, he insists that wishing the friend well ‘for the other’s sake’ must mean for the sake of what the friend is ‘in himself’, that is, as one who possesses and actualizes the virtues, rather than as one who seeks to obtain, through friendship, what is useful or pleasurable.?® His further analysis of what this ideal implies (that it can serve as a means of virtuous self-love and of extending the happiness that is the concomitant of virtue) forms part of his thinking about the ‘return’ or corollary of total ethical commitment, in so far as this is realized through interpersonal relationships.?? Although, in these respects, Aristotle revises, or refines, conventional thinking about social ideals, his revision does not seem to have the aim of changing the social ideals fundamentally, for instance, by replacing those of solidarity and reciprocity with that of altruism. Indeed, he insists that his ideal form of friendship ful36 See e.g. NE 1156°6-11; FE 1237%26-30, 1241%15-18; this point underlies the argument of NE 9.9 (see 1169°30-1170%8); also Price (1989), 118-27; Sherman (1989), 131-6. 37 For key relevant features of the argument of NE, see 1.1, 1.7, 2.6, 6.5-7, 6.13, 10.7-8. See further e.g. Kraut (1989); Annas (1993), chs. 1-2, 15, 18, 21. 38 On the structure of the argument, see text to n. 31 above. See eg. NE 1156*11-12, 16-19, 1156P1o-11, 1157°18—-19, 115753; EE 1237°1-6. 39 More precisely, he argues that the good person in a virtue-friendship is a true ‘self-lover’, i.e. he loves “what each of us is’, our (practical) reason; that such a person treats his friend as, in a real sense, a ‘second self’, and that the friendship thus extends his own happiness. See NE 9.4, esp. 116614-23, 31-2; 9.8, esp. 1168>28-1 1696; 9.9, esp. 1 169®6-7, 1170%6-7; also EE 7.6, 12, esp. 124530.

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fils better than any other type the conventional expectation that such friendship will constitute a stable partnership of shared life and mutual benefit.*° This point is sometimes made in terms of reciprocity: “When a good person becomes a friend [to another good person], he becomes a good thing to his friend, Each of them, therefore, loves his own good, and pays back the same as he receives [τὸ ἴσον ἀνταποδίδωσιν] in well-wishing and pleasure’ (NE 1157P33-6).* In NE 9.4, 8, 9, in his analysis of the implications of this ideal model of friendship, solidarity is especially prominent in the form of the idea that two virtuous friends, in being ‘other selves’ (in the fullest possible sense) extend

each other’s (virtuous)

self-loving existence and conscious happiness.*? It has been a real achievement of recent scholarship to show that this analysis builds on, and does not undercut, the conception of ‘wishing the other well for the other’s sake’ embodied in Aristotle’s ideal friendship.** What needs also to be recognized, I think, is that both this ideal and its further analysis (like the conventional thinking Aristotle presupposes) imply that the social ideals of solidarity and reciprocity can serve as vehicles of total ethical commitment, thus generating the kind of well-wishing that Aristotle has in view. The linkage between Aristotle’s thinking, at its most innovative, about ideal friendship and earlier Greek thinking about reciprocity is indicated especially in certain striking and controversial passages in NE 9.8, in which he associates the idea of virtuous self-love with that of a mutually beneficial type of competition. He suggests, first, that competition in virtue benefits both the person himself and others; hence, such competition between virtuous friends is compatible with their co-operative partnership. Subsequently, the idea of competition is extended to cover the case of a person who, acting out of virtuous self-love, gives up to his friend property or his life, or the opportunity for the friend to act finely. By such actions, the virtuous person ‘allocates to himself the greater good’, namely that of doing the morally fine thing.** The idea that competition can be combined with co-operation in this way is strongly reminiscent of the Homeric pattern of reciprocal friendship between chieftains; in 40 NE 1156"11-19, 1170°10-14, EE 1236°26-32, 1237°9-16, 1245°18->9. See Price (1989), 118-19, 146, 1596-60; Sherman (1989), 132-6; Osborne (1994), 146.

See also NE 1156°12-17; EE 1236>26-32, 1237°26-34. 42 Seen. 39 above; also Gill (1996), 353-5. 8 Seen. 28 above. + NE 116991852, esp. 828-9; see further, on moral competition, Kraut (1989), 115-19; Annas (1993), 257-61.

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particular, the passage evokes the idea that the benefactor gains ethical superiority by greater benefaction.** In this passage, we can see an Aristotelian version of the idea, already discussed in Homer and Plato, that full ethical commitment to the ideal of the mutuallybenefiting relationship may require either partner to give up something worthwhile for the sake of the other. The passage also suggests, as those earlier versions do, that such commitment also brings with it a return, formulated here as the ‘greater good’ of doing the morally fine thing.*° The fact that Aristotle, in an explicitly controversial and innovative passage, evokes patterns of heroic reciprocity indicates (what we might expect from other features of Aristotle’s discussion) that his theoretical innovativeness is not linked with a repudiation of the ethical status of reciprocity. In a discussion of Aquinas’s comments on Aristotle’s theory, Catherine Osborne makes certain points that bear on the whole issue being considered here, especially the sense to be attached to ‘altruism’. Aquinas, referring to several features of Aristotle’s theory discussed here, suggests that there are important similarities between Aristotle’s ideal and that of Christian love. As Osborne underlines, this suggestion overlooks substantive differences between the two ideals, including that Christian love for neighbour is derived from love for God and is directed equally at strangers, especially those in need and distress (ideas without parallel in Aristotle). However, she also argues that there are significant parallels between the two theories, including a practical understanding of what ‘love’ means and the idea that ‘altruism’ and ‘self-love’ (if understood in certain specialized ways) are compatible with each other.*” If we accept Osborne’s conclusions, it must be with the caveat (one implied by Osborne herself) that ‘altruism’ is being taken in a very general sense (the core idea being simply that of wanting to benefit others for their own sake), rather than having the more determinate set of modern associations specified earlier.** What gives ‘altruism’ (well-wishing) its precise sense, in any one 45 See (on Homer) Donlan (1981-2), 170-1, (19896), 2-6, (1993), 160-4; Arist. NE 1124>9-17, 1163®1-53, 1168%9-12, 1169%26-P1; EE 1238>18-26. 46 See text to nn. 6, 11, and 24 above. 47 Osborne (1994), 152-63; also ch. 3, esp. 61-71 (on Platonic and Christian love). 48 Osborne (1994), 162, strikingly, suggests that, in Christian thought, ‘God alone can be loved altruistically’, thus highlighting a salient difference both from Aristotle and from modern (secular) conceptions of altruism.

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context, is the specific character of the thinking about social ideals and about ethical commitment and return, which I see as significantly different in Aristotelian, Christian, and (secular) modern altruism-centred, thinking. v.

