Shared Storytelling in Euripidean Stichomythia (Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology, 22) (English and Ancient Greek Edition) [Bilingual ed.] 9004282602, 9789004282605

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Shared Storytelling in Euripidean Stichomythia

Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology Editorial Board Albert Rijksbaron Irene J.F. de Jong Caroline Kroon Rutger J. Allan Mark A.J. Heerink

volume 22

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ascp

Shared Storytelling in Euripidean Stichomythia By

Liesbeth Schuren

leiden | boston

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schuren, Elisabeth Maria, 1980- author. Shared storytelling in Euripidean stichomythia / by Liesbeth Schuren. pages cm – (Amsterdam studies in classical philology ; volume 22) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-28260-5 (hardback : alk. paper) – ISBN 978-90-04-28261-2 (e-book) 1. Euripides–Criticism and interpretation. 2. Stichomythia. I. Title. II. Series: Amsterdam studies in classical philology ; v. 22. PA3978.S345 2014 882'.01–dc23 2014034603

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1380-6068 isbn 978-90-04-28260-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-28261-2 (e-book) Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Global Oriental and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

For my parents

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Alcmeon: A shepherd’s questioned mouth informed me that … Chorus: What? For I know not yet what you will say. Alcmeon: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt. a.e. housman, Fragment of a Greek Tragedy

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Contents Preface

xi

Introduction 1 1 Stichomythia 1 2 Part 1: Pragmatics 5 3 Part 2: Narratology 7

part 1 Pragmatic Studies 1

2

Turn-Taking 11 1.1 Introduction 11 1.2 Conversation and Turn-Taking 12 1.3 Differences 14 1.4 Similarities 18 1.4.1 Turn-Allocation 18 1.4.1.1 Verb 19 1.4.1.2 Modality 22 1.4.1.2.1 Addressee 23 1.4.1.2.2 Speaker 26 1.4.1.3 Tense 29 1.4.1.4 Hippolytus 310–353 34 1.4.2 Turn-Extent Variation 36 1.4.3 Turn-Taking Errors, Violations and Repairs 1.5 Conclusion 48

40

Social Deixis 50 2.1 Introduction 50 2.2 Ethnicity: βάρβαρος 52 2.3 Gender: γυνή 63 2.4 Kinship 67 2.4.1 Introduction 67 2.4.2 Speaker 68 2.4.2.1 Anchored in the Addressee 68 2.4.2.2 Anchored in the Referent of the Conversation

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2.4.3 Referent of the Conversation 73 2.4.3.1 Anchored in the Addressee 73 2.4.3.2 Anchored in Another Referent 75 2.4.4 Polycentric and Complex Anchorage 77 2.4.5 Implicit versus Explicit Anchorage 77 2.4.6 Deceit and Dramatic Irony 79 2.4.7 Appendix: Electra 959–966 88

part 2 Narratological Studies Introduction to Part 2 93 1 Methodology 94 2 Definition 96 3

Distribution of Narrative Activity 98 3.1 Introduction 98 3.2 Methodology 99 3.3 Discussion of Examples 102 3.3.1 Balanced Narrative Activity 102 3.3.2 Accumulation of Narrative Activity 108 3.3.2.1 Yes/No Question < Answer (Affirmative) 108 3.3.2.2 Yes/No Question < Answer (Negative) 112 3.3.3 Stagnation of Narrative Activity 116 3.3.4 Unilateral Narrative Activity 121 3.4 Conclusion 125 Narrative Presentation

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Historic Present 127 4.1 Introduction 127 4.2 Discussion of Examples 131 4.2.1 Narrator 131 4.2.2 Narratee 139 4.2.3 Extra-Dramatic 154 4.2.4 Problematic Presents 156 4.3 Conclusion 158

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The Proximal Deictic Pronoun ὅδε 160 5.1 Introduction 160 5.2 Discussion of Examples 166 5.2.1 Narratee 166 5.2.1.1 Past 166 5.2.1.2 Future 177 5.2.1.3 Upshot: Textual Problems? 182 5.2.2 Narrator 183 5.2.3 Overlap and Ambiguity 190 5.2.4 Narrative Deixis outside Stichomythia 195 5.3 Conclusion 196

6

Ex Eventu Knowledge 198 6.1 Introduction 198 6.2 Discussion of Examples 6.3 Conclusion 222 Conclusion

225

Bibliography 231 Index Locorum 248 Index of Subjects 264 Index of Greek Words 269

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Preface The idea for this book originated as I was reading Narrative in Drama: The Art of Euripidean Messenger-Speech by Prof. Irene de Jong. Page 117 reads: ‘What can and often does happen—not only in messenger speeches, but also in Euripidean prologues and certain stichomythia—is that dramatic characters tell a story, whereby they assume the role of narrator’. This inspired me to study narrative stichomythia by means of narratology. As I familiarized myself with the topic of stichomythia, I encountered the recurring question of convention versus realism. My Dutch background in linguistics gave me the idea to tackle this question from a pragmatic angle. My research project was born. The book consists of two parts. In the first, Euripidean stichomythia is considered as a form of conversation by means of pragmatics, the study of language use in its communicative context. The second part offers a narratological approach to narrative stichomythia. From a methodological perspective, my research relates observations resulting from pragmatic and narratological research to interpretative questions and aims to illustrate the potential crossfertilization between linguistics, narratology and literary interpretation. This book is the product of doctoral research I carried out at the University of Oxford from September 2004 to October 2009. Bursaries from the Prins Bernhard Cultuur Fonds and Somerville College helped me carry out my research financially. Academically I was supported by my supervisors. I would like to thank Dr. Scott Scullion for his sound comments, his patient urge to broaden my horizons academically, his corrections of my English grammar and style, and his optimism. To Prof. Irene de Jong I am grateful for her perceptive critical comments, particularly on the narratological parts of my research, and her generous support and belief in me. I would also like to thank Prof. Oliver Taplin, Dr. Tim Rood, Dr. Richard Rutherford, Dr. William Allan, Dr. Markus Dubischar, Dr. Andreas Markantonatos, and Dr. Peter Pickering, who each at various stages read earlier drafts of parts of my thesis and kindly offered me their comments and suggestions. I would like to thank my doctoral examiners Prof. Andreas Willi and Prof. Michael Lloyd for their interesting and critical questions and remarks. I would also like to thank Prof. John Gibert for reading my thesis and offering his detailed comments. Last but not least, I am grateful to Prof. Albert Rijksbaron for his support in turning my thesis into a book. Without our thought-provoking discussions, particularly on the historic present, this book might not have been completed. On a more personal note, I would like to thank my family and friends. I am particularly grateful to my mother, who supported me both financially and

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preface

emotionally, but who unfortunately did not live to see the end-result of my work. I would like to thank my husband for his optimism, enthusiasm and belief in me, and my parents-in-law for their ongoing support. Finally, I would like to thank my sister who never failed to lend a listening ear to me.

Introduction 1

Stichomythia

The standard definition of stichomythia has been formulated by Adolf Gross: ‘… eine Stichomythie sei vorhanden, wenn [zwei] Personen, die sich unterhalten, entweder immer je einen Vers sprechen oder immer zwei Verse, was man auch Distichomythie nennen kann, oder immer nur Halbverse, was man … antilabae nennt’.1 These verses may consist of iambic trimeters or trochaic tetrameters. However, modern scholarship on stichomythia usually adopts a more flexible application of the term that includes irregular mixtures of these stichomythic building blocks.2 In this book I will follow the more flexible approach, and I will also make excursions outside stichomythia. The origin of stichomythia is uncertain.3 The most commonly accepted theory points to lyric antiphony or epirrhematic exchange between chorus and individual.4 Some scholars have argued for a ritual origin of stichomythia.5 Although the question remains intriguing, it is a problem unlikely to be solved, and a solution is not necessary for the understanding and appreciation of stichomythia, especially in (late) Euripides.6 Therefore I will not go into the question of origin here. Another thing I will forgo is reiterate by now well-known information on the topic.7 The recent re-publication of Collard’s synoptic review of literature with an up-to-date end note makes an elaborate introduction to stichomythia unnecessary.8 However, in order to place my own study in context I will give a brief overview of the most important scholarly works on stichomythia. Nineteenth century scholarship on stichomythia concentrated on composition and presumed such a rigid symmetry of form that it impinged upon

1 Gross (1905) 9. Earlier definitions include Pollux Onomasticon (4. 113 Bethe), Hesychius s.v. ἀντιλαβαί (a 5432 Latte). Cf. also Aesch. Eum. 585–586. 2 Seidensticker (1969) 20. 3 On the origin of stichomythia see e.g. Gross (1905) 95–102, Seidensticker (1969) 19, n. 3 with references, Garvie (1969) 123–124 + n. 4 with references, Collard (1980) 82–83. 4 Gross (1905) 95–102, Schadewaldt (19702) i, 438. 5 E.g. Thomson (1941) 178–179, followed by Myres (1950) 3. Cf. also Collins (2004) 7–8. 6 A point made by Collard (1980) 83. 7 For more elaborate introductions to the topic of stichomythia and a discussion of existing literature on stichomythia see Schwinge (1968) 11–20 and Seidensticker (1969) 14–17. 8 Collard (1980) = Collard (2007) 6–30.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004282612_002

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textual criticism.9 Gross was the first to go beyond this tradition.10 He still devotes a large part of his book to form and composition, but also discusses the origin and the development of stichomythia over time, as well as its language and function. He distinguishes three different types of stichomythia (‘Streitscenen’, ‘Vereidigung und Gebet’, ‘Frage und Antwort’) and considers the presence of genuine pathos the crucial criterion for the justification of the stichomythic form. In this way he laid down the basis for later studies of stichomythia. Twentieth century studies cover various aspects of stichomythia including its language, form, contents, chronological development and dramatic function. A decade after Gross, Hancock sketches the development of stichomythia over time in terms of three tendencies he distinguishes: the agonistic, the subtle, and the symmetrical.11 He concentrates on the use of particles and other linguistic aspects of stichomythia, and also discusses stichomythia in the tragedies of Seneca and Platonic dialogue. His linguistic approach to stichomythia is later picked up by Ireland, who studies the dramatic role of particles and syntactic form in the tragedies of Aeschylus.12 A number of German scholars concentrate on form, contents and dramatic function of stichomythia. Ludwig reemphasizes its symmetric composition.13 He distinguishes stichomythiae of ‘Erzählung’, ‘Beratung’ and ‘Überlistung’, and considers their symmetric composition a sign of clarity in late Euripidean tragedy. Jens classifies stichomythia according to its contents, discusses technical devices, and sketches the development of the form from Aeschylus to Sophocles.14 Whereas stichomythia in Aeschylus was rigid, in Sophocles it becomes more loose and illustrates the relationship between interlocutors.15 Euripides returns to stichomythia in its rigid form and uses it with increasing frequency, which gave rise to the criticism of unnaturalness and mannerism. Schwinge tries to defend stichomythia in Euripides against this criticism by pointing to its appropriateness on the drama-internal (characters) and drama-external (playwright-audience) levels.16 He argues that problematic long stichomythiae demonstrate a con-

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

For a bibliography see Schwinge (1968) 11–13, n. 3 +4. Gross (1905), inspired by Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1895) on hf 537. Hancock (1917). I have not included Maccari (1911) on stichomythia in comedy. Ireland (1974). Ludwig (1954), followed by Huggle (1958). Cf. also Myres (1950) who recognizes in the structure of stichomythic dialogues a symmetrical pedimental arrangement. Jens (1955). Jens (1955) 103. Schwinge (1968) 20, 27.

introduction

3

stant wavering between truth and deception, and the general uncertainty characteristic of mankind.17 Finally, Seidensticker studies the form, contents and function of stichomythia in all of Greek tragedy in order to make a comparison with stichomythia in the tragedies of Seneca.18 Another work that closely touches upon my research on stichomythia is that of Donald Mastronarde on conversational style.19 Mastronarde studies the extent to which convention and realism are operative in contexts of discontinuity in Greek dramatic dialogue, and concludes that ‘while it is salutary to recognize the nature and extent of formal, stereotyped patterns and the distance between tragic dialogue and realistic informality, the existence of such patterns does not preclude variety and suppleness in the dramatic use of dialogue’.20 While I agree with Mastronarde’s overall conclusion, my research aims to amplify his in several respects. It will have a solid theoretical basis in modern linguistics and address a wide range of aspects of conversation. Instead of using the conversational conventions uncovered to solve textual problems, thereby running the risk of circularity,21 My observations are meant to be interesting in and of themselves and to contribute to interpretations of dramatic meaning on the drama-internal (characters) and external (playwright-audience) levels.22 In the last few decades most scholars have been content to rely heavily on the studies of Jens, Schwinge and Seidensticker. Other approaches to stichomythia have been varied but brief,23 with the exception of the following. Using the terminology of Seidensticker, Dettori identifies various dramatic functions of exchanges between chorus and single actor in Aeschylus,24 while Pfeiffer-Petersen studies ‘Konfliktstichomythie’ in the tragedies of Sophocles.25 To my mind, the most important and interesting approach is Collins’ view of stichomythia as a form of capping: ‘usually between two but sometimes more speakers or singers, one participant sets a topic or theme in speech or verse to which another responds by varying, punning, riddling, or cleverly modifying

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Schwinge (1968) 142–143, 160, 189, 291, 294. Seidensticker (1969) and (1971). Mastronarde (1979). Mastronarde (1979) 35. Cf. Wilson (1982) 183. Cf. Rabinowitz (1982) 364 For an overview see Collard (2007) 27–30. Dettori (1992). Pfeiffer-Petersen (1996).

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introduction

that topic or theme’.26 This pattern is common to many forms of Greek verbal contest. The strength of Collins’ approach is that it places stichomythia in a wider literary context and tradition, without losing sensitivity for individual stichomythic passages. Another example of close reading of stichomythia has recently been given by Dubischar, who studies false guesses in Greek tragedy, which he calls the microstructure of incrementum. I will come back to this work in more detail later.27 Stichomythia is connected with some of the greatest problems of critical appreciation. Particularly late Euripidean stichomythia has been considered a ‘mannerism’28 and lacking ‘realism’29 by many critics. In the first part of my book I re-assess the validity of this criticism, by examining to what extent convention and realism are operative in stichomythia by means of notions developed within the framework of pragmatics. Scholars have tried to justify stichomythia and capture its essence as the sharpest expression of contrast,30 a uniquely appropriate means of exposing the inner person,31 and formality that in and of itself creates instability.32 Schwinge has tried to show the appropriateness of the most problematic stichomythiae by considering them expressions of uncertainty and indecision between truth and deception. However, Schwinge’s explanation is unsatisfactory, as it does not exclusively apply to stichomythia.33 In his review of literature on stichomythia, Collard concludes that ‘the particular question raised by Schwinge—whether stichomythia, rather than another form of dialogue, can be shown both peculiarly appropriate and successful, in all or a majority of cases—that question remains without convincing answer’.34 In this book I attempt to answer this question. In the second part I concentrate on narrative stichomythia, which is considered the most problematic type, and try to bring out its distinctive value in terms of narrative presentation by means of narratology.

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Collins (2004) ix. In section 3.3.2.2. Wilamowitz—Moellendorff (1895) on hf 537, Fraenkel (1950) iii, 626, Gross (1905) 87. Greenwood (1953) 129, 136. Schadewaldt (19702) i, 438f. Fraenkel (1950) iii, 626. Gould (1978) 55= Gould (2001) 99. Uncertainty and indecision play an important role outside stichomythia too, for example in Medea’s great monologue (Med. 1021–1080). Collard (1980) 85.

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5

Part 1: Pragmatics

This book consists of two parts. In the first part I study Euripidean stichomythia as a form of conversation by means of pragmatics. I am well aware that John Gould, as part of his argument that dramatic persons are constructs of language and form, warned against exactly this: ‘With stichomythia we must be careful. If we describe it to ourselves as “conversation” or even as “dialogue” in its everyday sense, then we ask to be misled as to its role in Greek drama’.35 However, stichomythia is a dramatic representation of conversation just as tragedy in general represents lived experience, and similarity between the two spheres is a necessary prerequisite for dramatic effect on the audience.36 As long as we remain aware of its conventional character, I believe it is possible and even fruitful to study stichomythia as a variant of conversation, in order to establish to what extent it resembles and diverges from naturally occurring conversation. Comparison between the results of pragmatic research on stichomythia and naturally occurring conversation should prove interesting. For those who are not familiar with pragmatics, the clearest way to explain what it involves is by contrasting it with syntax and semantics. Whereas syntax is the study of the formal arrangement of language, and semantics the study of its meaning, pragmatics is the study of the use of language in its communicative context.37 Pragmatics is a relatively new branch of linguistic research, which has gained a firm footing in many modern languages, but is still in the beginning stage for ancient Greek.38 The study of communicative aspects of the language used in Greek literature should prove fruitful. It may substantiate intuitive claims about Greek literature or provide fresh perspectives on interpretative issues. I hope that my book will illustrate the potential of the application of pragmatics to Greek literature and contribute to the growing interest in it. The character of pragmatics is strikingly compared by Yule to a wastebasket: For a long period in the study of language, there has been a very strong interest in formal systems of analysis, often derived from mathematics and logic. The emphasis has been on discovering some of the abstract 35 36

37 38

Gould (1978) 99. Allan (2000) 86–87, 91. I endorse Allan’s moderate stance in the discussion of characterization: ‘person and dramatic effect are interwoven’ (87), ‘it is the dialectical relationship of plot and character that makes the drama’ (89). Yule (1996) 4, Rijksbaron et al. (2000) 16–18. Slings (1992) 95 + n. 2 and 46. Since then e.g. Dik (1995), Bakker (1997), Lloyd (1999), De Jong & Rijksbaron (2006), Allan & Buijs (2007), Dik (2007).

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introduction

principles that lie at the very core of language. By placing the investigation of the abstract, potentially universal, features of language in the center of their work tables, linguists and philosophers of language tended to push any notes they had on everyday language use to the edges. As the tables got crowded, many of those notes on ordinary language in use began to be knocked off and ended up in the wastebasket. That overflowing wastebasket has become the source of much of what will be discussed in the following pages. It is worth remembering that the contents of that wastebasket were not originally organized under a single category. They were defined negatively, as the stuff that wasn’t easily handled within the formal systems of analysis. Consequently, in order to understand some of the material that we’re going to pull out of the wastebasket, we really have to look at how it got there.39 Yule’s characterization of pragmatics highlights the heterogeneity of the topics that are studied under its heading. It encompasses among others the fields of deixis, speech act theory, politeness theory, conversation analysis, and discourse analysis, which each have their own variety of sub-topics. It is difficult to choose from among this vast range. For my study in Euripidean stichomythia I have nevertheless made a selection of two topics: turn-taking (chapter 1) and social deixis (chapter 2). Turn-taking is a topic within the pragmatic field of conversation analysis. Burton makes a case for its application to drama dialogue: … if we want to consider play-talk and its degree of similarity to real talk … the only possible linguistic level to use as a basis for such analysis is discourse, or, even more specifically, conversation … there is now a substantial body of descriptive linguistic work on conversation analysis available, and if we are ever going to progress beyond mere intuition and assumption in this very interesting potential area for stylistic analysis, we must surely use this type of linguistics for our information about the norm.40 I have selected the topic of turn-taking because it is intrinsically bound up with the essence of stichomythia. In existing literature the unnaturalness of stichomythia has often been emphasized. I want instead to draw attention to its similarities with naturally occurring conversation. By checking a number

39 40

Yule (1996) 6. Burton (1980) 80–89.

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7

of universal characteristics of the turn-taking process in conversation against what happens in Euripidean stichomythia, I intend to move the discussion about convention versus realism beyond the intuitive level at which it has hitherto been held, and establish more precisely how the two relate. Secondly, I have selected deixis, because it is a very concrete and relatively straightforward part of pragmatics.41 Many sub-fields of pragmatics are vague and still in the developmental stage, which makes them difficult to use for literary interpretation. With deixis this is not the case. Deixis is defined by Charles Fillmore as follows: ‘The essential characteristic of deictic expressions is that their semantic values depend on the real-world context in which they are uttered’.42 There are different types of deixis: time, place, person, social and discourse deixis. Of these, person and social deixis are particularly interesting in the study of Euripidean stichomythia, because the communicative interaction between interlocutors is especially characteristic of this dramatic form. However, whereas person deixis seems relatively predictable due to the constant interchange of first and second person forms, social deixis is likely to yield more interesting results because it is bound up with the broader (dramatic) context. In the second chapter I will therefore study the socially deictic terms that interlocutors of Euripidean stichomythia choose to address each other, and to refer to themselves, each other and other characters. These will be organized in three social categories based on ethnicity, gender and kinship.

3

Part 2: Narratology

In the second part of my book I will concentrate on narrative stichomythia, i.e. stichomythia in which one interlocutor tells a story to another.43 This type of stichomythia has been recognized and criticized as early as the first scholarly discussions of the subject in general.44 While the extensive narrative stichomythiae in late Euripidean tragedy in particular have been criticized for their unnaturalness and mannerism, I propose to regard them rather as narratives in an unconventional, stichomythic form. In my analysis I use narratology, a structuralist-inspired theory that studies narrative.45 This approach has by 41 42 43 44 45

Cf. Yule (1996) 10. Fillmore (1997) 61. For my definition of narrative stichomythia see the introduction to part 2, p. 96–97. E.g. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1895) on hf 537, Gross (1905) 79. See also the introduction to part 2, p. 93. For my methodology see the introduction to part 2, p. 94–96.

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now been applied to many parts of Greek tragedy, but not yet to stichomythia, which may be due to the latter’s problematic dialogic nature.46 The second part of my book intends to fill this gap, to shed new light on the function of Euripidean narrative stichomythia and to further its appreciation. The first aspect of my narratological study is the relationship between narrator and narratee. The dialogic nature of narrative stichomythia complicates the attribution of these narratological functions. For this reason I introduce the term ‘distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors’. In order to get a grip on this dynamic narrative activity I will use typologies of informationseeking questions and information-providing answers. The combination of these helps to specify the locus of narrative activity and determine its distribution between interlocutors. The distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors is the subject of chapter 3. Secondly, I will study various aspects of narrative presentation. Narratives may be presented in (an alternation of) different styles or narrative modes. In the narrating mode the narrator looks back on or forward to events which happened earlier or may happen later on the time-line; in the experiencing mode the narrator pretends to be in the world of the story, observing events simultaneously as they take place.47 The close connection with the communicative context leads one to expect a predominantly narrating mode in narrative stichomythia. However, there are also signs of experiencing mode. In chapters 4, 5 and 6 I will discuss the historic present, the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε and the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge, respectively. My selection of these aspects of narrative stichomythia for close analysis is based partly on intuition and careful reading of the text,48 partly on the results of a pilot study I carried out on seven narrative stichomythiae. My discussion will not be restricted to a purely structural analysis of the dialogues in question, but will relate observations resulting from narratological study to broader interpretative questions. 46

47 48

On the messenger speech: De Jong (1991), Barrett (2002). On various narrative parts and/or individual plays: Roberts (1989), Kraus (1991), Goward (1999), Markantonatos (2002), Barrett (2004), De Jong (2004), Lowe (2004). Similar distinctions are made by Kroon (2002) 191 between diegetic and mimetic, and by Allan (2007) 98–99 between displaced and immediate, with reference to Chafe (1994). As recommended by Bal (1985) 9.

part 1 Pragmatic Studies

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chapter 1

Turn-Taking 1.1

Introduction

‘Greek tragedies are representations of human action, but also formal structures with internal rules of their own. The possibilities of tension between these two aspects of tragedy are especially evident in the plays of Euripides, which combine realism with a marked formalism of structure’.1 This general statement, with which Lloyd opens his monograph on the agon in Euripides, is particularly apt for stichomythia as well. The unnaturalness of Euripidean stichomythia has been pointed out by numerous scholars. Wilamowitz wrote that ‘no part of Attic drama is more difficult to understand than stichomythia, most obviously because this stylizing of conversation seems unnatural to us’,2 and Greenwood that ‘stichomythia is often so thoroughly unnatural from any realistic point of view that its very strangeness forces us to recognize it as the convention which it undoubtedly is’.3 Long passages of stichomythia are especially problematic: ‘The longest Euripidean stichomythiae remain the most severe problem for both audience and reader: so often the virtuoso command of form seems more important to the poet than a more plausible (dare one say, “realistic”) variety to the dramatist, as the direction and stress of conversation change’.4 Heath cautions against reading effects of characterization into the convention of stichomythia, which ‘would obviously be a ruinous way to read tragic stichomythia’.5 Likewise, Gould warns against considering stichomythia a form of conversation or dialogue: ‘With stichomythia we must be careful. If we describe it to ourselves as “conversation” or even as “dialogue” in its everyday sense, then we ask to be misled as to its role in Greek drama’.6 However, on the assumption that stichomythia does have certain similarities to naturally occurring conversation, the question should not so much be one of convention versus realism, as to what extent convention and realism 1 2 3 4 5 6

Lloyd (1992) 1. Wilamowitz Moellendorff (1895) on hf 537, translated by Collard (1980) 79. Greenwood (1953) 136. Collard (1980) 77. Heath (1987) 129–130. Gould (1978) 55.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004282612_003

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are operative in Euripidean stichomythia.7 Mastronarde addresses the question ‘to what degree a reflection of realistic conversational informality is sought or attained and, conversely, to what degree formal conventions of dialoguetechnique operate in contexts of discontinuity’ and concludes that ‘while it is salutary to recognize the nature and extent of formal, stereotyped patterns and the distance between tragic dialogue and realistic informality, the existence of such patterns does not preclude variety and suppleness in the dramatic use of dialogue’.8 Illustrations of this include delayed and piecemeal answers, the suspension of syntax, interruption and intervention. Stanley Ireland had previously drawn attention to the flexibility and dramatic possibilities of stichomythia, and shown how Aeschylus ‘break[s] free from the internal stichic narrowness inherent in the strict alternation of lines, and, while maintaining the outward form of the exchange, … evolve[s] a broader technique of expressing his ideas’.9 This broader technique includes the paratactic and hypotactic linking of lines in addition to independent statements. In this chapter I intend to take further the ideas of these two scholars and to offer a more nuanced and subtle picture of the relationship between convention and realism in Euripidean stichomythia.10

1.2

Conversation and Turn-Taking

The impression that Euripidean stichomythia is an unnatural and stylized form of conversation is particularly related to the turn-taking system in which interlocutors allocate the right or obligation to speak in conversation.11 In Euripi7 8 9 10

11

Cf. also Ercolani (2000) 9–12. Mastronarde (1979) 35. Ireland (1974) 33. Rabinowitz (1982) 362 criticizes Mastronarde for not being subtle enough: ‘For instance, conventions may originate in ordinary language, although they may later harden into mannerisms, or it is theoretically possible for the conventional idiom of theater to be a realism, and the conventions may be derived by imitation of reality.’ Cf. also Bain (1977) 9–11. Our lack of access to ordinary, non-literary ancient Greek language makes it difficult to give a definite answer to the issues raised by Rabinowitz. Even so, I believe that it is possible to speak in a more nuanced way about the relationship between convention and realism in Euripidean stichomythia via different methods, as I will demonstrate in this chapter. Cf. Yule (1996) 72. The term ‘turn’ is used to refer to the (assumed) right or obligation to speak, to the period during which a speaker has this right or obligation, and to what is said during this period. Turn-taking is a fundamental management system in conversation, in which interlocutors allocate the right or obligation to speak in conversation.

13

turn-taking

dean stichomythia turn-taking is formally fixed in advance, not determined ad hoc by the playwright as is the case in modern prose drama dialogue.12 Does this mean that Euripides and his actors are constrained by the stichomythic form? I do not believe this is the case either. Pragmatic research by Sacks et al. has revealed a number of universal characteristics of conversation and the turn-taking process in it.13 If we compare these universal characteristics to what happens in Euripidean stichomythia, we may be able to go beyond the hitherto rather intuitive judgments of scholars and establish more objectively and more precisely to what extent Euripidean stichomythia is stylized.14 In their seminal article on conversation and turn-taking, Sacks et al. list universal characteristics of conversation and turn-taking.15 These characteristics are reproduced in the left-hand column of the table below and checked against Euripidean stichomythia in the right-hand column. If a characteristic occurs in Euripidean stichomythia, this is marked by a +, if it does not, by a -. If a characteristic occurs sometimes or in part, this is marked by a ±.

Characteristic of conversation 1 Speaker-change recurs, or at least occurs. 2 Overwhelmingly, one party talks at a time. 3 Occurrences of more than one speaker at a time are common, but brief. 4 Transitions (from one turn to a next) with no gap and no overlap are common. Together with transitions characterized by slight gap or slight overlap, they make up the vast majority of transitions. 5 Turn order is not fixed, but varies. 6 Turn size is not fixed, but varies. 7 Length of conversation is not specified in advance. 8 What parties say is not specified in advance. 9 Relative distribution of turns is not specified in advance. 10 Number of parties can vary.

12 13 14 15

Euripidean Stichomythia + + +

± + ± ±

Cf. Hafez (1991) 64, who studies turn-taking in spontaneous speech versus drama dialogue in Egyptian Arabic. For the universality of turn-taking see Miller (1963). Cf. Burton (1980) 8–9. Sacks et al. (1974) 700–701.

14

chapter 1 (cont.)

Characteristic of conversation 11 Talk can be continuous or discontinuous. 12 Turn-allocation techniques are obviously used. A current speaker may select a next speaker (as when he addresses a question to another party). 13 Various ‘turn-constructional units’ are employed; e.g. turns can be projectedly ‘one word long’, or they can be sentential in length. 14 Repair mechanisms exist for dealing with turn-taking errors and violations; e.g. if two parties find themselves talking at the same time, one of them will stop prematurely, thus repairing the trouble.

1.3

Euripidean Stichomythia +

+ +

Differences

There are four major, yet interrelated respects in which Euripidean stichomythia differs from conversation. First, whereas in conversation slight gap or overlap may occur at transitions between turns, in stichomythia there was presumably a strict adherence to the rule ‘no gap, no overlap’.16 ‘Theater-dialogue, in most traditions, dispenses with much of the chaos of real conversation in the interests of clarity’.17 In ancient Greek drama dialogue, overlap is especially avoided, because of the material conditions of the performance, notably the large theater in the open air without technical support, which complicated communication from actors towards their audience.18 Yet the impression of overlap is occasionally created, for example at Soph. El. 1501–1502, where Orestes’ exhortation to go inside (ἀλλ’ ἕρφ’) is met by Aegisthus’ retort to lead the way (ὑφηγοῦ). The elision and aspiration at the end of Orestes’ turn right before that of Aegisthus, which starts with an aspirated vowel, may be seen 16

17 18

Cf. Burton (1980) 115: ‘Drama-scripts are markedly tidied-up versions of talk, adhering closely to the two rules that Sacks declares are the most basic conversational rules available, that is, that “one party speaks at a time” and “speaker change recurs”’. Mastronarde (1979) 52. Mastronarde (1979) 52, Ercolani (2000) 20.

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15

as an indication of the artificiality of Greek drama dialogue, for ‘der vorher Redende kann doch nicht ahnen daß der nach ihm Redende mit einen Vokal beginnen wird’.19 On the other hand, this intervention creates the impression of overlap and urgency on the interlocutors’ part. Because gap and overlap in conversation are always slight and occurrences of more than one speaker at a time always brief, the difference between conversation and stichomythia is only small. Moreover, it attempts to compensate for this lack of realism to some extent by its employment of discontinuous syntax and cooperative completion of syntax.20 Secondly, whereas in conversation turn order varies, in Euripidean stichomythia turn order is pretty much fixed, which makes competition for the floor less necessary. Ercolani, citing Elam, writes that: ‘… the type of “fight” to have the floor that occurs in extra-dramatic conversation, by which the potential next speaker tries to “reserve” the right to speak, by overlapping or echoing the current speaker, requesting permission to interrupt, not taking into account the other hypothetical speakers etc. is not admissible in drama for obvious reasons of “succession” and because of the necessity to put into focus the major characters’.21 Yet Euripidean stichomythia contains the occasional example of competition for the floor (e.g. hf 534–535)22 and lexical repetitions, which resemble echoes in naturally occurring conversation.23 Moreover, Sacks et al. acknowledge that even in conversation turn order does not vary randomly but is partially conditioned by the bias that the speaker just prior to the current one be selected as the next.24 This bias in combination with the information that in stichomythia the number of interlocutors is usually fixed at two—which incidentally also dovetails with another bias noted by Sacks et al., that ‘though the turn-taking system does not restrict the number of parties to a conversation it 19 20 21

22 23

24

Korzeniewski (1968) 27. Mastronarde (1979) 52–73 Cf. also Ireland (1974) 509–524 and the discussion of turn extent variation in section 1.4.2. My translation of Ercolani (2000) 19–20 citing Elam (1988) 186f.: ‘… il tipo di “battaglia” per avere la parola che si verifica nella conversazione extra-drammatica, per cui il potenziale parlante successivo cerca di “riservarsi” il diritto di parlare, sovrapponendosi o facendo eco all’ attuale parlante, chiedendo il permesso di interrompere, non tenendo conto degli altri ipotetici parlanti etc. non è ammissibile nel dramma per ovvie ragioni di “sequibilità” e per la necessità di mettere a fuoco i personaggi maggiori’. Discussed in section 1.4.3, p. 40–43. Cf. ‘Repetition in dialogue: tragedy compared with natural speech’, an unpublished paper by P. and M. Pickering read at the annual meeting of the Classical Association in Edinburgh on 5th April 2002. Cf. also Pickering (2000), (2001) and (2003). Sacks et al. (1974) 708.