HELLENISTIC

PHILOSOPHY

In Hellenistic philosophy, I consider, first, whether the approach developed here can help to resolve a problem that arises in connection with Epicurean thinking on friendship, and, second, whether the apparent altruism of Stoic thinking marks a radical break with previous Greek thought. The first question is how Epicurus reconciles the pursuit of the overall goal in life (pleasure, understood as freedom from pain and distress) with the readiness to ‘take risks for the sake of friendship’ and, if need be, to ‘die for a friend’.*? The issue is sharpened by Epicurus’ insistence that the virtues are instrumental means to achieve the overall goal, and that you should ‘refer each of your actions on every occasion to nature’s end’ (that is, pleasure).°° Although there is evidence that different Epicureans responded differently to this question, Epicurus’ own view seems to have been this. Friendship serves Epicurean objectives both because it is (negatively) a guarantee of security from danger and anxiety and (positively) a source of ‘joy’ and thus intrinsically desirable. For friendship to fulfil these goals over time, for both partners, each friend must be able to count on the other friend’s accepting localized episodes of pain or distress on her behalf. To ensure that we do so, our relationship must be that of real, stable friends, who ‘love our friends as much as ourselves’.?! But does their theory entitle them to think that consistent Epicureans will develop friendship of the latter type? There is evidence that critics of Epicureanism (with a more Aristotelian model in mind) argued that the Epicurean theory did not provide the basis for this kind of friendship. This criticism seems to presuppose that only a theory in which virtue is valued ‘for its own sake’ can form the basis of a type of friendship in which others are valued ‘for their

49 50 51 esp.

Long and Sedley (1987) (=LS) 22 F(z), Q(5-6), also G-H. LS 21 O-P (also A-B), E(2) (quoted). LS 22 O(3), quoted, also E-F, I. See Long (1986), 303-5; Mitsis (1988), ch. 3, 98-104, 112-17; Annas (1993), 239-40.

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own sake’.’” Among modern scholars, Annas also questions whether Epicurean hedonism allows the kind of disinterested concern that the theory seems to require. She suggests that what is needed is a two-tier model, in which (at one level) you love your friends for their own sake, and (at another level) you see the friendship created as furthering your own pursuit of pleasure. But the resolutely one-tier character of Epicurean ethics rules out this possibility.?3 However, one might argue that the Epicurean ideal is of the type we have seen elsewhere in Greek thought, in which total commitment to a mutually-benefiting relationship provides a framework within which the partners are (consciously) prepared to act in a way that benefits the other partner, if this is what the relationship requires. This pattern allows for other-benefiting action within a mutually-benefiting relationship without requiring two distinct levels or perspectives.°+ The social ideal involved seems sometimes to be understood as reciprocity and sometimes solidarity (the shared life). Reciprocity is suggested in this passage: ‘One who is always looking for help is not a friend, nor is one who never associates help with friendship. The former commercializes (Rapéleuei) the relationship, looking for exchange (amoibé) instead of favour (kharis), while the latter cuts off confident expectation with regard for the future.’°> This passage seems to presuppose the kind of generous attitude we have seen as characteristic of generalized, as distinct from balanced, reciprocity, which accepts localized episodes of pain and distress on behalf of the friend, and does not look for utility or pleasure on a piecemeal, contractual basis. The other ideal underlying the Epicurean model is that of the shared life, implying (as in Aristotle) not simply shared interests and activities but also shared ethical understanding. The interpersonal closeness suggested in ‘lov[ing] our friends as much as ourselves’, LS 22 O(3), is furthered by leading a (shared) life informed by Epicurean objectives. The experience of friendship, if it is one in which concern and sympathy are genuinely shared, will help to 52 See LS 22 O (=Cic. Fin 1.66-70), esp. Fin. 1.66, 69, also 2.82-5; LS, i. 137-8; for the Aristotelian model, see text to nn. 37-8 above. 53 Annas (1993), 239-42, referring esp. to LS 21 E(2), cited in text to ἢ. 50 above. 54 On the general form of the motivational pattern, see n. 6 above. 55 LS 22 F(4), LS trans., modified; on anxiety in the fourth-third cent. Bc about the ‘commercialization’ (or ‘commodification’) of reciprocity, see von Reden, Ch. 12, Introd., and Sect. 11.

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reinforce each partner’s understanding of those objectives. Hence, it is not unreasonable to expect that a wise person, in whom such understanding is most developed, ‘will take the same trouble for his friend’s pleasure as he would for his own’.’* Also, the features which in conventional relationships are sources of pain, such as the death of a friend, requiring a virtuous (courageous) response, will be much less so on Epicurean assumptions. This is because of the shared recognition that ‘death is nothing to us’, and that the appropriate response to the death of friends is not to mourn them but to ‘think’ about them, thus perpetuating the pleasure of companionship that makes friendship ‘an immortal good’.°’ The role of these two social ideals, as so understood, makes it not unreasonable to think that Epicurean friends might combine the pursuit of Epicurean objectives with ‘loving our friends as much as ourselves’, provided that the latter idea is not interpreted in terms of (wholly disinterested) altruism. In Stoicism, on the other hand, there are, on the face of it, strong grounds for characterizing their thinking about other-benefiting motivation in terms of altruism, and of a sort which, like some modern forms of altruism, is directed at anyone, not just those specially connected with oneself. A key feature of their theory is that the social aspect of ethical development results, ultimately, in the desire to benefit any human being as such (‘the most distant Mysian’, as they put it).°8 I want to consider the philosophical basis of this view and the extent to which it constitutes a decisive move away from the social ideals of solidarity and reciprocity. As in the other Greek theories considered, Stoic attitudes towards social ideals seem to derive from innovations in thinking about ethical commitment and return (about virtue and happiness) rather than from innovative thinking about social ideals as such. The Stoics hold in a strong form the thesis that total ethical commitment (virtue) is both necessary and sufficient for happiness (LS 58). They also identify virtue with the realization of the rationality that they see as fundamental to our existence as human beings; the latter point is decisive in shaping their view about those whom we 56

LS

22

OG)

(=Cic.

Fin.

1.67),

LS

trans.

with

added

italics;

contrast

the

Aristotelian view that ideal friendship must be grounded in virtue, not pleasure (text to nn. 37-9 above). 57 LS 22 F(6-7); 22 C(2) and 24D; Epicur. Ep. Men. 124-5, Lucr. 3.830, Cic. Fin. 1.68; also Gill (1996), 391-5.

» LS 57 F, esp. (3-4), G, H@3).

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should benefit. The outcome of full ethical development, in its social aspect, is the desire to benefit any human being, however otherwise related to us, because all human beings share the same fundamental rationality. The belief that rationality is the fundamental human (and cosmic) principle also underlies the ideas that all moral rules are underpinned by ‘natural’ (rational) law and that we are all, in some sense, members of the same ‘cosmic city’.°? A further relevant point is their conviction (in sharp contrast with Plato and Aristotle) that wisdom is expressed equally in practical and in theoretical activities, both of which can serve as a vehicle for exercising rationality.°° As explained shortly, some of the Stoic thinking informed by these ideas can plausibly be regarded as implying the valuation of altruism. But this does not mean that there is a deliberate or systematic repudiation of solidarity or reciprocity. One way in which Stoics define their ethical norm is as the community of the ‘wise’ (the perfectly rational and virtuous); and this community is sometimes characterized in terms of shared or reciprocal benefit: All good things are common to the virtuous, and bad things to the nonvirtuous. Therefore whoever benefits someone is benefited himself and whoever does harm also harms himself. All the virtuous benefit each other, even when they are not friends to each other, nor well-disposed to each other nor well-regarded nor accepting [each other as friends] due to neither being known nor living in the same place.