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organizes, still the system favors, by virtue of its design, smaller numbers of participants’25—accounts for the fact that turn order in Euripidean stichomythia is pretty much fixed. It also provides a partial explanation for the lack of overlap at transitions between turns, because if there are only two interlocutors there is no need for competition for the floor between potential new speakers. Thirdly, whereas in conversation turn size varies, in Euripidean stichomythia turn size is largely fixed. Of course turns may vary in terms of metre (iambic trimeter, trochaic tetrameter) and form or length (distichomythia, stichomythia and antilabe), but as soon as metre and form are chosen, relative turn size is fixed, with the exception of temporary interruptions of the stichomythic form.26 Sacks et al. specify the following sources of turn size variation: ‘The availability of a range of unit-types out of which turns may initially be constructed (a range that varies on the parameter of length), and the availability to a current speaker of free selection among them, provide that for a set of turns, each of which will have contained only the single unit to which a speaker is initially entitled by virtue of having a turn, the turns in the set may have varying turn sizes … any current speaker may get a chance to produce more than a single instance of a unit-type … the system does not define maximum turn size, while the turn-constructional component does determine minimal turn size’.27 However, the range of unit-types out of which turns may be constructed as listed by Sacks et al.—i.e. sentential, clausal, phrasal and lexical constructions—does not so much vary on the parameter of length as on that of syntax.28 Admittedly, lexical constructions will usually be shorter than sentential constructions, but they do not have to be. The parameters of length and syntax should not be put on a par. In Euripidean stichomythia turn size may not vary in length, but it does in terms of the type and number of syntactical units it contains, as well as the meaning and pragmatic function it has. Thus it is not so much the length of the turn, but rather what the interlocutor does with it that becomes relevant.29 I will return to and elaborate this point later.30 Fourthly, whereas in conversation the relative distribution of turns is not specified or fixed in advance, in Euripidean stichomythia this is the case. This 25 26 27 28 29 30

Sacks et al. (1974) 712. Denniston (1939) on Eur. El. 651–652. Sacks et al. (1974) 709. Sacks et al. (1974) 702. Sacks et al. (1974) 730 may be addressing a similar point. In section 1.4.2.

turn-taking

17

phenomenon is of course largely determined by the factor of turn-order discussed above, and as such Sacks et al. acknowledge that ‘the biases operative in turn-order determination … may result in skewings intrinsic to the turn-taking system, in the over-all distribution of turns to any point’.31 Accordingly, Sacks et al. state that the differential distribution of turns is relevant especially in conversations between three parties, but that ‘for two parties, the relevant variability is not differential distribution of turns (given that they will have alternating turns), but differential turn size’.32 However, in Euripidean stichomythia not even differential turn size is an issue. It is rather the syntactical structure, meaning and pragmatic function of turns that are important. At this point it may be relevant to discuss the contents of turns. Sacks et al. list as one of the characteristics of conversation that what parties say is not specified in advance. As examples of speech-exchange systems in which what parties say is specified in advance, they mention debates and interviews, and they explicitly distinguish these from conversations. Many passages of stichomythia could probably also be classified as speech-exchange systems. However, Sacks et al. qualify the characteristic of conversation, ‘what parties say is not specified in advance’, by noting a bias operative in it: ‘there is a set of utterance-types, adjacency pair first parts, that can be used to accomplish such a selection [i.e. “current speaker selects next”]; and with the constraints to employ one of those there are constraints on what a party can say’.33 Thus the characteristic of conversation that what parties say is not specified in advance is qualified by the existence of adjacency pairs.34 The frequent employment of adjacency pairs in Euripidean stichomythia in combination with the fact that the number of its interlocutors is commonly fixed at two, accounts for the fact that the contents of its turns may sometimes be predictable to some extent. However, there remains plenty of room for unexpected elements. To sum up, Euripidean stichomythia differs from conversation in certain respects, but these differences are limited and interrelated, which detracts from their individual importance and impact.

31 32 33 34

Sacks et al. (1974) 712. Sacks et al. (1974) 712. Sacks et al. (1974) 710. Cf. Yule (1996) 76–78. Conversation tends to occur in responsive pairs or ‘adjacency pairs’, consisting of a first pair part and a second pair part, between which there exists a relationship of predictability or adjacency. Examples are greetings, goodbyes, question-answer, thanking-response and request-accept.

18 1.4

chapter 1

Similarities

Euripidean stichomythia resembles conversation in many respects: speakerchange frequently occurs;35 one party talks at a time; transitions between turns commonly occur without gap or overlap;36 and the length of the conversation is not specified in advance. Yet not all similarities are this obvious. In the remainder of this chapter I will discuss three less straightforward characteristics that Euripidean stichomythia has in common with conversation: turn-allocation, turn-extent variation, and turn-taking errors, violations and repairs. 1.4.1 Turn-Allocation In Euripidean stichomythia the turn-taking process is largely fixed in advance. For that reason Ercolani ignores stichomythia in his discussion of functional signals that ensure smooth transition between turns: ‘And so when the turntaking was in proportion of 1–2 verses to 1–2 verses (stichomythia or distichomythia), it had to be relatively simple to converse on the scene without errors in the moment and in the succession of interventions’.37 Nevertheless turn-allocation techniques are obviously used. A current speaker may select a next speaker by means of e.g. vocatives, greetings, questions, or directives. Ercolani recognizes this in his appendix 2: Riferimenti alla Situazione Fatica all’ Interno del Dialogo, but does not elaborate. In this section I will continue where Ercolani left off and concentrate on explicit turn-allocation by means of illocutionary expressions. By illocutionary expressions I mean those expressions that accompany a speech act and give explicit identification of the speech act intended.38 Speech acts (what we do when we are saying something) can be divided into locutionary acts (the production of meaningful utterances), illocutionary acts (what we do in saying something) and perlocutionary acts (the nonverbal effects on the addressee that are created as a result).39 Here I

35

36

37

38 39

Stichomythia may be considered an example of the ‘high involvement style’, in which interlocutors participate actively, speak relatively fast and without pauses between turns. Cf. Yule (1996) 76. Cf. Yule (1996) 72–76. In an ideal situation, only one person speaks at a time and there is no ‘overlap’ between interlocutors’ turns; conversely, there are no silences or ‘gaps’ between turns and the transition from one turn to another takes place smoothly. My translation of Ercolani (2000) 20: ‘E così pure quando l’alternarsi delle battute era in rapporto di 1–2 versi a 1–2 versi (sticomitia o disticomitia), doveva essere relativamente facile dialogare sulla scena senza errori nel momento e nella successione degli interventi’. Shalev (2001) 531. Risselada (1993) 242 ff. calls them speech act expressions. The classic sources for these distinctions are: Austin (1962) 94–132, Searle (1969) 22–33

turn-taking

19

am particularly concerned with illocutionary acts, more precisely with explicit expressions of illocutionary acts. In Euripidean stichomythia these expressions have long been considered line fillers.40 However, as Shalev has pointed out, ‘the use of illocutionary expressions with a similarly independent status also in the dialogues of Plato’, ‘an author “unburdened” by the need to fill out verses’, ‘suggests that they have more than a gratuitous function, which can explain their presence in verse form as well’.41 Such expressions have illocutionary, phatic, or other pragmatic or communicative force. The relationship between the illocutionary force and the linguistic form of utterances is complex: the same expression may be used to perform various speech acts, and various expressions can be used to perform the same speech act.42 Illocutionary force is expressed through the interplay of various linguistic properties, including lexical and grammatical ones.43 In the following section I will argue, first, that the verb used in illocutionary expressions helps to identify the intended speech act and provides information about its actual performance and the interlocutors’ relative position in it. Secondly, I will argue that the modality of illocutionary expressions is important for purposes of politeness and emphasis of urgency. Thirdly, I intend to show that the tense of illocutionary expressions has a function in the organization of the conversation and clarification of transitions in it.44 I shall round off this section by discussing an example of stichomythic dialogue in which turn-allocation plays an important part. 1.4.1.1 Verb The verb used in illocutionary expressions helps to identify the intended speech act.45 For example, Polynices’ order ἐξερώτα (Phoen. 385) and Iocasta’s performative46 statement ἐρωτῶ (Phoen. 387) explicitly identify the latter’s con-

40 41 42 43 44 45 46

and Levinson (1983) 236–237. Examples of speech acts include assertives, expressives, commissives, questions, and directives. Within these, sub-classifications can be made. For example, directives can be subdivided into orders, advice, supplications, proposals, requests, invitations and suggestions. Cf. Risselada (1993) 37, 48. Gross (1905) 88ff. See also Seidensticker (1969) 31 n. 55. Shalev (2001) 532. Risselada (1993) 64. Risselada (1993) 66. For these functions of illocutionary expressions cf. Risselada (1993) 250–258 and Shalev (2001) 536–537, 551. Cf. Risselada (1993) 250, Shalev (2001) 531. Risselada (1993) 247: ‘Performatives are speech act expressions that are formulated from the perspective of the speaker’s illocutionary intention’.

20

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tributions to the conversation as questions.47 At the same time Polynices’ order grants Iocasta permission to speak. Helen’s order αὖθις κέλευσον (Hel. 1416) immediately followed by Theoclymenus’ performative statement αὖθις κελεύω (Hel. 1417) explicitly identifies the latter’s utterance as an order. In this second case it is particularly important that Theoclymenus’ order that the sailors obey Menelaus be unequivocally identified as such, because it is on this that Helen’s and Menelaus’ plan of escape depends. The verb used in illocutionary expressions may also provide more detailed information about the actual performance of the speech act.48 It may specify the volume, form, style and contents of the utterance. For example, when Phaedra utters a cry of despair the Chorus ask: τίνα θροεῖς αὐδάν; τίνα βοᾷς λόγον; (Hipp. 571), thus acknowledging that they have recognized Phaedra’s utterance as a cry.49 Towards the end of the discussion between Phaedra and the Nurse, the latter comments: μακρηγοροῦμεν (Hipp. 704), which indicates the (subjective feeling of) length of the conversation. Heracles’ comment τόδ’ ὡς ὕποπτον ᾐνίξω πάλιν (hf 1120) stresses the unclarity of Amphitryon’s utterance for Heracles. Finally, the Nurse’s question συγγόνους κακορροθεῖς (Hipp. 340) qualifies the contents of Phaedra’s utterances as negative. Thus illocutionary expressions may provide information about the way in which speech is uttered and performed on stage, important information otherwise lost to us. This is an extension of Taplin’s argument that ‘the stage directions are incorporated in the words of the play’.50 Just as ‘words accompany and clarify the action’, so illocutionary expressions accompany and clarify the speech act(ion).51 Identifying the speech act is also useful for assessing the speaker’s attitude or intention, and/or the uptake desired from the addressee.52 When Hermione

47

48 49

50 51 52

Asking questions: Hec. 237, 238, Supp. 1045, hf 1137, it 501, 554, 659, Ion 266, Phoen. 385, 387, Or. 1576, ia 1129, 1130, 1134, 1135. Similar verbs: ἐρέω: Hec. 988, Supp. 751, El. 275, Hel. 772, Phoen. 383, Or. 1072, 1183; ἔλεγχω: it 530; ἱστορέω: Hcld. 666, Hipp. 92, Supp. 110, Tro. 261, it 528, 623, Ion 284, 362, Phoen. 621; ἐρευνάω: Hel. 662; ζητέω: it 506; αἰτέω: El. 675, Phoen. 602; χρῄζω: Hcld. 565; Answering questions: Bacch. 1271, ia 1133. The original Greek text did not contain any question marks, just question words. See Rijksbaron (2007) 245–246, n. 358. Cf. Risselada (1993) 255. Cf. θροέω: Hipp. 571, Tro. 1239, Ion 784, Phoen. 1340, ia 1345; βοάω: Hipp. 571, Hec. 177, Ion 1446; γεγωνέω: Hipp. 586; λάσκω: Hec. 678, Tro. 267, Ion 776; ἀυτέω: El. 757, Ion 1446, Phoen. 1337. Taplin (2002) 17. Taplin (1989) 28. Cf. Risselada (1993) 253.

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21

describes Andromache’s speech with σεμνομυθεῖς (Andr. 234) this tells us, and Andromache of course, that she perceived Andromache’s words as haughty.53 Interlocutors may evaluate the topic of conversation positively, using the verb αἰνέω,54 or negatively, using the verb ὀνειδίζω.55 Euripidean stichomythia often features exchange of information. The giving end of this exchange is marked by verbs like ἀγγέλλω (report under orders),56 and ἀποκρίνομαι (answer in response to questions).57 The receiving end is marked by verbs like ἐρωτάω58 and πυνθάνομαι59 (for active information-seeking), and μανθάνω60 and κλύω61 (for passive learning). Some verbs presuppose a social power-relationship and interdependence between interlocutors. Verbs like ἄντομαι,62 ἱκετεύω,63 and λίσσομαι64 imply an inferior social position of the subject, while verbs like κελεύω65 and νουθετέω66 presuppose his superior social position. Thus illocutionary expressions also provide information about interlocutors’ attitudes and relative positions. The communicative role-division between interlocutors as marked by illocutionary expressions may involve complexities. At the beginning of a stichomythic conversation Orestes asks Menelaus if he wants to ask questions 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60

61 62 63 64 65 66

Cf. also κομπέω: ia 333. Alc. 1093, 1095, Med. 707, Hcld. 1018, hf 1235, Tro. 53, it 1023, Phoen. 614, 1683, Or. 786, 1106, Bacch. 944, ia 655, 824. Bacch. 652, it 305. Hcld. 797–798, Hec. 187, 194, El. 230, 762, hf 1185, Tro. 55, 710, it 1304, Hel. 604, Phoen. 1334. Bacch. 792. Cf. also φρενόω: Bacch. 792; μιμνῄσκω: Hel. 120 and μηνύω: Hec. 192, El. 620, Bacch. 1029. Hec. 237, 238, Supp. 1045, hf 1137, it 501, 554, 659, Ion 266, Phoen. 385, 387, Or. 1576, ia 1129, 1130, 1134, 1135. Similar verbs include: ἐρέω: Hec. 988, Supp. 751, El. 275, Hel. 772, Phoen. 383, Or. 1072, 1183; ἔλεγχω: it 530; ἱστορέω: Hcld. 666, Hipp. 92, Supp. 110, Tro. 261, it 528, 623, Ion 284, 362, Phoen. 621; ἐρευνάω: Hel. 662; ζητέω: it 506; αἰτέω: El. 675, Phoen. 602; χρῄζω: Hcld. 565. Hipp. 270, 327, Andr. 883, Tro. 245, 719, it 540, 809, 912, ia 1139. Hipp. 517, Andr. 1073, Hec. 991, Supp. 750, 1060, El. 773, Tro. 63, it 493, 494, 496, 673, 779, 1030, 1172, Ion 266, 770, 1432, Hel. 562, 1202, 1416, 1522, Phoen. 118, 410, 903, 1656, 1681, Or. 1578, Bacch. 657, 1296, 1345, ia 696. Hipp. 270, 344, 352, 788, Supp. 571, Tro. 720, it 770, Hel. 684, Phoen. 903, 1212, Or. 1231, 1238, 1576, 1577, Bacch. 576, 1271, it 896, 897, 1134. Alc. 1098, Med. 336. Med. 338, Or. 255. Hipp. 312, Hec. 1127, Bacch. 1344. Cf. also: ἀράομαι: Alc. 714, Med. 608; εὔχομαι: El. 563, it 536, 1221, Hel. 646; ὄμνυμι: it 743, 747, Or. 1516, 1517. Andr. 577, Hec. 980, it 1288, Hel. 1416, 1417, Phoen. 926, Or. 95, Bacch. 653, ia 1130. hf 1249.

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or listen (Or. 1576: πότερον ἐρωτᾶν ἢ κλύειν ἐμοῦ θέλεις;).67 At first glance this might simply be considered a way for Orestes to get Menelaus’ attention: ‘Will you engage in dialogue with me?’ and establish a conversational protocol.68 However, closer inspection reveals that the particular form of Orestes’ question involves a difficult opposition: under normal circumstances the two activities of asking questions and listening are carried out by one and the same interlocutor.69 The implication seems to be that Orestes leaves Menelaus no choice. However, Menelaus’ answer, οὐδέτερ’· ἀνάγκη δ’ ὡς ἔοικέ σου κλύειν (Or. 1577), nevertheless presents a selection. The difficult opposition between the two communicative activities might disappear if we take ἐρωτᾶν to represent stichomythia, as this dramatic form is commonly interlarded with questions, and κλύειν to represent rhesis, a dramatic form which merely requires listening from the addressee. However, Menelaus’ selection as presented in his answer (Or. 1577: … σου κλύειν → rhesis) is not in keeping with the remainder of the conversation, as Menelaus starts asking questions in stichomythia after all. So, unless the illocutionary exchange between Orestes and Menelaus exclusively applies to the immediately following line, Menelaus’ deeds do not match his words. The peculiarities of this stichomythic passage reflect the difficult interaction between Orestes and Menelaus throughout the play. Orestes’ question gives the impression of choice, but in fact leaves Menelaus no choice at all. This recalls Orestes’ behaviour earlier in the play. Although Orestes’ request for help gives Menelaus the theoretical opportunity to refuse, in practice Orestes does not take ‘no’ for an answer and simply extorts his help when he fails to obtain it willingly. Menelaus’ communicative behaviour in this stichomythic conversation resembles his earlier conduct as well: both now and then he raises Orestes’ expectations only to disappoint them later on. 1.4.1.2 Modality Illocutionary expressions can take different modalities. These may be expressed by verbal moods or modal expressions. The modality of illocutionary expressions may be important for the purpose of politeness and emphasis

67 68

69

Biehl (1965) 171, Di Benedetto (1965) 288, and Willink (1986) 343 comment on this line, but they do not explicitly note the difficulty in the opposition discussed here. Cf. Lallot (2000) 30–31, who studies the imperative of ἀποκρίνομαι in Plato, where the present imperative is used in protocol situations, to assign the role of giving answers, while the aorist imperative is used to invite the addressee to answer particular questions. Cf. by contrast Pl. Grg. 462b: Καὶ νῦν δὴ τούτων ὁπότερον βούλει ποίει, ἐρώτα ἢ ἀποκρίνου. Here the choice is between asking questions (ἐρώτα) and answering (ἀποκρίνου), which are indeed two opposite communicative roles.

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23

of urgency.70 Brown and Levinson’s work on politeness argues that politeness strategies are used by interlocutors to save face, and that indirectness is an important means to accomplish this.71 Indirectness may become manifest in modality. Illocutionary expressions can be distinguished on the basis of whose perspective on the realization of the state of affairs is represented.72 My discussion of illocutionary expressions will be organized accordingly: first I will discuss second person illocutionary expressions implying an addresseeperspective and next first person illocutionary expressions implying a speakerperspective. 1.4.1.2.1 Addressee Let us start with illocutionary expressions in the second person that have an addressee-perspective. In Euripidean stichomythia these often take the shape of directives. The most direct and urgent, but as Brown and Levinson’s work would appear to suggest, least polite form is an order in the imperative mood.73 The imperative is the most common mood for illocutionary expressions in Euripidean stichomythia, perhaps because it is concise and efficient.74 Its use is even explicitly commented on by an interlocutor of stichomythia. When Clytaemestra uses the imperative on Agamemnon (ia 1129: εἴφ’ ἃν ἐρωτήσω σε γενναίως, πόσι), he responds: οὐδὲν κελευσμοῦ δεῖ σ’· ἐρωτᾶσθαι θέλω (ia 1130). The vast majority of illocutionary expressions in the imperative mood refers to the activity of speaking, while less than a quarter refers to the act of lis-

70

71 72 73 74

Risselada (1993) 250–255, and Shalev (2001) 536 draw attention to the function of illocutionary/speech act expressions for politeness and urgency, but I believe that the modality of these expressions plays an additional role. Brown & Levinson (1987). Cf. Risselada (1993) 279. There are a few illocutionary expressions in the third person, e.g. Hipp. 342, it 1156, Ion 529, 760, Phoen. 1334. However, Denizot (2011) 488 argues that the imperative was neutral with respect to politeness. Alc. 479, 708, 1132; Med. 63, 65, 678, 691, 693, 701; Hcld. 91, 95, 122, 565*; Hipp. 100, 517*, 572, 580, 586, 876, 1154, 1171; Andr. 251, 1056, 1079*; Hec. 184, 192, 238*, 980, 986, 1125, 1130; Supp. 111, 143, 567, 570*, 1044; El. 226*, 250, 563, 618, 619*, 659, 901, 905, 1326; hf 1118, 1124, 1185; Tro. 61, 245*, 247, 1239; it 239*, 256, 501, 530*, 536, 546, 547, 554, 738, 743, 753*, 767, 773, 781, 809*, 927, 1030, 1162, 1188, 1313*, 1322*, 1325; Ion 336*, 339, 362, 750, 759, 786, 933, 936*, 987*, 1335, 1348, 1395, 1416, 1430, 1485; Hel. 120, 471, 602, 663, 665, 680, 700, 702, 773, 822, 1035*, 1049*, 1256, 1416; Phoen. 124, 158, 385*, 898, 911*, 1076, 1083, 1088, 1207, 1209, 1324, 1355; Or. 237*, 637*, 638, 757, 852–854*, 1118, 1181*, 1182, 1231–1234*, 1516; Bacch. 460, 492, 576*, 657*, 1041, 1288; ia 861, 867, 872, 1009*, 1014, 1129, 1133, 1135, 1346, 1436, 1539.

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tening or, occasionally, asking.75 The negative counterpart of the command is the prohibition in the present imperative (inhibitive / corrective) or aorist subjunctive (preventive).76 This latter mood occurs less frequently in Euripidean stichomythia, and is used with a variety of communicative actions.77 At its most urgent and least polite the future indicative with οὐ (μή) in questions expresses an urgent command,78 prohibition or threat.79 Illocutionary statements in the future indicative80 often express anticipation or probability of future speech or reception of speech, while illocutionary questions featuring the future indicative81 express uncertainty. A frequently occurring question is τί λέξεις; I take this question to be not so much an apprehensive anticipation of future speech as a response to an interlocutor’s bad or shocking news in the past.82 The most polite and least urgent mood in which to present illocutionary expressions

75 76 77

78 79 80 81 82

The instances referring to listening or asking are marked by an asterisk in the previous footnote. Denizot (2011) 295. Hec. 184, it 554, it 1322, Or. 415. In combination with οὐ μή the subjunctive mood may also be used to express emphatic denial, for example at Soph. Phil. 103. This use of the subjunctive closely approaches the future indicative which may in turn express a range of modalities. Or. 1238. Supp. 1064, Bacch. 792. Alc. 718, Hipp. 327, 332, Hec. 999, El. 226, hf 1130, it 912, Or. 239, 1238, Bacch. 792. Ion 1414, Phoen. 1704. Med. 1310, Hipp. 353, Hec. 712, 1124, Ion 530, 1113, Hel. 779, Phoen. 1274. This formula is explained as follows by kg 1, 174: ‘ “was werde ich zu hören bekommen?”, womit der Redende, nachdem die ihm aufregende Äusserung schon gefallen ist, andeutet, er traue seinen Ohren nicht und fürchte noch Schlimmeres zu hören’. I agree with the former part of this explanation, but I find the latter part less convincing. To me all τί λέξεις; questions are predominantly a response to the interlocutor’s bad or shocking news in the past. In most cases (all except Hel. 779) the question is preceded by an exclamation of lament, which indicates reflection on the past rather than projection on the future. Some questions (Med. 1310, Hipp. 353, Hel. 779) are followed by the concluding statement ὥς μ’ ἀπώλεσας. Others (e.g. Hec. 1124, Ion 1113) may be followed by another question, but this usually seeks reiteration of the information already given or clarification of an aspect thereof. This is in keeping with the explanation of Barrett (1964) on Hipp. 353 and Mastronarde (1994) on Phoen. 1274 of the τί λέξεις; question as expressing reluctance to accept bad news and awaiting elaboration thereof. Additional questions are mostly used to ask for the sake of asking and seem to express the speaker’s difficulty in processing and accepting bad or shocking news. In any case they do not extend the conversation into the future on new topics that are even worse.

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appears to be the potential optative.83 This mood expresses remoteness and possibility, occurs both in illocutionary statements (more certain) and illocutionary questions (less certain), and is used with a variety of communicative actions.84 The modality of second person illocutionary expressions may also manifest itself in other modal expressions.85 Euripidean stichomythia contains many illocutionary expressions of volition consisting of verbs of wanting with one or more infinitives. The most important examples86 are βούλομαι,87 θέλω,88 and χρῄζω.89 Other modal verbs include verbs expressing ability like οἶδα90 or ἔχω91 with one or more infinitives; permission is expressed by ἔξεστι,92 πάρα,93

83

84

85

86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93

Cf. kg 1, 233f., Goodwin (1912) § 237, Fraenkel (1950) on Aesch. Ag. 1049, Lloyd (1999) 34, Rijksbaron (2002) 42: ‘In dialogue the second person of the potential optative, especially in the present stem, is often used with iussive force, serving as a cautious variant of the imperative’. For an example see Aesch. Cho. 105–107 the carefully phrased λέγοις ἀν, εἴ τι τῶνδ’ ἔχεις ὑπέρτερον is perceived by the interlocutor as an order, considering her reaction: λέξω, κελεύεις γάρ, τὸν ἐκ φρενὸς λόγον. Denizot (2011: 455) argues that the optative is not necessarily polite, but can even be disrespectful: ‘Le caractère optionnel et non contraignant du procès à l’optatif s’explique par la dissociation énonciative qui caractérise ce mode verbal et n’est pas nécessairement lié à la politesse comme nous l’avons vu: l’indifférence manifestée par un locuteur envers un procès peut être une marque de dédain bien plus qu’une marque de respect’. Hipp. 89, 345, El. 1058, it 496, 505, 513, 673, Ion 335, 1336, Phoen. 903, Bacch. 1271, ia 863, 1134. Desiderative optatives: Hipp. 1074, El. 620; Hipp. 345 has the form of a potential optative, but expresses a wish. In statements that refer to speaking: Ion 335, 1336, ia 863; or listening: it 673, Phoen. 903, ia 1134; in questions that refer to speaking: Hipp. 345, it 505, 513; or listening: Hipp 89, El. 1058, it 496, Ba 1271. Some of the following expressions are not strictly speaking modal, but non-modal evaluating expressions. Cf. Risselada (1993) 322–323. However, the expressions closely resemble each other and for my current purpose it seems more convenient to group them together. Alternative expressions of wanting include: ἐν ἡδονῇ + infinitive: it 494. With verbs of speaking: Hec. 1003, 1011, Supp. 567; or learning: Hipp. 517, Hec. 991, Supp. 570, Phoen. 118, Or. 1578. With verbs of hearing/learning: Ion 266, Phoen. 901, Or. 1576. With verbs of speaking: ia 867, El. 905. Hec. 709, it 248. Or. 439. Tro. 51, Hel. 441. Hcld. 693.

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εἰκός94 or καλόν95 with one or more infinitives. Necessity can be expressed by δεῖ,96 ἀνάγκη,97 χρή,98 or χρεών99 with one or more infinitives; by verbal adjectives,100 σόν with one or more infinitives,101 σός with noun,102 or σοὶ μέλει with noun.103 1.4.1.2.2 Speaker Let us next look at illocutionary expressions in the first person that contain a speaker-perspective. In Euripidean stichomythia these often take the shape of commissives or questions. The least polite and most direct way is not to ask for permission, but to announce one’s impending speech and simply to self-allocate one’s turn by means of the future indicative.104 Orestes has a particularly good reason for emphatically announcing his own turn with φράσω in it 822, because he has been given explicit permission to speak by Iphigenia (it 810) and the information he is about to provide will convince Iphigenia that he is her brother. Less direct and more polite is to manage the conversation in consultation with one’s interlocutor using the (first person plural) hortative subjunctive. This use of the subjunctive suggests a change of subject matter, something which both interlocutors should preferably agree on.105 The use of the (first person singular) subjunctive in a question is deliberative. The deliberative subjunctive expresses lack of certainty and hence is more polite. In Euripidean stichomythia it is used to express hesitation to speak or convey bad news.106 This use of the deliberative subjunctive may be positively evaluated by an interlocutor of stichomythia. Upon Talthybius’ repeated use of the deliberative subjunctive (Tro. 713: πῶς εἴπω λόγον; 717: οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως σοι ῥᾳδίως εἴπω λόγον), Andromache expresses her approval: ἐπῄνεσ’ αἰδῶ, πλὴν ἐὰν λέγῃς 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106

Phoen. 979. it 927. ia 1130. Or. 1577. Hec. 983, it 744 (person not expressed), 810, Hel. 1033–1034 (person not expressed), Or. 774 (person not expressed). Hec. 236–237. Phoen. 1210, ia 1010. Hcld 132, it 1203, Ion 1020. Hipp. 336. Hipp. 579. Hec. 988, Supp. 750–751, Tro. 710, it 530, 822, Ion 934, Phoen. 706, ia 654. El. 962, it 925, Ion 544. Alc. 1123, 1131, Supp. 293, El. 280, hf 514, Tro. 713, it 776, 839, Ion 758, 1446, Hel. 656, 1195, Phoen. 1335; with οὐκ οἶδα: Tro. 717, ia 643; with βούλῃ: Supp. 566, Phoen. 909.

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καλά (Tro. 718).107 The least direct and therefore probably most polite mood is the potential optative, which carefully announces speech, silence, or the willingness to listen.108 The modality of first person illocutionary expressions too can manifest itself in modal expressions. Volitional expressions consist of verbs of wanting, such as βούλομαι,109 θέλω,110 and χρῄζω111 with one or more infinitives.112 ῥᾴδιον expresses ability;113 ἔξεστι,114 θέμις,115 and μέτα116 with one or more infinitives express permission. Necessity can be expressed by δεῖ,117 χρή,118 χρεών119 with one or more infinitives, ἔργον with pronoun(s) and infinitive(s).120 The above discussion on modality and politeness was based on the presupposition that there exists a direct relationship between indirectness in language and politeness in conversation, as is argued by Brown and Levinson.121 Their work has been very influential in the past few decades and remains popular as a paradigm for the analysis of linguistic politeness. However, more recently it has been criticized by Watts, who objects to politeness as an objective, universal concept, and instead argues that the presence of (im)politeness is a matter of the specific, individual context.122 In her monograph on orders in ancient Greek, Denizot too warns against surmising a one-on-one relation-

107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122

The text is doubtful. I adopt the reading of the Loeb-edition (p) καλά here, while the oct reads κακά (l). Hipp. 270, 336, Supp. 571, hf 1119, it 811, 939, Ion 943, Phoen. 1215, ia 1124. With verbs of speaking: Hec. 978–979, El. 900; or hearing / learning: Hipp. 270, 344, Supp. 750–751, El. 548–549. With verbs of speaking: Hcld. 1018, Hec. 998, El. 230, ia 1130, 1538; or hearing/learning: Hcld. 787–788, Tro. 63, it 247, 493, Hel. 562, Phoen. 903, Or. 747, ia 696. With verbs of hearing/learning: Supp. 1060, Phoen. 383–384. Alternative expressions of wanting include: ποθῶ: Ion 1432*; διὰ πόθου δ’ ἐλήλυθα Phoen. 383–384*; εἰς ἔρον … πεπτώκαμεν + infinitive: it 1172*; πρόθυμος: Hel. 1523*. Bacch. 461. Tro. 48–50, 903. Med. 678 (person not expressed), El. 1292. El. 1295. Andr. 920 (person not expressed). Hipp. 345, it 623, 810, 1288 (person not expressed), Hel. 1033–1034 (person not expressed), Or. 774 (person not expressed). Hec. 236–237. Hcld. 666. Brown & Levinson (1987). Watts (2003).

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ship between politeness and indirect language, and stresses the importance of context and convention.123 The complexity of this issue may be illustrated with a stichomythic passage in which indirect, supposedly polite language is exaggerated to the point of absurdity, as it clashes with the dramatic and communicative context in which it occurs. Following an agōn logōn in which the Theban Messenger and Theseus discuss politics and the recovery of the Argive warriors from Theban soil, the two continue their argument in stichomythic form (Supp. 566–580).124 Although the interlocutors violently disagree, they observe extreme politeness. Following Theseus’ speech, the Messenger politely asks: βούλῃ συνάψω μῦθον ἐν βραχεῖ τιθείς; (Supp. 566), using a form of βούλομαι with a deliberative subjunctive. Theseus responds with: λέγ’, εἴ τι βούλῃ; (Supp. 567). The imperative is softened by the εἰ-clause with a form of βούλομαι.125 When the Messenger bluntly states that Theseus will never take the Argive warriors from Theban soil, Theseus responds with: κἀμοῦ νυν ἀντάκουσον, εἰ βούλῃ, πάλιν (Supp. 569). Again, the imperative is softened by the εἰclause with a form of βούλομαι. The Theban Messenger responds: κλύοιμ’ ἄν· οὐ γὰρ ἀλλὰ δεῖ δοῦναι μέρος (Supp. 570), using a polite potential optative and explicitly referring to the turn-taking system operative in (polite) conversation and stichomythia. Theseus continues by making precisely the opposite statement: that he will take the Argive warriors from Theban soil. Morwood remarks: ‘the politeness is surely ironical. These are two very angry men’.126 I would go further than that. The polite form of the conversation clashes with and highlights the interlocutors’ diametrically opposed views and their ongoing hostility. As so often, the contest of words remains futile and has no effect.127 Even the thick coating of polite language does nothing to change that. Thus, it is not just as a practical means of discussion but also as a social means 123 124

125

126 127

Denizot (2011) 483–491. The debate between Theseus and the Theban Messenger is either considered famous or notorious. Grube (1941) 88 criticizes ‘the violent anachronism’ of the scene, but recognizes ‘its vital contemporary significance’. Zuntz (1955) 8–9 points out that the discussion with the Theban Messenger tests the appropriateness of Theseus’ decision. Most studies focus on the political themes in the scene. Here I am concerned with language and communication in its stichomythic ending. Cf. for this aspect Burian (1985) 139–142. Cf. Wakker (1994) 255–257, 263–266, who states that εἰ βούλῃ (‘if you please’) with directives in principle adds politeness, but may be used manipulatively when the addressee only in appearance has the choice to assent or refuse. Here the stichomythic form adds another dimension, as it already enforces an equal exchange of turns. Morwood (2007) 188. For other examples of ironical politeness in conversational turntaking cf. hf 140–143, Cyc. 175–176. Cf. Collard (1975) ad loc. and Burian (1985) 141.

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of communication that ‘the failure of discourse to serve the common good … [is] demonstrated by the very futility of the agōn itself’.128 The politeness functions not only on the intra-dramatic level, but also on the extra-dramatic level. The entire play is concerned with speech, particularly this exchange between Theseus and the Theban Messenger, where ‘logos … becomes … not only the medium of the agōn but one of its central subjects as well’.129 Theseus attaches much importance to words, speech and communication (Supp. 110–111, 203–204, 347).130 He considers speech a gift from god, a messenger of words (εἶτα δ’ ἄγγελον | γλῶσσαν λόγων δούς … Supp. 204). Ironically, the Theban Messenger arrives to stand in the way of Theseus’ words (Supp. 395), and considers speech an instrument that the common man may abuse to obtain political power in a democracy (Supp. 412, 417, 425). Theseus characterizes the Theban Messenger as an overly talkative busybody (Supp. 426, 459–462, 567, 581–584), practically a personification of Theseus’ definition of speech quoted above. ‘[Not] for all Theseus’ displeasure at the herald’s loquaciousness can what he says be dismissed simply as “idle words” (logous mataious, 583) … The themes of this contest of words are too complex for that’.131 Theseus’ decision is tested by the Theban Messenger who can be seen as a personification of speech itself.132 The scene also features (explicit reference to) interruption (Supp. 513–516).133 Thus although the politeness clashes with the dramatic context in which it occurs, it is in keeping with the discourse of speech and communication that runs through this scene and the play as a whole. 1.4.1.3 Tense The tense and mood of illocutionary expressions help to organize the discourse and make a significant contribution to the clarification of transitions, such as from one move to another, from one section or topic to another, or from one turn at talk to another.134 They may be subdivided into those referring forward to the future, those commenting on the present, and those referring back to the past. I shall illustrate each of these three groups with examples.

128 129 130 131 132 133 134

Burian (1985) 141. Burian (1985) 139. Cf. Shaw (1982) 6, Burian (1985) 131, Scully (1996–1997) 74. Burian (1985) 142. Cf. Zuntz (1955) 8–9. This passage will be discussed in section 1.4.3, p. 47–48. Shalev (2001) 551 ff. points out the discourse organizing function of illocutionary expressions, but she does not relate this to the mood and tense of their verbs.