Underlying this passage is this line of thought: (1) to act virtuously is to benefit oneself; (2) the virtuous or wise form a community who share each other’s goods; (3) therefore, any virtuous person shares in the good constituted by another’s virtue.®! The social ideal implied here seems to be (a rather extended version of) that of the shared life or reciprocity, rather than altruism. The same point can be made about Stoic accounts of the practical implications of their ideal (as distinct from characterizations of this ideal). Both Cicero and Seneca provide extensive, and broadly Stoic, discussions of ‘benefits’ and of the relationship between benefactor and benefited. 5° See LS 63A-D, 57F esp. (3-4), H(3), 67 K-L, R-S; also Annas and, on natural law and the cosmic city, Schofield (1991), chs. 3-4; 302-11; Vander Waerdt (19944). 60 See LS 57 F(4), 67 W(3); also Schofield (1991), 119-27; also n. ΟἹ Stob. 2.101.21-7; also Plu. Mor. 1068F; see Schofield (1991),

(1993), 266-7.

(1993), 262-76; Annas (1993), 25 above. 97-101; Annas

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The Stoic element seems to manifest itself in the insistence that reciprocated or shared benefit should be correctly (virtuously) distributed, and not in the demand that the ideal of benefiting others for their own sake (or for its own sake) should replace, or make irrelevant, concern with distributed benefit.°? The area of Stoic theory which seems most naturally described as ‘altruistic’ is their thinking about the social (as distinct from personal) aspect of ethical development, which is conceived by them as oikeiösis, ‘familiarization’ or ‘appropriation’. The dominant idea here is that ethical development enlarges one’s sense of the category of persons whom one sees as, in some sense, ‘one’s own’ (oikeios), and whom one is, correspondingly, disposed to benefit, until this category includes, in principle, any human being. Ethical behaviour towards others is, in this connection, characterized as benefiting others, rather than as reciprocating benefits; but the ideal of solidarity, in the form of the shared life, is also relevant. The basic principle of oikeiösis is that of enlarging one’s conception of those whom one sees as ‘one’s own’ (oikeios); and the enlargement of those benefited is tied closely to that of one’s conception of those whom one sees as ‘one’s own’ or as sharing one’s world. Relatedly, Stoics stress that the motivation to benefit other human beings (as fellow rational animals) arises through the progressive extension outwards of the fellow-feeling and concern (the sense that they are ‘one’s own’) that originally, and naturally, is felt towards one’s children, family, fellow-villagers, and so on.°? The idea that the desire to benefit strangers constitutes an extended form of the fellowfeeling (shared life) that belongs primarily to family and friends recalls the Homeric pattern (as expressed in the Akhilleus—Priam meeting,°* though in Stoicism this idea also has a theoretical basis. This marks a contrast with the moral impartialism found in some modern theories, which gives no special moral weight to conventional connections and which sees altruism or beneficence as directed, as a matter of principle, at anyone indifferently.” In discussing Stoicism, and Greek ethical philosophy generally, my aim has not been to deny that we can find the commendation of 62 Cic. Off. 2.52-85; Sen. Ben.; also Inwood (1995a). 63 LS 57 E-G, esp. F(1); also LS, i. 352-3; the primacy of natural concern for ‘one’s own’ is underlined by Blundell (1990) and Wright (1995). 6+ See text to nn. 13-14 above. 65 See, from differing standpoints, Annas (1993), 267-79; Inwood (19958), 661-4.

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actions and attitudes which we should characterize as ‘altruistic’. Nor am I denying that some features of Greek thought (especially in Aristotelian and Stoic theory) could appropriately be described as commending ‘altruism’, provided that this term is given a broad sense and distinguished from the highly determinate set of meanings it often has in modern thought. However, what I have principally argued is that Greek thinking about the social norms of reciprocity and solidarity provides the primary context for understanding Greek thinking about other-benefiting motivation, even though those norms are characteristically linked with the ideal of the mutually-benefiting relationship. The general ethical model outlined in Section I is designed to indicate how total ethical commitment to these norms, as well as to altruism, can generate otherbenefiting motivation. Although my claims about these social norms and about the general ethical model require much fuller examination than I can provide here, these suggestions may help us to take reciprocity more seriously as a basis of other-benefiting motivation in Greek and other cultures than we are often inclined to do.°® 66 This chapter is an extensively revised version of the paper given at the Exeter conference on reciprocity, and subsequently at a Classics and Philosophy seminar at Reading University. I am grateful for the comments of the participants at these meetings, especially to Malcolm Schofield and Graham Zanker; also to the OUP reader and my fellow editors. Special thanks are due to Catherine Osborne for her thoughtful written comments and to Julia Annas for the stimulus of reasoned disagreement.

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(1993), Shame and Necessity (Berkeley). Winnington-Ingram, R. P. (1980), Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge). Worthington, I. (1994) (ed.), Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action (London and New York). Wright, M. R. (1995), ‘Cicero on Self-Love and Love of Humanity in De Finibus 3’, in Powell (1995), 171-95. Wyse, W. (1904) (ed.), The Speeches of Isaeus (Cambridge). Yack, B. (1985), ‘Community and Conflict in Aristotle’s Political Philosophy’, Review of Politics 47: 92-112. (1993), The Problems of a Political Animal: Community, Justice and Conflict in Aristotelian Political Thought (Berkeley). Yamagata, N. (1994), Homeric Morality, Mnemosyne Suppl. 131 (Leiden). Yamagishi, 'I’., and Cook, K. 8. (1993), ‘Generalized Exchange and Social Dilemmas’, Social Psychological Quarterly 56: 235-48. Yunis, H. (1988), A New Creed: Fundamental Religious Beliefs in the Athenian Polis and Euripidean Drama, Hypomnemata 91 (Meisenheim). Zanker, G. (1990), ‘Loyalty in the Iliad’, Papers of the Leeds International Seminar 6: 211-27. (1992), ‘Sophocles’ Ajax and the Heroic Values of the Ziad’, Classical Quarterly NS 42: 20-5. (1994), The Heart of Achilles: Characterization and Personal Ethics in the Iliad (Ann Arbor). Zeitlin, F. (1965), “The Motif of Corrupted Sacrifice in Aeschylus’ “Oresteia” ’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 96:

463-505.

Index of Ancient Passages

As

elsewhere

in this book,

Greek

authors

and

texts are normally

listed in

this index in Hellenized form, though the abbreviations are the standard Latinate ones given in Liddell-Scott-Jones, Greek-English Lexicon. Aelian (Ael.) 7avia Historia (V

2.43

FH)

195

11.9 194 Aiskhylos (A.) Agamemnon (A.) 182 ıon. 21, 106 581-2 ı08n.1ı 947 261 Eumenides (Eu.) 106-9 107 Khoepherot (Ch.) 255-7 τοῦ

791-3

108

Persai (Pr.) 223-7 11 Seven against Thebes (Th.) 76-7 τοῦ 179-80 107 699-703 115n.33 Suppliants (Supp. } 15474 159 274-5 154 291-324 156 378 146 473-9 157

400. 157 531-7 154 615-20 157 618-19 157 Nn. 52 Andokides (Andoc.)