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Illocutionary expressions referring forward to the future anticipate future speech or communication. They take the shape of future indicatives, imperatives, hortatory, prohibitive, deliberative or final subjunctives, potential optatives, or other modal expressions. Some stichomythic conversations predominantly contain illocutionary expressions referring forward to the future. In most cases one interlocutor is reluctant to provide information, while the other urges him on, but this is not always the case. One interlocutor may also try to arouse the other’s curiosity. An example is the stichomythic conversation between Polymestor and Hecuba in Hec. 976–1018. Upon Polymestor’s arrival in Thrace, Hecuba announces that she wants to tell him something: τι … βούλομαι … εἰπεῖν (978–979), which Polymestor encourages with: σημαίνειν σε χρή (983). First, however, Hecuba has two preliminary questions. The first, ‘Is Polydorus alive?’, is explicitly marked by Hecuba with: πρῶτον μὲν εἰπέ … (986). The second, ‘Does Polydorus remember his mother?’, is announced by Hecuba in advance with: τὰ δ’ ἄλλα δεύτερόν σ’ ἐρήσομαι (988), and picked up again by Polymestor’s question: τί δῆτα βούλῃ δεύτερον μαθεῖν ἐμοῦ; (991). Following a transitional question, ‘Is the gold safe?’, Hecuba returns to her main request, i.e. that Polymestor tell Polydorus about ancient caves with gold and keep safe the money Hecuba brought from Troy, with: οἶσθ’ οὖν ἃ λέξαι … θέλω; (998), to which Polymestor replies: οὐκ οἶδα· τῷ σῷ τοῦτο σημανεῖς λόγῳ (999). Later on in the conversation Polymestor asks Hecuba twice more for specifics: ταῦτ’ ἔσθ’ ἃ βούλῃ παιδὶ σημῆναι σέθεν; (1003) and ἔτ’ οὖν τι βούλῃ τῶν ἐκεῖ φράζειν ἐμοί; (1111). These illocutionary expressions all refer forward to the future and anticipate future communication. They have a function in organizing the conversation into two preliminary questions about Polydorus, followed by a transitional question and Hecuba’s main request. The anticipating illocutionary expressions also have dramatic effects. On the one hand, Polymestor is characterized as an avaricious liar whose curiosity is easily piqued when it comes to managing Hecuba’s money. On the other hand, Hecuba is characterized as cunning in conniving revenge on Polymestor for the death of her son. Tension is built up drama-internally as Polymestor’s curiosity is aroused by Hecuba, and drama-externally as the audience is made to wonder how Hecuba’s deceit of Polymestor will come about. Illocutionary expressions referring to the present comment on current speech or communication and manifest themselves as present indicatives and/or nouns. These are used by the speaker for reiteration or clarification of (aspects of) the topic of conversation, to express a lack of understanding, apprehension, surprise or shock at the information provided. The impact of the previous turn is still felt at the moment of referring back to that turn by the current speaker. Thus present indicatives continue the current topic

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of the conversation. I shall illustrate this with two examples. In Orestes the title character tells Pylades about Tyndareus’ arrival, cryptically referring to him as ὁ τὰς ἀρίστας θυγατέρας σπείρας πατήρ (Or. 750). Pylades guesses that Orestes means Tyndareus (Or. 751: Τυνδάρεων λέγεις), and supplies a potential reason for his arrival, which Orestes confirms. Thus Pylades uses the present indicative λέγεις to clarify Tyndareus’ identity and continue the current topic of Tyndareus’ arrival. In Alcestis Heracles tells Admetus how he fought Death to regain Alcestis. With ποῦ τόνδε Θανάτῳ φῂς ἀγῶνα συμβαλεῖν; (Alc. 1141) Admetus asks Heracles about the location of this struggle, to which Heracles answers in the following line. Thus Admetus uses the present indicative φῄς to clarify the location of Heracles’ struggle with Death and to continue the current topic of conversation. On occasion, a stichomythic conversation predominantly contains illocutionary expressions that refer to the present and comment on current speech or communication. The speaker is trying to make sense of the information his interlocutor provides. This happens, for example, in the stichomythic conversation between Heracles and Megara in hf 531–561. Upon his return from the Underworld, Heracles finds his family on the verge of downfall. Three times Heracles asks his relatives for clarification of their situation by means of an illocutionary expression featuring the present indicative. When Amphitryon first refers to the disaster they are in (532), Heracles responds with: τί φῄς; (hf 533); when Megara explains that her brothers and father are dead (539), Heracles reacts with: πῶς φῄς; (540); and when Megara announces that Lycus is about to kill Heracles’ father, children and herself, Heracles once more responds with: τί φῄς; (546). From a discourse-organizing perspective, these three illocutionary expressions divide the stichomythic conversation into a general introduction (531–538), a section on the past featuring Lycus’ murder of Megara’s brothers and father (539–543), and a section on the present and future featuring Lycus’ impending murder of Heracles’ father, children and Megara (544–561). From a dramatic perspective, these illocutionary expressions indicate the difficulty Heracles has grasping the new reality he finds himself in and his surprise and horror at what is being told. Heracles ‘establishes himself as a man who informs himself of all aspects of the situation before taking action’.135 Yet the stichomythic conversation with its repeated τί/πῶς φῄς; questions (533, 540, 546) seems to emphasize the difficulty Heracles has coming to terms with his

135

Gregory (1991) 133. Although he shows pronoia in having come into the city of Thebes in secret because he saw an ill-aboding bird (596–598), he also states that he does not care whether the whole city sees him (595), which is less intelligent.

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family’s situation. This is also implied by Megara’s slightly sarcastic echo questions in 557136 and 559 and her impatient repetition in 561. Together, these expressions illustrate the discrepancy between the realities of Heracles and his family. Grummond argued that Heracles’ entrance shows his inability to communicate with the characters already on stage, because they are on unequal and incompatible psychological levels.137 A key element of this interpretation is Heracles’ inability to shift from the heroic to the mundane. Although I would not go so far as Grummond in saying that Heracles’ entrance foreshadows that he will inevitably prove an inadequate saviour in a world the reality of which his vision no longer perceives,138 Heracles’ repeated use of the question τί /πῶς φῄς dovetails with Grummond’s argument that Heracles’ entrance shows his difficulty truly to connect with the characters already on stage, because they are on different wave-lengths.139 Illocutionary expressions referring to the past look back on and often evaluate past speech or communication. They manifest themselves in the shape of past tense indicatives, notably the aorist,140 and are predominantly used in evaluative statements to close off a particular subsection of the stichomythic dialogue. Indeed in many cases these illocutionary expressions are followed by a topic shift. I have not been able to find stichomythic dialogues which predominantly feature the use of this third type of illocutionary expression. This is perhaps not surprising, as the communication to which these expressions refer back is supposed to have taken place in the course of the same stichomythic conversation and it is unlikely that they would have remained unmarked by other illocutionary expressions. It is possible, however, to illustrate the use of this third type of illocutionary expression with some individual examples. In Helen Menelaus concludes the first proposal to flee Egypt by chariot with a

136 137 138 139

140

This line will be discussed in section 5. 2. 2., p. 186–187. Grummond (1983) 83. Grummond (1983) 86–89. Grummond (1983) 83. Interestingly, ‘the explosion of violence within the household of Heracles has been compared by some to cases of war veterans who commit acts of violence against their families; the experience of military violence is said to cause deep-seated psychological trauma, such that the impulse towards violence necessary in one context becomes transferred to situations where it is highly inappropriate’ (Griffiths 2006: 26). This comparison may provide additional support for the idea that Heracles has trouble readjusting to his family’s reality and reintegrating into society. Lloyd (1999) 44 distinguishes aorists of verbs of speaking from the so-called tragic aorist: ‘These aorists are sometimes taken as instantaneous, but are really straightforward preterites referring to a specific utterance in the past’.

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negative evaluation (Hel. 1043 ἀδύνατον εἶπας) and immediately goes on to the second proposal of killing king Theoclymenus (Hel. 1043–1044). Earlier in the same play Helen concluded one possible account of her brothers’ death with a positive evaluation (Hel. 141: καλῶς ἔλεξας τοῦτο), and immediately asked for the other one (Hel. 141). Most stichomythic conversations contain a combination of the three different illocutionary expressions discussed above. A frequently occurring pattern is forward-referring illocutionary expressions at the beginning of a conversation or topic, illocutionary expressions commenting on present speech or communication in the middle of a conversation or topic, and backward-referring illocutionary expressions at the end of a conversation or topic. I will illustrate this with the stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea at Med. 663– 708. Following an exchange of greetings Medea asks Aegeus about his reason for coming to Corinth, the oracle he received from Apollo, and his childlessness. She urges him to talk about Apollo’s oracle with λέξον, εἰ θέμις κλυεῖν (678). In the second half of the conversation Aegeus asks Medea about her current situation and Jason’s deceit. When Medea says that Jason is the worst of men, Aegeus asks for clarification with: τί φῄς; (691) and urges her to be more specific with: σαφῶς μοι σὰς φράσον δυσθυμίας (691). When Medea explains that Jason has treated her unjustly without any provocation, Aegeus urges her to be even more specific with: φράζε μοι σαφέστερον (693). When Medea finally discloses Jason’s adultery, Aegeus comments on it with ἴτω νυν, εἴπερ, ὡς λέγεις, ἐστὶν κακός (699). When Medea goes on to relate that Jason has married a princess, Aegeus’ interest is rekindled and he now urges Medea to complete her story with: πέραινέ μοι λόγον (701). When Medea adds that she is being exiled, Aegeus comments with τόδ’ ἄλλο καινὸν αὖ λέγεις κακόν (705), and in conclusion comments on Jason’s compliance with οὐδὲ ταῦτ’ ἐπῄνεσα (707).141 Thus many of the different subtopics that are broached in this stichomythic conversation are marked by illocutionary expressions, which gradually shift from referring forward to backward, as is visible from the following table:

141

This is considered a tragic aorist by Lloyd (1999) 41, the effect of which is to make the expression less immediate and more polite. He explains the case of Med. 707 as follows: ‘Aegeus is tactful in criticizing Medea’s husband (whatever she herself may have said about him)’ (41). However, Aegeus has criticized Jason’s behaviour before in rather strong terms in Med. 695 (τετόλμηκ’, αἴσχιστον) and 699 (κακός). Cf. similar criticism of Lloyd (1999) 41 by Mastronarde (2002) on Med. 223. My interpretation of the tense as discourse-structuring is more in keeping with the traditional explanation of this aorist as instantaneous: the judgment was already formed while the other person was speaking (‘the instant you spoke, I approved your words’). Cf. kg 1, 163–165.

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Future → 678: λέξον, εἰ θέμις κλυεῖν. 691: … σαφῶς μοι σὰς φράσον δυσθυμίας. 693: … φράζε μοι σαφέστερον. 701: … πέραινέ μοι λόγον.

Present ↓

← Past

691: τί φῄς; … 699: … ὡς λέγεις … 705: … τόδ’ ἄλλο καινὸν αὖ λέγεις κακόν. 707: … οὐδὲ ταῦτ’ ἐπῄνεσα.

1.4.1.4 Hippolytus 310–353 I will close off this section on turn-allocation with a discussion of a stichomythic conversation in which turn-allocation plays an an important role: the dialogue between the Nurse and Phaedra at Hipp. 310–353. The Nurse had already urged Phaedra to speak twice before, at Hipp. 296 (λέγ’) and 300 (φθέγξαι τι), but Phaedra had remained silent. Once the conversation has opened with the earliest Euripidean example of interruption and true break of syntax (310),142 the Nurse tries to discover what bothers Phaedra by means of guesses (316–321), a direct question (322–324) and supplication (325–335). The third method ultimately proves successful (335). The Nurse explicitly allocates the next turn to Phaedra: σιγῷμ’ ἂν ἤδη· σὸς γὰρ οὑντεῦθεν λόγος (336). This line can be variously interpreted. First, it can be taken in purely formal terms. Unless οὑντεῦθεν λόγος refers to the following line only, the Nurse’s announcement seems to jar with the stichomythic form, which involves a frequent and constant exchange of turns. It raises the expectation that the stichomythic form will pass into a speech, but this does not happen. Thus it draws attention to the stichomythic form. Alternatively, line 336 can be interpreted in terms of content. It is suggested that Phaedra is going to reveal her secret. This may be the most common interpretation, but it is not put into practice in the dramatic context, as ‘Phaedra, mistress of innuendo, continues to be oblique’.143 What does change is the distribution of communicative activity and initiative, which brings us to a third possible interpretation of line 336, namely as a reference 142

143

Mastronarde (1979) 63–64. It is true that ‘the nurse … was in any case running on with syntactically non-essential parenthetic and appositive phrases’ and damage to her utterance is therefore limited, but her sentence was not yet syntactically complete and as a result ‘the mid-sentence exclamation is striking’. Roismann (1999) 61.

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to communicative interaction. Thus far the Nurse had taken the initiative by means of guesses, questions and supplication, but from line 337 onwards it is Phaedra who does so, dropping hints, placing herself in a family tradition of sexual perversion and adultery (337–344) and asking questions about love (347 ff.). These three interpretations are not mutually exclusive, but cooperate to draw attention to the stichomythic form, to its limitations as well as its possibilities. Phaedra’s hints are not picked up by the Nurse. Phaedra produces speech (form), but gives little information (content): she ‘certainly does say things to the Nurse … but she tells the Nurse nothing …’.144 What is more, she does not truly communicate, but ‘laments as if self-absorbed in order to convey indirectly what she hesitates to utter from her own lips. Although the nurse at first cooperates as expected with Phaedra’s withdrawal from full contact, as the surmise-question with borrowed syntax in 338 indicates, the ploy works too well, and the old woman’s commonsensical inability to follow her mistress’ meaning forces Phaidra to try another tack’.145 Phaedra’s general questions about love (347ff.) ultimately lead to the revelation of her secret love for Hippolytus (351–352). Phaedra’s two approaches to revealing her secret are punctuated by statements about turn-allocation. Following her first attempt to reveal her secret, she wishes that the Nurse could speak for her: φεῦ· πῶς ἂν σύ μοι λέξειας ἁμὲ χρὴ λέγειν; (345). ‘In a dialectic manner worthy of Socrates himself, she assumes the role of the questioner and makes the nurse supply the answers and repeat the name Hippolytus, this time in a context which leaves no doubt about its significance’.146 Once revelation has taken place, she concludes that the Nurse has spoken for her: σοῦ τάδ’, οὐκ ἐμοῦ κλύεις (352). As Goff remarks, ‘these exchanges seem to be a parody of the reciprocity of “normal” conversation, which is underlined by the stichomythic dialogue’s reliance on a regular exchange of initiative between speakers’.147 In the second part of the stichomythic conversation between Phaedra and the Nurse too, then, attention is being drawn to the stichomythic form and its characteristics. In formal terms, the stichomythic conversation ends as it began, with the naming of Hippolytus and intervention.148 But the dramatic context has changed: Phaedra’s love for Hippolytus is now out in the open. 144 145 146

147 148

Lindsay (1983) 57. Mastronarde (1979) 62. Knox (1952) 5. Cf. Gould (1978) 99: ‘Euripides by a brilliant stroke with Phaedra’s words … half allows the hard muscle of stylized form to appear through the delicate skin of theatrical illusion …’. Goff (1990) 16. Mastronarde (1979) 54: ‘the intervention has more dramatic importance than usual’.

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1.4.2 Turn-Extent Variation Euripidean stichomythia further resembles conversation in that the extent of turns may vary.149 Purely in terms of turn-size or length, there is choice between antilabe (½ line-turns), stichomythia (1 line-turns), and distichomythia (2 lineturns). There is further choice between the more common, shorter iambic trimeter, and the less common, slightly longer trochaic tetrameter. It is true, however, that once the form and metre of the conversation are chosen, the relative length of turns is fixed. Yet even within the boundaries of this fixed stichomythic form and metre various turn-constructional units may be used in terms of syntactic structure, semantic meaning and pragmatic function. I will illustrate each aspect with some examples. In terms of syntactic structure, stichomythic turns may vary from a noun phrase to several sentences. One noun phrase may take up as much as two stichomythic lines, as for example Electra’s emotional address of Orestes in Or. 1045–1046:150 ὦ φίλτατ’, ὦ ποθεινὸν ἥδιστόν τ’ ἔχων τῆς σῆς ἀδελφῆς ὄμμα καὶ ψυχὴ μία. Alternatively, a single stichomythic line may contain three sentences—often questions—as for example the Old Man’s response to the news of Creusa’s childbirth in Ion 948:151

149

150

151

I use the term turn-extent to include turn-size or length (number 6 in the schedule in section 1.2, p. 13–14), amount of turn-constructional units in terms of syntax (number 13 in the schedule in section 1.2, p. 13–14), semantic content and pragmatic efficiency. Diggle places the first half of line 1046 between daggers, but none of the conjectures mentioned in his critical apparatus are detrimental to my point that lines 1045–1046 contain one elaborate noun phrase. Other examples of noun phrases that take up one stichomythic turn—usually one line—include: Med. 675, 684, 1393; Hcld. 115; Hipp. 348, 1399, 1411, 1454; Andr. 908; Hec. 425, 428, 1264; Supp. 105, 136, 934, 1062; El. 287; hf 1178; it 919, 923; Hel. 1209, 1251; Phoen. 604, 606, 612, 613, 616, 617, 1695, 1701, 1702; Or. 406; Bacch. 507, 1267, 1276; ia 1136, 1137, 1345. Other examples of three sentences in a single stichomythic line include: Alc. 1088; Med. 1376; Hipp. 350, 801; Hec. 429, 1256; El. 275, 566, 901; hf 1136, 1418, 1420; it 549, 781; Ion 286, 948, 1476; Hel. 471, 779, 1202, 1228, 1240; Phoen. 410, 977; Or. 849, 1524, 1525; ia 859, 874. Examples of four sentences in two stichomythic lines include: Andr. 70–71, Ion 258–259. Of course many of these questions are elliptical and can only be understood from the immediate context.

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ποῦ; τίς λοχεύει σ’; ἢ μόνη μοχθεῖς τάδε;152 The rapid succession of short questions creates the impression of urgency, curiosity and shock. This impression fits the dramatic context and is supported by other elements in the conversation, including the Old Man’s use of historic presents, which will be discussed in chapter 4.153 Even half a stichomythic line may contain as many as two sentences, as in Clytaemestra’s response to Achilles’ report of the Greeks’ shouting in ia 1346:154 … τίς βοή; σήμαινέ μοι. The variation of syntactic structure within the scope of a single stichomythic turn affects the style of the conversation, its pace and the sense of urgency it expresses. Syntactic structure need not coincide with semantic meaning or pragmatic function. Stichomythic lines may be rich in syntactic structure, but have relatively little semantic meaning and/or pragmatic efficiency, because several questions are used to obtain one single piece of information or to make one communicative move. For example, when upon Calchas’ ominous prophecy Menoeceus asks his father where to go, he uses the following three questions in Phoen. 977: ποῖ δῆτα φεύγω; τίνα πόλιν; τίνα ξένων; The first, general question is elaborated in the two following, more specific questions, but their import is the same. As for semantic meaning, the difference between stichomythic turns can be illustrated by comparing the various contents of stichomythic lines. The semantic meaning of a stichomythic line can be limited when it is enigmatic, vague or evasive, when the speaker laments, or when he does not have any (additional) information to give. For example, when Ion questions Xuthus about his conception, he repeatedly has nothing to say. His answers include: δύο μίαν θαυμάζομεν (Ion 539), οὐκ ἔχω φράσαι (Ion 540), οὐκ οἶδ’, ἀναφέρω δ’ ἐς

152 153 154

Owen (1939) 133 considers them two separate questions, instead of three. In section 4.2.2, p. 151–152. Other examples of half a stichomythic line containing two full sentences include: Alc. 391; hf 1187; Phoen. 603, 614, 615, 623; Or. 783.

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τὸν θεόν (Ion 543), and τοῦτ’ ἀμηχανῶ (Ion 548). These answers provide little or no information, though they are dramatically significant, as we will see in chapter 3.155 On the other hand, the semantic meaning of a line can be rich, when the speaker wants to provide a lot of information. Examples include Hermione’s answers when she is questioned by Orestes about her situation. When Orestes negatively evaluates Neoptolemus’ deceit, Hermione concurs and continues her story with: τοιαῦτα ταῦτα. κᾆτ’ ἔγωγ’ ἠμυνάμην (Andr. 910), and when he asks whether Menelaus was overcome by Peleus, she confirms, specifies and continues her story with: αἰδοῖ γε· καί μ’ ἔρημον οἴχεται λιπών (Andr. 918). Hermione’s answers have a rich semantic meaning and provide a lot of information. For a fuller discussion of these and other examples I refer to chapter 3 on the distribution of narrative activity. Finally, turns may vary in terms of their pragmatic function or efficiency. One specific speech act, the swearing of an oath, occurs in different stichomythic contexts.156 In most cases the swearing of an oath takes up a whole stichomythic passage (Med. 745–755, it 743–752, Hel. 835–840), in one case two stichomythic lines (Or. 1516–1517), and in two cases only one stichomythic line (Hipp. 1451, Phoen. 1677). The fact that one and the same speech act can be performed in a space ranging from one to ten lines indicates that not all of these stichomythic lines have equal pragmatic efficiency. The stichomythic line that single-handedly performs the speech act of swearing an oath is pragmatically much more efficient than those that cooperate in accomplishing this same act. A turn need not be restricted to a single stichomythic line, but may be extended beyond it. In his article on stichomythia and the dramatic use of particles in Aeschylus Ireland wrote: Inevitably, however, the restriction of dialogue to an exchange of single lines imposed upon the playwright a degree of difficulty in the expression of ideas that could not be altogether overcome by the introduction of ellipse in either vocabulary or syntax or by an overall condensation of thought. Rather, it became necessary, where the dramatic situation required it, for the poet to break free from the internal stichic narrowness inherent in the strict alternation of lines, and, while maintaining the outward form of the exchange, to evolve a broader technique of expressing his ideas.157 155 156 157

In section 3.3.3. Cf. the University of Nottingham’s database of oaths on: http://www.nottingham.ac.uk/ classics/oaths/database.php Ireland (1974) 509

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This can be done either by means of the completion of one interlocutor’s utterance by the other, as happens, for example, in the stichomythic conversation between Ion and Creusa, when Ion asks Creusa about Athena’s gift of Erichthonius to the daughters of Cecrops in Ion 271–272:158 Ion: Creusa:

δίδωσι δ’, ὥσπερ ἐν γραφῇ νομίζεται … Κέκροπός γε σῴζειν παισὶν οὐχ ὁρώμενον.

An alternative form is the completion of an interlocutor’s utterance by himself, while he is interrupted by the intervention of the other (so-called “leapfrogging”), as happens, for example, in the stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea, when Aegeus tells Medea about Apollo’s oracle concerning his childlessness in Med. 679–681:159 Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus:

ἀσκοῦ με τὸν προύχοντα μὴ λῦσαι πόδα … πρὶν ἂν τί δράσῃς ἢ τίν ἐξίκῃ χθόνα; πρὶν ἂν πατρῴαν αὖθις ἑστίαν μόλω.

Thus the completion of a single turn may take up two or three stichomythic lines. These lines and turns may be linked to each other, e.g. by means of particles (e.g. γε, καί, τε), participles, or apposition. By expanding these techniques, turns comprising as many as ten lines may be created, as when Creusa tells Ion about her rape by Apollo in Ion 1477–1487: Creusa: Creusa:

158 159

ἴστω Γοργοφόνα … Ion: τί τοῦτ’ ἔλεξας; ἃ σκοπέλοις ἐπ’ ἐμοῖς

Other examples include: Hipp. 351–352, Hec. 1259–1261, Supp. 934–935, El. 664–665, Tro. 713–714, Ion 271–272, 551–552, 554, Hel. 835–836, Or. 775. Other examples include: Med. 679–681, Hcld 736–738, Hipp. 337–341, Andr. 257–259, Hec. 414ff., 426–428, 1000–1002, 1271–1273, Supp. 142–144, El. 579–580, 904–906, 971–973, hf 713–717, 910–911, 1050 ff., 1178–1180, Tro. 721–725, it 769ff., 1035–1037, 1206ff., Ion 265–267, 319–321, 534ff., 548–549, 558–559, 561–562, 769–770, 1001–1003, 1011–1013, 1331–1333, 1347– 1349, 1478ff., Hel. 84–90 (?), 315–317, 447–449, 666–671, 680–683, 825–827, 1237–1239, 1241– 1243, 1263–1265, 1631–1634, Phoen. 604–610, 737–739, 923–925, 980ff., Or. 398–400, 414–416, 736–738, 775–776, 784–785, 790–791, 795–796, 1235–1237, 1332–1334, 1582–1584, 1602–1603, 1610–1611, 1613–1615, Bacch. 966–970, ia 727–729, 873–875, 879–881, 1345–1348, 1355–1356, 1459–1460. It will be noticed that this type of example underlies Housman’s clever parody used as motto for this book.

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Creusa: Creusa: Ion: Creusa:

τὸν ἐλαιοφυῆ πάγον θάσσει· … Ion: λέγεις μοι σκολιὰ κοὐ σαφῆ τάδε. παρ’ ἀηδόνιον πέτραν Φοίβῳ … Ion: τί Φοῖβον αὐδᾷς; … κρυπτόμενον λέχος ηὐνάσθην … λέγ’· ὡς ἐρεῖς τι κεδνὸν εὐτυχές τέ μοι. … δεκάτῳ δέ σε μηνὸς ἐν κύκλῳ κρύφιον ὠδῖν’ ἔτεκον Φοίβῳ.

The effects created by this form are reservation on Creusa’s part and curiosity on Ion’s part. Creusa seems reluctant to confess to Ion that his conception was a result of her rape by Apollo. Her reluctance is also visible from the indirect way in which she tells her story, as part of a witness-appeal to Athena the Gorgon-slayer. Ion, on the other hand, seems curious and eager for information. This is understandable as the identity of his father is at stake. Creusa’s extended turn creates tension. Lee comments on lines 1486–1487 that ‘the sentence is carefully structured to put weight on the delayed … and climactic Φοίβῳ’.160 I would say that this comment is applicable to Creusa’s extended turn as a whole starting from line 1477. Summing up, we can say that the use of various forms, metres and turnconstructional units in terms of syntactic structure, semantic meaning and pragmatic function makes Euripidean stichomythia resemble conversation in terms of turn-extent variation. 1.4.3 Turn-Taking Errors, Violations and Repairs The turn-taking process does not always go smoothly. Conversations may contain errors or violations which subsequently are mended by means of repairs.161 Euripidean stichomythia resembles conversation in that it contains similar errors, violations and repairs. In the remainder of this chapter I will discuss three examples and their intra-dramatic as well as extra-dramatic significance. An explicit reference to violation of the turn-taking process is found in hf 534–535. Upon his return from the Underworld Heracles asks Amphitryon about the current situation in Thebes, explicitly allocating the next turn to

160 161

Lee (1997) 311. The mechanism through which problems in speaking, hearing or understanding in conversation are dealt with is called ‘repair’. Repairs can be self-initiated or other-initiated.

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his father by means of the vocative πάτερ (533). Yet Megara self-allocates and answers in his stead (534: διωλλύμεσθα). She subsequently repairs her violation, apologizes for her interruption with σὺ δέ, γέρον, σύγγνωθί μοι, | εἰ πρόσθεν ἥρπασ’ ἃ σὲ λέγειν πρὸς τόνδ’ ἐχρῆν· (534–535), and explains it with τὸ θῆλυ γάρ πως μᾶλλον οἰκτρὸν ἀρσένων, | καὶ τἄμ’ ἔθνῃσκε τέκν’, ἀπωλλύμην δ’ ἐγώ (536– 537). The extent to which Megara’s interruption, apology and explanation are highlighted depends on the interpretation of the preceding lines: hf 530–533: γύναι, τί καινὸν ἦλθε δώμασιν χρέος; ὦ φίλτατ’ ἀνδρῶν· ὦ φάος μολὼν πατρί ἥκεις, ἐσώθης εἰς ἀκμὴν ἐλθὼν φίλοις; τί φῄς; τίν’ ἐς ταραγμὸν ἥκομεν, πάτερ; The manuscript tradition gives 531–532 to Megara. However, ὦ φάος μολὼν πατρί is more natural in Amphitryon’s mouth, as an address containing a pity-evoking indirect self-reference,162 than it is in Megara’s, who seems to be preoccupied with her own troubles.163 Moreover, the vocative πάτερ in 533 suggests a conversation between Heracles and Amphitryon. Elmsley and Wilamowitz attributed 531–532 to Amphitryon, but this requires replacement of the vocative γύναι (530), e.g. with τοῖσδε (Elmsley, more pragmatic) or ἡμῖν (Wilamowitz, more personal).164 Frey tried to solve the problem by attributing ὦ φίλτατ’ ἀνδρῶν to Megara and the rest of 531–532 to Amphitryon.165 This way both vocatives (γύναι in 530 and πάτερ in 533) are accounted for, but Megara would not answer Heracles’ question and would be rudely interrupted by Amphitryon.166 Murray

162 163

164

165 166

For examples see section 2.4.2.1 below. Cf. Mastronarde (1979) 71, ‘the children are uppermost in her mind at 537’. However, it is not just her children, but also herself (537) and the pain resulting from the death of her brother and father (545). Note the frequent use of pronouns in the first person singular. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1895) on line 530: ‘δώματα kann nicht das Haus, das er angeredet hat, sondern nur die Familie bedeuten. Also war ein Ausdruck des possessiven Verhältnisses zu ergänzen, nicht das deiktische τοῖσδε, wie meist geschrieben wird. In der Überlieferung ist das Wort verdrängt, weil sie durch falsche Personenverteilung zerrüttelt ist’. Followed by Listmann (1910) 60–61. Mastronarde (1979) 71.

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follows Frey, but attributes 532 to Megara.167 The ostensible problem that this clashes with the vocative πάτερ in 533 is easily solved by assuming that τί φῄς; is addressed to Megara, and when she is overcome by emotions and appears incapable of answering, Heracles turns to his father for information instead with τίν’ ἐς ταραγμὸν ἥκομεν; This fourth interpretation results in an unusual fragmentation of lines 530–533. Exclusive communicative contact between Heracles and Amphitryon, as established by the distribution of Elmsley and Wilamowitz, makes Megara’s interruption, apology and explanation (534–537) optimally effective. Murray must have thought so too when he suggested that Megara is also apologizing for intervening at 532. I agree with Bond that this is ‘most unlikely’, but not because ‘she was there speaking in answer to a question’.168 Megara’s utterance in 532 does not constitute an answer to Heracles’ question in 530. In 532 she asks a question, while in 534 she gives an answer. It is less remarkable for Megara to ask a question of her own initiative than to answer a question that was addressed to somebody else. The interpretation of Elmsley and Wilamowitz also deals with the fact that Heracles’ question (530) remains unanswered, as it makes the question dependent on the self-addressed exhortation ἐκπύθωμαι (529).169 This is in keeping with the rest of Heracles’ turn (523–530) and does not require an answer but action, which Heracles takes in the stichomythic conversation that follows. For the above reasons I choose to follow the interpretation of Elmsley and Wilamowitz. Let us now return to the interpretation of Megara’s interruption in its wider dramatic context. Griffiths interprets Heracles’ engagement in conversation with Megara as an acknowledgement of her position in the family.170 However, if we adopt the interpretation of Elmsley and Wilamowitz, it is Megara who interrupts Amphitryon. Hall observes that ‘women in tragedy only become disruptive (that is, break one of the “unwritten laws”, act on an inappropriate erotic urge, or flout male authority) in the physical absence of a legitimate husband

167 168 169

170

Followed by Mastronarde (1979), Diggle (1981) and Lee (1988). Bond (1981) remains agnostic on attribution of 532. Bond (1981) 534 f. Ercolani (2000) 89 f. ‘Dobbiamo invece intendere πλησίον come avverbio che specifica σταθείς … La costruzione di ἐκπυνθάνομαι con il genitivo dell’ oggetto è plausibile considerando che il verbo semplice πυνθάνομαι ammette questo costrutto …’. Griffiths (2006) 76. She contrasts this with Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, where Agamemnon is dismissive of his wife Clytaemestra, with disastrous consequences. While the moral behaviour and position of the two women differs, the aftermath in Euripides’ Heracles will be no less disastrous.

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or kurios’.171 Both Hall and Griffiths consider Megara an exception to the rule, because ‘she continues to behave well even in the absence of her kurios, Heracles’.172 However, I would say that her behaviour here is exceptional because she breaks the unwritten rules of conversation even though her husband has returned. Megara apologizes for her interruption and explains it in general terms, saying that women are more full of pity than men (536),173and in concrete terms saying that she herself is at the center of misery (537). Megara’s disruptive communicative behaviour is closely related to the dramatic context. In Heracles’ absence the situation in Thebes has become increasingly desperate. Lycus has usurped power and threatens to kill Heracles’ family. The only possibility for salvation resides in Heracles, as his supporters in Thebes are all weak and incapable of defence. Megara does not expect Heracles to return from the Underworld. Amphitryon remains hopeful, but when death is near even he gives up (318ff., 502). When it seems that all hope is lost, Heracles unexpectedly appears just in time to save his family.174 In this context, Megara’s interruption can be interpreted as an expression of emotional excitement at Heracles’ return. In terms of structure, Heracles’ return marks a transition between the first, passive suppliant part and the second, active madness and murder part of the play.175 Against this background Megara’s interruption may also emphasize the urgent need for Heracles’ help. The fact that Megara, virtuous and obedient woman though she is, breaks the unwritten rules of conversation, indicates the precariousness of the current dramatic situation. Megara’s interruption may also function on the drama-external level, in the communication between playwright and audience. Bond suggests that Euripides apologizes through Megara for her taking over as interlocutor in the stichomythia informing Heracles.176 This suggestion may be triggered by the pity Megara is meant to inspire (536: οἰκτρόν) in the audience instead of Heracles, whose pity is irrelevant as long as he takes action. However, there is nothing to apologize for. Megara is a more suitable interlocutor for Heracles at this

171 172 173 174

175 176

Hall (1997) 106–107. Griffiths (2006) 75. McClure (1995) 58 refers to this statement in her discussion of female speech and characterization in Euripides. Seaford (1994) 377–379, followed by Papadopoulou (2005) 51–53, draws attention to the ‘language evocative of the mystic transition’ in which Heracles’ sudden return from death is described, ‘as the bringer of mystic salvation for his family’. Gregory (1991) 132 considers Heracles’ reappearance as ‘the most striking proof of Heracles’ extraordinary stature’. Gregory (1977) 264, Griffiths (2006) 44, 52, 53. Bond (1981) ad loc.

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point in the play, while Amphitryon will be the only one left to talk to, when Heracles has killed his children and Megara. Listmann proposes a different drama-external function: ‘In Dreigesprächen, die den eigenartigen Bau des Vorliegenden aufweisen, handelt es sich zweifellos um eine ganz bewußte Berechnung des Dichters, nämlich um die Erzielung eines schlagenden dialogtechnischen Effektes, der auch in der Tat vorzüglich erreicht wird’.177 Thus, according to Listmann, Megara’s interruption and her self-conscious reference to it draw attention to Euripides’ successful accomplishment of a technical dialogue effect. This seems more plausible, but I do not think it is the whole explanation. Wilamowitz seems to be getting closer to the drama-external meaning of this passage when he writes: ‘Der Dichter gibt nun freilich der Natur ihr Recht, aber er betont doch die Abweichung von der Convenienz, und so erhält das einfach Menschliche einen Stich in das Naïve’.178 Euripides seems to be consciously highlighting Megara’s interruption as a flirtation with naturally occurring conversation only to continue, not with a loose three-way conversation,179 but with a conventional stichomythia between two interlocutors. This play with naturally occurring conversation versus stichomythic convention may be seen as an artistic experiment as well as a way of stimulating the audience, teasing their expectations. More examples of violation of the turn-taking process and repair are found in the letter-scene in it 769–787. Before I proceed to their dramatic interpretation, it is necessary to discuss the text-critical problems in the passage and to establish my reading of the text. Whereas the words of the manuscripts are mostly clear and undisputed, their attribution is confused.180 Manuscript l attributes 778 to Iphigenia, 779– 780 (until ὦ θεοί) to Pylades, 780 (from ὦ θεοί) to Iphigenia, and 781–782 to

177 178 179

180

Listmann (1910) 61–62. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1895) on 534. Cf. Barlow (1996) and Bond (1981) ad loc. Sacks et al. (1974) 30–31 observe that this is in fact the more natural way of having a conversation when three persons are present, but they state that ‘one might be “left out” were the bias [last speaker as next speaker] to operate stringently’. In stichomythia this is the case and the observation that ‘with three parties, differential distribution of turns becomes relevant’ does not apply to stichomythia. Listmann (1910) discusses the development of the technique of three-way conversation in the three Greek tragedians and states that (63): ‘Vernachlässigung eines Schauspielers von seiten eines Anderen im Dreigespräch können wir durchaus verstehen, weil eine gleichmäßige Berücksichtigung aller Personen stets außerordentlich schwierig ist, nicht nur in der dichterischen Technik; die Praxis des Lebens beweist es deutlich genug’. Platnauer (1938) 125.

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Pylades. Corrector l rightly has Iphigenia continue to speak in 779.181 However, the attribution of ὦ θεοί (780a) and 781 is more problematic, as they could be attributed either to Pylades or to Orestes. The manuscript attribution to Pylades is supported by the fact that he was Iphigenia’s interlocutor beginning at 745. Schwinge adds that it shows ‘wie zufällig … die Erkennung zustande kommt’.182 However, Orestes interrupted before in 772 and 777, and has more reason for excited interruption than Pylades, as the dramatic moment of recognition is essentially his.183 The same thing happens in hf 531 (discussed above, on p. 40– 44) and Supp. 513 (discussed below, on p. 47–48). Line 782 is puzzling, and may be emended, transposed or deleted.184 Perhaps the most attractive solution is to emend ἀφίξεται to ἀφίξομαι, and to attribute the line to Iphigenia.185 ‘Once the attribution goes wrong, the change of person is almost bound to follow’.186 The letter-scene contains a paradox. On the one hand, the effectiveness of the epistolary device has been noted and emphasized ever since Aristotle (Poet. 1455a16–20; cf. 1454b30–36): ‘it has that multiplicity of right effects that marks the truly ingenious poetic idea’.187 For example, it enables the scene between Orestes and Pylades while Iphigenia is in the temple and the pantomime of delivery, and it confirms Iphigenia’s faithful confidence in Orestes’ return.188 However, as its contents are made public, the letter itself becomes superfluous and even an obstacle to immediate recognition.189 Another paradox lies in the approach of scholars to the communicative interaction between Iphigenia and Orestes. Rosenmeyer on the one hand emphasizes the interlocutors’ communicative involvement and interaction: ‘As Iphigenia recites her letter, she interjects words presumably not in the original document, whether in response to her interlocutors’ reactions, or to emphasize a particular point in the letter’.190 On the other hand, she regards the exchange

181 182 183 184 185 186

187 188 189 190

ἵν’ … μάθῃς (779) clearly cannot be spoken by Pylades and must belong to Iphigenia. See Platnauer (1938) 125. Schwinge (1968) 238–239. Cropp (2000) 221, cf. also Burnett (1971) 54 n. 8. Platnauer (1938) 125–126, Bain (1977) 36 n. 1. Schwinge (1968) 241, Burnett (1971) 54, n. 8, Kyriakou (2006) 262. Platnauer (1938) 126. Jackson’s proposed transposition 769–780–781–779, not mentioned in Diggle’s apparatus, is dealt with adequately by Strohm (1956), Schwinge (1968) and Bain (1977). Burnett (1971) 53. Burnett (1971) 54–55. Burnett (1971) 53, Rosenmeyer (2001) 73, 77, 79, Wright (2005) 336–337. Rosenmeyer (2001) 79.

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as a speech merely punctuated by asides: ‘Orestes’ startled interruptions during her revelations are presented as asides. Since dramatic convention encourages lengthy messages and allows for a delayed response on the part of the listener that should realistically come after the first few lines of speech, this epistolary scene fits well within the customs of the stage’.191 The truth lies somewhere in the middle. When Orestes first interrupts Iphigenia with two questions, ποῦ δ’ ἔστ’ ἐκείνη; and κατθανοῦσ’ ἥκει πάλιν; (772), she responds with ἥδ’ ἣν ὁρᾷς σύ, scolds him for interrupting her, μὴ λόγων ἔκπλησσέ με (773), and resumes the recitation of her letter (774–776). When Orestes interrupts for a second time, he addresses two questions to Pylades: Πυλάδη, τί λέξω; ποῦ ποτ’ ὄνθ’ ηὑρήμεθα; (777), and Iphigenia continues reciting her letter as if nothing had happened (778). Orestes’ interruption is probably an aside,192 but the possibility that Iphigenia is simply ignoring him cannot be excluded. Orestes’ third interruption, ὦ θεοί (780), provokes a surprised question from Iphigenia: τί τοὺς θεοὺς ἀνακαλεῖς ἐν τοῖς ἐμοῖς (780), to which Orestes responds οὐδέν· (781). At Orestes’ instigation πέραινε δ’· ἐξέβην γὰρ ἄλλοσε (781), Iphigenia resumes her instructions to Pylades. So of the three interruptions the first and third are accompanied by a metacommunicative comment or exchange and as such explicitly marked as interruptions. The second is not and should possibly be interpreted as an aside instead. What is the dramatic function of these interruptions? Hartigan suggests that ‘[Orestes and Pylades] are amazed at her words, she is piqued that they may not be taking them seriously’.193 I agree with the first part. Orestes is surprised at the fact that Iphigenia is still alive and standing right in front of him, which causes him to interrupt her recitation of the letter. However, there is no evidence to support the second part of Hartigan’s explanation. Nowhere does Iphigenia express suspicion that the young man may not be taking her words seriously. Instead, Iphigenia seems to want to recite her letter without distraction. In response to Orestes’ first interruption, she says: μὴ λόγων ἔκπλησσέ με, ‘do not distract me from my words’ (773).194 A similar sentiment transpires from her second comment: τί τοὺς θεοὺς ἀνακαλεῖς ἐν τοῖς ἐμοῖς (780). Again, Iphigenia seems more concerned with Orestes’ breaking in on her turn than with him not 191 192 193 194

Rosenmeyer (2001) 78. Cf. Bain (1977) 35–36: ‘it is obvious that 777 is an aside’. Hartigan (1991) 97. Whether we follow the manuscripts in reading instrumental λόγοις (referring to Orestes’ words) or adopt Seidler’s conjecture of separative λόγων (referring to Iphigenia’s words), the verb ἔκπλησσε suggests Iphigenia’s concern with not being driven off course.

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taking her words seriously. Iphigenia does not read out the letter, but recites it from memory, which requires special concentration.195 This dovetails with her appeals to keep the floor. Against this background line 777 may not be missed but simply ignored by Iphigenia in order to maintain momentum in reciting her letter. In this case it would not technically be an aside but another interruption. Iphigenia’s ultimate goal is to get her message across to Orestes as soon and as clearly as possible, in order that he may come and save her. To achieve this it is vital that Iphigenia not be interrupted or driven off course. Kyriakou states: ‘The snappy order and the concern not to be distracted from her recitation, as if there were a possibility that she might not be able to take up the thread again after the unwelcome interruption, indicate her extreme excitement and virtual fixation on her message, which make her forget her manners’.196 Yet it is after all Orestes who is rudely breaking in on Iphigenia’s turn. Orestes’ repeated intrusions into Iphigenia’s speech almost give it the character of a dialogue and as such the boundaries between different dramatic forms are explored, blurred, and tested. Finally, Supp. 513–516 features two different types of interruption. In response to the Herald’s speech, which ironically ended with the statement: ἥσυχος καιρῷ σοφός (509), Adrastus passionately reacts with: ὦ παγκάκιστε (513). In doing so he speaks out of turn, seeing that the Herald’s speech is addressed to Theseus, and interrupts the formal agôn logôn which takes place between Theseus and the Herald. Adrastus’ interruption can be motivated from the dramatic context. He has taken such offence at the Herald’s speech, that he can no longer refrain from verbally lashing out, although we would perhaps expect such a spontaneous reaction immediately following the Herald’s speech instead of separated from it by a concluding remark from the Chorus. Adrastus’ interruption is in turn interrupted by Theseus with: σῖγ’, Ἄδραστ’, ἔχε στόμα | καὶ μὴ ’πίπροσθεν τῶν ἐμῶν τοὺς σοὺς λόγους | θῇς, οὐ γὰρ ἥκει πρὸς σὲ κηρύσσων ὅδε | ἀλλ’ ὡς ἔμ· ἡμᾶς κἀποκρίνασθαι χρεών (513–516). Theseus cuts off Adrastus’ words with brutal abruptness, which is an indication of his power and authority over Adrastus. Theseus’ harsh words reduce Adrastus to a helpless bystander, but his silence later turns out to be significant. Collard attributes a positive meaning to Adrastus’ silent presence: ‘The experience is implicitly a moral corrective for him, so that when he breaks his long silence after the Messenger’s speech his reflections have the added cogency of one who has learned from his own and 195

196

it 760–761: λόγῳ φράσω. On the question whether Iphigenia can read: Hartigan (1991) 97 n. 29, Wolff (1992) 332, Cropp (2000) 213–214, Rosenmeyer (2001) 76 n. 36 with references, 79, Wright (2005) 336 n. 400. Kyriakou (2006) 259–260.

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others’ suffering’.197 Morwood, on the other hand, prefers a negative interpretation: ‘The silent figure is in fact reduced by what he hears and experiences to an abject nihilism, which finds expression in his utterances at the end of the messenger scene’.198 The latter interpretation seems more plausible. Following the Messenger’s speech, Adrastus indulges in whining and lament and his attitude to Theseus’ burial of the dead Argives is hardly that of someone ‘who has learned from his own and others’ suffering’. It is only on Theseus’ instigation (836–855) that Adrastus steels himself and resumes his position as the king of Argos,199 ‘and even so appears to settle for an unassertive quietism that rejects and so acts as a foil to the life of heroic labour espoused by Theseus’.200 To return to the interruptions of lines 513–516, I believe that the interlocutors’ communicative behaviour reflects their social positions and power-relationship on the drama-internal level. On the drama-external level the explicit comment on interruption and violation of the turn-taking process again draws attention to the relationship between realism and convention in the formal structure of Euripidean tragedy.

1.5

Conclusion

In this chapter I have addressed the question as to what extent convention and realism are operative in Euripidean stichomythia. By comparing the turntaking system in stichomythia to the universal characteristics of turn-taking and conversation as formulated by Sacks et al., I have tried to give a more objective and nuanced picture of the relationship between convention and realism in Euripidean stichomythia than has been offered hitherto. In past research the emphasis has been on its unnaturalness and stylization. While acknowledging this, I have instead drawn attention to the similarities between Euripidean stichomythia and everyday conversation. The respects in which Euripidean stichomythia differs from conversation are interrelated, which detracts from their individual impact. The similarities between Euripidean stichomythia and conversation are numerous. In this chapter I have concentrated on some less obvious similarities, i.e. turn-allocation, turn-extent variation, and turn-taking errors, violations and repairs. Turn-allocation takes place by means of illocutionary expressions, which help to identify the speech act intended, provide 197 198 199 200

Collard (1975) 209. Morwood (2007) 185. Toher (2001) 338. Morwood (2007) 185.

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information about its performance and the interlocutors’ attitude and/or position therein. Illocutionary expressions also play a role in expressing politeness and urgency and in the organization of the conversation into sub-topics. Euripidean stichomythia contains turn-extent variation, as various turn-constructional units are employed. Purely in terms of length and metre the choice is limited, but there is room for variation in terms of syntactic structure, semantic meaning and pragmatic function or efficiency. A turn may even be extended beyond the stichomythic line. Finally, Euripidean stichomythia resembles conversation in that it contains turn-taking errors, violations and repairs, which are explicitly commented on and marked as such. Thus in this chapter I have tried to offer some counterweight against the scholarly verdict on Euripidean stichomythia as entirely unnatural.

chapter 2

Social Deixis 2.1

Introduction

Stichomythia is an artistic representation of communicative interaction between individuals, who are placed opposite each other, often in contrast and as representatives of different social groups.1 Greek drama in general, and Euripidean tragedy in particular,2 provides a unique opportunity to study the interaction between individuals from different social groups, because the genre represents a remarkable amount of social heterogeneity.3 In this chapter I will study a concrete linguistic manifestation of social interaction in Euripidean stichomythia: social deixis. Before I continue my discussion of social deixis, it will be useful to dwell briefly on deixis in general. ‘Deixis is a term linguists use to refer to the ways in which linguistic elements can refer to, or can only be interpreted by knowing, certain aspects of the communicative event in which those elements are used’.4 The sentence ‘Meet me here tomorrow’ consists almost exclusively of deictic elements denoting person (‘me’), place (‘here’) and time (‘tomorrow’). As long as the context in which this sentence occurs is unspecified, its exact meaning or interpretation remains unclear. The use of non-deictic terms of person, place and time in ‘Meet John Smith at ten Baker Street on the first of October 2010’ disambiguates the sentence. Charles Fillmore has illuminated the difference between deictic and non-deictic conceptions of person, place and time, by comparing the former to a photo, and the latter to a sculpture.5 Like a photo, deixis involves a one-dimensional perspective or orientation, while non-deictic conceptions of person, place and time are multi-dimensional and therefore objective, like a sculpture. Besides person, place and time, deixis may also be used to refer to elements of a text and social relationships. It is this last type of deixis I will concentrate on in this chapter. Social deixis is concerned with the way in which social information, including distinctions between participants or referents of a speech event, is encoded 1 2 3 4 5

On contrast see Schadewaldt (1970²) 438–439. If we may believe Ar. Ran. 949–953. Cf. Hall (1997) on the sociology of Athenian drama. Brown & Levinson (1979) 311. Fillmore (1997) 27–28.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004282612_004

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in language.6 Each instance of social deixis relates at least two individuals in terms of their mutual relationship, and presupposes the existence of an individual from whose perspective the term is applied (anchor) and an individual to whom the term refers (referent).7 Anchorage can be left implicit or made explicit, for example by means of a possessive pronoun (e.g. El. 976: πατρί versus 974: πατρὶ … σέθεν).8 Social deixis is commonly organized in an egocentric way and the anchor can usually be identified with the speaker. Moreover, it has been shown that interlocutors generally use the minimum means adequate for the addressee to succeed in correctly identifying the referent.9 For example, in telephone conversations the utterance ‘Hello, it’s me’ instead of ‘Hello, it’s John’ relies on the other party to recognize the voice, and faced by a lack of recognition there is a tendency to repeat ‘It’s me’, rather than to give one’s name.10 Nevertheless, considerations of politeness, or other communicative or rhetorical purposes may prompt the speaker to shift anchorage to the addressee.11 For example, when a husband and wife talk about their daughter, the father may say to the mother, as a kind of joke: ‘Look at what my daughter did’, when she does something particularly praiseworthy, but when she does something offensive, the command may become: ‘Look at what your daughter did’.12 Although in terms of person deixis both possessive pronouns (‘my’ and ‘your’) remain anchored in the speaker, social deixis has shifted from the speaker (‘my daughter’) to the addressee (‘your daughter’). The contexts in which the preference for minimal identification does not feature are likely to be significant in some way.13 The underlying assumption is that the speaker has freedom of choice: social deixis is only one of the means available to him to refer to (= talk about) or address (= talk to) persons in the communicative context, and it is therefore a conscious strategy for establishing or maintaining reference.14 The literary character of Euripidean stichomythia may make it prone to the use of

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

On social deixis, see e.g. Fillmore (1975) 76, Levinson (1983) 90–93. Following Dahl & Koptjevskaja-Tamm (2001) 201. See section 2.4.5 below. By Sacks & Schegloff (1979). Moerman (1988) argues for the universality of this principle. Cf. for my point Zeitlyn (1993) 211. Zeitlyn (1993) 211. Brown & Levinson (1987) 28 with reference to Carter (1984). For the example cf. Fillmore (1997) 118–119. Zeitlyn (1993) 218–219. Zeitlyn (1993) 201, 209.

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periphrastic references or forms of address. Patronymic reference, for example, is very frequent in Homeric epic and has been perceived as conventional in Greek literature ever since.15 The preference of a patronymic over a proper name often depends on metrical convenience.16 However, even under these circumstances there is surely plenty of room for choice. Therefore, I believe that the way in which interlocutors of Euripidean stichomythia address each other and refer to persons may at times be significant, particularly when the speaker deviates from the expected norm and shifts the anchorage of socially deictic terms. The following discussion will be divided into three sections: ethnicity (βάρβαρος), gender (γυνή), and kinship. I will show how shifts in anchorage of social deixis terms may be exploited for rhetorical purposes in the communication between the interlocutors on the drama-internal level, but also to create effects in the communication between the playwright and his audience on the dramaexternal level.

2.2

Ethnicity: βάρβαρος

Fifth-century Greeks constructed their ethnic identity either by emphasizing the ethnic similarities between Greeks (aggregative self-definition),17 or by emphasizing the ethnic differences between Greeks and non-Greeks (oppositional self-definition).18 The latter concept of ethnic ideology is reflected in the term βάρβαρος.19 The word βάρβαρος is ‘a reduplicative onomatopoeic formation initially playing on the incomprehensibility of a stranger’s speech sounds: “bar-bar-…”’,20 meaning ‘barbarous’ or ‘non-Greek’, especially with respect to speech.21 The word βάρβαρος is deictic and originally involves a Greek perspective: its anchor is commonly a Greek and its referent a non-Greek. Nevertheless, in Euripidean stichomythia, as elsewhere in Greek tragedy, non-Greek char-

15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Cf. Philippo (1995) 357. Cf. Philippo (1995) 358. Cf. Hdt. 8. 144. Hall (2002) 179. Wright (2005) 177. Von Staden (1992) 579 n. 2. lsj and Chantraine (1968) s.v. βάρβαρος: The term is not unique to Greek; it is also found in Sanskrit barbara-, Sumerian bar-bar, and Babylonian barbaru. Hall (2002) 112 questions the onomatopoetic, linguistic origin of the term.

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acters may refer to themselves or to aspects of their own land and culture as βάρβαρος, thus shifting the anchorage and talking as if from a Greek perspective. In current criticism the strangeness of this phenomenon is often glossed over, downplayed or explained away as a matter of convention. I will give an example of each response. Bacon studies the term βάρβαρος in Greek tragedy.22 She observes that Euripides uses it remarkably frequently compared to his predecessors and extends its meaning to include intrinsic moral inferiority: ‘Occasionally in Euripides it loses all reference to nationality and means only savage, evil, cruel, etc.’.23 She relates this observation to the lack of consistent realistic detail in his representation of foreigners: ‘His foreign characters are distinguished from Greeks not by factual detail, but by a few formulae frequently repeated, and by the word βάρβαρος recurring as a persistent theme throughout many of the plays’.24 However, the erosion of the term βάρβαρος over time does not preclude it from being exploited ironically and subversively.25 For this purpose anchorage in its particular context is still important, as is indicated, for example, by Bacon’s remark that βάρβαρος in Hec. 1129–1131 ‘only lacks the irony of the Troiades passage [764–765] because it is addressed to a barbarian by a Greek’.26 However, Bacon never explicitly addresses the self-referential use of the term βάρβαρος. The phenomenon is also downplayed. Burian states that βάρβαρος ‘does not necessarily have the associations of the English “barbarian”’ and implies ‘nothing more than the Gk. assumption of the division of the world into Gk. and non-Gk’.27 Even if this is true,28 it does not account for the oddity of a nonGreek’s reference to himself as βάρβαρος: he may not be referring to himself in a negative way, but he is still denoting himself as a foreigner. Greeks were capable of thinking outside the proverbial box. For example, the Greek historian Herodotus says that ‘the Egyptians call all men of other language barbarians’ (βαρβάρους δὲ πάντας οἱ Αἰγύπτιοι καλέουσι τοὺς μὴ σφίσι ὁμογλώσσους).29

22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29

Bacon (1961). Bacon (1961) 10–12. She supports this statement with reference to Eichhorn (1904) and the following examples: Andr. 243, 261; Tro. 764; Hec. 326 ff., 1129, 1247f.; Med. 1323ff., 1339–1340; Hcld. 131; it 31, 389, 417, 739, 886; Or. 1110 ff., 1351, 1369 ff.; Hel. 501, 1210; Phoen. 497–498. Bacon (1961) 169. Cropp (2000) 244. Bacon (1961) 13. On Hec. 877 and 1129 see also Segal (1990) 110–111, 120, 127. Burian (2007) 264. Cf. also Bacon (1961) 10–12. Hdt. 2. 158. 5. Cf. also Jüthner (1923) 13–14.

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If Greeks were able to make this type of observation for Egyptians, surely they were conscious of their own use of the word βάρβαρος to refer to non-Greeks as well. Why, then, do non-Greeks in tragedy not refer to Greeks as βάρβαροι and to themselves by means of some non-deictic term? This question is often explained away as a matter of convention. Lee claims that ‘… non-Greeks in tragedy always refer to themselves … as βάρβαροι’,30 but this is incorrect. They have other options, and may instead use non-deictic substantives or adjectives that denote a specific place or region. A very common example is Φρύξ/Φρύγιος.31 A quick comparison between the two terms in extant Euripidean tragedy yields the following results. Forms of the term βάρβαρος occur 103 times, of which 74 instances (72 %) are uttered by Greek, and 29 (28%) by non-Greek speakers. This clearly indicates that the term βάρβαρος is used more often by Greek than by non-Greek speakers. One might object that these results are biased, because extant Euripidean tragedy contains more Greek than non-Greek speakers. However, comparison with the term Φρύξ/Φρύγιος suggests otherwise. Forms of Φρύξ/ Φρύγιος occur 101 times, of which 57 instances (56%) are uttered by Greek and 44 (44 %) by non-Greek speakers. So this term is more evenly distributed between Greek and non-Greek speakers. We may therefore conclude that it is not only possible for non-Greek speakers to refer to themselves by means of other terms than βάρβαροι, it is even more common to do so. The fact that alternative expressions are available, and even more common, makes the choice of βάρβαρος for non-Greek speakers all the more significant. Whereas many scholars have glossed over, downplayed or explained away the oddity of non-Greek characters referring to themselves as βάρβαρος, some critics have picked up this oddity. For example, Wright notes: ‘Both Theoclymenus and Thoas and the Taurians, bizarrely, refer to themselves as “barbarians” rather than “Egyptians” or “Taurians”, which is highly provocative’.32 However, they do not discuss it extensively. In this section I will focus on those instances of βάρβαρος that are used by non-Greek speakers to refer to themselves, their own people, land or culture in stichomythic contexts. The close communicative and social interaction of stichomythic conversation between Greek and non-Greek interlocutors enlarges and emphasizes the oddity of the phenomenon. I will study the dramatic significance of the passages on the

30 31 32

Lee (1976) 156. Cf. Jüthner (1923) 3. Wright (2005) 179, my italics. Cf. Also Jüthner (1923) n. 11 with reference to Eichhorn (1904) 19.

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drama-internal and drama-external levels and relate them to each other in order to see if they have similarities. Four instances of self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by non-Greek speakers occur in the deception scenes of Iphigenia in Tauris and Helen, two plays that have often been compared because of their similar contents and structures. The first two occur in the stichomythic conversation between Thoas and Iphigenia in it. When Iphigenia tells Thoas about the pollution of the strangers who have just arrived, the Taurian king asks: ἀλλ’ ἦ τιν’ ἔκανον βαρβάρων ἀκτῆς ἔπι; (1170). The term βαρβάρων must denote the Taurians, because in the next line Iphigenia contrasts it with οἰκεῖον … τὸν φόνον (1171). Thus Thoas refers to his own people as βάρβαρος. This reference is relatively neutral, but the next one is more remarkable. When Iphigenia reveals the strangers’ matricide, Thoas exclaims: Ἄπολλον, οὐδ’ ἐν βαρβάροις ἔτλη τις ἄν (1174). Beside the fact that the foreign king Thoas invokes a Greek god, his self-reference by means of βαρβάροις is interesting, because it involves an expression of ethnic moral superiority commonly reserved for Greek speakers.33 Putting this Greek sentiment in the mouth of a barbarian brings about a subversive effect: ‘Greek ideas of Greek moral and intellectual superiority over barbarians are inverted’.34 Thoas’ self-references to his own people as βάρβαρος is a linguistic symptom of more pervasive blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians in it.35 The most prominent way in which this happens is through the theme of sacrifice.36 The ritual by which Greeks are sacrificed to Artemis is an important feature of the Taurian culture. It is this that Iphigenia dislikes most and that makes her homesick (225–228, 774–776). Yet at home Iphigenia was sacrificed by her own father for the sake of Greece, Orestes committed matricide, and

33 34 35 36

Cf. Jason about Medea’s infanticide: οὐκ ἔστιν ἥτις τοῦτ’ ἂν Ἑλληνὶς γυνὴ | ἔτλη (Med. 1339–1340). Cropp (2000) 245. Cf. also Wright (2005) 179. Cf. Saïd (1984) especially 39–40, 43, Hall (1989) 201–222, Wright (2005) 179–202. Cf. Saïd (1984) 43, Wright (2005) 190. Other ways: 1. the chorus consists of Greek women, but they sing in an un-Greek way; 2. there is no linguistic differentiation between Greeks and non-Greeks—however, this is hardly ever the case in Greek tragedy; 3. Artemis is a Greek goddess in the land of the Taurians; 4. the political structure of the Taurians seems Greek; 5. the physical appearance of the land and its inhabitants is not distinctively barbarian. Cf. Wright (2005) 179–202. Also, what keeps Iphigenia from going home is not only Thoas, but also Artemis herself (995–997, cf. also 620). Cf. by contrast O’Brien (1988) 108, who compares Thoas to Oenomaus and points out the parallels between it and the story of Pelops, Hippodameia and Oenomaus.

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human blood will flow in recompense for Iphigenia’s sacrifice and to honour Artemis (1458–1461). In it Orestes narrowly escapes sacrifice by Iphigenia.37 Human sacrifice is thus not something restricted to barbarians. In fact, whereas the Taurians sacrifice Greeks, Greeks murder their own kin. Thus Thoas hits the mark with his comment that not even barbarians, in this particular case the Taurians, would commit matricide.38 The fact that in doing so he refers to his own people as βάρβαρος underscores the blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians. Two more examples occur in the stichomythic conversation between Theoclymenus and Helen in Helen. When Helen tells Theoclymenus about Menelaus’ death at sea, he asks: ποῦ βαρβάροισι πελάγεσιν ναυσθλούμενον; (1210). The fact that one of Menelaus’ supposed shipmates washed ashore in Egypt makes it likely that βαρβάροισι πελάγεσιν refers to the waters of Egypt. Thus Theoclymenus refers to his own land as βάρβαρος. As in it, the first reference is relatively neutral, but the second is more controversial. During Menelaus’ exposition of the Greek custom of burial at sea, Theoclymenus mentions the customary sacrificial animals in Egypt: ἐν βαρβάροις μὲν ἵππον ἢ ταῦρον νόμος (1258). Again, Theoclymenus refers to his own people as if he were a Greek. However, the interesting thing is that the custom he describes seems Greek as well: the Greeks too sacrificed a bull or a horse to Poseidon, god of the sea. The distinction between Greeks and barbarians thus seems to be annihilated here. Are Theoclymenus’ references to his own land and culture as βάρβαρος part of a more pervasive blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians?39 The case seems more complicated in Helen than in it. Theoclymenus is depicted much more negatively than Thoas. Burnett even goes so far as to call him a ‘cruel despot, willing to break any law, human or divine’.40 However, had Theoclymenus really been this lawless, he would have taken Helen as his wife a long time ago. Moreover, most of his characterization is done by Helen,41 who can hardly be considered objective. Therefore, many critics have taken a more positive view of Theoclymenus. Schmiel goes to extremes, describing him as a ‘kind, love-struck, naïve young man’.42 Podlecki argues 37 38 39 40 41 42

Sansone (1975) considers this a re-enactment of Iphigenia’s sacrifice at Aulis. Cf. Iphigenia’s evaluations at 559 and 924. Saïd (1984) 39–40, Hall (1989) 201–222, and Wright (2005) 194–198 would answer this question affirmatively. Burnett (1960) 157. E.g. 61–63, 155, 293–297, 314, 551–552, 778–785, 798, 803, 807, 833, 900ff., 1085–1086. Schmiel (1972) 291.

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against such positive characterization by drawing attention to the Theonoe scene: she too must think Theoclymenus’ behaviour unjust, as she helps Helen and Menelaus escape.43 While this may be true, all of Theoclymenus’ negative behaviour, including his killing of Greeks,44 can be reduced to his passion for Helen. In this he is not much different from Menelaus who started the Trojan War out of passion for Helen.45 Thus Theoclymenus’ behaviour is universal and not related to ethnicity. This is corroborated by the fact that his father Proteus was a mild barbarian.46 On the other hand, Helen and Menelaus are using the difference in Greek and barbarian burial customs as a means to deceive Theoclymenus. The interesting point is that in practice these customs are not all that different, as similar sacrificial animals are used (1258). Thus Helen too shows a blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians, marked on a linguistic level by self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by a non-Greek speaker. The fifth instance is found in the conversation between Orestes and the Phrygian slave in Orestes.47 Immediately upon Orestes’ entry, the Phrygian slave prostrates himself and self-consciously draws attention to this typically barbarian gesture: προσκυνῶ σ’, ἄναξ, νόμοισι βαρβάροισι προσπίτνων (1507). If we compare this to the Phrygian’s linguistic practice in his preceding monody, the image we obtain is mixed. On the one hand, the Phrygian slave had referred to another barbarian custom, the fanning of Helen, with the non-deictic adjective Φρύγιος (1426: Φρυγίοις … Φρυγίοισι νόμοις). On the other hand, he has repeatedly referred to other aspects of his own culture with the Graeco-centric term βάρβαρος (1370: βαρβάροις ἐν εὐμάρισιν, 1374: βαρβάροισι δρασμοῖς, 1385: βαρβάρῳ βοᾷ, 1391: βάρβαροι). In the close communicative and social interaction of stichomythia with the Greek Orestes his self-reference as βάρβαρος gains prominence and conspicuousness. What is the function of the Phrygian slave’s self-reference as βάρβαρος? At first sight, a blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians seems unlikely here, for there appears to be a major contrast between the interlocu-

43 44 45 46 47

Podlecki (1970) 415–416. Once he is certain of marriage with Helen, he even invites Menelaus’ shipmate to stay in Egypt (1436–1440). For a comparison between Theoclymenus and Menelaus see Segal (1971) 568–569, 583– 584. Cf. 46–48, 60–61, 909 ff. The authenticity of this passage has been debated both in antiquity and in modern scholarship, but is now generally accepted by commentators and critics. For a discussion see Porter (1994) 216–244.

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tors. Bacon has pointed out the exceptional status of the Phrygian slave in that ‘he is the only character of Trojan origin in Euripides who is represented as speaking or acting in a foreign manner’.48 This cowardly barbarian slave seems to stand in contrast to the brave Greek Orestes.49 Their attitudes also differ. The Phrygian slave is trying to find common ground with Orestes by assuming a universal, sometimes even Graeco-centric, perspective. The Phrygian’s selfreference in 1507 is just a first example. Against this is pitted Orestes’ rigid ethnocentrism. While Orestes assumes a strict opposition between the customs of barbarian Ilium (οὐκ ἐν Ἰλίῳ) and Greek Argos (ἀλλ’ ἐν Ἀργείᾳ) (1508), the Phrygian slave exhibits a universal world-view (1509: πανταχοῦ). He refers to Helen as the woman ‘who destroyed Greece Phrygians and all’ (1515: ἥτις Ἑλλάδ’ αὐτοῖς Φρυξὶ διελυμήνατο),50 which creates the absurd impression that the Phrygians are an appendage of Greece.51 This, again, involves a Graeco-centric perspective and blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians. Here non-deictic Φρυξί is used, perhaps because the idiomatic expression with the dative of αὐτός creates enough incongruousness as it is. The Phrygian slave does not answer Orestes’ racist question hinting at Phrygian cowardice in 1518, nor pick up on his culture-specific reference to the Gorgon in 1520, but simply responds that he is afraid to die (1521), a cross-cultural and universal sentiment (1523). Hereupon Orestes lets the Phrygian slave go, saying: εὖ λέγεις· σῴζει σε σύνεσις. ἀλλὰ βαῖν’ εἴσω δόμων (1524). How should this line be interpreted? The word σύνεσις echoes line 396 where Orestes used it to refer to his sense of guilt about the matricide, but this does not seem immediately relevant here. In general terms, σύνεσις could refer to the Phrygian’s attempts to find common ground with Orestes by assuming a universal, sometimes even Graeco-centric, perspective throughout the stichomythic dialogue. However, would Orestes appreciate this? Probably not, as he himself sticks to a rigid ethnocentric perspective. Moreover, if Orestes did appreciate the Phrygian slave’s attempts at rapprochement through his

48 49

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Bacon (1961) 118. Porter (1994) 244, 250 stresses the importance of the Phrygian’s cowardice versus the new-found forcefulness of Orestes. Greenberg (1962) 188 formulates the contrast in terms of sophia (Phrygian slave) versus philia (Orestes). Whereas I can see how ‘the Phrygian is sophia incarnate: he just wants to get out with a whole skin’, I am not convinced by Orestes as a representative of philia in this particular scene. For this idiom with the dative of αὐτός (especially in contexts of destruction) cf. Stevens (1977) 52–53. West (1987) on Or. 1515: ‘There is a deliberate absurdity in treating the Phrygians as an appendage of Greece.’