1.106

240

1.147-8 240 1.150 233 2.10-23 233m 11 Antiphon 2.12 230 3.8 230 3.77 230 6.11 250 Archilochos (Archil.) fr.r24b3-5 288ἢ, 17

Aristophanes (Ar.) Birds (Av.)

855-6

292

Knights (Eq.) 48 202 1180 114 Aristotle (Aris.) Athenaion Politeia (Ath.) 9.1207 22.7 222 24.3 222 49.4 223 Eudemian Ethics (EB;

1236626-32

321

1237P9-16 321 1238"26-30 123 1240 27 317 1245°18—"9 321 Magna Moralia (MM) 1208%27-31 123 Nicomachean Ethics (NE) rogzhg-11 81 1108"26-30 «288 n. 17 rızıb3ı-4 264 1123%23-4 24ın.21 125 1288n. 17

1133°2-4 231}. ὃ 1133°21-33 268n.29 ıı55P31 282; 317 ıı5hrıo-11 286 1IS6°15-20 263

r156°21-56

266

11s6P1I-1g 321 riszh23 284 1157P33-6 321 1157536 290 11§8P33-1159"5 123 LISQ*B-10 317 Trsg*ig—r15 288n. 17 1159°28-33 79 1160°8 284 ri61>r1-36 284

Index of Ancient Passages

358

Aristophanes (Ar.) (cont.): Nicomachean Ethics (NE) (cont.): 1162°16-17 145 1162622-1163%9 264.n. 24 1163%15-18 119 1166°2-4 317 1167®17-1168%27 80n. 15 1168°8-11 80 11692182 80, 321 ııyoPıo-14 321 Poetics (Po)

1452°25-6

143

1452°29-32

[141

1452Pıı-14

141

1453P15-16

143

1453P17-18

141

42 251 42.3 229n.3 42.22 240. 20

45.3 229n.3 45.54 229. 3 45.78 251n.37 47

292

1304P20-1305%7 252}. 38 1309*14-20 252n. 38 1314°1-4 288n. 17 1321°31-45 252n. 38 79

1361>36-7 284 1366°6-1367°4 79 1380°36-1381"1 317

2.52-85

327

54-44

5.76.

1381°35-7 79 1385"17-19 79 1385"1-5 79 Athenaios (Ath.) 364d 267 Bakkhylides (Bacchyl.) 1.157-64 113 3.38 114 Carimona Epigraphica Graeca 227 [11,131 268 131 275 111,132 326 111,131 332 111,130 400 132 Cicero (Cic.) De Finibus ( Fin.) 1.68 325 De Offictis (Off.) 2.16 252n. 38

214

50.8-9 248 51 250 53.4 208, 220 ἢ. 3 54.5-6 208

239

59.117 240 65.66 220 ἢ. 3 Diogenes Laertius Demetrios

(Rh.)

1359°I-§

250

47.38

264

1292°15-17

Rhetoric

21.143750 245 21.159 247N. 30 22.66 241 28.17 251

29.24 233 31.151-74 249

145301922 139, 141 1453P31 141 1454°8 143 1454°36-7 143 Politics (Pol.) 1257°31-2

Demosthenes (Dem.) 1.69 241 18.113-14 248 19.282 241, 249 20.10 219N. 23 21 213 21.13 250 21.119-21 251 Nn. 36

135

Epicurus Ep. Men

124-5

325

Euripides (E.) Bakchai (Ba).

139-40 (CEG)

Io

Elektra (El.) 288 ἡ. 16 82-5 605 2 88 ἡ. τό Erektheus (Erek.) Fr. 65, 5-6 136 Hekabe (Hec.) 629-56 158 681-72 o 158 158 790-2 158 943-51 984-5 288n. 16 1152 158 Helen ( Hel.) 44-8 158 909-II 158

Index of Ancient Passages 964 158 Herakleidai {Herac.) 71 146 207-13 142n. 7,154 264 146 Hercules Furens (HF) 1425-6 288n. ı6 Hippolytos (Hipp.) 421-2 292 620 260 1415 124 Iphigeneia in Tauris (IT) 806-26 156 Medeia

{ Med.)

233-5 260 Orestes (Or) 1155-7 288 ἢ. 16 Phoinissai (Ph.) 390-2 292 1757 115 Supplices ( Supp.) 144-50

155

263-4

154

359-64

154

Troades (Tr.) 1059-80 108n. II Herodotos (Hdt.) 1.23-4 167 1.41-2 182 1.62-4 240 1.69-70 183, 185 1.87 107 1.90.4 114

1.153

174

3.22

168

3.38 3.47

173 185

3.125

171

3.129-37 3.139 4.126 4.131-2 5.72.12 5.82-9 5.91.2

171 162 169 170 187 171 187

187-02 342-60 349-51

359 55 ἢ. 5 55.5 89

354 211 370-2 55n.5 7097-14 55.1. 5 Hippokrates Aer 22 118 Homer (Hom.) Iliad (11.} 1.39-41 106 1.152-68 81 1.280 95 1.407-10 148 1.410 148 2.211-77 4N.7 2.419-20 I17N. 39

2.631-7 4.48-9

4.329-31 4341-8

57 116

57 5

4.412-18

95

5.475 95 5.115-17

120

5.245 95 5-410 95 5.830-4 117}. 42 6.119-231 182 6.218 94 6.224-36 τό ἢ. 11 6.234-6 82, 94 6.311 117

7.303-5

94

7.446-63 8.201-4 9.158-62

116nN. 37 116 97

9.308-429 9.315-43 9.318-20 9.321-7

9.378-97

311 312n. ı2 86, 312 ἢ. 12 81

312 n. 12

9.406-9 9.410-16 9.458-61

86, 312n. 12 312n. 12 150

7.152 174 8.105 166 8.144.4 189 9.8 183

9.496-7

83

9.82

9.515-18 148 9.523 86, 148 9.533 ff. 116n. 37 9.629 86

175

9.122 176 Hesiod (Hes.) Erga (Op.)