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universal worldview, why would he reward him for this only now? More specifically, σύνεσις could refer to the Phrygian’s expression of the universal desire to live. This sentiment establishes a link between the Phrygian slave in the current dramatic situation and Orestes in his earlier appeal for life to Menelaus.52 This connection has been disputed, however, by Porter, who warns against attaching too much critical importance to the Phrygian slave: ‘an audience of Euripides’ day would not be likely to equate his feckless squirming with the pathetic and (more importantly) just claims that Orestes makes on Menelaus at 380ff.’.53 Porter does not take line 1524 at face value, but interprets it as an expression of scorn, with lines 1527ff. providing Orestes’ true motives for his behaviour: ‘he never intended to kill the slave, only to prevent his summoning the Argives’.54 However, it is also possible to see Orestes not merely toying with the Phrygian, but actually changing his mind from preventing to encouraging Menelaus’ arrival, forgetting in the heat of the moment about the plan to take Hermione hostage.55 In this case line 1524 can be taken at face value. Orestes had stated before that he values similarity of character over family ties (805–806: ὡς ἀνὴρ ὅστις τρόποισι συντακῇ, θυραῖος ὢν | μυρίων κρείσσων ὁμαίμων ἀνδρὶ κεκτῆσθαι φίλος). It must be admitted that the Phrygian slave is θυραῖος in the extreme. Yet this statement makes Orestes’ sudden decision to spare him more plausible. I believe that further arguments can be adduced for a parallel between the Phrygian slave and Orestes. First, the close communicative interaction of the stichomythic conversation invites comparison between its interlocutors. Second, there is a formal similarity between the Orestes–Menelaus and Phrygian slave–Orestes scenes. Both interactions start with a physical gesture of supplication. In the former scene it is the Greek custom of touching the knees (382: τῶν σῶν δὲ γονάτων πρωτόλεια θιγγάνω | ἱκέτης), in the latter it is the barbarian custom of full prostration and kissing the feet (1507: προσκυνῶ σ’, ἄναξ, νόμοισι βαρβάροισι προσπίτνων). I suggest that the Phrygian slave’s prostration and his self-conscious reference to it as a foreign custom invite comparison with Orestes’ supplication of Menelaus. Thus once again self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by a non-Greek speaker contributes to

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Mullens (1940) 156, Greenberg (1962) 188, Smith (1967a) 305, Parry (1969) 345, Schein (1975) 63–64, Falkner (1983) 297, Wolff (1983) 345. Comparisons have also been made between the Phrygian slave and Helen: Smith (1967a) 305, Falkner (1983) 297; and between the Phrygian slave and Menelaus: Falkner (1983) 297, Porter (1994) 247, 250. Porter (1994) 247. Porter (1994) 247. Cf. Willink (1986) and West (1987) ad loc.

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a questioning of distinctions between Greek and barbarian customs.56 At the same time it draws attention to the difference between the Phrygian slave, who is capable of assuming a universal perspective, and Orestes (cf. 1507, 1509, 1515, 1521, 1523), who remains restricted to ethnocentrism (cf. 1508, 1518, 1520). We find a similar contrast in the sixth and final instance of self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by a non-Greek speaker, in the first stichomythic dialogue between Pentheus and Dionysus, who is disguised as a Lydian thiasos-leader, in Bacchae. When Pentheus asks Dionysus/the Lydian whether he first introduced Dionysus’ worship in Thebes, he responds that all barbarians celebrate these rites (482: πᾶς ἀναχορεύει βαρβάρων τάδ’ ὄργια). The identity of the speaker is complex. His true identity is Dionysus, a Greek god but coming from Asia.57 His assumed identity is that of a Lydian thiasos-leader, a barbarian outsider.58 It is in this persona that he speaks to Pentheus. We may therefore consider line 482 as another instance of self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by a non-Greek speaker, but the speaker’s complex identity gives it an extra dimension. Dionysus’/the Lydian’s self-reference is relatively neutral, but Pentheus’ reply relates ethnicity and intellect: φρονοῦσι γὰρ κάκιον Ἑλλήνων πολύ (483). Pentheus displays a Graeco-centric perspective, while Dionysus’/the Lydian’s reply, τάδ’ εὖ γε μᾶλλον· οἱ νόμοι δὲ διάφοροι (484), shows that he is capable of viewing matters from a multidimensional point of view.59 This contrast is visible elsewhere in the stichomythic conversation as well (e.g. 466–468: Zeus, 485–488: darkness, 500– 502: Dionysus). Pentheus chides Dionysus/the Lydian for his cleverness (480, 489), while Dionysus/the Lydian accuses Pentheus of ignorance (480, 490, 506). 56

57 58 59

Cf. Saïd (1984) 41. Wolff (1983) 347–349 argues for a similar phenomenon in the preceding monody, but I do not find all his arguments convincing. I agree that the Phrygian slave’s reference to the Phrygians’ inferiority to the Greeks in battle (1484–1485) involves a Greek perspective. Although the most obvious interpretation of this would be barbarian recognition of outstanding Greek martial prowess, it could also contribute to a blurring of distinctions between Greek and barbarian. However, other supposedly Greek features, including references to the Trojan war, echoes from Greek epic and tragedy, and the πᾷ φύγω—topos seem to me triggered by the subject matter of the monody rather than by a blurring of Greek and barbarian registers. Foley (1980) 124, Segal (1982) 10, 22, 217, Seaford (1996) 31, 148. Cf. Fisher (1992) 187–188. Critics formulate the contrast between Dionysus/the Lydian and Pentheus in various ways: Grube (1935) 43 contrasts Dionysus’ calm confidence (for which cf. also Seidensticker (1978) 318 n. 60) with Pentheus’ angry excitement; Scott (1975) 337–338 stresses Pentheus’ obsession with reason; and Seaford (1996) 30, 185 mentions their differences in power, perception and ethics.

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Thus there is a reversal of the traditional distinction in intelligence between smart Greeks and stupid barbarians. This reversal is confirmed by the outcome of the dramatic plot: Pentheus is punished for his refusal to accept new religious customs of a Greek god brought in from abroad. How does this contrast between ethnic relativism and absolutism relate to contemporary thought? Seaford remarks that ‘here many of the audience might agree with Pentheus’.60 He supports his claim with reference to Herodotus’ comment that the Greek race distinguished itself from the barbarian by its cleverness (ἐπεί γε ἀπεκρίθη ἐκ παλαιτέρου τοῦ βαρβάρου ἔθνεος τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν ἐὸν καὶ δεξιώτερον καὶ εὐηθείης ἠλιθίου ἀπηλλαγμένον μᾶλλον).61 However, the broader context of this citation, i.e. Pisistratus’ effortless deception of the Athenians, reputedly the most clever Greeks of all, actually shows the opposite. This blurring of Greek and barbarian stereotypes constitutes a pervasive phenomenon in Herodotus, as has been convincingly argued by Pelling.62 In a later passage Herodotus points out that people regard their own customs as best (οὕτω νομίζουσι πολλόν τι καλλίστους τοὺς ἑωυτῶν νόμους ἕκαστοι εἶναι).63 This feeling of ethnic superiority will have affected the Greeks as well. Then again, the fact that a Greek historian like Herodotus is able to make such an observation is indicative of ethnic relativism. Such relativism is also encountered in contemporary Sophistic thought, for example in the anonymous Dissoi Logoi: And in the matter of war (I shall speak first of the most recent events) the Spartan victory over the Athenians and their allies was good for the Spartans, but bad for the Athenians and their allies; and the victory which the Greeks won over the Persians was good for the Greeks, but bad for the non-Greeks. Again, the capture of Troy was good for the Achaeans, but bad for the Trojans.64 (1.8–9)

“The Persians consider it seemly for men, too, to adorn themselves, like women, and to have sexual intercourse with their daughter or mother or sister; the Greeks consider such actions shameful and unlawful. Again, to Lydians it appears seemly that girls should prostitute themselves to earn 60 61 62 63 64

Seaford (1996) 189. Hdt. 1. 60. 3. Pelling (1997). Hdt. 3. 38, which Seaford (1996) 189 himself mentions. Translation by Robinson (1979).

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money, and in that way get married; among the Greeks no one would be willing to marry any such girl. And Egyptians differ from everyone else in their views on what is seemly.”65 (2.15–17)

Similar sentiments of cultural relativism leading to a universal image of humanity can be found in the fragments of Antiphon: “[the laws of those near by] we know and observe, the laws of those who live far off we neither know nor observe. Now in this we have become barbarians in one another’s eyes; for by birth, at least, we are all naturally adapted in every respect to be either Greeks or barbarians. It is possible to examine … things by nature necessary for all human beings … none of us has been marked off as either barbarian or Greek. For we all breathe into the air by our mouth and nostrils; we laugh when we are happy and cry when we are sad; we take in sound with our sense of hearing; we see with our sight with the aid of the visual ray; we work with our hands; we walk with our feet …”66 f 44 (b) ii–iii

Thus while part of the audience may have held on to the traditional belief in Greek superiority, the idea of cultural relativity was by no means unheard of. Does the blurring and sometimes even reversal of Greek and barbarian stereotypes in the stichomythic passages discussed above have an overarching function beyond the immediate context of the drama in which it occurs? One explanation would be that Euripides is simply trying to provoke his audience’s thought about issues related to ethnicity. However, this explanation is very general and can be applied to almost any problematic aspect of Euripidean drama. Wright gives two more specific explanations for blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians in the escape tragedies it and Helen: 1. ‘The play’s religious message is concerned with the integration of Greek and barbarian elements’ and 2. ‘The deconstruction of the “self”-versus-“other” antithesis in these plays is … linked to the play’s epistemological and ontological themes’.67 The first explanation may be applicable to Bacchae as well, for the play is concerned with the introduction of the worship of Dionysus from

65 66 67

Translation by Robinson (1979). Translation by Pendrick (2002). Wright (2005) 200–202.

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barbarian into Greek culture. The second explanation might be applicable to Orestes. Porter points out how the end of the play depicts ‘a world gone awry, in which the conventions of myth, heroism, even stagecraft no longer pertain’.68 In such a world the blurring of distinctions between Greeks and barbarians may be fitting. Finally, on a more abstract level, the instances of self-referential βάρβαρος uttered by non-Greek speakers seem to play with the tension between convention and realism. Greeks normally referred to non-Greeks by means of βάρβαρος. The adjective had thus become the conventional term for anything non-Greek.69 When this conventional term is subsequently transferred to an inappropriate context and put into the mouth of a non-Greek speaker, it results in a clash between convention and reality that invites comparison between Greek and non-Greek cultures. One might object that this is merely unconscious transference by the playwright. This may be supported by the relatively neutral uses in it 1170 and Hel. 1210. However, other instances suggest otherwise. Self-referential use of the term βάρβαρος with negative moral connotations corroborates the idea of a conscious action: ‘One must acknowledge a certain degree of self-consciousness, even archness, in such remarks as that of Thoas, when he hears of Orestes’ matricide: “By Apollo! Not even among barbarians would anyone have borne to commit such a deed!” (it 1174)’.70 The barbarian customs of human sacrifice, sacrificial animals and prostration as referred to in it 1174, Hel. 1258 and Or. 1507 are remarkably similar to Greek customs when viewed in their broader (dramatic) contexts. Thus the transference of the deictic term βάρβαρος to inappropriate characters can be seen as a linguistic device to contribute to a blurring or even reversal of Greek and barbarian stereotypes, provoking thought about ethnic relativism (cf. also Or. 1507 and Bacch. 482).

2.3

Gender: γυνή

The Greek term γυνή is ambiguous in terms of deixis. It can be (socially) non-deictic and mean ‘woman’, but it can also be deictic and mean ‘wife’. In the former case the term is generic and can be used to refer to any member of 68 69

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Porter (1994) 244. Hall (1989), Cartledge (1993, 2002), Champion (2000) 431: ‘it [the term βάρβαρος] conventionally became a sort of short-hand way of pointing out the absence of temperance, moderation, balance, and reason, the hallmarks of the Hellenic, civilized society’. Wright (2005) 179. For a similar sentiment, but in later historiography and uttered from a Greek perspective cf. Polyb. 38.18.7.

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the female sex. In the latter case it is specific and used to refer to a particular individual of the female sex in her capacity of wife and in relationship to her husband. In ancient Greek society the term γυνή, when used in its deictic, specific sense, was exclusive and could normally only have one particular referent.71 This underlies Menelaus’ confusion during the recognition scene in Helen 566–574. We will return to this passage later in this section (p. 66–67). The deictic ambiguity of the Greek term γυνή is exploited to dramatic effect in Alcestis.72 The play with γυνή is concentrated in the two stichomythic dialogues between Admetus and Heracles, which helps to create a link between them.73 In the first dialogue Admetus tries to conceal Alcestis’ death from Heracles. When Heracles asks Admetus: οὐ μὴν γυνή γ’ ὄλωλεν Ἄλκηστις σέθεν; (518), Admetus responds with vague ambiguities (519, 521). When Heracles resumes his initial question, who died, Admetus answers: γυνή· γυναικὸς ἀρτίως μεμνήμεθα (531). Grube already pointed out the ambiguity of the term γυνή in this line,74 but it has not been recognized that the phenomenon of deixis underlies this. Admetus’ lack of explicit anchorage leads Heracles to believe that he is talking about an anonymous woman instead of his own wife, Alcestis. ἀρτίως μεμνήμεθα does not provide a conclusive answer either, as ἀρτίως may refer to 518–528 (Alcestis) as well as to 513 (anonymous corpse).75 Admetus’ subsequent description of the woman as ὀθνεῖος (533) technically might be applied to Alcestis, as she is not related to Admetus by blood, but this is unusual and therefore consolidates Heracles’ misinterpretation.76 Only in a later stichomythic conversation with the Servant does Heracles discover that it was Alcestis who died after all, as the Servant anchors the term γυνή in Admetus (821: γυνὴ μὲν οὖν ὄλωλεν Ἀδμήτου, ξένε).77 The ambiguity of γυνή is further exploited in the final stichomythic dialogue between Heracles and Admetus in which Heracles gives a woman/returns 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

Dickey (2004) 153: ‘It is notable that all the terms for spouses fall into this group of terms that are never extended’. Garner (1988) 60: ‘She is … a woman and, above all, a wife …’. Dyson (1988) emphasizes Alcestis’ role as a mother. This link is also observed by e.g. Scodel (1979) 61 and Lloyd (1985) 128. Cf. also Conacher (1988) 41–42 and Segal (1993) 60–61, 70, 80. Grube (1941) 138. Cf. also Conacher (1988) 177. Cf. Conacher (1988) 177. On ὀθνεῖος see e.g. Grube (1941) 138, Smith (1960) 135, Conacher (1988) 177, and Dellner (2000) 15. The postponement of the anchorage of γυνή to the second half of the line occurs in both Alc. 518 and 821, and might be explained by the play with ambiguous γυνή on the extra-dramatic level.

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Alcestis to Admetus.78 At the beginning of the dialogue, Heracles and Admetus commemorate the dead Alcestis. Heracles starts with an ‘unattainable’79 wish to bring Alcestis back to life (1072–1074: σὴν | … γυναῖκα) and calls her a γυναικὸς ἐσθλῆς (1084). Next, Heracles introduces the idea of a new woman (1087: γυνή … καὶ νέοι γάμοι), and urges Admetus to accept the prize woman (1097: τήνδε) into his house. A discussion about whether or not she should be accepted follows, in which the woman is referred to in various ways (1102: τήνδε, 1104: ἡ γυνή, 1110: τήνδε, 1111: (τὴν) γυναῖκα, 1112: αὐτήν, 1117: ξένης). Heracles mostly uses the term γυνή (all but 1104), while Admetus prefers pronouns (all but 1097). Only when Heracles refers to the woman as ξενῆς (1117), and thus implicitly appeals to Admetus’ hospitality, does the latter agree personally to take her into his house. The next step is for Admetus to look at the woman (1121–1122: βλέψον πρὸς αὐτήν, εἴ τι σῇ δοκεῖ πρέπειν | γυναικί). The woman bears a great resemblance to Alcestis, but is never unequivocally referred to as such.80 Admetus responds to her looks with great surprise and wonders: γυναῖκα λεύσσω τὴν ἐμὴν ἐτητύμως, ἢ κέρτομός μ’ ἐκ θεοῦ τις ἐκπλήσσει χαρά; (1125). The question-form creates uncertainty about the established link between the woman and Alcestis. Heracles answers: οὐκ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ τήνδ’ ὀρᾷς δάμαρτα σήν (1126). Instead of saying that the woman present is Alcestis, Heracles uses an expression that is formally ambiguous. It can either mean ‘You see your wife here’, in which case we may assume that the woman present is Alcestis. But it can also mean ‘You see this woman (as) your wife, which leaves the woman’s identity ambiguous, for vision can be deceptive. The same can be said when Heracles affirmatively answers Admetus’ question: ἀλλ’ ἣν ἔθαπτον εἰσορῶ δάμαρτ’ ἐμήν; (1129). Admetus wonders whether he will touch her and address her ὡς δάμαρτ’ ἐμήν; (1131), and eventually addresses her with ὦ φιλτάτης γυναικὸς ὄμμα καὶ δέμας (1133). Again, Admetus does not unequivocally refer to or address the woman as his wife. When Admetus asks Heracles about her return from the Underworld and continued silence, he reverts to his earlier use of proximal deictic pronouns (1139: τήνδ’, 1143: ἥδ’ … γυνή, and cf. Heracles: 1144: τῆσδε, 1147: τήνδε). Summing up, we can say that even where the anchorage of deictic terms is explicit and unambiguous, the context and/or sentence type make the situation ambiguous and refuse to confirm the woman’s true identity. 78

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Grube (1941) 144 n. 2 pointed out a second instance of ambiguous γυνή in Admetus’ address of the woman/Alcestis in Alc. 1060. This game with ambiguous γυνή continues throughout the ensuing stichomythia. In linguistic terms the wish is unattainable, but in terms of the drama it will prove attainable. Drew (1931) 305.

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This observation is relevant for the interpretation of the ending of Alcestis, which is commonly thought to represent Alcestis’ return to Admetus. Some scholars interpret this literally and positively, as a miraculous happy end,81 others take it negatively and ironically: Admetus is rewarded with Alcestis’ return for his very betrayal of her in breaking his promise not to accept another woman into the house (328–342).82 A minority of scholars take an altogether different view and argue that the woman who is offered to Admetus is not the same, living Alcestis from the beginning of the play. A crucial element in these interpretations is the baffling silence of Alcestis.83 For example, Drew thinks that Admetus receives back Alcestis’ corpse,84 while Stieber believes it is a portrait statue of Alcestis.85 However, there is no evidence in the text to support this interpretation.86 A statue could hardly have been set up already, and it would be very odd if the woman were motionless throughout the final scene. Stieber states that the language used to refer to the woman creates the impression of statuesqueness,87 but it is more accurate to say that the woman is never unequivocally referred to as being Admetus’ wife Alcestis, but merely as looking like her. The exact identity of the woman is left in the middle, which leaves room for the interpretation that the woman who is offered to Admetus is not the same, living Alcestis from the beginning of the play. The theme of reality versus appearance and truth versus image thus suggested is familiar to us from Helen, with which Alcestis has occasionally been compared.88 In both plays men apparently let themselves be fooled by their eyes. In Helen Menelaus

81 82 83

84 85

86 87 88

E.g. Burnett (1965) 251–252. E.g. Von Fritz (1968). Cf. also Smith (1960) 141–145, Golden (1970–1971) 124–125, Padilla (2000). The silence of Alcestis is variously interpreted: Trammell (1941) 150 and Segal (1993) 49 associate it with death; Stieber (1998) 91 explains it as a consequence of the fact that we are dealing with a statue of Alcestis here; and Slater (2000) 115–116 explains Alcestis’ silence as an indication of modesty. Drew (1931). Stieber (1998). Alcestis’ statuesqueness is interpreted by Segal (1993) 46 in meta-theatrical terms. Alcestis’ statue is considered by Slater (2000) 119 an instance of anachrony and thought experiment. Neither scholar goes so far as to doubt the return of the living Alcestis. Stieber (1998) adduces the following passages in support of her argument: 835–836, 897– 899, 995–1005, 1056–1061, but none of these provide conclusive evidence. Stieber (1998) 83–85. Stieber (1998) 84, 86. Compare also similarities in language between the two plays, e.g. Alc. 1121–1122: βλέψον πρὸς αὐτήν, εἴ τι σῆ̣ δοκεῖ πρέπειν | γυναικί and Alc. 1125: γυναῖκα λεύσσω τὴν ἐμὴν ἐτητύμως … ; with Hel. 576: οὐ γάρ με λεύσσων σὴν δάμαρθ’ ὁρᾶν δοκεῖς;

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has difficulty accepting Helen as his wife, because he has been deceived by Helen’s double and cannot believe his eyes when he needs to, while in Alcestis Admetus seems to settle for some unidentified image of his wife. This theme of reality versus appearance and the ambiguity of the term γυνή are part of a web of wordplay, paradox and ambiguity that permeates the entire play.89

2.4

Kinship

2.4.1 Introduction Literature on ancient Greek kinship terminology is predominantly concerned either with kin terms as forms of address (vocative use: talk to somebody),90 or when they are used to refer to somebody (referential use: talk about somebody).91 Some studies combine the two,92 but most of them are restricted to a fairly superficial description of the Greek kinship terminology system. By contrast, in this section I will study the use of kin terms within their communicative contexts. Some classical scholars have taken a similar approach in their studies of patterns of address and reference in specific tragedies. For example, Philippo shows how in Euripides’ Andromache patronymic reference is employed to highlight the tensions generated by the volatile relationship between kinship ties and the individuality of certain characters and their circumstances.93 Frank illustrates how in Seneca’s Oedipus and Phoenissae proper names are avoided and substituted by kin terms in order to emphasize the distortion of normal family relationships and genetic chaos in these plays.94 Although my general approach is similar to that of these scholars, my scope and topic of research are different. Instead of limiting myself to one particular tragedy, I will present

89

90 91

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E.g. the paradox of life versus death (141, 521), profit versus loss, and on a broader level the paradox of genre and tone, i.e. tragedy versus comedy. Cf. Jones (1948) 52–54, Burnett (1965) 252, Golden (1970–1971) 122, Conacher (1988) 35–42, Dellner (2000) 5, 15–16. Wendel (1929) on poetry, Dickey (1996) on prose. Miller (1953) and Thompson (1971) provide overviews of ancient Greek kinship terminology, Gates (1971) studies the kinship terminology of Homeric Greek and uses a transformational approach to trace the development of the Greek kinship system, Vartigan (1978) discusses the referential use of Attic Greek kinship terminology. Menge (1905) briefly treats the referential and vocative uses of kinship terms in Greek drama, Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2002) discusses the vocabulary of kinship in Euripides. Dickey (2004) studies the literal and extended use of kinship terms in documentary papyri. Philippo (1995) 360. Frank (1995) 122.

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cases from the whole of Euripidean stichomythia. Instead of concentrating on patronymic reference or kin terms as opposed to proper names, this section will mostly be concerned with the selection of one kin term over another, with the anchorage of kin terms, and with the ways in which this can be manipulated in order to produce rhetorical effects on the drama-internal and external levels. 2.4.2 Speaker 2.4.2.1 Anchored in the Addressee The most usual, direct and economic way for a speaker to refer to himself is by means of a personal pronoun of the first person. However, in conversations between family members, the speaker may refer to himself indirectly by means of a kin term that is anchored in the addressee and of which he himself is the referent. Thus the speaker temporarily assumes the perspective of the addressee. The examples displaying this particular pattern can roughly be subdivided into three groups. 1. The first group contains instances in which the speaker, usually a parent or child, but sometimes a sibling or spouse, lays claim to positive treatment by his addressee based on their family relationship.95 This may take the form of an appeal, if the positive treatment is yet to be obtained. For example, in Or. 1231 Electra implores Agamemnon to help his children. By referring to herself and Orestes as τέκνων and temporarily assuming Agamemnon’s perspective, she emphasizes their family relationship and tries to use this as leverage to obtain his sympathy and support. Alternatively, it may take the form of a reproach, if the addressee’s behaviour has not been in accordance with the speaker’s expectations based on their family relationship. For example, in ia 412 Menelaus accuses Agamemnon of betraying his brother. By referring to himself as σὸν κασίγνητον and placing this kin term next to προδούς Menelaus emphasizes the offensiveness of Agamemnon’s behaviour. 2. The second group is the largest and consists of mostly lyric addresses to dead family members and farewells between relatives. All instances are full of pathos. The indirect self-reference by means of a kin term anchored in the addressee usually adds a touch of self-pity on the part of the speaker, sometimes bordering on reproach of the dead, dying, or departing addressee

95

Additional examples include Alc. 714, Hipp. 1081, Supp. 1052, El. 1165, hf 1112, Phoen. 1691, 1708, Or. 197.

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for leaving him behind.96 For example, in Hec. 427 Hecuba replies to Polyxena’s farewell that while others may fare well, it is impossible for her mother to do so. By referring to herself as μητρί, Hecuba draws attention from Polyxena’s impending death to her own suffering, while trying to elicit pity for herself. A very similar example shows how this pathetic self-reference may border on reproach. In ia 1465 Clytaemestra protests against Iphigenia’s departure to be sacrificed for Greece. By referring to herself as μητέρ’, Clytaemestra emphasizes their family bond and lays claim to behaviour expected on the basis of this, using it as leverage to make Iphigenia stay and to reproach her if she does not. 3. The third group contains a few instances that are found in recognition scenes.97 The instances that occur just prior to the recognition show the speaker trying to convince the addressee of their family relationship. For example, in it 802 Orestes tries to convince Iphigenia of his identity by referring to himself as her brother (ἀδελφόν), momentarily assuming her perspective. Instances that occur just following the recognition seem instead to confirm and celebrate the newly established family bond. It is as if the speaker is repeating the information, because he still cannot believe it himself. For example, in Ion 1439 Creusa expresses her gratitude at having recovered Ion by calling him a light stronger than the sun to his mother (μητρί). Indirect self-reference by means of kin terms anchored in the addressee is remarkably frequent in the stichomythic conversation between Iphigenia and Agamemnon in ia 640–677. If the transmitted text is correct, Agamemnon refers to himself as Iphigenia’s father four times within the same conversation: first, when he returns Iphigenia’s enthusiastic greeting (641: πατήρ);98 secondly, when he connects his own journey to Troy with Iphigenia’s impending journey (665: πατρί); thirdly and fourthly, when he comments respectively on her oblivion of and separation from him in her future dwelling (667: πατρός, 669: πατρός, cf. also 680: πατρός).99

96 97 98

99

Additional examples include Alc. 271, Hipp. 1452, Andr. 511, Hec. 186, 513, 694, Supp. 803, 1141, 1164, Tro. 590, 603, 1212, 1303, Phoen. 1701, Or. 1046, Bacch. 1367, ia 886. Additional examples include hf 531, it 866, Ion 556, 1459, Hel. 566. However, Kovacs (2003) 90 argues as follows: 640 and 642 cover the same ground; 641 contains an outright lie while 643 contains merely ambiguous language; Agamemnon expresses ambiguous language throughout this conversation, but no outright lies; therefore, 640–641 must be deleted and 642–643 retained. However, Diggle (1994a) marks the unmetrical 665 as non Euripideus, and Kovacs (2003) 90 n. 53 follows Jackson’s deletion of 665.

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Agamemnon’s repeated indirect self-references as Iphigenia’s father emphasize their intimate family bond. Iphigenia’s fondness for Agamemnon is obvious: she is very happy to see him (631–632, 635–637, 640, 642) and is called daddy’s girl or φιλοπάτωρ … μάλιστα by Clytaemestra (638–639).100 Agamemnon says that he is glad to see Iphigenia too (641, 649 is ambiguous), and expresses sadness at her impending departure (681–690), for he loves his children including Iphigenia (1256).101 However, Agamemnon is torn between love for his daughter and his duty as a commander of the Greek army, which orders him to sacrifice Iphigenia to Artemis in exchange for favourable weather to set out for Troy.102 The mutual affection between father and child, as displayed in the stichomythic conversation, makes the present deception and impending sacrifice of Iphigenia all the harder for Agamemnon.103 It also increases the pathos of the scene, for although ‘Iphigenia senses that her father is preoccupied …, she is pathetically unaware of the true design of Agamemnon’.104 Agamemnon’s indirect self-references allow him to express his sadness at Iphigenia’s impending sacrifice and self-pity, just as in the examples of the second group discussed above. What is more, they allow him to express his feelings in a controlled and hidden manner, without explicit reference to the sacrifice. In this they dovetail with Agamemnon’s ambiguous language and conflation of language that can be related to marriage (Iphigenia’s and Clytaemestra’s interpretation) as well as sacrifice (Agamemnon’s interpretation).105 The dramatic situation also resembles that of the first group of examples discussed above (p. 68). McDonald has argued that Iphigenia eventually agrees to be sacrificed

100 101

102

103 104 105

Cf. Wassermann (1949) 180–181, Siegel (1980) 305, McDonald (1990) 74, 76, Kovacs (2003) 90. Cf. Wassermann (1949) 181, 186, Vretska (1961) 23, Siegel (1981) 264, Foley (1982) 161, Lawrence (1988) 95, Lawrence (1989) 8, McDonald (1990) 76, Kovacs (2003) 90. However, most critics qualify Agamemnon’s love for Iphigenia. E.g. Wassermann (1949) emphasizes the conflict between Agamemnon the father and Agamemnon the ruler. Vretska (1961) denies the existence of such a conflict and instead emphasizes the struggle of Agamemnon, a father who considers his leadership a burden, with what fate confronts him with. Agamemnon’s motivation (external/internal) and evaluation of his behaviour (positive/negative) have been the subject of much critical debate. For an overview of literature on the subject see Siegel (1981) 257–258, particularly n. 1–3. Wassermann (1949) 181. Siegel (1980) 305. Cf. Wassermann (1949) 181, Sorum (1992) 534. For the marriage/sacrifice motif in general, see Foley (1982).

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out of philia towards her father.106 Her obedience and willingness to be sacrificed are part of the common and expected behaviour of a child towards a parent.107 In this context, Agamemnon’s indirect self-references as Iphigenia’s father may be considered an early appeal to Iphigenia for understanding and cooperation in the impending sacrifice. Finally, Agamemnon’s indirect self-references might function on an altogether different level still. The first two occur in utterances where a close connection between Iphigenia and Agamemnon is established. Agamemnon reciprocates Iphigenia’s enthusiastic greeting with: καὶ γὰρ πατὴρ σέ· τόδ’ ἴσον ὑπὲρ ἀμφοῖν λέγεις (641), and sees a parallel between his own journey to Troy and Iphigenia’s impending departure for Hades: εἰς ταὐτόν, ὦ θύγατερ, ἥκεις σῷ πατρί (665). The second utterance is dramatically ironic because it contains an additional parallel of which Agamemnon is unaware: he does not know that, like Iphigenia, he will travel to Hades upon his return from the Trojan War. His third and fourth indirect self-references occur in utterances that stress the separation and oblivion that will accompany Iphigenia’s journey. The same will be true of his own. Thus, Agamemnon’s indirect self-references might help unconsciously to forge a link between the sacrifice of Iphigenia and his own murder.108 Other features in this scene that help to establish this connection include the tableau of Clytaemestra’s arrival in a chariot, accompanied by Iphigenia and Orestes and welcomed by her husband.109 2.4.2.2 Anchored in the Referent of the Conversation The speaker may also indirectly refer to himself by means of kin terms anchored in a referent of the conversation, i.e. somebody whom the conversation is about, thus temporarily assuming this person’s perspective. One might expect this pattern to occur mainly in contexts where interlocutors are unrelated, but speaker and referent share a family relationship. This is the case, for example, in Hec. 992, where Hecuba asks Polymestor whether her son Polydorus ever thinks of his mother (τῆς τεκούσης τῆσδε).110 By referring to herself with a kin term

106 107 108 109 110

McDonald (1990). McDonald (1990) with reference to Arist. Eth. Nic. 1165a. Sorum (1992) 538. Cf. Wassermann (1949) 181, Luschnig (1982) 103; Sorum (1992) 537–538 lists additional features throughout the play. Other examples include Hipp. 1040 (where the referent is present at the conversation), 1165, Supp. 819, hf 1056, Phoen. 427 (where the interlocutors have a family relationship, but the speaker and referent are in-laws so that the addressee and referent are not directly related), Bacch. 1195.

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that is anchored in the referent, Hecuba emphasizes their family relationship, expresses certain expectations about Polydorus’ behaviour towards her based on this, and displays her disappointment and self-pity when these expectations are not met. Hecuba’s use of this pattern here is ironic as she knows that Polydorus cannot think of her anymore, because he has been murdered by Polymestor. By expressing her disappointment in Polydorus she exerts pressure on Polymestor who is ultimately responsible for her son’s ‘neglect’. The same pattern also occurs in contexts where the interlocutors have a family relationship and are both related to the referent of the conversation. A number of interesting examples are found in the final kommos of Supplices, a play that features three family generations.111 The young Argives bring the ashes of their dead fathers, and engage in lyric exchange with their grandmothers.112 Together they lament the Argive warriors. Although the interlocutors are thus related, the women repeatedly refer to themselves as mothers of the Argive warriors (1128: φίλᾳ ματρί, 1136: ματρός, 1156: ματρί), temporarily adopting the perspective of the referents of the conversation instead of their own or their interlocutors’.113 Why is this and what is its effect? First, it must be noted that the boys give license for the women’s unusual indirect self-reference by addressing their grandmothers as μᾶτερ (1124). Although this kin term might be used loosely for ‘grandmother’, I believe that the boys address their grandmothers as mothers of the dead Argives.114 The women’s indirect self-reference

111 112

113

114

Morwood (2007) 3, 6. Thury (1988) studies the imagery of youth and old age particularly in Supplices. Other examples include El. 1183, it 556, 563, ia 728, 1110. For the constitution of the chorus, see Willink (1990) 347–348, Scully (1996–1997) 68. Morwood (2007) 6, 231 sees a link between the chorus of boys and the presentation of war orphans at the beginning of the Dionysia. Both the boys (1142) and the women (1146) also refer to themselves respectively as sons and as mothers when they address the Argive warriors, but this is different because communicative contact between the interlocutors is temporarily interrupted. Cf. Kovacs (1998) 127, n. 31 and Morwood (2007) 231: ‘Both are surely invoked’. However, Dickey (1996) 78–79 discusses the use of μῆτερ to address people other than parents to denote a special bond between speaker and addressee or as a general polite address for older women in prose, but she does not mention the particular case of μῆτερ to address a grandmother. Cf. also Dickey (2004) 138: ‘In other types of Greek, extended kinship terms are clearly used as politeness features, indicating respect and/or affection for the person awarded metaphorical kinship status’, but in documentary papyri μήτηρ is a term always used literally (152, 165). Wendel (1929) 96 states that with the exception of Tro. 1229, where the Chorus address Hecuba as μᾶτερ although Astyanax is the only obvious anchor and Hecuba is his grandmother, Euripides strictly observes the boundaries of family relationships.

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as mothers of the Argive warriors seems to me a linguistic symptom of their self-absorption in grief: their attention shifts inward from regular communicative interaction to their dead sons and particularly to themselves.115 By contrast, the boys’ response soon turns outward into action and revenge.116 Thus, the voices in the final kommos are not uniform,117 but show how members of different generations and genders respond to the death of the Argive warriors. As such it suits the immediate dramatic context, for it has often been observed that the second part of the play, with its kommoi, funeral oration, and Iphisand-Euadne-episode, presents various responses to grief over the death of the Argive warriors.118 The Argives’ mothers concentrate on the personal and negative side of their sons’ deaths, which challenges the public and positive views of them expressed by Theseus and in the funeral oration.119 2.4.3 Referent of the Conversation 2.4.3.1 Anchored in the Addressee Let us now turn to kin terms that are used to denote referents of the conversation, i.e. persons whom the conversation is about. If the speaker and referent are in a family relationship, the most direct and economic way for the speaker to refer to him is by means of an egocentric kin term. If the speaker and referent are not related but the addressee and referent are, the speaker may denote the referent of the conversation by means of an addressee-centered kin term. Other patterns exceed the basic principles of economy and may therefore be considered significant. I will start with kin terms denoting referents of the conversation that are anchored in the addressee instead of the speaker, even though the speaker himself is also related to this person.120 Most examples of this pattern are 115 116

117

118 119

120

Collard (1963) 185. For the boys’ revenge see Toher (2001) 339. For the contrast between their response and that of the women see Scully (1996–1997) 78 and Foley (1993) 123, 128. Foley (1993) sees in this contrast ‘a reversal of the tragic norm’, as women are ‘otherwise represented in Greek literature as particularly prone to move swiftly from lamentation to wrath and revenge’ (121). However, cf. Saïd (1998) 290, who contrasts the theme of family in the kommos versus the theme of politics in the epilogue. However, I would argue that the theme of politics originates in the boys’ contributions to the kommos. Collard (1972) 47–48, Whitehorne (1986) 68–72, Toher (2001) 340. Foley (1993) 117–129, who connects this with the play’s historical context in which women’s funeral lament was restricted—cf. also Loraux (1998) 27–28, 36–37, 54—Scully (1996– 1997) 76. On the funeral oration in general see Collard (1972). Additional examples are: Alc. 372, Tro. 1234, ia 669, 1447.

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uttered by a parent, often a mother, to a child or children. The remaining examples are uttered by parental figures to child-like figures.121 However, the effect of the pattern differs. Usually, it merely seems to illustrate the speaker’s emotional empathy with his addressee, for example in Heracles when Megara announces Heracles’ return to Amphitryon and her children, referring to Heracles not as her husband, but as σοῦ παιδός (519) and urging the children to cling to πατρῴων πέπλων (520). Many examples are found in Phoenissae, where family relationships are unusually complex. Some occur in the closing scene between Oedipus and Antigone (1547, 1558, 1693), where they merely seem to be underlining the mutual empathy between the interlocutors. Others occur in Iocaste’s appeals to her children to prevent Oedipus’ curse from materializing (624, 1272, 1277). Here the addressee-centered kin terms add weight to Iocaste’s appeal: it is as family members that they should cooperate and help each other. Sometimes, the referent of the conversation is actually present and the utterance, although formally addressed to the addressee, seems in reality to be intended for his/her ears. Two examples of this are found in Medea where Jason and Medea address their dead children and refer to each other by means of kin terms that are viewed from the perspective of the children (1363: ὦ τέκνα … μητρός; 1364: ὦ παῖδες … πατρῴᾳ νόσῳ). Mastronarde mentions these as an example of echoing and contrasting of specific words in successive lines characteristic of violently argumentative stichomythia.122 Whereas the anchorage of the kin terms remains in the children, the speaker changes from Jason to Medea, and the referent of the conversation from Medea to Jason. Although in theory these are utterances of sympathy towards the children, in practice they function as mutual reproaches between the interlocutors. So even after their death the children continue to be used as weapons in the battle between Jason and Medea.

121

122

E.g. Megara to the old Amphitryon in the presence of her children, Hecuba to her grandchild Astyanax, and Antigone to her father Oedipus while she is taking care of him. Cf. Fillmore (1997) 119–120 on the same phenomenon in English: ‘There are many ways of referring to people which can best be thought of in terms of the speaker’s taking the addressee’s point of view. In particular in conversation with small children, the words used for identifying members of the child’s family are the words that it would be appropriate for the child to use. A mother, thus, when talking to her small child, will refer to herself as “Mommy”, to her brother Will as “Uncle Willy”, to her father as “Grandpa”, and so on, each time taking the word which would be appropriate for the child to use rather than the word which would be appropriate for her to use’ (my italics). Mastronarde (2002) 382.

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A similar example is ia 1117, where Clytaemestra urges Iphigenia to come out ‘for you know in any case all that your father (πατρός) intends’. The addresseecentered kin term πατρός and the implicit reference to Iphigenia’s impending sacrifice seem to clash. As in the Medea-example the parent’s actions are incongruous with his parent-child relationship, but unlike the Medea-example this is no overt but a covert reproach to Agamemnon, for he is unaware that Clytaemestra and Iphigenia already know about the sacrifice. Therefore the kin term is used with some drama-internal irony here. Drama-external irony is found in Phoen. 1693, where Oedipus refers to Iocaste as μητρὸς … σέθεν. Only with the addition of explicit anchorage does it become clear that Oedipus is not referring to Iocaste as his own mother, but as his addressee Antigone’s. The slight postponement of σέθεν is likely to contain a touch of irony here.123 2.4.3.2 Anchored in Another Referent Kin terms denoting referents of the conversation may occasionally be anchored in yet another referent, instead of in the speaker or the addressee, even though they share a family relationship with those referents. In Hec. 711 Hecuba refers to Priam not as her own husband, but as ὁ γέρων πατήρ of Polydorus, who is the topic of conversation at that point. It is probably his central position in the entire conversation that causes him to be used as the anchor. In Hipp. 800 the Chorus Leader reports Phaedra’s death to Theseus. She does not refer to Phaedra as Theseus’ wife, assuming the perspective of her addressee, but as the children’s mother (μητρός), assuming the perspective of the referents of the conversation at that point. Because the children have not been at the center of attention for a long time, it seems unlikely that this would have triggered the indirect use of the kin term. Rather, it seems to be the Chorus’ discomfort at reporting bad news to Theseus that causes them to express themselves in such an indirect manner. In his response Theseus immediately clarifies the matter by taking on an egocentric perspective and referring to Phaedra as ἄλοχος (Hipp. 801). Finally, I would like to concentrate on Ion, in which the patterns just discussed all cooperate to create a dramatic effect. First, at the end of the epirrhematic exchange between the Chorus, Creusa and the Old Man, the latter refers to Xuthus not as Creusa’s husband, but as Ion’s father (800: πατήρ). His example is taken up by the Chorus in the following lines (802: πατρί). Their choice for this particular anchorage is remarkable, especially because Creusa is present

123

Cf. the locus classicus Soph. ot 928.

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and contributes to the conversation. Why is Xuthus not referred to as Creusa’s husband, as before (789: πόσις σός; 793: πόσις)? As the conversation progresses, Creusa’s misfortune is gradually revealed and culminates: Creusa will have no children, and Xuthus has a child from an earlier relationship: the templeservant Ion. Step by step Creusa is excluded from the family picture. When she and Xuthus came to Delphi to consult Apollo’s oracle, they were a couple and Ion was addressed as a ξένος. In the first stichomythic conversation between Ion and Creusa it became clear that Xuthus was a foreigner, brought in from outside (289–297: ἐπακτός, ξένος).124 The instant familiarity in this conversation formed a contrast with the awkwardness between Ion and Xuthus,125 and showed that Xuthus was not just a political outsider, but was also excluded from what Ion and Creusa shared on personal, emotional, and intellectual levels.126 However, following the pseudo-recognition scene between Ion and Xuthus, the characters are paired up differently still. Despite Ion’s professed fear of being an outsider in Athens both politically and personally (589–592, 606–615),127 he and Xuthus share a family bond in which Creusa has no part. The personal aspect of her exclusion has been pointed out by various scholars: her mother love is frustrated and she is isolated from her husband.128 However, the political aspect must not be overlooked.129 Creusa is the only surviving child of the Athenian royal family. She is married to a foreigner. If she does not have children but Xuthus does, his bastard son will receive her inheritance and terminate the royal line. Creusa’s personal isolation and political exclusion are reflected in the shifted anchorage of kin terms referring to Xuthus from Creusa to Ion: Xuthus’ predominant role is no longer that of Creusa’s husband, but of Ion’s father. In the stichomythic confrontation between Ion and Creusa following the attempted murder, Creusa herself refers to Xuthus as πατρὸς σοῦ (1287), relating him to her interlocutor Ion instead of to herself. Her choice for this particular anchorage shows that she has now fully acknowledged the exclusive family bond between Ion and Xuthus.130 From a drama-external perspective

124 125 126 127 128 129

130

For Xuthus’ exclusion as a foreigner see Whitman (1974) 89, Loraux (1994) 206–207. See section 3.3.3. Cf. Hoffer (1996) 304, 310. Cf. Loraux (1994) 206, Lee (1996) 94, 96. Cf. Rivier (1944) 124, Dunn (1990) 140, Lee (1996) 96, 104, Lee (1997) 27–29. Cf. Dunn (1990) 134–136, Watson (1995) 11, 28 including n. 32, 35, Lee (1996) 98, 104. Zacharia (2003) adds the aspect of gender: ‘… both Kreousa and Xouthos are outsiders, the former as a woman (though she is Athenian), the latter as an Achaean (though he is a man). Ion is in between the two …’ (76). If her attempted murder of Ion had not shown this already.

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the kin terms are of course ironic: Xuthus is everything but Ion’s father.131 While Creusa’s isolation has a large impact on the human plane—her jealousy almost causes Ion’s death132 thus interfering with Apollo’s plans, on the divine plane it is just another necessary step in the bigger scheme for the greater ‘good’.133 2.4.4 Polycentric and Complex Anchorage The anchor of the kin terms discussed so far has been located either in the speaker or in the referent of the conversation, but the anchorage itself remained uniform and single. By way of comparison I would like to point out two instances in which the anchorage itself is polycentric or complex. In ia 1454 Iphigenia, while talking to Clytaemestra, refers to Agamemnon both from her own perspective as πατέρα τὸν ἀμόν and from her interlocutor’s perspective as πόσιν … σόν. Iphigenia’s polycentric reference to Agamemnon seems to illustrate her capacity to view things from different angles, her open-mindedness which allows her to show understanding for Agamemnon’s position, and the nobility with which she accepts her fate. In Phoen. 1695 Oedipus addresses the dead Iocaste with ὦ μῆτερ, ὦ ξυνάορ’ ἀθλιωτάτη. Here the references are not polycentric—both are centered in Oedipus, the speaker—but complex, simply because Oedipus’ family relationship with Iocaste is equally complex, as she is both his mother and wife.134 The address illustrates this complexity. 2.4.5 Implicit versus Explicit Anchorage Kin terms may or may not be accompanied by possessive pronouns or equivalent expressions that make their anchorage explicit. Wendel describes the difference between addresses with and without a possessive pronoun as follows: ‘Durch die Hinzufügung von ἐμός oder φίλος erhalten die Anreden eine größere Wärme’.135 This may well be the case for addresses, but for kin terms in general there may be more to it. In contexts where the interlocutors are unrelated, but one of them is related to the referent, the anchorage of kin terms is usually unambiguous. So too when interlocutors have an asymmetric family relationship, for example when they are grandchild and grandparent or nephew and uncle. However, when the interlocutors share a symmetric family relationship, 131 132 133 134 135

Cf. Knox (1979) 266. For Creusa as an example of the wicked stepmother, but portrayed slightly more favourably than usual, see Watson (1995) 12, 23–24, 26, 28–29, 32, 35–37. Cf. Hoffer (1996) 301–303, Lee (1996) 86–87, 104–105, Arnott (1996) 111, Lee (1997) 33. Cf. the locus classicus Soph. ot 928. Wendel (1929) 96, 99.

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such as siblings or parents, and when they share the relation to the referent of the conversation, the anchorage of the kin terms used may in theory lie both/either in the speaker and/or addressee. Greek does not need a possessive pronoun or equivalent expression to make possessive relations explicit. In prose an article is sufficient, and in poetry even this is not necessary.136 Therefore, the anchorage of kin terms used in this context is often left implicit. Of the cases in which it is made explicit, those in which kin terms are anchored in one of the interlocutors only, even though their relation with the referent of the conversation is shared, are the most unusual and therefore most interesting.137 A passage where this pattern is repeatedly employed is the stichomythic discussion between Electra and Orestes prior to the murder of Clytaemestra in El. 959–987.138 This conversation contains many kinship references to Clytaemestra, and some to Agamemnon. Most instances are not explicitly anchored and thus shared between the interlocutors (961: μήτηρ, 967: μητρός, 973: μητέρ’, 976: πατρί, 977: μητρός). As Schwinge remarks, ‘es ist ihre gemeinsame Mutter, um die es jetzt geht, und genauso ihre gemeinsame Tat, die geschehen soll’.139 However, some instances are explicitly and exclusively anchored in one of the interlocutors only. For example, Orestes refers to Clytaemestra as τὴν τεκοῦσαν ἥ μ’ ἐγείνατο (964),140 and νιν ἥ μ’ ἔθρεψε κἄτεκεν (969), thus stressing the bond between his mother and himself.141 In response to this Electra explicitly refers

136 137

138 139 140

141

Cf. Smyth (1956) 287. Cf. Fillmore (1997) 118–119 on the same phenomenon in English: ‘In English, the assumptions associated with the use of a possessive pronoun with a kinship term allow the possessive to be used insincerely in some cases, cases where the relationship is perfectly clear but the speaker, probably as a joke, wishes to act as if one or another of the partners does not have the mentioned relationship to the individual referred to.’ My position in the matter of the distribution of speakers in this passage is explained in the appendix to this chapter (p. 88–90). Other examples are: Med. 596, Alc. 388, ia 711, 729. Schwinge (1968) 87. I generally agree with Lloyd (1986a) that ‘it is dangerous to read psychological subtleties into pleonasms in stichomythia’ and that ‘the emphasis might equally be taken to express contempt’ (17–18). However, this context of explicit and exclusive anchorage seems to provide additional evidence for assigning line 964 with its ‘fullness of expression’ (17) to Orestes, just like 969. Cf. the appendix to this chapter (p. 88–90). Note that in 264 Orestes used a similar expression (μήτηρ δε’ σ’ ἡ τεκοῦσα) to refer to Clytaemestra in discussing the harm she has caused Electra. In 278 Orestes simply uses μητέρ’ without a possessive to suggest the murder of Clytaemestra, but here he has not yet revealed his true identity and the matricide is still far away. In 1183–1184 Electra uses a similar expression to Orestes’ in 264, 964 and 969 (ματρὶ τᾷδ’, ἅ μ’ ἔτικτε κούραν). However, here Electra regrets the matricide which has just taken place.

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to Agamemnon as a father of both interlocutors (970: πατέρα σὸν κἀμόν)142 and subsequently exclusively of Orestes (974: πατρὶ … σέθεν). This anchorage is in keeping with the dynamics of the communicative interaction. While Electra remains determined to carry out the matricide, Orestes has second thoughts. Matricide is not part of children’s expected or accepted behaviour towards parents. Therefore Orestes has scruples about killing his mother. Electra represents Agamemnon’s side.143 Avenging parricide is in accordance with the relationship between parents and children. Therefore Electra urges Orestes to follow through with their plans. Each interlocutor approaches the topic of discussion from a different angle.144 In this way the moral complexities involved in Clytaemestra’s murder are displayed.145 From a drama-external perspective the stichomythic dialogue and the use of kin terms in it correspond with Euripides’ tendency to show things from different perspectives. 2.4.6 Deceit and Dramatic Irony In the remainder of this section I will illustrate how the anchorage of kin terms may play a role in the creation and maintenance of deceit and dramatic irony. A number of different situations can be distinguished: 1. The interlocutors may be unrelated and one of them may want to hide his identity. This happens, for example, in Bacchae,146 where Dionysus keeps his true identity hidden throughout the play except for the prologue, epiphany (576–641) and exodus. Instead he pretends to be a Lydian thiasos-leader. He hides his true identity by referring to himself in the third person,147 by means of various names (Διόνυσος: 466, 496, 825; Βρόμιος: 790),148 generic terms (θεός: 476, 494, 923; δαίμων: 488), description (651: ὃς τὴν πολύβοτρυν ἄμπελον φύει βροτοῖς), 142 143

144 145

146 147 148

Cf. Electra in 885: σὸν πατέρα κἀμόν. Outside this stichomythic conversation Electra’s references to Agamemnon (25) are significantly more numerous than Orestes’ (6), and she refers to Agamemnon much more often than to Clytaemestra (13). This indicates her concern with Agamemnon. Electra’s fondness of Agamemnon is also explicitly mentioned by Clytaemestra in 1102: ὦ παῖ, πέφυκας πατέρα σὸν στέργειν ἀεί· Halporn (1983) 113 emphasizes the physical and emotional separation between Electra and Orestes: ‘Sister and brother operate out of different principles and in different ways’. Lloyd (1986a) 17, 18, Basta Donzelli (1978) 158, 164 and (1991). Gellie (1981) 7–8 points out that Electra miscalculates the matricide, Gärtner (2005) 4–7 stresses Electra’s responsibility for it, and O’Brien (1964) 25 considers it morally wrong. Cf. also Hel. 78–142, 1250–1278. Seaford (1996) 198. On various names of Dionysus, cf. Segal (1982) 276–277, Fisher (1992) 181, 187–188.

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and kin terms that are anchored in referents of the conversation (466: ὁ τοῦ Διός, 581: ὁ Σεμέλας, ὁ Διὸς παῖς, 602–603: ὁ … Διὸς γόνος). To his family he refers with names instead of egocentrically anchored kin terms (e.g. 468: Σεμέλην). Thus names and kin terms are used by the speaker to create an alter ego and hide his true identity. The reasons for Dionysus’ hidden identity exist on various levels. In literary terms, disguise is a standard feature of the story of the visiting deity common in epic and folk-tale.149 Mortals may be selected by gods to give them hospitality (theoxeny).150 In real life, this is closely connected with cult, but in literature it has the function of testing the mortals in question.151 Dionysus’ disguise is a prerequisite for this as ‘it permit[s] the god to test his followers’ loyalty’.152 The identity assumed by Dionysus of a Lydian thiasos-leader is well-chosen.153 His status as a newcomer makes him dependent on king Pentheus for acceptance. This vulnerable position allows him to be spurned without fear of reprisals.154 For Pentheus this constitutes the ultimate test. Yet the Lydian thiasos-leader also has a link with Dionysus, which makes Pentheus’ rejection of him impious and deserving punishment. Dionysus’ disguise is also considerate towards his followers, as it ‘shields them from the terrors of unmitigated divinity’.155 Fear is a common reaction to divine epiphany.156 On a more thematic level Dionysus’ disguise is in keeping with his ambiguous status and dual identity: he confuses the boundaries between male and female, savagery and civilization, Greek and foreigner, man and beast, divine and human, truth and illusion.157 Some scholars have seen in Bacchae a meta-theatrical dimension. For example, Segal argues that ‘Euripides uses the figure of Dionysus as god of the tragic mask to 149

150 151 152 153 154 155 156

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Rose (1956), Kearns (1982) and Smith (1988) on divine disguise in epic; Burnett (1970) 23ff. argues for a reversal of the common story pattern of the divine visitor in Bacchae; Seaford (1996) 26. On theoxeny see e.g. Kearns (1982) 5–7. Kearns (1982) 5–6. Kearns (1982) 6, Gregory (1985) 26. Cf. also Burnett (1970). Smith (1988) 173 draws attention to the question of the identity assumed. Kearns (1982) 6. Gregory (1985) 26. Cf. also Burnett (1970) and Smith (1988) 168. Kearns (1982) 5. What might happen if a god appeared in his full majesty is suggested by Semele’s fate (cf. Rose (1956) 66, Segal (1982) 237, Gregory (1985) 26), although Zeus’ appearance to Semele was the result of Hera’s ploy and therefore surely did not constitute a general danger. However, men are often afraid at the appearance of a god, even when there is no specific reason for fear: see Griffin (1980) 153–154, Richardson (1974) 208. Seidensticker (1978) on the blending of comic and tragic, Foley (1980) 109, Segal (1982) chapters 1 and 2, Seaford (1996) 31, 148. On transformation cf. Kalke (1985) 410 with n. 6.

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reflect on the paradoxical nature of tragedy itself’, and Foley that ‘Euripides has his Dionysus control the play and make it a manifestation of his divinity’.158 The smiling mask of Dionysus thus epitomizes the power of dramatic irony and illusion in the play.159 Dionysus’ creation of an alter ego by means of names and non-egocentrically anchored kin terms may contribute to this on a linguistic level. 2. Interlocutors may be unrelated, but one of them may try to hide the identity of a physically present family member. Thus the speaker talks about the family member as if he were a stranger, while he refers to his family member as if he were absent or even dead. This situation occurs in the deception scenes of it and Helen.160 The similarity between these plays and their deception scenes has long been observed. However, the deception scene of Helen is overall richer, more elaborate and more full of dramatic irony.161 The role of the physically present relative is also more significant in Helen. Orestes and Iphigenia are brother and sister, while Menelaus and Helen are husband and wife. Menelaus constitutes a more immediate threat to Theoclymenus, who pursues marriage with Helen.162 Orestes pretends to be a random stranger who happens to know that Orestes is alive, while Menelaus assumes the identity of his own shipmate who reports Menelaus’ death. Menelaus’ cover is thus much bolder. Finally, Menelaus engages in the stichomythic conversation, while Orestes does not. As Menelaus’ role is therefore much more interesting, I will concentrate on the deception scene in Helen. Following the news of Menelaus’ death (1196), Helen introduces Menelaus to Theoclymenus as one of Menelaus’ shipmates who witnessed his death. Helen’s comparison between the appearances of this ‘stranger’ and Menelaus (1205) is particularly bold and ironic, as it brings the two dangerously close together. Helen refers to Menelaus as if he were absent and dead, both by name (1196, 1215), and by means of, mostly explicitly, egocentrically anchored kin terms (1205: κἀμὸν … πόσιν, 1207: ἐμῷ … πόσει, 1230: τῷ πόσει, 1239: τὸν κατθανόντα πόσιν ἐμόν). Theoclymenus follows her example (name: 1208: Μενέλεων; kin terms:

158

159 160 161 162

Segal (1982) 216, Foley (1980) 109. Cf. however Kullmann (1993) and Radke (2003) who argues against meta-theatrical readings of Greek tragedies, Euripides’ Bacchae in particular, as distracting interpreters and spectators of the play alike from its genuine focus: the plot, i.e. the specific actions of specific characters. Foley (1980) section iii, Segal (1982) 238ff. it 1153–1221 and Hel. 1193–1249. Matthiessen (1964) 48, 51–52. Segal (1971) 583–584 compares Theoclymenus and Menelaus.

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1222: πόσιν; death: 1229: τὸν θανόντα, 1248: τῷ τεθνηκότι). Helen’s references to Menelaus illustrate her ongoing deceit, while Theoclymenus’ references are a constant reminder of his ignorance. Helen’s behaviour takes extremely bold forms once more, when she promises to marry Theoclymenus in Menelaus’ presence (1231).163 When Menelaus continues the conversation with Theoclymenus, the communicative situation changes into a case of group 1 (p. 79–81), where somebody hides his true identity from his unrelated interlocutor(s). What is the effect of deceit and dramatic irony in this scene? It has often been claimed that the deception scene in Helen— as well as that in it— contrasts Greek intelligence with barbarian stupidity.164 The concealment of Menelaus’ identity might be seen as contributing to this contrast. However, this interpretation seems overly simplistic.165 We have seen before that Theoclymenus is not quite the barbarian monster Helen had led us to believe, and that the Greek protagonists are not depicted wholly positively either.166 As Schmiel points out, ‘Helen and Menelaus are not content merely to deceive Theoclymenus and escape, they must make an utter fool of him in the process’.167 This is visible particularly in Helen’s bold comparison between the ‘shipmate’ and Menelaus. Another instance where Helen pushes the limits is her promise to marry Theoclymenus in Menelaus’ presence. Although this wile is primarily aimed at Theoclymenus, it does not leave Menelaus undisturbed. After their long-awaited but unexpected reunion it must be a shock for Menelaus to hear Helen promise herself to Theoclymenus. The promise lends credibility to Helen’s story, but is it really necessary? Helen’s ruthlessness dupes both Theoclymenus and Menelaus, further weakening a potential contrast between intelligent, moral Greeks and stupid, immoral barbarians. This suggests that the point of the deception scene is not so much characterization in terms of ethnic differences, as to create excitement and tension through dramatic irony. The deceptive anchorage of kin terms contributes to this. 3. The interlocutors may be related, and one of them may know the other’s true identity, while the other is ignorant. The knowing interlocutor may refer to himself and other family members through the exclusive perspective of the unknowing interlocutor, in order to keep his own identity hidden. This happens, for example, in the stichomythic conversation between Orestes and Elec163 164 165 166 167

Note that Theoclymenus will call Helen ἄλοχον in the face of Menelaus at 1277. Matthiessen (1964) 48, Podlecki (1970) 415–416, O’Brien (1988) 106–108. Schmiel (1972) 290–291, Sansone (1975) 294, Wright (2005) 288–289. In section 2.2, p. 56–57. Schmiel (1972) 291.

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tra in El. 220–290. Orestes knows who Electra is, but hides his own identity, pretending to be a messenger from Orestes. In the beginning of the conversation, Orestes uses ‘language that would be difficult to understand in any mouth but his own (220, 222, 224)’.168 Later he refers to himself in the third person, as Electra’s brother (228, 242, 244, 248, 250),169 and finally by name (260, 274, 282).170 In the course of the conversation Orestes’ self-references become more objective and his identity better hidden. At the same time the content of the conversation shifts towards the topic of revenge. As the idea of revenge draws near, Orestes takes more care to conceal his identity. To other family members Orestes refers with kinship terms that are anchored in Electra, sometimes explicitly (254: σῷ πόσει, 264: μήτηρ … σ’ ἡ τεκοῦσα, 288: σὸς πατήρ), but not always (242: πατήρ, 270: μητρὸς πόσις, 276: πατρός, 278: μητέρ’). Electra’s references to family members are sometimes explicitly anchored in herself (281: μητρὸς … ἐμῆς), but usually not (249: πατήρ, 277: † πατήρ †, 279: πατήρ, 287: πατρός). Those kin terms that are not explicitly anchored in Electra are ambiguous, because in theory they could be shared between the interlocutors. Orestes and the audience are aware of this, but Electra is not. Orestes’ explicit anchorage of kin terms in Electra is a strategy to hide his true identity, while Electra’s explicit egocentric anchorage underlines her ignorance and the dramatic irony that permeates this scene. This stichomythic conversation and the dramatic irony in it show ‘the distance that must be crossed before recognition can take place’.171 Why is the recognition thus delayed? Orestes’ caution might initially be explained as an understandable attempt to explore his situation, before revealing his true identity and plans for revenge. However, even after Orestes is sure of Electra’s and the Chorus’ support (272–281), he keeps his true identity hidden. Orestes’ behaviour has been explained in terms of psychology and characterization: he is uncertain and hesitant.172 Some scholars have criticized him for this,173 but others have justified his behaviour. For example, Steidle explains: ‘Orest ist nämlich aufgrund von Elektras Worten der Rache in keiner Weise näher gekommen, so daß es etwa sinnvoll würde, den ursprünglichen Plan aufzugeben und das Inkognito zu lüften’.174 However, Electra’s promise of coop-

168 169 170 171 172 173 174

Lloyd (1986a) 12. Cf. also Schwinge (1968) 299. Note that in four out of five instances the anchorage is explicit. Schwinge (1968) 256, 304, 306–308, 310–311 notes Orestes’ (indirect) self-reference. Lloyd (1986a) 8. Cf. also Halporn (1983) 113. Friedrich (1953) 83, O’Brien (1964) 28, 36 Schwinge (1968) 255–256, 296, 303–304, 308, 312–313. E.g. O’Brien (1964) 28, 36. Steidle (1968) 72.

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eration in 279 seems to me an important step towards revenge. On the other hand, Electra’s failure to respond to Orestes’ hints has been explained as part of her sceptical nature and general inability to grasp the truth.175 The main objection to psychological explanations such as these is that they find no explicit support in the text and are thus subjective. Moreover, Orestes has explicitly stated that he intends to make himself known to Electra (100–101), and Electra cannot be expected to recognize Orestes, because she does not know what he looks like.176 The delayed recognition can better be explained in terms of Euripides’ dramatic purpose. Solmsen writes: ‘Not Orestes but Euripides wishes to keep on pursuing the game so full of surprises and frustrations … He wants the “comedy of errors” to continue’.177 This explanation sounds plausible, but is it sufficient? Lloyd has added that the stichomythic conversation provides a complete and unique account of Electra’s suffering.178 He makes several points. First: ‘If Orestes had identified himself immediately, then Electra’s description of the state of affairs in Argos would have been left incomplete, because any account of her woes that she might then have given would have been coloured by her knowledge that Orestes had finally returned, and that her suffering was therefore likely to be nearing its end’.179 However, the fact that Orestes is alive and sent someone to inquire about Electra’s situation surely gives her hope of deliverance too. Second: ‘It is important that Orestes himself should have a full appreciation of what his sister has suffered for so long in his absence, and this can best be derived from his actually seeing her condition before she realizes that he has returned’.180 However, this has already been accomplished in Orestes’ observation of Electra’s monody and lyric exchange with the Chorus (112–212). The crucial difference seems to be the interaction between Orestes and Electra, expressed in Lloyd’s third point: ‘As it is, his sympathetic responses (e.g., 240, 264, 282, 290) add another dimension to what she says and help to guide our own response to it’.181 This in combination with the tension brought about by dramatic irony seems to be the main point of the stichomythic conversation between Orestes and Electra.

175 176 177 178 179 180 181

Schwinge (1968) 256–257, 309, Gellie (1981) 5. Lloyd (1986a) 12–13. Solmsen (1967) 13/41. For a parallel cf. the recognition of Odysseus by Laertes in book 24 of the Odyssey. Lloyd (1986a) 13. Cf. also Schwinge (1968) 306. Lloyd (1986a) 13. Lloyd (1986a) 13. Lloyd (1986a) 13. Cf. also Schwinge (1968) 307.

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4. a. Interlocutors may be members of the same family but neither of them may know the other’s true identity. The interlocutors may seem reluctant to provide information about their identity and family, as is the case in it 493–569. The scarcity of kin terms and their non-egocentric anchorage play an important role in the interlocutors’ obscuring their identity. Iphigenia’s references to Orestes’ parents (497: μητρός … ἐκ μιᾶς, 499: ὁ γεννήσας πατήρ) are ironic because she does not know that they are the same as hers. Later questions about her family members contain names instead of kin terms (521: Ἑλένη, Μενέλεω, 537: Θέτιδος δ’ ὁ τῆς Νηρῇδος παῖς), and references in Orestes’ responses are equally neutral (524: Σπάρτῃ … τῷ πάρος ξυνευνέτῃ). This may not be surprising, because the interlocutors do not know each other’s identity, and because for distant family members reference by means of names instead of kin terms may not be that unusual.182 However, when the conversation turns to more direct family members, the references remain neutral. If kin terms are used, they are anchored in referents of the conversation instead of the interlocutors. Iphigenia refers to her parents and sibling as ὁ στρατηγός, ὃν λέγουσ’ εὐδαιμονεῖν (543), Ἀτρέως ἐλέγετο δή τις Ἀγαμέμνων ἄναξ (545), ἡ κτανοῦσα χὠ θανών (552), τοῦ ταλαιπώρου δάμαρ (555), ἄλλον Ἀγαμέμνων γόνον (561), ὁ κτανὼν αὐτὴν πατήρ (565). Much of the information Iphigenia has about the Trojan War and its aftermath is through hearsay. This is not surprising considering the fact that she has been far removed from the Greek world. However, here Iphigenia uses hearsay in her references to Agamemnon, thus downplaying her existing knowledge about him. These ‘rumours’ are considered by Wright deliberate and self-conscious references to myth which support his view that it, like Helen, has a metamythological dimension and is to some extent about myth and fiction.183 However, the Trojan War and its participants were surely famous in the mythological past as well (cf. 670–671). It seems to me more relevant that Iphigenia uses hearsay to distance herself from her direct family members. Orestes refers to his parents and sister with γυναικός (552), πατρός (558),184 and Ἠλέκτραν … παρθένον μίαν (562). The interlocutors even refer to each other (Iphigenia: 567: ὁ τοῦ θανόντος … παῖς … πατρός; Orestes 522: τῶν ἐμῶν τινι) and themselves (Iphigenia: 563: σφαγείσης θυγατρός; Orestes 556: παῖς … ὃν ἔτεκ’) by anchoring kin terms in referents of the conversation instead of egocentrically.185 182 183 184 185

Cf. Dickey (1996) 227–228. Wright (2005) 139. Not anchored egocentrically, but in the referent of the conversation. Cf. also their references to their brother and sister respectively in wishes at 611–612 (Iphigenia) and 627 (Orestes).

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Why are the interlocutors so secretive about their identity? At first the interlocutors do not know anything about each other and so there may not be a very compelling reason to exchange identities.186 Orestes’ reluctance may then be motivated by pride (481–491) embarrassment (502), or by his ‘realization of the futility of his actions’.187 However, when the interlocutors both turn out to be Greeks in a foreign country, it becomes strange that they never properly introduce themselves, although they come close twice (540–541, 550–551). Orestes’ reluctance at that point (544, 554) may be explained by shame for his matricide, but Iphigenia’s behaviour remains odd. Even if, based on the dream she had, she believes Orestes to be dead, why should she hide her identity to any other Greek? The motivation for their secretiveness thus seems to become predominantly drama-external: by delaying the recognition the tension of dramatic irony is extended as long as possible.188 4. b. Interlocutors who do not know that they are members of the same family may also be perfectly willing to provide information about their identity and family background, but they may lack access to this information, because they do not really know themselves. In this case it is not the interlocutors’ reluctance but their inability that prevents recognition from taking place. This happens, for example, in the first two parts of the stichomythic conversation between Ion and Creusa in Ion 255–325. All of the kin terms used in the first part of the conversation to describe Creusa’s family background (263: πατέρων, 267: πατρός σου πρόγονος … πατήρ, 277: πατὴρ … σὰς … συγγόνους, 279: κασιγνήτων, 280: μητρός, 281: πατέρα, 289: πόσις, 299: ἀνδρί, 300: ἀνδρί, 303: παίδων), although anchored in Creusa, refer to people who are at the same time also Ion’s family members. When Ion is referring to Creusa’s children and her childlessness, he is in fact unconsciously referring to himself. The kin terms used to describe Ion’s family background in the second part of the conversation (308: σου τὴν τεκοῦσαν, 321: μητέρ’, 328: γονάς, 324: ἡ τεκοῦσ’, 330: σῇ μητρί) in reality refer to Creusa, and when she mentions Ion’s mother she is in fact unconsciously referring to herself. So here kin terms are not consciously used by the interlocutors for any rhetorical purpose, but exclusively put into their mouths by the playwright to create and maintain dramatic irony. 186 187 188

Cf. Wright (2005) 284. Wright (2005) 284. The Chorus’ comment at 574–575· τί δ’ ἡμεῖς οἵ τ’ ἐμοὶ γεννήτορες; with its (contrastive?) emphasis on the first person comes close to giving the game away.—Caldwell (1974–1975) 26 adds: ‘Iphigenia’s ignorance of the identity of her brother, is essential both for the melodramatic excitement of the first third of the it and for the transition to a recollection of the Choephori’, but I do not find his argument convincing.