9.502-12

9.508-9 9.513-14

151 ἢ. 39

83 83

360

Index of Ancient Passages

Homer (Hom.) (cont.): Iliad (Il.) (cont.): 9.700 86 10.29I-2 108 10.462 109 12.310-21 5 12.310-28 86-7 12.310-38 310 15.372-6 121 Nn. 53 16.249-52 117 16.844-50 148 17.220-32 3211 ἢ. 1 18.95-106 77 18.98-106 148

18.205-6

95

24.517-51 96 24.525-51 312 24.527-33 88 24.534-46 87 24.534-51 90 24.540-2 90 24.556 96 24.559-62 84 24.560-70 96, 103 24.560-1 96 24.560-2 89 24.568-70 87,96 24.571-676 312 24.572 96

24.575

96

19.138-44

97

24.582-6

87

19.147-8 19.156-80

97 98

24.592-5 24.5945

85 97

19.199-214 98 19.200 98 19.209 98 19.243-8 οὗ 19.269-70 gon. 28 19.270-5 98 19.310 100 19.32I-5 90 19.3347 90 20.297-9 116 22.20 124 22.26 95 22.170-2 116 22.378 100 22.416-22 87 23.54 100 23.161 100 23.174 214 23.250 100 23.257 100 23.862-5 116n. 37 23.885 101

24.2-6 24.44-5

99 88

24.66-70 117 24.110 QI 24.110-11 88 24.116 88 24.207-8 88 24.465-7 87 24.486-512 312 24.502 96 24.503 151 N. 39 24.504-7 90 24.507-12 87

24.601 99 24.621 99 24.6412 99 24.649 85 24.650-5 ὃς 24.053-5 102 24.669 100 24.685-8 ὃς Odyssey (Od). 1.4-6 61 1.59-62 116 1.64-7 116 3.58-9 108, 131 3.98-10I 120 4.351-3 116N. 37 4.762-6 107 8.546-7 145 9.39-61 58 9.82-104 59 9.105-566 60 9.159-60 60 9.273-8 I51n. 40

9.331-5 9.549-52

62 63

9.551-5 117 10.27-55 63 10.38-45 64 10.80-132 64 10.133-574 64 10.144-84 64 10.429-37 65 11.271-80 149 11.409-II 150 12.260-402 66 12.297 66

Index of Ancient Passages 12.340-52 16.183-5 16.364-82

66 τοῦ 68

16.418-33

59, 149

17.240-6

107n.5

19.363-9

115

19.397

τοῦ

20.209-10 21.24-30 24.115-29 24.285-6

57 151 211 182

24.353-5

57

24.376-8

57n.7

24.420-37

24.428-9

65

57

24.475-6 68 Hyperides (Hyp.) 1.16 251 N. 37 5.24-5 236n. 17 Isaios (Is.) 4 228

4.30

236

5.36

241

4.45

229n.3

5.41 246 9.19 213 Isokrates (Isoc.) 1.12 295 1.24 205 2 206 7.52-3 252

8.4

293

8.14 292 8.128 248 12.122 146n.25 12.145 243 16.35 240n.20 18.47 241 18.58-63 248 18.66-8 232 Epistles (Ep) 4 288 n. 17, 298 Lucretius (Lucr.)

3.830

325

Lykophron (Lyc.) 1.143 223 Lykourgos Against Leokrates 100 221

135-9

240

Lysias (Lys.) Ι 215 2.39 τοῦ

361

3.9 213 7 238 7.38 248n.31 13.62-4 241 14.24 240 16 240-1 18.20-3 233 19 237-8 19.59 212 19.62-3 242 Ὦ. 22 19.64 233, 236 20.23 246 21 231 21.12-14 232 21.24-5 220 ἢ. 3 24 223 24.151 236 26.3-4 241 26.22 251 Nn. 37 27.1236n.17 30.1 240 31.12 229 Menander (Men.) Aspis Q-IIl 272 Dis Exapatécn 24-7 270 9175 Duskolos 31-2 320-1

270 262 263

330-3 448-52

263 269

469-71

264

558-61 264 560-2 269 612 269 713-21 265 797-812 265 Epitrepontes (Epit.) 128-40 274 179-206 274 206-11 267

303-7

273

305 ff.

274

320-40

273

Perikeiromenéc (PR.) 806-10 271 Samia (Sam.) 189-95 268 402 268 Old Oligarch

1.13

252

362

Index of Ancient Passages

Pausanias 1.20.1 246 Pindar Nemean Odes (N.) 6.1-4 124 10.54 105 Pythian Odes (P.) 2.81-8 288n.17 Plato (ΡΙ.) Apology (Ap.) 28b-d 77 Crito (Cri.) 48b-c 5214. 18 Epistles

Symposion

333e 334b

Agesilaos

4.1

298 ἢ. 34

314n. 18

335d-e

78

364b-366b

119

315

315.

9

520b5-c6 215 ἢ. 21 520C1 215. 19 520d6-8 315 521b7-10 315 Nn. 19

5740.

202

9 9

195

854E-874C

179

Aias

19

520a-s21a 78 520a8-9 315 Nn. 19 520a9-cI 315

9

806F-807A

5.6

315 nN. 19

5710-d

345C 253..39 349A-B 253 ἢ. 39 (Nik.)

194 247}. 29

Pollux Onomasticon 4.148 292 Nn. 26 Sophokles (Soph.)

462a-466d 315 sigb-d 315n. 21 51gb-521¢ 315

568d

290

28.3 220 Themistokles ( Them.)

315

557b4-6 567 9

( Mor.)

55A

75-6

119-20

520b4

Moralia

Perikles (Per.)

335°-d

51964-d7

192 192

3.12 249 3.3 249 N. 33

290C 110 Republic (R.) 332c ὃ

4332-4346

192

19.1 19.3

Nikias

( Pit.)

51ge4

193

5.3-4Ἢ

8 8

390€

( Ages.)

10.5-6 193 21.1 193 Alkibiades ( Alk.) 10 248 Aristeides ( Arist.) 2.5 194 Lysandros ( Lys.) 2.2 192

8

3692-372

77

193

5.1.

336e 8 Euthyphro (Euthphr.) r2e-15> 121 14 109 14d-e 261 Laws (Lg.) 731d-732a Ἴδη. τὸ Politicus

77

179e-180b 220d-e 78 Plutarch (Plu.)

(Ep.)

323a-c 33224

(Smp.)

179b-d4

(Ai.):

121-6 158-61 328-30

77 296 207 ἢ. 32

340-50 406

297 207

522 109, 140 523-4 128 1381-8 77

1398-9

77

Antigone ( Ant.) 999 ff. 110 Elektra (El)| 457-8 108

1377-8

107

Oidipous at Kolonos

(OC)

Index of Ancient Passages 245-6 155 562-8 155 576-8 146 Trakhiniai (Tr.) 993-5 115 Souda 87B65DK 288n. Stobaios (Stob.) Peri parrhécsias 13.44 291 2.101.21-7 326 Themistios 274d-275a 290 276€ 291 Theognis 7973-7 121

775-9

137

Theophrastos (Theophr.) Characters (Char.) 6.9 264 6.15 2ı9n. 22 22.3 248 26 247 26.4 252 Thukydides (Thuc.) 1.33.1-2 184 1.34.2 184 1.35.4 184 1.39.5 184

1.39.7.

184

1.40.5 184 1.40.7 184 1.41.1 184 1.41.2 184 1.42.1 184 1.42.3 184 1.43.2 184 1.75.3. 189 1.76.2 189 1.137 211 2.13 186, 195 2.27.2 186 2.34 220 2.40.4-5 190-1, 212 2.43.12 223 2.51 79,218 3.10.1 288n. 15

17

363

4.19.3 186 5.89.1 184 6.16.1-4 244 6.92 221 8.48.1 252n. 38 8.54 163 8.62.4 252n. 38 Vettius Valens 1.19.12 294 1.19.17 294 2.11.6 294 2.21.35 204 2.32.7 204 4.8.17 294 Xenophanes A32.23-5 10,121

B23-6

τὸ

Xenophon (Xen.) Agesilaos (Ages. ) I.17-19 193 2.21 193 6.4 193 11.8 193 11.13 192 Atheniaon Politeia (Ath.) 3.1 223 Hellenika (HG.) 1.7.21 195 4.1.34-5 163n. 11

5.4.1

193

Kyropaideia (Cyr.) 8.2.13-19 264 Π. 22 8.7.3 128 8.7.13 296N.31 Memorabilia (Mem.) 1.5.6 194 2.4.6 163 2.6.11 163 2.6.31 163 2.7.13-14 164 2.9.8 288 2.10.3 288 3.6.2 288 3.12.4 288 4.3.15 122,127 Symposion (Smp.) 3.14 124n. 65

3.93.3

184

4.32

4.11.4

186

4.46-9

249 124n.65

General

Adkins, A. W. H. 199, 236 n. Aelius Aristides 134 n. Agesilaos 193 agora (market-place’) 175, 257 Aias 94-5, 296-7 aidös (shame, respect’) 83, 86, 146-7 Aiolos 63-4 Akhilleus

Gn

Arapesh 27-8 Arion 167 Aristeides 194 Aristotle: and altruism 78-80, 282, 319-18, 322 on coinage 268 n. on ‘for his sake’ 282, 308, 317,

319-20

Homer):

acts in line with reciprocity (or solidarity) 93-4, 109-4, 3117-12 adopts mocking or sarcastic tone (ebikertomeön) to Priam 85, 102 and altruism 73-4, 81, 84-92, 309 indifference to gifts 96-8 quarrel with Agamemnon 100-4, 148 transcends reciprocity 81, 85-6, 88-9 Alkibiades 244-5 altruism: in Aristotle 79-80, 282, 317-18, 322 and Athenian democracy 218-22 as benefiting anyone 75, 81, go~-2,

307, 309, 312, 319, 325 and Christianity 322 defined 76, 217 in Greek philosophy 303-5 in Greek tragedy 76-7 in Homer 73, 81, 84-92, 309 in modern thought 75-6, 307 in Plato 77-8 in Stoicism 325-7 in Thukydides 77, 218-19 see also reciprocity (and altruism) Andokides 233 Annas, J. 76, 80, 304-7, 324 anthropological theory on reciprocity

13-49 antidosis (exchange of properties’)

2507-1 Antiphon, Tetralogies Apollodoros 208 Aquinas 322

Index

229-30

and Menander 276 on pathos 141, 142-3 on philia 80, 122-4, 139, 143, 282, 283-6, 317-23 on recognition 141-2 on tragic plots 139-44, 147 astrology (ancient) 294 Athens,

see democracy,

Axelrod, R.

Athenian

201-5

Baldry, H. C. 178 barter 24 n. benefaction: confers superior status 41-7, 100-1, 182, 321-2 distinguished from reciprocity sm 326-7 big-man 42-4 blessed bread 21 n. Bourdieu, P. 40 ἢν, 41, 161 Christianity 216-17, 322 Claus, D. B. 86-7, 311 n. Comedy, New and decline of polis 275-8 commerce, see reciprocity (and commercial/commodity/market exchange) commodity exchange: and gift exchange 260 and marriage 269-72 and moral decline 261 and symbols 233, 258-9, 261, 273-5, 278

General Index see also reciprocity (and commercialfeommodity/market exchange) competitive and co-operative ethics 5, 84, 199 n., 321-2 computer programmes and ethics 201-9, 215-16, 224-5 Comte, A. 6, 308 n. Connelly, J. B. 221 convergence on the truth 305, 306-7 Cooper, J. 286 πη. Dareios 161-2, 169-70, 173-4 Davies, J. K. 243, 244 Davis, J. 34, 162 Dawkins, R. 201 n., 205 dedicatory inscriptions 110-13 Demeas 268 Demetrius of Phaleron 253 n. democracy, Athenian: and altruism 218-22 benefits of ethical strategy 222-3 contrasted with Sparta 183-97 decline of, and Menander 275-8 distinctive ethical strategy 208, 212, 215, 221-2, 224 and flattery 292-3 and friendship 194-6, 290, 296-301 and generosity 211-12 and inter-state relations 187-91 and liturgies 227-53 and patriotism 220-2 and reciprocity 6-8, 10-11, 184, 187-96, 210-14, 231-3, 244-5, 257 and social tensions 243-53 special features of 206-7, 224 Demonikos 295 démos (‘people’): in Athens 187-8, 233, 243-5, 248,

252 in Homer 35-6, 69-70 Demosthenes 220, 233, 249-5 1 démotikos (‘friend of the people’) 246 Derrida, J. 282 ἢ. Diodotos 297-8 Diomedes, see Glaukos Donlan, W. 73-4, 82, 84, 87, 89, 100, 310 dowry 265, 272 egoism-altruism contrast 5-6, 75-6, 80, 201-2, 303-4, 307, 315-18 eisphora (‘tax’) payments 230 Epicureanism 323-5

365

epidoseis (‘voluntary contributions to state funds’) 239, 248 Erekhtheus 221 ethical commitment, total: in Aristotle 320-1 in Greek philosophy 314 in Homer 308-13 and other-benefiting motivation 305-8 in Stoicism 325-6 Eucharist 129 euergetism 45 Eupeithes 59 Eurylochos 65-6 Festugiégre, A. J. 133 Fijians 13 Finley, M. I. 52, 62, 94, 282 Firth, R. 14 flattery 288-9 n., 290-3 Flory, 5. 169 Forrest, W. G. yon. French Pyrenees, practices in 16-17 Friedman (computer game) 205 friendship, see philia Gabrielsen, V. 245, 251 n. Gallant, T. W. 298-9 Gell, A. 18 generosity: and altruism 88 and Athenian democracy 190-1, 211-12 and inter-state relations 184 and power relations 41-7 and reciprocity 15, 19, 25-7, 29-33,

39-41, 86-7, 184, 310, 324 and social status 29-33 geras (‘gift of honour’) 60, 62-3 gift, ethos of the 182-3, 188, 196 gift exchange: and commodity exchange 255, 260 in Greek religion 130-3 in Herodotos 169 in Homer 94-5, 101, 182, 260 n. gift giving: and acquisition 32 and compensation 85-6, 97-8 and gender 30 and market exchange 34-41, 48-9 and nobility 182-3 and power relations 41-7, 54-6, 60-4.