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4. c. Besides reluctance to reveal or lack of knowledge about one’s identity, recognition between related interlocutors may be impeded by other factors. Hel. 546–596 is a case in point. Segal describes its distinctive character as follows: ‘In the other recognition plays of about this time, the Ion and the Iphigenia in Tauris, the lost pair feels an instinctive affinity, a spontaneous communication between one another before they actually know who they are … In the Helen this feature of the recognition theme is lacking’.189 Helen and Menelaus recognize each other by their appearances, but Menelaus will not believe that the woman he sees is his wife, because he already believes Helen’s double to be his wife.190 So when Helen refers to herself by means of a kin term anchored in the addressee (566: σῆς δάμαρτος), Menelaus objects to their assumed relationship in this term (567: ποίας δάμαρτος;). In ancient Greece δάμαρ could have only one referent, a man could only have one wife (cf. 571: οὐ μὴν γυναικῶν γ’ εἷς δυοῖν ἔφυν πόσις).191 For Menelaus this is Helen’s double and not his current interlocutor. Helen tries to convince him of her identity by contrasting the flexibility and ambiguity of linguistic terms with the conclusiveness of the physical presence of their referents.192 However, ‘appearances are not enough to convince Menelaus of Helen’s identity; therefore they have to resort to words’.193 Only when a messenger comes and reports the disappearance of Helen’s double does the kin term δάμαρ have a single referent and is Menelaus ready to accept the real Helen as his wife.194 In this section I have considered kin terms as a form of social deixis. I have shown that kin terms can be anchored in their communicative contexts in different ways. Some ways are less straightforward and expected than others, and therefore all the more significant. I have tried to explain why certain kin terms are anchored in certain ways in particular contexts by taking into account the rhetorical purpose of the speaker on the intra-dramatic level as well as the dramatic purpose of the playwright on the extra-dramatic level. This approach has resulted in a number of observations. Because being part of a family entails

189 190 191 192 193 194

Segal (1971) 580. Cf. Schmiel (1972) 286. Cf. section 2.3, p. 63–64 above. Segal (1971) 566 draws attention to the epistemological themes in this stichomythia. Wright (2005) 303. The recognition scene may have a dark under-tone. Segal (1971) 580 points out that there is a double anagnorisis: ‘The joyful discovery of his real wife is balanced by the grim, mocking discovery of the emptiness of the prize of war’, while Wright (2005) 300, 305 states: ‘Their extravagant joy is undercut by a darker mood of uncertainty and doubt’.

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a certain amount of responsibility and cooperative behaviour towards family members, kin terms are a powerful rhetorical tool in communicative interactions. They can be used to obtain favours, to exert pressure, to convince people, to express reproach, to arouse pity or simply to celebrate family relationships and show empathy. Kin terms are also important in establishing identity. They connect individuals with respect to their family relationships, thus functioning as indications of identity. It is therefore not surprising that unusual patterns of kin term anchorage are often found in contexts where the speaker wants to hide his own or somebody else’s identity. When the anchorage of kin terms has been shifted elsewhere, their origin cannot be traced back to the speaker and no clues can be gathered as to the speaker’s identity. On the drama-external level this same identifying property of kin terms becomes an important means for the playwright to create and maintain dramatic irony. 2.4.7

Appendix: Electra 959–966 El. 959–970 εἶἑν· κομίζειν τοῦδε σῶμ’ ἔσω χρεὼν σκότῳ τε δοῦναι, δμῶες, ὡς ὅταν μόλῃ μήτηρ, σφαγῆς πάροιθε μὴ ’σίδῃ νεκρόν. ἐπίσχες· ἐμβάλωμεν εἰς ἄλλον λόγον. τί δ’; ἐκ Μυκηνῶν μῶν βοηδρόμους ὁρᾷς; οὔκ, ἀλλὰ τὴν τεκοῦσαν ἥ μ’ ἐγείνατο. καλῶς ἄρ ἄρκυν ἐς μέσην πορεύεται καὶ μὴν ὄχοις γε καὶ στολῇ λαμπρύνεται. τί δῆτα δρῶμεν; μητέρ’ ἦ φονεύσομεν; μῶν σ’ οἶκτος εἷλε, μητρὸς ὡς εἶδες δέμας; φεῦ πῶς γὰρ κτάνω νιν, ἣ μ’ ἔθρεψε κἄτεκεν; ὥσπερ πατέρα σὸν ἥδε κἀμὸν ὤλεσεν.

Manuscript l gives 959–961 to Orestes, then alternating lines to Electra and Orestes. One group of critics195 inverts this distribution through line 965, in order to fix the inconsistency between the bold σφαγῆς πάροιθε (961) and Orestes’ reluctance in 967 and 969, and because 964 suits Orestes better than

195

Camper (1831), Kirchhoff (1855), Murray (1935), Denniston (1939), Diggle (1981).

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Electra.196 Another group of critics197 defends the manuscript distribution on the following grounds: a. It would be inappropriate for Electra to give orders to Orestes’ slaves in 959–960 in male company and with Orestes in charge;198 b. It is the sight of Clytaemestra which causes Orestes’ sudden hesitation concerning the matricide;199 c. Line 963 is more appropriate for Orestes, because he has just killed Aegisthus;200 d. Line 964 is more appropriate for Electra, because it allows her to comment sarcastically on the bitter relationship with her mother, and she is more likely to recognize Clytaemestra;201 e. Line 965 is more appropriate for Orestes, because he used a similar hunting metaphor in 582.202 However, most of these arguments do not seem persuasive to me: a. Electra has shown bold behaviour before, even in male company (cf. the Farmer’s criticism in 343–344). She is in charge of the matricide and this may be the point where she takes over from Orestes;203 c. Line 963 is equally appropriate for Orestes and Electra, because they undertake the murders together; d. Line 964 seems even more appropriate for Orestes, considering 967 and 969,204 and Clytaemestra’s arrival is expected and her splendid entourage makes her immediately recognizable;205 e. Unlike 965, the hunting metaphor in 582 was not explicitly related to the matricide. Besides, the two metaphors occur far apart and speakers’ imagery need not be consistent. Argument b. is more compelling, yet I believe that it is not so much the sight of Clytaemestra as the fact that the execution of the matricide draws near, that causes Orestes’ hesitation.206 The matricide should be distinguished from Aegisthus’ murder. Whereas Orestes seemed prepared to undertake the combined murders (89, 276, 600, 614, 646), 196 197

198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205

206

Denniston (1939) 166. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1875), Weil (1905), Wuhrmann (1940) 98, Schwinge (1968) 85– 90, Steidle (1968) 74–76, Basta Donzelli (1978) 159–160, Lloyd (1986a) 17–18, Basta Donzelli (1991) 18–20. Weil (1905) ad loc., Parmentier (1925) ad loc., Steidle (1968) 75. Wuhrmann (1940) 87–88, Schwinge (1968) 89–90, Steidle (1968) 75. Steidle (1968) 75. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1875) 68, Parmentier (1925) ad loc., Schwinge (1968) 88, Steidle (1968) 75. Steidle (1968) 76. Cropp (1988) 164. Cropp (1988) 164. Contrast Steidle (1968) 75 n. 75: ‘Da Klytaimestra, abgesehen von den troischen Sklavinnen (998), auch noch von Dienern begleitet ist (1135), so liegt das Missverständnis Orests nahe’. However, I would imagine that the difference between a splendid royal entourage and a band of soldiers would be visible from a distance. Cf. Denniston (1939) 166.

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he expressed hesitation about the matricide (278).207 Nor are the planning and execution of the murders to be considered the same. Orestes may be enthusiastic in advance, but once he has completed Aegisthus’ murder and the matricide draws near, his resolution crumbles.208 However, the inversion of the manuscript distribution of speakers involves a disruption of the stichomythic form in 965 and 966, for 967 and subsequent odd-numbered lines are definitely spoken by Orestes. There are several solutions: a. A line is missing after 965;209 b. Nothing is missing, but Electra speaks both 965 and 966;210 c. A line is missing after 966;211 d. Transposition of 965 and 966.212 In my opinion, both 965 and 966 are more appropriate for Electra than for Orestes, the former because of the ironic brutality in the adverb καλῶς in combination with the hunting metaphor,213 the latter because of the emphasis on Clytaemestra’s outward appearance and luxury, a topic with which women in general and Electra in particular are concerned.214 Therefore, solutions a. and b. seem to me the most attractive. The fact that both turn Electra into the ‘observer’ in 966 after being the ‘reactor’ in 965 does not seem to me a problem. Electra may not be facing Clytaemestra until 966. The change from ὁρῶ to ὁρᾷς in 963, suggested by Seidler and Bothe, is in keeping with this interpretation. To judge by Electra’s response in 963, Orestes suggests a change of topic in 962 because of something that he sees, but which she cannot yet see.215 207

208 209 210 211 212 213

214 215

I thus disagree with Steidle (1968) 76: ‘Orest [hat] auch vorher keinerlei Zeichen des Zögerns gegeben’ and even Schwinge (1968) 86: ‘Diese zögernde und vorsichtige Haltung Orests indessen bezieht sich in erster Linie auf das Problem, wie die Tat ausgeführt werden kann, nicht jedoch auf die Frage ob sie überhaupt geschehen soll’. Cf. Electra’s changed attitude before and after the matricide. Kirchhoff (1855), Diggle (1981). Murray (1935), Denniston (1939). Nauck (1910), Cropp (1988). Kirchhoff (1855), Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1875), Weil (1905), Wecklein (1906), Parmentier (1925), Schwinge (1968), Kovacs (1998). Basta Donzelli (1978) 160 takes 965 at face value, interpreting καλῶς literally on the basis of 966. However, the jarring combination of καλῶς and ἄρκυν ἐς μέσην seems to me to point in a more ironic direction. Denniston (1939) 167, Steidle (1968) 76, Cropp (1988) 163, Mossman (2001) 379. Cropp (1988) 164.

part 2 Narratological Studies

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Introduction to Part 2 The extensive narrative stichomythiae in Euripidean tragedy have long been criticized for being unnatural and uneconomic. As early as the late nineteenth century Wilamowitz complained: ‘Man wird nicht leugnen dürfen, daß Euripides, wenn er in der Stichomythie erzählen läßt, … wirklich in häßliche Manier verfallen ist’.1 Heath remarks: ‘In such cases, the strict symmetry of form is “unrealistic”, and it is from a prosaic point of view extremely inefficient; in life, such information would be given more concisely in a brief exposition, with more strategic questioning from the recipient’.2 Although Schwinge defended (narrative) stichomythia on the basis of its appropriateness and dramatic function within its wider context,3 Collard concludes his synoptic review of literature on the topic by stressing the problematic status of the longest (narrative) Euripidean stichomythiae, where form seems to prevail over realism.4 The second part of my book concentrates on these problematic, narrative stichomythic dialogues and studies them from a different perspective: instead of regarding them as instances of stichomythia pushed too far, it considers them as narratives in an unconventional, stichomythic form. This approach is justified by the fact that Euripides seems to be experimenting with stichomythia as a form for narrative. Although precursors to narrative stichomythia are found, for example, in Aeschylus’ Persae 702–738, where Atossa updates Dareius on the events that have taken place under Xerxes’ reign, and in his Supplices 291–347, where Pelasgus questions the Chorus of Danaids about their descent and prehistory, it is only in Euripidean tragedy that narrative stichomythia is fully developed and employed as an alternative to the traditional rhesis.5 For example, in Supplices 750–771 the stichomythic exchange between the Messenger and Theseus functions as an alternative for the messenger speech, and in Hecuba 1252–1287 Polymestor’s angry predictions to Hecuba replace the deus ex machina speech. By studying narrative stichomythia as a type of alternative narrative presentation, I hope to shed new light on its function and further its appreciation. 1 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1895) on hf 537. 2 Heath (1987) 129. This citation does not reflect Heath’s overall position, which is more positive and emphasizes stichomythia as a convention, but it neatly summarizes the type of criticism he is arguing against. 3 Schwinge (1968) 20, 27. 4 Collard (1980) 85. 5 Seidensticker (1969) 56.

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Methodology

For the analysis of narrative stichomythia I use Gérard Genette’s narratological theory, which is taken up and developed, for example, by Mieke Bal and Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan. Narratology is a structuralist-inspired theory that studies narrative, i.e. the recounting of one or more events by a narrator/narrators to a narratee/narratees.6 Narratologists disagree on the number of events required for a narrative (one or at least two?) and the media of its representation (all or exclusively verbal?). The latter point is closely related to the status of drama in narratology.7 Narratologists who adopt a broad definition of narrative treat diegesis (present narrator) and mimesis (suppressed narrator) as different narrative modes,8 and consider drama narrative. The problems involved in such a position are illustrated by the fact that Chatman feels forced to introduce the confusing term ‘non-narrated / unnarrated narrative’ for the mimetic narrative mode with suppressed narrator, explaining away the apparent paradox as terminological only.9 Markantonatos calls for a ‘tragic’ or ‘modified’ narratology,10 but if drama were narrative in the first place, then why should narratology be modified? Narratologists who adopt a narrow definition of narrative strictly observe the distinction between diegesis, the mode characteristic of narrative, and mimesis, the mode characteristic of drama, made for the first time in Plato.11 Accordingly, they do not consider drama narrative, because there is no narrator, but they do regard those passages narrated by characters within the play as narratives. This position is not without difficulties either, because diegesis and mimesis can be combined in complex ways. The problem is illustrated by

6 7

8 9 10 11

Cf. Prince (1987) 58, 65. For a discussion of this problem see e.g. Dunn (2009) 337–342, who concludes that ‘among classicists the attempt to offer a comprehensive narratology of drama has not succeeded’ (p. 340), but states that ‘there is indeed room for a narratology of Greek tragedy—at least if by this we mean not a comprehensive approach that assimilates drama to narrative, but a strategic approach that recognizes those situations in which drama makes use of a narrating agent’ (p. 342). This is exactly the opposite of Aristotle, who regards pure narrative and direct representation as two varieties of mimesis (Arist. Poet. 1448a). Chatman (1978) 166–169. Chatman (1990) 116 takes back this term calling it ‘an inadmissible paradox or, at least, a counter-intuition’. Markantonatos (2002) 225–226. Pl. Resp. 392d2–394c5, although strictly speaking as two different forms of diegesis. Cf. also Genette (1980) 163–164, (1988) 41, De Jong (1991) 163 n. 111 with references to Pfister (1988) 3 and De Jong (1987) 2–8.

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the fact that De Jong calls intra-dramatic narrators and narratees secondary, which in my opinion presupposes the existence not only of primary narratees in the audience, as she acknowledges, but also of a primary narrator in the playwright, which she denies.12 Nevertheless, I am inclined to advocate a narrow interpretation of narrative for the following reasons. ‘Narrative’ implies the action of narration. Narration can only take place if there is a narrator. If drama is considered narrative, the playwright is presumed to be the narrator. To put the playwright on a par with the narrator is methodologically inaccurate, because the interaction between playwright and audience is fundamentally different from that between narrator and narratee. Whereas the playwright immediately confronts his audience with a selection of scenes, thus showing them what happened, the narrator tells his narratees what happened.13 Consequently the narrative parts inserted in drama may be analyzed by means of narrratology, but the drama as a whole should instead be studied by means of drama theory.14 However, I admit that the dividing line between narrative and non-narrative text may sometimes become very thin, especially in narrative stichomythia,15 and that excessive methodological rigor may keep one from interesting interpretative questions. Ultimately narratology provides tools to lay bare the structure and get at the meaning of texts. Therefore, I propose a different terminology that I hope will satisfy ‘broad’ and ‘narrow’ narratologists alike. I will call the action of the playwright towards his audience by means of drama ‘dramatic presentation’. This term implies communication without the specific notion of narration. Accordingly, the drama as a whole is a ‘dramatic presentative’, consisting of ‘narrative’ and ‘imitative’ sections. This terminology recognizes the importance of a clear distinction between diegesis and mimesis, without neglecting the overarching communicative structure between the playwright and his audience. Narrative sections inserted in drama include prologues, rheseis, (stichomythic) dialogues, choral odes, messenger speeches, and exodoi. Most of these have been the subject of narratological study.16 However, the field of the narra-

12 13 14

15 16

De Jong (2004) 8. Cf. Genette (1980) 163–164, Pfister (1988) 3. Cf. De Jong (2004) 7: ‘It is therefore [i.e. because drama-theory exists] simply not necessary to turn to narratology when discussing drama texts’, ‘… no one would dream of calling the Homeric epics a play and analyse it in terms of drama theory; so why call drama a narrative and analyse it in terms of narratology?’. Cf. Markantonatos (2002) 3–4. On the messenger speech: De Jong (1991), Barrett (2002). On various narrative parts and/or

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tive stichomythia has remained relatively unexplored by narratologists, probably because of its problematic dialogic nature.17 In narratological theory, dialogue is generally considered a pre-eminently mimetic text type that may be embedded in narrative text.18 However, in narrative stichomythia we find the opposite end of the spectrum: dialogue is the form in which narrative is realized. As such it resembles what Genette calls ‘interpolated narrating’.19 Interpolated narrating ‘involves a narrating with several instances’ in which ‘the story and the narrating can become entangled in such a way that the latter has an effect on the former’ and ‘the extreme closeness of story to narrating produces … a very subtle effect of friction … between the slight temporal displacement of the narrative of events and the complete simultaneousness in the report of thought and feelings’.20 The most common example of interpolated narrating is the epistolary novel, but narrative stichomythia may also be seen as a variation on it.

2

Definition

Before moving on it is important to define what exactly I mean by ‘narrative stichomythia’. In this book ‘narrative stichomythia’ is used to refer to those instances of stichomythia in which two or more temporally related events are recounted. This is a minimalist definition of narrative, an example of which would be Julius Caesar’s famous statement: Veni, vidi, vici.21 Pure narratives like this are of course very rare, and some scholars would not consider it a narrative but a story.22 In the term ‘narrative stichomythia’ the distinction between narrative and story is lost, as the adjective ‘narrative’ is used to refer to either. The criterion that the narrated events be temporally related is crucial, because

17 18 19 20 21 22

individual plays: Roberts (1989), Kraus (1991), Goward (1999), Markantonatos (2002), Barrett (2004), De Jong (2004), Lowe (2004). Lowe (2004) omits ‘the many passing glides in and out of narrative in dialogue’, but De Jong (2004) devotes some attention to dialogic narratives in Sophocles. Bal (1981), (1985) 148–149, Glowinski (1974). Genette (1980) 217. It is called ‘intercalated’ by Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 90. Genette (1980) 217. Example from Dahl (1985) 112. Forster (1974) 29 defines a story as ‘a narrative of events being arranged in their time sequence’. To turn a story into a plot (Forster 1974: 60) or narrative (Fludernik 2009: 79) one would need extra information about the connection between the events.

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it distinguishes narrative stichomythia from informative stichomythia.23 Thus, for example, the stichomythic dialogue between Iphigenia and Orestes in Iphigenia in Tauris 492–569, in which Iphigenia asks Orestes about his identity and the fate of various Greeks in the aftermath of the Trojan War, should strictly speaking not be considered a narrative but an informative stichomythia, because the reported events are all self-contained and do not as such constitute a narrative. The status of narrative stichomythia is further complicated by the fact that it consists of frequently alternating narrative and non-narrative components.24 It is so closely interwoven with the communicative situation that pure and simple narration without the occasional explicit reference to communication would be impossible. Because it does not seem effective to treat separately these, sometimes tiny, narrative and non-narrative components, I will consider a stichomythic dialogue or part thereof as narrative when its main function is to recount two or more events, even if it also contains non-narrative components. In what follows I will show how the narratological analysis of narrative stichomythia in Euripidean tragedy may work. First, I will discuss the relationship between narrator and narratee. Secondly, I will study various aspects of narrative presentation, i.e. the historic present, proximal deictic pronoun and the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge. My discussion will not be restricted to a purely structural analysis of the dialogues in question, but will relate observations resulting from narratological study with broader interpretative questions. 23

24

Schwinge (1968) 172, 174 implies that the causal and chronological relation between events is something especially characteristic of the rhesis, but this can also be accomplished by narrative stichomythia. Cf. Lowe (2004) 270.

chapter 3

Distribution of Narrative Activity 3.1

Introduction

Narratological theory distinguishes the functions of narrator and narratee. As narrative stichomythia is a narrative embedded within a play, it is important to clarify in advance all levels of communicative interaction and their agents. The narrator is defined as ‘that agent which utters the linguistic signs which constitute the [narrative] text’.1 The narrators of narrative stichomythia are characters in the play. The function of narrator must be distinguished from that of (implied) author/playwright. The author/playwright is the historical person who physically produced the text/play, whereas the implied author/playwright is the abstract reconstruction of the author/playwright as inferable from the text/play.2 In practice the same person may fulfill all of these roles simultaneously, for example in an autobiography, but this is not always the case and it is therefore important to make these theoretical distinctions. In the case of Euripidean tragedy the role of author/playwright is fulfilled by the historical person of Euripides, while the selection and presentation of certain scenes point to the creative role of the implied author/playwright. At the receiving end of the narrative we find the narratee, who can be defined as that participant which receives the linguistic signs that constitute the narrative text. The narratees of narrative stichomythia are characters in the play. The function of narratee too should be distinguished from that of the (implied) reader/audience.3 The reader/audience is the person who physically reads the text or watches and listens to the play, whereas the implied reader/audience is the abstract reconstruction of the reader/audience that can be inferred from the text/play.4 Although in practice the same person may fulfill these roles, from a theoretical perspective these functions should nevertheless be distinguished. In the case of Euripidean tragedy the role of reader/audience may be fulfilled by a member of the audience of the play in fifth-century Athens or by an individual reading the play today. Instances of dramatic irony or pathos are aimed

1 2 3 4

Bal (1985) 120. Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 87. Genette (1980) 259. Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 87.

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at and indicate the presence of the implied reader/audience. This communicative situation can be schematically represented as follows:5 Author / Playwright

Implied Author / Playwright

Narrator—Narratee

Implied Reader / Reader / Audience Audience

Narrators and narratees can be subdivided according to their diegetic status or the degree to which they participate in the story. A narrator/narratee may be heterodiegetic when he does not play a part in the narrated events, homodiegetic when he plays a part in the narrated events, and autodiegetic when he plays the main part in them.6 In Euripidean stichomythia virtually all narrators are homo- or autodiegetic, and virtually all narratees are heterodiegetic. However, in what follows we will see that there is an occasional exception to this standard situation.

3.2

Methodology

Application of the functions of narrator and narratee to narrative stichomythia is complicated by the dialogic nature of this type of narrative. The division of roles between narrator and narratee may change in the course of the conversation.7 Although we might perhaps expect the narrator to converge with the answerer and the narratee with the questioner, in practice this is not always the case. The questioner may function as a narrator by posing leading questions and the answerer as a narratee by merely answering in the affirmative or negative.8 Alternatively, the questioner and answerer may contribute so actively to the narrative that they both seem to be fulfilling the role of narrator.9 Because the division of roles between narrator and narratee is not as clear-cut as in other, non-dialogic narrative texts, I will for the most part replace the traditional terms of narrator and narratee with the more flexible distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors. However, in contexts where the narrator converges with the answerer and the narratee with the questioner I will revert to the traditional narratological terms. 5 6 7 8 9

Cf. Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 86 who refers to Chatman (1978) 151. Genette (1980) 244–245, Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 95–96. E.g. Ion 308, 330, Or. 763. E.g. Hec. 239–248. E.g. Andr. 900–920.

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In order to get a grip on this dynamic narrative activity we need a set of theoretical tools that suit the dialogic nature of narrative stichomythia. I will therefore set forth two typologies, one for information-seeking questions and one for information-providing answers.10 The combination of these will help to locate narrative activity and determine its distribution between interlocutors. Information-seeking questions can take the syntactic form of x-questions (‘What are you doing?’), disjunctive questions (‘Are you doing a or b?’), or yes/no questions (‘Are you doing c?’). The propositions of these questions may be considered the questioner’s contribution to the narrative. Thus xquestions introduce a proposition like ‘You are doing something’, which is not very specific, but reliable narrative information. Disjunctive questions introduce propositions like ‘You are doing a or b’, which is slightly more specific, but less reliable. Yes/no questions introduce a proposition like ‘You are doing c’, which is very specific, but highly unreliable. Depending on their interrogative word (pronoun or adverb versus determiner) and their semantic meaning, x-questions can be subdivided into open-ended (‘What are you doing?’) and specifying (‘Which book are you reading?’).11 Open-ended x-questions provide relatively less, specifying relatively more specific narrative information. The distinction between open-ended and specifying x-questions does not affect their reliability. Disjunctive questions may be similar to x-questions when they are word-questions (‘Are you reading a or b?’), and when they present two out of a large set of options, or they may be similar to yes/no questions when they are sentence-questions (‘Are you reading a book or are you watching television?’), and when they present two mutually exclusive alternatives. Thus the former group of disjunctive questions provides relatively less specific, but more reliable information, whereas the latter provides relatively more specific, but less reliable information. As the specificity of narrative information is more important for the constitution of a narrative than its reliability, it is this variable I am particularly interested in.12 This typology of questions and its consequences for the specificity and reliability of the narrative information given by the questioner can be represented as follows:

10

11 12

As opposed to, for example, rhetorical and meta-communicational questions and answers, which are less important for pure narration, but may play a role in narrative presentation, focalization or communication. Stenström (1984) 155–156. Cf. for example the existence of false narratives.

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Information-seeking questions: x-questions

* open-ended * specifying

disjunctive questions

* word-questions, large set of options * sentence-questions, mutually exclusive

yes/no questions

Distribution Specificity Reliability narrative activity -

+

+

-

answerer

questioner

The different types of questions also express certain expectations about the narrative activity to be taken on by the answerer. The narrative activity expected from the answerer is exactly the inverse of that displayed by the questioner.13 Thus x-questions expect a high narrative activity from the answerer, disjunctive questions a lower narrative activity (choice between two alternatives) and yes/no questions hardly any narrative activity at all (affirmation versus negation). In addition to the expectations expressed by the type of the preceding question, the amount of narrative activity displayed by the answerer is determined by his own narrative input in relation to the question. Thus an answer may provide more () narrative information than was asked for in the preceding question, or no information at all (≠). For example, in response to the question ‘What are you doing?’ potential answers may be ‘I am reading a book, and when I am done, I will watch some television’ (), or ‘I am not telling you!’ (≠). This is represented in the table below:

13

Cf. also Risselada (1993) 38–39, who describes the difference between assertives and questions in terms of responsibility for the description of states of affairs. Responsibility lies with the speaker for assertives, and with the addressee for questions. Biased questions have an in-between status.

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Information-providing answers: question < answer Answer provides more narrative information than was asked for in the question. question ≤ answer Answer provides slightly more narrative information than was asked for in the question. question = answer Answer provides an equal amount of narrative information to what was asked for in the question. question > answer Answer provides less narrative information than was asked for in the question. question ≠ answer Answer provides no narrative information at all.

3.3

Narrative activity answerer +

-

Discussion of Examples

3.3.1 Balanced Narrative Activity In narrative stichomythia a general, frequently recurring pattern of different types of questions and answers can be distinguished. At the beginning of the dialogue we mainly find (open-ended) x-questions, as a result of the questioner’s lack and the answerer’s possession of background knowledge on a new topic of conversation. Because the scope of the questioner’s (open-ended) x-questions is too broad to be responded to adequately by means of one stichomythic line, the answerer’s initial answer provides less narrative information than asked for in the preceding question, but enough to increase the questioner’s background knowledge. As the questioner gains information, his questions become more purposeful and specific. He starts using disjunctive and yes/no questions, thus gradually acquiring a more active role in the realization of the narrative and sharing narrative activity with the answerer, who now provides the exact or a larger amount of narrative information than asked for in the preceding question. Thus the narrative is broken up into smaller chunks that can be easily processed in adjacency pairs consisting of question and answer.14 14

The term ‘adjacency pair’ is used in pragmatic conversation analysis to denote paired utterances, such as greeting—greeting and question—answer. Cf. also section 1.3, p. 17 n. 34.

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This pattern may be repeated within a single stichomythic dialogue, when a new topic of conversation is broached and an imbalance in background knowledge between questioner and answerer recurs. This general pattern of different types of questions and answers can be exemplified by the stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea in Med. 663–708: Questions + answers

665

670

675

680

685

690

Aeg.: Μήδεια, χαῖρε· τοῦδε γὰρ προοίμιον κάλλιον οὐδεὶς οἶδε προσφωνεῖν φίλους. Med.: ὦ χαῖρε καὶ σύ, παῖ σοφοῦ Πανδίονος, Αἰγεῦ. πόθεν γῆς τῆςδ’ ἐπιστρωφᾷ πέδον; Aeg.: Φοίβου παλαιὸν ἐκλιπὼν χρηστήριον. Med.: τί δ’ ὀμφαλὸν γῆς θεσπιῳδὸν ἐστάλης; Aeg.: παίδων ἐρευνῶν σπέρμ’ ὅπως γένοιτό μοι. Med.: πρὸς θεῶν, ἄπαις γὰρ δεῦρ’ ἀεὶ τείνεις βίον; Aeg.: ἄπαιδές ἐσμεν δαίμονός τινος τύχῃ. Med.: δάμαρτος οὔσης ἢ λέχους ἄπειρος ὤν; Aeg.: οὐκ ἐσμὲν εὐνῆς ἄζυγες γαμηλίου. Med.: τί δῆτα Φοῖβος εἶπέ σοι παίδων πέρι; Aeg.: σοφώτερ’ ἢ κατ’ ἄνδρα συμβαλεῖν ἔπη. Med.: θέμις μὲν ἡμᾶς χρησμὸν εἰδέναι θεοῦ; Aeg.: μάλιστ’, ἐπεί τοι καὶ σοφῆς δεῖται φρενός. Med.: τί δῆτ’ ἔχρησε; λέξον, εἰ θέμις κλύειν. Aeg.: ἀσκοῦ με τὸν προύχοντα μὴ λῦσαι πόδα … Med.: πρὶν ἂν τί δράσῃς ἢ τίν’ ἐξίκῃ χθόνα; Aeg.: πρὶν ἂν πατρῴαν αὖθις ἑστίαν μόλω. Med.: σὺ δ’ ὡς τί χρῄζων τήνδε ναυστολεῖς χθόνα; Aeg.: Πιτθεύς τις ἔστι, γῆς ἄναξ Τροζηνίας. Med.: παῖς, ὡς λέγουσι, Πέλοπος, εὐσεβέστατος. Aeg.: τούτῳ θεοῦ μάντευμα κοινῶσαι θέλω. Med.: σοφὸς γὰρ ἁνὴρ καὶ τρίβων τὰ τοιάδε. Aeg.: κἀμοί γε πάντων φίλτατος δορυξένων. Med.: ἀλλ’ εὐτυχοίης καὶ τύχοις ὅσων ἐρᾷς. Aeg.: τί γὰρ σὸν ὄμμα χρώς τε συντέτηχ’ ὅδε; Med.: Αἰγεῦ, κάκιστός ἐστί μοι πάντων πόσις. Aeg.: τί φῄς; σαφῶς μοι σὰς φράσον δυσθυμίας. Med.: ἀδικεῖ μ’ Ἰάσων οὐδὲν ἐξ ἐμοῦ παθών. Aeg.: τί χρῆμα δράσας; φράζε μοι σαφέστερον. Med.: γυναῖκ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν δεσπότιν δόμων ἔχει.

Topic

open-ended x-question Aegeus’ provenance = answer open-ended x-question = answer childlessness yes/no question = answer disjunctive question = answer open-ended x-question Apollo’s oracle > answer

open-ended x-question > answer disjunctive x-questions = answer x-question purpose Aegeus’ visit > answer elaboration = answer elaboration elaboration open-ended x-question Medea’s unhappiness > answer open-ended x-question Jason’s injustice > answer specifying x-question = answer

104 695 Aeg.: Med.: Aeg.: Med.: Aeg.: 700 Med.:

chapter 3 οὔ που τετόλμηκ’ ἔργον αἴσχιστον τόδε; σάφ’ ἴσθ’· ἄτιμοι δ’ ἐσμὲν οἱ πρὸ τοῦ φίλοι. πότερον ἐρασθεὶς ἢ σὸν ἐχθαίρων λέχος; μέγαν γ’ ἔρωτα· πιστὸς οὐκ ἔφυ φίλοις. ἴτω νυν, εἴπερ, ὡς λέγεις, ἐστὶν κακός. ἀνδρῶν τυράννων κῆδος ἠράσθη λαβεῖν.