“66

General Index

gift giving (cont.): and ransom 84-5, 88-9, 96-7 studied cross-culturally 14-15,

29-33 and uncertainty of meaning 169-70 Gill, C. 89-90, 258-9 Ginzburg, C. 216 Glaukos (in Homer): exchange of gifts with Diomedes 94, ΙΟΙ, 182 dialogue with Sarpedon 86-7, 310-11 god-human relations: asymmetrical 127 contractual or commercial? 118-21 and forms of address 125 and gratitude 114-17, 127-37 and inequality 122-5 and philia 122-5 gods 114-25 see also god-human relations Goldberg, S. 273-4 Gould, J. 144, 165, 176, 200 Gouldner, A. 16-20, 75-6, 160, 258, 309 Nn. Graf, F. 136-7 gratitude: and gift offerings 130-3 and Greek religion 109, 114-17, 127-37 and hymns 134-7 in inter-state relations 184-5 and paeans 135-7 and reciprocal generosity 182 terms for 128-30 see also generosity; gift giving; kharis Gregory, C. A. 258 ἢ. guest-host relationship (xenia) 74, 82,

90, 145-6, 150, 153, 157-8 Hadrian 133 Handley, E. W. 275-6 Hartog, F. 178 Herman, G. 74, 82, 93 Hermotimos 166-7 Herodotos 161-80 and cross-cultural misunderstanding 164, 170, 172-80 and crossing out of one’s sphere 167-8, 174-6, 180 and the exceptional 165 and ‘mirrors’ 178 and the Persian Wars 176-7

and reciprocity 164-5, 167-8, 170-2, 176-80, 185-9 hetairoi (companions, men’): in Aristotle 284 in Homer 58-67 Hobbes, T. 13, 202 Homer: and altruism 73, 81, 84-92, 309 and competitive and co-operative ethics 5, 84, 190 Π., 321-2 date of 54 and gift exchange 94-5, 101, 182, 260 n. and gift giving 4, 54-6, 60-4, 84-90,

94-8 and gods 116-17 and historical fact 52-4, 58, 70 and the leader-people relation

54-67, 69-71 and proximate and ultimate ethical values 82-3, 88 and reciprocity 4-6, 51-2, 60-3, 73-4, 86-90, 93, IOI, 210-12,

309-13 and retaliation 215 see also Akhilleus; Odysseus honour (kudos, time) 85, 87-8, 91, 243 Humphreys, S. 25 n. Hunter, R. L. 275 Hutter, H. 289 hymns 134-7 ideology 181 n., 186-91, 256-7, 298-301 Inquisition 216 Irwin, T. 80, 315-16, 318 Isokrates 252, 295, 297-8 Iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma (IPD) 201, 203-6, 208-9, 220 Jewish ethics

213 n., 216

Kambyses 167-8, 173 Kant, I. 75, 307 Kennedy, C. R. 235 kharis (‘grace, favour’) 10, 79, 91, 184, 190, 229 N., 231-3, 240, 285, 310-11, 324 in Greek religion 106, 108-25, 127-33 Rhorégos Cone who provides a chorus’) 230, 246-7, 250 Kikones 58, 60 Kimon 245

367

General Index kin: killing of in Greek tragedy 139-44, 151-2 and non-kin relationships 144-7, 153-8 see also philia king (basileus): and counsellors (in Hellenistic Greece) 293-6 and relations with people (in Homer)

54-67, 69-71 Kirke 64-5 Kleanthes 135 Kleon 195 Knemon 262-6 Konstan, D. 262, 270, 284 ἢ. Kopytoff, I. 259 kula exchange 32-3, 37 Kyklops 60-4 Kyros 174-6 laos (‘people’) in Homer 56, 58 Laurium silver mines 222 law-court speeches, Athenian 227-53 as evidence of ethical norms 207-9, 212, 216, 237 and the public service theme 229-39 see also liturgies; rhetoric, legal (Athenian) legitimacy of birth 272-5 Lévi-Strauss, C. 21, 28 Lewis, N. 242 liturgies, Athenian: and altruism 219-20 claiming credit for 229-41 and conspicuous display 244-7 and historical change 241-2, 252-3 and oligarchic reaction 251-3 and reciprocity 231-9, 244-5 scope of 239-43 and social conflict 243-51 types of 229-30, 239, 242 loans 223 MacCary, W. T. 277 n. Mafia 43, 46 mageiros (‘cook’) 266-7 magnanimity 73, 79, 91 Malinowski, B. 14, 32, 35-6, 40 Maoris 27, 35-6 market exchange, see reciprocity (and commercial/eommodity/market exchange)

marriage: and blood kinship 145 and love, in Menander 269-70 and violence, in tragedy 149, 153 Mauss, M. 14-15, 27, 48-9, 120, 255 n., 256n. Meidias 249-50 Melanesians 31 Menander 255-78 aphorisms (gnömai), ascribed to 286-8 and commerce and friendship 262-6 and commerce and sexual relations 269-72 and commodification of symbols 255, 262, 286-8 and decline of polis 275-8 and defective sacrifice 266-9 Duskolos 262-6, 268-9 Epitrepontes 273-5 and historical change 256, 275-6 ideological position of 257, 276-7 and marriage and love 269-70 Samia 268 and social roles 276-8 Menocchio 216-17 Millett, P. 219, 223, 245, 251 n., 299 moka gifts 31, 33, 39 money: as coinage 48, 159 n., 258, 268 n. as wealth 265-6 mutual benefit: and friendship 286-8 and other-benefiting motivation

308, 311, 314, 319-22, 324-7 Nikias 249 Nikokles 295-6 Nikostratos 208, 227 nomima (‘customary things’) and nomisma (‘coinage’) 268 nomos, pl. nomoi (law, custom’) 173-4, 178 nostos (‘return’) of Odysseus 58-67 Ober, J. 253-4 Odysseus (in Homer): and Aiolos 63-4 in Ithaka 67-8, 149 and king-follower relations and Kirke 64-5 and the Kyklops 60-3, 65 and his nostos 58-67

37-67

368

General Index

Odysseus (in Homer) (cont.): and retaliation 214 oikeiösis (‘familiarization, appropriation’) in Stoicism 321 oikos household’) 256-7, 276 Osborne, C. 322 other-benefiting motivation 304-8 in Greek philosophy 314-18 and mutual benefit 308 and reciprocity or solidarity 309-27 paeans 135-7 Panionios 166-7 parrhésia (freedom of speech’) 291-2 Parthenon frieze 221 pathos (‘violent act’): in epic, not involving philoi 147-51 involving blood-kin in tragedy 151-2 involving philoi in tragedy 139, 141-7, 151-4 involving suppliants in tragedy 153-7 meaning of, in Aristotle 141-3 outside philia in tragedy 153-4 within guest-host relationship in tragedy 153 within marriage in tragedy 153 patriotism, Athenian 220-2 patron-client relations 45 Perikles 194 philia (‘friendship’): and altruism 79-80, 282, 317-18, 322 in Aristotle 80, 122-4, 139, 143, 282, 283-6, 317-23 and astrology 294 and commerce 264-6, 281-3 and Epicureanism 323-5 and equality or inequality 289-91, 296-301 and flattery 288-9 n., 290-3 in god-human relations 122-5 Greek and modern conceptions of 281-3 in Hellenistic period 289-91, 293-6 and historical change 298-9 in Homer 60, 63, 147-51 and ideology 298-301 and love 289-90 meanings of 144, 283-4 and mutual help 286-8, 298-301 and other reciprocal relations 144-7,

154-8, 283-4 and political relations 191-6, 293-6 and reciprocity 191-3, 279-83, 285-6, 298-301, 318-24, 326 in tragedy 139-47, 151-4, 296-7 and utility 263-4, 266, 286, 319 philos, pl. philoi (‘friend’): as counsellor 293-6 meanings of 142, 144, 284 in tragedy 139-47, 151-5, 296-7 philosopher-rulers, in Plato 315-17 philotés (‘friendship’) 84 n. philotimia ‘ambition, love of honour’)

234, 244, 247 N., 248 Phoinix 82-3 Plato: Euthyphro 121-2, 261 Republic 8-9, 78, 119-20, 315-17 Seventh Letter 8 Symposion 77-8 Plutarch 179, 193-5 Polanyi, K. 13, 18, 22, 51, 256, 282 polis (‘city-state’): and community of ritual 268 decline of, and Menander 275-8 and liturgies 231-2, 243, 247 and patriotism 220-2 public service for 229-39 and punishment 213-14 and reciprocity 7-8, 10-11, 140-1,

163, 231-9, 256-7, 315-17 and sexual relations 269-71 see also democracy, Athenian Postlethwaite, N. gon. potlatch 31-2, 39 Praxithea 221 prayers: and dedicatory inscriptions 110-13 and formulas 106-8, 120-1, 125 and gift-offerings 130-3 in narratives 113-14 and sacrifice 106-8 Preaux, C. 276 Priam (in Homer) 73-4, 81, 84-5, 87-8, 90-1, 96-100, 102-4, 312 and Peleus 87-8, 90, 312 Prisoner’s Dilemma 202-3 property power 244 prostitution 270-2 proximate-ultimate distinction (in ethical values) 82-5, 88, 91 public service theme (in Athenian rhetoric) 229-39

369

General Index Quincey, J. H.

134

Raaflaub, K. 53 reciprocity: and altruism 3-6, 73-6, 81, 83, 85-6, 88-90, 91-3, 103-4, 258, 303-28 and anthropological theory 13-49 asymmetrical 127, 133 balanced or generalized 22, 51,

73-4, 95,101, 103-4, 310, 319, 324 characteristic of pre-state societies 4,15,

28-9,

256,

313

a characterization of 159 and commercial/commodity/market exchange 2-4, 14, 18-20, 24, 34-41, 48-9, 118-21, 159-60, 255, 258-9, 266, 277-8, 324 competitive 30-3, 38-9, 97-8, 100-1, 243-9, 321-2 confers status 29-33, 38-9, 84-5, 97-8, 100-1, 321-2 and cross-cultural variation 15-16, 160-1, 163-4, 170, 172-6, 183-9 definitions of 1, 15-20, 150 n. and delay in repayment 25-6, 258 direct and indirect 21-2 as exploitation 46-7 formal and personal 16-20 fundamental to human interaction 160, 165, 176, 178-9 gratuitous 20, 31, 86-7, 310 and historical change 6-9, 48-9, 112-13, 140, 163, 187-8, 251-3, 256-7, 275-8, 289-301, 313 indeterminate 3, 258 involves two or more parties 21—2, 207-8 and liturgies 231-9, 244-5 and marital exchange 27-8 negative 20, 23-4, 31, 51-2, 74, 149, 212-14 and other-benefiting motivation

304-8, 309-27

under-negotiated 161-4 unequal 121-5, 244 voluntary 2-4, 17-20, 310, 315-16 see also democracy (Athenian); generosity; gift exchange; gift giving; god-human

relations;

Homer;

liturgies; philia; recompense; retaljation recognition: in Menander 273-5 in tragedy 141-2 recompense (amoibé antididonai, ektinein): in Epicureanism 324 in Greek religion 107-13, 127, 130-3 in inter-state relations 184-6 in Plato 315-17 religion, Greek: and historical development 112-13, 128-30 and issues about kharis 114-17 and reciprocity 9-10, 105-37 see also god-human relations; gods; gratitude; recompense rendre service (‘do a favour’) 16 retaliation: as negative reciprocity 20, 23-4 as reciprocal violence 166-7, 214 rejected in Athenian democracy 212-15 rejected by Plato 78 return for ethical commitment 222-3, 305-6, 316, 320, 322 revenge, 566 retaliation rhetoric, legal (Athenian): contrasted with modern 228-9,

234-7 and criticism of opponents

240-1,

249 and public service theme see also liturgies Richardson, N. 96

229-39

overt and underlying motives of

14-15, 19, 35, 40-1, 46-7 and power relations 41-7, 51-2, 54-8, 60-5, 67-71, 97-8, 100-1,

243-53, 293-6 and and and and

public service 231-9 redistribution 22, 60, 62 self-sufficiency 23, 27, 38 social integration 25-9, 33, 233,

255, 257-8

sacrifice: and defective ritual 266-9 and kharis 109-10 and prayers 106-8 and reciprocity 106-8, 267 Sahlins, M. 22-4, 42, 46-7, 49, 51-2, 73-4, 88-9, 162 nn. Sarpedon, see Glaukos Seaford, R. 113 n., 140, 255 ἢ.

370

General Index

shared meal (in Homer) 85, 99, 312 solidarity 305, 312, 315, 318-19, 324-7 and the shared life 318 Sostratos 263-6 Sparta: contrasted with Athens 183-97 and friendship and politics 192-3 and inter-state relations 185-6 and reciprocity 185-7, 191 Ste Croix, G. de 189 n. Stoicism 325-7 Strauss, B. 299 Street of Tripods 246-7 sumbolaion (‘contract’) 264 supplication (hiketeia): in Homer 74, 82-5, 150-1, 312 and kinship 144-5 and reciprocity 146, 312 and tragedy 153-7 Syloson 161-2 symbols: commodification of, in Menander 255, 262, 272, 275, 278 recognition-tokens as 273-5 Taplin, O. 96 Telemachos 67-8 thankfulness/thanksgiving, see gratitude Theophrastos: Characters 247, 252, 264 and Menander 276 Thukydides: and altruism 77 Funeral Speech 190, 211-12, 220 and reciprocity 183-6, 211

Tit for Tat 204-5, 209 Tit for Two Tats 205, 209, 217 Tiv of Nigeria 38-9 tragedy: and altruism 76-7 and corrupted exchange 260-1 and guest-friends 157-8 and kharis 115 and suppliants 154-7 and unequal philoi 296-7 and violation of philia 139-47, 151-8 Treadwell, P. 281-2 trierarch (‘one who provides a trireme’) 230, 248 Trobrianders 21, 25, 31, 35-7, 40, 43 Tyrolean villages 23 Van Baal, J. 160 Versnel, H. 5. 128 Vettius Valens 294 Vlastos, G. 314 Walbank, F. 293 Webster, T. B. L. 275 Wiles, D. 276 Williams, B. 75 Wyse, W. 234-5, 237 Xenophanes 121 Xenophon 288 Yack, B. 282 ἢ. Yamagata, N. 92 ἢ. Zanker,

G.

93, 309-10