Aeg.: δίδωσι δ’ αὐτῷ τίς; πέραινέ μοι λόγον.

yes/no question ≤ answer disjunctive question ≤ answer spontaneous continuation x-question

Med.: Κρέων, ὃς ἄρχει τῆσδε τῆς Κορινθίας. < answer Aeg.: συγγνωστὰ μέντἄρ’ ἦν σε λυπεῖσθαι, γύναι. Med.: ὄλωλα· καὶ πρός γ’ ἐξελαύνομαι χθονός. spontaneous continuation 705 Aeg.: πρὸς τοῦ; τόδ’ ἄλλο καινὸν αὖ λέγεις κακόν. x-question Med.: Κρέων μ’ ἐλαύνει φυγάδα γῆς Κορινθίας. = answer Aeg.: ἐᾷ δ’ Ἰάσων; οὐδὲ ταῦτ’ ἐπῄνεσα. yes/no question Med.: λόγῳ μὲν οὐχί, καρτερεῖν δὲ βούλεται. < answer

identity of Jason’s bride

Medea’s exile

The narrative stichomythia between Aegeus and Medea consists of two parts. In the first Medea questions Aegeus, and he tells her how he has visited Apollo’s oracle to ask about his childlessness, and how he is now on his way to Pittheus to obtain an explanation (663–688). In the second part Aegeus questions Medea, and she tells him how Jason has married the Corinthian princess and caused her injustice and pain (689–708). Each half contains several subtopics of conversation. These individual sub-topics display the general pattern described above. Following an exchange of greetings, Medea asks Aegeus about his provenance using an open-ended x-question that does not presuppose any prior knowledge apart from his recent arrival in Corinth. Although Aegeus’ answer provides the requested information, his reference to Apollo’s oracle raises further questions. This enables and encourages Medea to ask Aegeus about the reason for his consultation of Apollo’s oracle with a more specific x-question. Aegeus’ reply about his childlessness narrows down the topic of conversation sufficiently for Medea to start asking even more specific disjunctive and yes/no questions, thus taking up a more active role in the constitution of the narrative. When Aegeus’ childlessness has been elaborated upon, Medea broaches a related but new topic: Apollo’s oracle. Her complete lack of knowledge on this point forces her to resume the use of x-questions and return the active narrative role to Aegeus. Medea asks him about the contents of the oracle by means of open-ended x-questions. Aegeus answers with less information

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than requested. He initiates an answer quoting the oracle, but it is only in his next turn, and aided by Medea’s more specific disjunctive x-questions, that he completes it. This pattern is repeated with the third and last topic of the first half of the conversation. Again Medea resumes the use of x-questions to ask Aegeus about the purpose of his visit to Corinth, and again Aegeus answers only partially, ‘There is a certain Pittheus …’ (683), before completing his answer in his next turn, ‘with him I want to share the god’s oracle’ (685). The second half of the stichomythic conversation evolves along similar lines. First Aegeus tries to discover the exact reason for Medea’s apparent distress. His ignorance on this topic leads him to use (open-ended) x-questions. The scope of these is so broad that Medea is unable immediately to provide the complete amount of narrative information requested. Thus it takes three adjacency pairs (689–694) to reveal Jason’s adultery. Once this information is out in the open, Aegeus is better informed, his questions become more specific, and Medea is able to produce answers that provide an equal or larger amount of narrative information than asked for. The ensuing, new sub-topics of conversation, i.e. the identity of Jason’s new bride and Medea’s exile, are, unusually enough, broached by the answerer instead of the questioner: Medea spontaneously continues the narrative without the prompt of Aegeus’ questions (700, 704). In fact, both of her spontaneous continuations occur right after concluding remarks by Aegeus, which makes them stand out even more conspicuously.15 Medea’s narrative information regenerates Aegeus’ interest and gives him the opportunity to ask relatively specific x-questions, which are then again answered by Medea with the exact amount or more narrative information than requested. What is the dramatic significance of the distribution of narrative activity in this stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea? Each topic of conversation is tackled by means of the same pattern of questions and answers, resulting in a balanced distribution of narrative activity. This creates the impression of casual conversation, which ties in with existing interpretations of the passage. First, the casual flow of narrative activity stands in sharp contrast with the sudden and terrible shock of Medea’s infanticide that follows in the second half of the play.16 Thus the stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea can be seen as a ‘lull before the storm’.17

15 16 17

Cf. Earle (1904) 168, Mastronarde (2002) 289, (both only on 699). Buttrey (1958) 11. Grube (1941) 157.

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Secondly, the impression of casual conversation created tallies with Aegeus’ apparently coincidental appearance at this point in the play. The Aegeusepisode has long been criticized for its unexpectedness and lack of motivation, even though it is not entirely unprepared for. Throughout the first half of the play Medea’s lack of refuge is stressed,18 which creates space for Aegeus’ arrival and promise of refuge. These references do not specify the exact shape in which refuge will present itself to Medea nor do they explicitly predict Aegeus’ arrival. Still, Aegeus’ unexpected appearance should not present a problem, as the unexpected has proven to be part of Euripidean dramatic practice.19 Some scholars even attach theological significance to it.20 However we choose to interpret Aegeus’ unexpected appearance, the casual flow of narrative activity in his conversation with Medea is in keeping with it and underlines it. The fact that Aegeus’ appearance is rather unexpected and unmotivated does not preclude the episode from being dramatically relevant. The stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea introduces the important theme of childlessness. Depending on whether we suppose that Medea takes up the idea of murdering her children before or after her conversation with Aegeus,21 the topic under discussion may reinforce or inspire her idea of infanticide. Aegeus’ despair at his childlessness may suggest the devastating effect that the children’s murder would have on Jason. Although there is no explicit textual reference to prove that this development actually takes place in Medea’s mind,22 the thematic link of childlessness between the stichomythic conversation and what follows in the dramatic context is too strong to be ignored.23 The stichomythic conversation between Aegeus and Medea also characterizes the latter as a wise woman. Medea is deemed by Aegeus sufficiently intelligent to be able to interpret Apollo’s oracle. This in combination with the symmetrical structure of the conversation and the balanced narrative activity between its interlocutors reflects their equality. The equal distribution of narrative activity agrees with Grube’s view that ‘this scene gives us a glimpse of Medea as she was before the disaster … it reminds us that the deserted Colchian mistress was a princess in her own right who could meet kings on 18 19 20 21 22 23

Med. 279, 359–361, 386–391 (particularly 389–391), 441–443, 502–505, 603–604, 613. Cf. Arnott (1973). E.g. Kovacs (1993) 58–59 has argued that the unexpectedness of Aegeus’ arrival should be seen as an example of tuche and manifestation of Zeus’ will. Von Arnim (1886) xix–xxi. Zürcher (1947) 68–69. Cf. Dunkle (1969) 107.

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equal terms’.24 Not only does the stichomythic conversation give us this glimpse of Medea, it also foreshadows how she will be after the plot of the tragedy has ended. The communicative interaction between Aegeus and Medea subtly points forward to their future cohabitation, while the topic of Aegeus’ childlessness evokes the thought of Theseus and Medea’s attempted murder of him, thus placing the plot in a broader mythological context and giving depth to the events and emotions depicted in the play.25 Viewed from this perspective the Aegeus-episode gains further significance. Despite the overall balance in narrative activity, Medea is slightly more active than Aegeus towards the end of the conversation, where she twice initiates the narrative of her own accord. Medea’s narrative behaviour is closely connected with her purpose of eliciting Aegeus’ pity in order to obtain his support in her escape from Corinth. In this stichomythia she is laying the foundations for her immediately following supplication.26 This supplication is successful only to some extent: Aegeus promises to provide Medea a safe haven, but only if she can escape Corinth and make it to Athens on her own. Aegeus’ promise of refuge affects the plot in so far as it causes Medea to carry out the 24 25

26

Grube (1941) 157. This was first suggested by Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1880) 481–523 and taken up independently by Brockett (1958) 23–33 and Sfyroeras (1994–1995) 125–142. Cf. also Buchan (2008) 8, 16. The interpretation is undermined by Kovacs who questions the connection between the oracle and the story of Aegeus’ begetting Theseus. Kovacs (1994) 357 wonders ‘How could Aegeus beget a son if he violated the oracle’s instructions?’ and suggests that Aegeus immediately returned to Athens instead of going to Trozen first. However, as Buchan (2008) 27, n. 6 points out, ‘Kovacs’s suggestion that Aegeus is bound for Athens is deeply misleading. If this seems to be true dramatically, as Medea’s story takes our attention away from the trip to Pittheus, there is no suggestion that Aegeus will not make the trip to his guest friend’. Kovacs’ other objection is valid only if we take Apollo’s oracle to mean ‘Do not have sex before you return’—against which Buchan (2008) 3–6, 27 n. 6—and if we interpret it as a direct answer to Aegeus’ question ‘How can I get offspring?’ (669). However, there may be a displacement between Aegeus’ question and Apollo’s advice. This would be mitigated by Medea’s intervening questions ‘What did the god say?’ (674, 678), which ask for the contents of Apollo’s oracle in and of itself, and not necessarily as an answer to Aegeus’ question. Apollo’s oracle may have been a more general warning against Aegeus’ begetting children, while the problem of Aegeus’ childlessness has been left unaddressed, a situation comparable to that of Laius in the Oedipus-myth. Oracles are often vague, misleading or misunderstood by human beings in Greek tragedy. Later versions of the myth, including Ps.-Apollod. 3. 15. 6 and Plut. Thes. 3, also seem to combine the oracle and the story of Aegeus’ begetting Theseus without problems or adjustments, so why should we suspect there is a problem here? Dunkle (1969) 107.

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murders she intended by stealth instead of openly (Med. 390–394).27 In several ways, then, the distribution of narrative activity between Aegeus and Medea ties in with the broader dramatic context. 3.3.2 Accumulation of Narrative Activity 3.3.2.1 Yes/No Question < Answer (Affirmative) Although in most narrative stichomythiae a combination of different types of questions and answers is used, sometimes one particular type of question or answer is predominant. This is the case, for example in Andr. 896–920, where Orestes’ yes/no questions are met by Hermione’s answers that give more narrative information than was asked for in the question. Although yes/no questions typically distribute greater narrative activity to the questioner, < answers tilt the balance back towards the answerer, resulting in accumulation of narrative activity on both their parts. 900 Or.: ὦ Φοῖβ’ ἀκέστορ, πημάτων δοίης λύσιν. τί χρῆμα; πρὸς θεῶν ἢ βροτῶν πάσχεις κακά; Her.: τὰ μὲν πρὸς ἡμῶν, τὰ δὲ πρὸς ἀνδρὸς ὅς μ’ ἔχει, τὰ δ’ ἐκ θεῶν του· πανταχῇ δ’ ὀλώλαμεν. Or.: τίς οὖν ἂν εἴη μὴ πεφυκότων γέ πω 905 παίδων γυναικὶ συμφορὰ πλὴν ἐς λέχος; Her.: τοῦτ’ αὐτὸ καὶ νοσοῦμεν· εὖ μ’ ὑπηγάγου. Or.: ἄλλην τιν’ εὐνὴν ἀντὶ σοῦ στέργει πόσις; Her.: τὴν αἰχμάλωτον Ἕκτορος ξυνευνέτιν. Or.: κακόν γ’ ἔλεξας, δίσσ’ ἕν’ ἄνδρ’ ἔχειν λέχη. 910 Her.: τοιαῦτα ταῦτα. κᾆτ’ ἔγωγ’ ἠμυνάμην. Or.: μῶν ἐς γυναῖκ’ ἔρραψας οἷα δὴ γυνή; Her.: φόνον γ’ ἐκείνῃ καὶ τέκνῳ νοθαγενεῖ. Or.: κἄκτεινας, ἤ τις συμφορά σ’ ἀφείλετο; Her.: γέρων γε Πηλεύς, τοὺς κακίονας σέβων. 915 Or.: σοὶ δ’ ἦν τις ὅστις τοῦδ’ ἐκοινώνει φόνου; Her.: πατήρ γ’ ἐπ’ αὐτὸ τοῦτ’ ἀπὸ Σπάρτης μολών. Or.: κἄπειτα τοῦ γέροντος ἡσσήθη χερί;

27

x-question + disjunctive question < answer rhetorical question with import of yes/no question or suggestion = answer yes/no question < answer spontaneous continuation yes/no question < answer disjunctive question < answer yes/no question < answer yes/no question

I agree to some extent with Buttrey (1958) 3 that ‘It is impossible … to believe that the purpose of the Aegeus episode is the discovery of refuge for Medea, when her plans do not depend upon refuge, and when escape is a much more pressing problem’. Whether or not Medea carries out her plans does not depend upon refuge, but the way in which she carries them out does.

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distribution of narrative activity Her.: αἰδοῖ γε· καί μ’ ἔρημον οἴχεται λιπών.

< answer + spontaneous continuation

Or.: συνῆκα· ταρβεῖς τοῖς δεδραμένοις πόσιν. 920 Her.: ἔγνως· ὀλεῖ γάρ μ’ ἐνδίκως. τί δεῖ λέγειν.

Orestes’ well-aimed yes/no questions provide the basis of the narrative. He correctly guesses Hermione’s identity (896–897), the cause of her misfortune (900, 904–905), the fact that her husband loves another woman (907), the plot against this woman (911), the presence of an accomplice (915), the eventual failure of the plot (913, 917), and Hermione’s current fear for her husband (919). Hermione’s answers consist of (elliptic) affirmations and qualifications, which provide extra narrative detail. She identifies herself as the only daughter of Helen (898–899),28 distributes responsibility for her current plight between herself, her husband and one of the gods (902–903),29 identifies the other woman as the slave/wife of Hector (908), specifies her plot against this woman and her son as death or murder (912), identifies her accomplice as her father (916), his motive for being ousted as shame (918), and the eventual preventer of the plot as Peleus (914). Occasionally Hermione even continues the narrative beyond the scope of Orestes’ questions, for example when she spontaneously starts telling how she took revenge on her husband’s mistress (910) and how her father left her behind (918). Hermione’s narrative activity can be explained by the situation in which she finds herself. After the plot against Andromache has failed and Menelaus has left, Hermione has become desperate. She fears Neoptolemus’ punishment,30 28

29

30

The importance of Hermione’s identity as the daughter of Helen is emphasized by e.g. Grube (1941) 208–209, 213, Boulter (1966) 57, and Philippo (1995) 365. Orestes’ parentage (884, 892) is also important. His mythological background involves domestic disharmony and murder, each of which are or will be re-enacted in the course of the play. Cf. Storey (1989) 22–23, Philippo (1995) 366–367, Allan (2000) 108–109. On the theme of domestic disharmony in the Andromache see Storey (1989); on patronymic reference in the Andromache see Philippo (1995). On this vague reference to the gods versus Orestes’ specific reference to Apollo in 900, see Allan (2000) 246. On the lack of divine interference in this escape episode in general, see Burnett (1971) 144–145. It is unclear exactly what Hermione fears. Is she afraid to be sent away, to be disgraced, or to be killed (808–810, 855–860, 920, 927–928, 1057)? It is also uncertain how well-founded her fear is. The Nurse thinks that Neoptolemus will forgive her and everything will be alright (840, 869–875), but her communicative purpose is to prevent Hermione from committing suicide. Grube (1941) 209 states that ‘nobody of course believes that she is in danger of her life …’, but Orestes guesses Hermione’s fear (919) and Peleus does

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expresses remorse,31 and is on the brink of suicide, when all of a sudden Orestes appears.32 Orestes’ arrival opens up new perspectives: he may be able to provide support and take her away. She supplicates him33 and provides him with background information about her situation. She answers his questions so as to maximize her chances of success by responding cooperatively, occasionally extending her narrative and manipulating it to her own advantage. Hermione emphasizes her utter misfortune (900–901), the low status of her opponent(s) (908, 912, 914), and the fact that her plot against Andromache was an act of self-defense (910). She embellishes her father’s role in the plot, saying that he came from Sparta especially to assist her (916) and that he was ousted by Peleus merely out of shame (918). This does not correspond with Menelaus’ behaviour and motivation as we have seen and heard it earlier in the play (545–746, particularly 732–738, where Menelaus says that he is going back to Sparta to settle political unrest).34 Hermione seems to distort reality in order to save her own and Menelaus’ face. However, she must admit that Menelaus left her behind (918), as this constitutes the main reason for her despair and current supplication of Orestes. Orestes’ narrative behaviour is less straightforward. His well-aimed yes/no questions suggest a background knowledge of Hermione’s situation that is accounted for only later in the conversation, when he admits that he had already heard about the turmoil in the house and strife between Hermione and Andromache (959–963). In retrospect Orestes’ use of yes/no questions is understandable, but here and now it seems out of place. Hermione and the audience have to assume either that Orestes is very capable of putting himself

31

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not seem surprised at it either (1058). I believe that Hermione’s fear for some kind of punishment is realistic, but her reference to death is a hyperbole, perhaps due to panic. For the proud Hermione, punishment involving disgrace, particularly in the presence of Andromache whom she has just treated so dismissively, would probably be worse than death. For Hermione’s remorse, cf. Boulter (1966) 57, Mossman (1996) 146–147, Allan (2000) 105. However, I wonder how far Hermione’s ‘remorse’ is not just a way of saving her face. If remorse were really the main motive for her suicide, Orestes’ arrival would not change anything. It is fear for Neoptolemus’ punishment and her own loss of face as a result thereof that really motivate her actions. On the unexpectedness of Orestes’ appearance, cf. Allan (2000) 23, 107–108. There is a parallelism between Hermione’s supplication of Orestes and Andromache’s supplication of Peleus in the first episode. Cf. Allan (2000) 36, 73, 107. Allan (2000) 114 emphasizes the significance of the incongruity between Menelaus’ behaviour as we have seen it in the play and Hermione’s account of it for our understanding of their characterization.

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into Hermione’s female mind or that her story is so typical of the female sex that little empathy is needed to make a few well-aimed guesses about it. The former line of interpretation is reflected in Hermione’s approving remarks on Orestes’ well-aimed questions, (906, 910, 917, 920). The latter is supported by Orestes’ rhetorical question, ‘What other misfortune could there be for a woman, when no children have been born yet, than one affecting her marriage bed?’ (904– 905), and his generalization, ‘plot like a woman’ (911), each of which entail a misogynistic sentiment that is thematic in this play.35 Thus Hermione praises Orestes’ perceptiveness, while Orestes comments on Hermione’s stereotypicality, which constitutes a first indication that the interlocutors are on different wavelengths. At the same time, Orestes’ comments on Hermione’s stereotypicality are only a cover for his well-aimed yes/no questions. In fact, his extraordinarily well-aimed yes/no questions reveal that Orestes knows more about Hermione’s situation than he would if he were really just calling in to see her on his way to Dodona, as he claims (884–890). As he will explain later (957–966), Orestes wants to make sure that Hermione really wants to leave Phthia, before he tells her about his plans to take her home, albeit out of selfish motives of jealousy and revenge.36 In the meantime Orestes is cautious not to blow his cover and he poses questions so as to test, manipulate and deceive Hermione.37 However, the actual form of his questions exposes him and reveals the truth. Allan writes: ‘The exchange between Orestes and Hermione is not on the surface that of a suppliant and her attacker. However, his role as defender is subtly ironized by the content of their dialogue’.38 I would argue instead that it is not just the content of the dialogue, but also the form of its questions, that ironizes Orestes’ role as defender and reveals his dishonesty with Hermione. Against this background, the ambiguity in Hermione’s comment εὖ μ’ ὑπηγάγου (906), ‘you prompt me well’ or ‘you induce me well by guile’, is fully played out and obtains an extra ironic flavour.

35 36

37 38

Cf. Lloyd (1994) 149, Allan (2000) 188. Burnett (1971) 149–150 perceptively points out that there is a ‘causational void’ here. Hermione fears Neoptolemus’ punishment. > Hermione wants to escape Phthia. > Orestes offers escape from Phthia. > Orestes kills Neoptolemus, which takes away Hermione’s cause of fear and desire to escape. It is also not clear why Orestes has to wait quite so long before he reveals his plans. On Orestes’ caution, cf. Mossman (1996) 146–147. On Orestes’ manipulation and deceit, cf. Burnett (1971) 148, Allan (2000) 24, 72–73, 108, 110, 145, 188. Allan (2000) 73.

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3.3.2.2 Yes/No Question < Answer (Negative) We have just seen how the pattern of yes/no questions followed by answers that provide more narrative information than was asked for in the question may result in the accumulation of narrative activity. This is due to the fact that the < answers affirm the proposition suggested in the preceding yes/no question and supply extra narrative information. Both the questioner and the answerer make successful contributions to the narrative, thus gradually and cooperatively constructing the narrative. However, < answers may also deny the proposition suggested in the preceding yes/no question and replace it with other, positive narrative information. In this case, the narrative contribution of the questioner is unsuccessful. Instead the answerer proves to be the true narrator. This pattern of yes/no question < answer (negative) forms an integral part of a microstructure recently discussed by Dubischar and labeled by him ‘incrementum’.39 Incrementum involves (an) informed person(s) and an uninformed person who makes one or more false guesses or assumptions, usually in situations of breaking bad news.40 It consists of the following four steps: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Characters involved meet on stage Unsettling perception by the uninformed character Initial false guess or assumption is gradually replaced by the truth Initial reaction to the truth: exclamation, sometimes followed by a brief evaluation41

The third and most prominent step equals my yes/no question < answer (negative) pattern. Dubischar describes the function of these carefully designed elements of microstructure as follows: ‘Through their initial false guesses the uninformed characters reveal, also to the audience, of what bad things they can offhandedly think, once they have grasped … that something bad has happened. However, what really occurred is always worse than what they were able to imagine. This way it is conveyed to the audience just how terrible, how devastating the news is for the unknowing character … Within only a few lines the breaking of bad news is thus staged very intensely’.42 In a follow-up article

39 40 41 42

Dubischar (2007a). Dubischar (2007a) 5. Dubischar (2007a) 5. Dubischar (2007a) 16–17.

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Dubischar places the device of incrementum in a broader context.43 He concludes that Euripides employs false guesses or assumptions more uniformly than his predecessors, and is particularly interested in portraying suffering and pain and exploiting situations where a great calamity has hit a victim in order to engage and move the audience emotionally.44 Thus Dubischar views incrementum as a ‘Naturform’ that is innovatively employed by Euripides.45 I believe that Dubischar’s observations can be taken further and connected more thoroughly with the broader dramatic context.46 On at least one occasion the repeated use of incrementum in Euripidean tragedy plays a role in the characterization of an individual, a function which Dubischar reserves for Sophoclean incrementa.47 Hippolytus contains three passages of false assumptions, each of which are made by Theseus. The first occurs in Hipp. 794–800. Upon his return Theseus asks the Chorus about the cause of the commotion inside the house: The.:

μῶν Πιτθέως τι γῆρας εἴργασται νέον; 795 πρόσω μὲν ἤδη βίοτος, ἀλλ’ ὅμως ἔτ’ ἂν λυπηρὸς ἡμῖν τούσδ’ ἂν ἐκλίποι δόμους. Cho.: οὐκ ἐς γέροντας ἥδε σοι τείνει τύχη, Θησεῦ· νέοι θανόντες ἀλγύνουσί σε. The.: οἴμοι, τέκνων μοι μή τι συλᾶται βίος; 800 Cho.: ζῶσιν, θανούσης μητρὸς ὡς ἄλγιστά σοι.

yes/no question

negative < answer yes/no question negative < answer

Both of Theseus’ yes/no questions put forward propositions that underestimate the actual situation. The fact that they are accompanied by the interrogative particles μῶν and μή, expressing hope that the answer to the question will be negative, makes the contrast between the questioner’s expectation and reality even sharper: Theseus will obtain the negative answer he is hoping for, but reality will exceed his worst expectations. The Chorus Leader explicitly denies the propositions suggested in Theseus’ questions and exchanges them for certain narrative information. Theseus’ first question suggests the death of his father Pittheus, which, in spite of the man’s old age, would be painful for him. Roisman suggests that ‘Theseus’ question about Pittheus’ death draws attention to the old man’s longevity and hints at an underlying wish for his de43 44 45 46 47

Dubischar (2007b). Dubischar (2007b) 206–207. Dubischar (2007b) 207. Dubischar (2007a) 19 himself recognizes the limitations of his work in this respect. Dubischar (2007b) 202–203.

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mise’.48 Although I do not think that unsympathetic characterization of Theseus is the main point here, the idea that his (false) assumptions characterize him is attractive. Considering his complete lack of background knowledge, Theseus is remarkably quick to jump to conclusions.49 His assumption is denied by the Chorus Leader and replaced with worse, but vague narrative information: ‘the death of the young is your grief’. Thus Theseus’ ignorance is prolonged and the effect of dramatic irony extended. Theseus’ second suggestion, the death of his children, is also denied by the Chorus Leader and replaced with even worse, concrete narrative information: ‘their mother has died—most painfully for you’. Dubischar interprets this passage as an example of incrementum that serves to emphasize a crucial event: ‘the death of Phaedra causes Theseus to curse his son’.50 But it does not end here. When viewed in its broader dramatic context and in combination with other, similar passages in the play, the passage gains dramatic significance, particularly in the characterization of Theseus. As Dubischar perceptively points out,51 Hipp. 856–886 contains another incrementum, albeit not in dialogue form. Before reading Phaedra’s suicide note Theseus speculates about its contents. He expects that Phaedra may have written him a message of entreaty about their marriage and children (858–859), which he grants (861–862). Roisman again points out the consequences of Theseus’ (false) assumptions for his characterization: ‘[Theseus’] thoughts about remarriage, even though they are framed in the negative, are shocking at this point. They are not thoughts to be entertained when a man is looking at his wife’s corpse stretched out with a broken neck, as Theseus is’.52 Although this does not seem to be the main function of Theseus’ false guess, it is an undeniable side-effect. The actual message exceeds Theseus’ expectations. It reports Hippolytus’ rape of Phaedra (885–886).53 This information affects Theseus so badly that he immediately curses Hippolytus (887–890) and sends him into exile (893–898). 48 49 50 51 52

53

Roisman (1999) 126. Cf. by contrast Alc. 516, where Heracles only suggests the death of Pheres once it is certain that there is a death in the family. Dubischar (2007a) 20. Dubischar (2007a) 22. Roisman (1999) 132. Alcestis makes a similar request to Admetus in Alc. 304–319, but there it is Alcestis herself who takes the initiative. Here Theseus hastily assumes that Phaedra’s suicide note will be on this topic. I doubt whether Hipp. 885–886 are ‘read aloud’ as Dubischar (2007a) 22 states. There is no evidence for it and the phrase εὐνῆς τῆς ἐμῆς seems to me more natural in the mouth of the husband than in that of the wife.

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The third passage of false guesses in Hippolytus is not mentioned by Dubischar in either of his articles; it occurs at lines 1157–1168: Mes.:

Θησεῦ, μερίμνης ἄξιον φέρω λόγον σοὶ καὶ πολίταις οἵ τ’ Ἀθηναίων πόλιν ναίουσι καὶ γῆς τέρμονας Τροζηνίας. 1160 The.: τί δ’ ἔστι; μῶν τις συμφορὰ νεωτέρα δισσὰς κατείληφ’ ἀστυγείτονας πόλεις; Mes.: Ἱππόλυτος οὐκέτ’ ἔστιν, ὡς εἰπεῖν ἔπος· δέδορκε μέντοι φῶς ἐπὶ σμικρᾶς ῥοπῆς. The.: πρὸς τοῦ; δι’ ἔχθρας μῶν τις ἦν ἀφιγμένος 1165 ὅτου κατῄσχυν’ ἄλοχον ὡς πατρὸς βίᾳ; Mes.: οἰκεῖος αὐτὸν ὤλεσ’ ἁρμάτων ὄχος ἀραί τε τοῦ σοῦ στόματος, ἃς σὺ σῷ πατρὶ πόντου κρέοντι παιδὸς ἠράσω πέρι.

open question—yes/no question negative < answer open question—yes/no question negative < answer

The Messenger has come to report Hippolytus’ death to Theseus. When the Messenger anticipates the effect of his news on the local community, Theseus asks whether a recent disaster has befallen the two neighbouring cities, hoping for a negative answer, as μῶν makes clear. The Messenger implicitly denies this suggestion by reporting Hippolytus’ near death instead. When Theseus subsequently questions whether (μῶν) somebody whose wife he ravished became his enemy and killed him, apparently more concerned for this anonymous figure than for his own son, the Messenger again replaces this proposition with the information that Hippolytus was destroyed by his own chariot and Theseus’ curses. Although the form and contents are similar to those of the passages discussed above and other incrementa treated by Dubischar, Theseus’ attitude to the information received is different. As he cursed and exiled Hippolytus himself, he must have expected and even desired his death. The Messenger’s report is therefore no bad news to him. This may be the reason why Dubischar does not include the passage in his discussion. Nevertheless, the passage is extremely interesting precisely because it diverges from the typical incrementum in so many ways. Besides the differences already mentioned, the passage deviates because it is followed by an elaborate messenger speech, while Dubischar claims that incrementa are typically not followed by long messenger reports because of their difference in function.54 Why does this passage take up

54

Dubischar (2007a) 21.

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such an exceptional position? I submit that by putting the report of Hippolytus’ death in the form of an incrementum that is typically associated with bad news contexts, the unusualness of Theseus’ reaction is highlighted and criticized by Euripides. Criticism of Theseus is also implicit in the Messenger’s repeated use of the second person singular (1167) and in his explicit statement of belief in Hippolytus’ innocence (1249–1254). It is sad that Hippolytus should be trusted by his servant, but not by his own father. Following the Messenger’s speech Theseus changes his tune: he no longer rejoices in Hippolytus’ death and his feelings have become neutral (1257–1260). He also states that he will examine Hippolytus with words (1267), which constitutes quite a change from his uncritical attitude so far. Summing up we can say that Theseus’ false assumptions contribute to his unsympathetic characterization, which stands in sharp contrast with the common picture of him.55 The fact that he keeps on making these false guesses not only illustrates his ignorance,56 but also his uncritical attitude and rashness.57 Halleran points out that ‘his rashness is needed for the plot and is in keeping with his character as a man of action’.58 Throughout the play Theseus’ guesses have proven to be wrong. Thus his communicative behaviour characterizes him as an individual whose uncritical mind leads him to make false assumptions with disastrous results. 3.3.3 Stagnation of Narrative Activity The stagnation of narrative activity is also found, in the form of x-questions followed by ≠ answers. This pattern may be caused by the questioner’s lack of information in combination with the answerer’s incapacity or unwillingness to narrate. The former situation characterizes Ion 539–554: Ion: ἡ τύχη πόθεν ποθ’ ἥκει; Xu.: δύο μίαν θαυμάζομεν 540 Ion: ἐκ τίνος δέ σοι πέφυκα μητρός; Xu.: οὐκ ἔχω φράσαι. Ion: οὐδὲ Φοῖβος εἶπε; Xu.: τερφθεὶς τοῦτο, κεῖν’ οὐκ ἠρόμην. Ion: γῆς ἄρ’ ἐκπέφυκα μητρός; Xu.: οὐ πέδον τίκτει τέκνα.

55 56

57 58

x-question ≠ answer x-question ≠ answer yes/no question < answer yes/no question = answer

Cf. Roisman (1999) 180. On Theseus’ ignorance cf. Luschnig (1988) 87ff. and Halleran (1995) 49. Theseus’ ignorance acquits him from the charge of wickedness in Artemis’ opinion (1334–1335). However, there is no excuse for his uncritical attitude and rashness. On Theseus’ rashness see Halleran (1995) 40, 48 and Roisman (1999) 180–181. Halleran (1995) 40.

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distribution of narrative activity Ion: πῶς ἂν οὖν εἴην σός; Ion: 545 Ion: Ion: Ion: Ion: Ion: 550 Ion: Ion: Ion: Ion: Ion:

φέρε λόγων ἁψώμεθ’ ἄλλων. ἦλθες ἐς νόθον τι λέκτρον; πρὶν κόρην λαβεῖν Ἐρεχθέως; ἆρα δῆτ’ ἐκεῖ μ’ ἔφυσας; κᾆτα πῶς ἀφικόμεσθα δεῦρο; διὰ μακρᾶς ἐλθὼν κελεύθου; Πυθίαν δ’ ἦλθες πέτραν πρίν; προξένων δ’ ἔν του κατέσχες; ἐθιάσευσ’, ἢ πῶς τάδ’ αὐδᾷς; ἔμφρον’ ἢ κάτοινον ὄντα; τοῦτ’ ἐκεῖν’· ἵν ἐσπάρημεν.

Xu.: οὐκ οἶδ’, ἀναφέρω δ’ ἐς τὸν θεόν. Xu.: τοῦτ’ ἄμεινον, ὦ τέκνον. Xu.: μωρίᾳ γε τοῦ νέου. Xu.: οὐ γὰρ ὕστερόν γέ πω. Xu.: τῷ χρόνῳ γε συντρέχει. Xu.: τοῦτ’ ἀμηχανῶ. Xu.: τοῦτο κἄμ’ ἀπαιολᾷ. Xu.: ἐς φανάς γε Βακχίου. Xu.: ὅς με Δελφίσιν κόραις Xu.: Μαινάσιν γε Βακχίου. Xu.: Βακχίου πρὸς ἡδοναῖς. Xu.: ὁ πότμος ἐξηῦρεν, τέκνον.

x-question ≠ answer

yes/no question ≤ answer yes/no question ≤ answer yes/no question > answer x-question … ≠ answer … x-question ≠ answer yes/no question < answer yes/no question < answer disj. question < answer disj. question = answer

Xuthus has received Apollo’s (false) oracle that the first person to meet him upon his exit from the temple will be his son.59 As he comes out of the temple, he meets Ion, whom he greets as his son (517: ὦ τέκνον).60 Ion does not immediately pick up on the parental claim that issues from Xuthus’ address and considers his physical contact overly familiar. Comic misunderstanding and struggle ensue, until Xuthus reiterates his parental claim by means of an

59

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The fact that Apollo gives Xuthus a false oracle and never reveals the truth has been considered a major point of criticism against the god. Some scholars defend it as part of Apollo’s bigger plan, e.g. Wassermann (1940) 596–597, Burnett (1962) 91–93, and Gellie (1984) 97, others in terms of Xuthus’ characterization, e.g. Wolff (1965) 189 and Whitman (1974) 81. Following Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1926) 111, Knox (1979) 260 advocates the ambiguity of the word τέκνον, which, according to him, can mean not only ‘son’ but also ‘child’ or ‘boy’. However, Dickey (1996) 65–72 argues that ‘the vocative τέκνον is purely and emphatically a kt [kin term], while παῖ can indicate both youth and kinship’. This significantly weakens Knox’ statement that ‘in the dramatic circumstances it cannot possibly occur to Ion that it means “son”’. Furthermore, Xuthus emphatically draws attention to the appropriateness of his address in the remainder of the line. Whereas the age difference between Xuthus and Ion is obvious and the use of an age term would therefore need no explanation, the family relationship between them is unclear and so the use of a kin term does require justification. The use of family terms is more restricted than that of age terms and it is therefore more likely to need justification in contexts where the term seems inappropriate. From Xuthus’ emphasis on the appropriateness of his address, Ion can gather that he is using the word τέκνον as a kin term, provided that this word can contain the ambiguity that Knox (1979) 260 advocates in the first place. Instead I believe that Ion simply finds Xuthus’ behaviour overly familiar. The violence of Ion’s reaction can be explained by the

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indirect self-reference (527: πατρός).61 This time Ion understands and questions Xuthus about Apollo’s oracle and its fulfillment in their encounter. The passage under discussion starts when Ion wonders about his conception. His lack of knowledge on the topic causes him to pose (open-ended) x-questions (539, 540, 548), each of which are responded to by Xuthus with statements of ignorance (539, 540, 548). Xuthus appears to be so focused on his own happiness, that he has not thought about Ion’s questions.62 Xuthus’ uncritical attitude becomes most apparent when he admits that in his joy at the promise of a son, he failed to ask Apollo about Ion’s mother (542). Up until line 544 neither interlocutor takes on an active role in the construction of the narrative and so the narrative does not commence. This changes when Ion proposes to adopt a different communicative strategy (544). Verrall and Wilamowitz interpret Ion’s comment as referring to the seriousness with which the interrogation is undertaken.63 Lee’s ‘rigorous application of logic’ is more to the point.64 In practice, however, I believe that Ion’s proposal boils down to the use of specific disjunctive and yes/no questions and a (new) distribution of narrative activity, in which Ion takes the initiative and handles the bulk of the narrative activity. Xuthus gratefully accepts this new arrangement and embraces his reduced responsibility in the reconstruction of the past (544). In response to specific disjunctive and yes/no questions he is more likely to be able to offer the requested answers. So it is only when Ion resorts to those types of questions that he obtains information from Xuthus and the narrative takes off. My point is confirmed by the fact that when Ion ventures to ask another open-ended x-question once the narrative is under way (548– 549), Xuthus reverts to statements of ignorance (548–549) and for a moment the narrative stagnates again. The distribution of narrative activity between the interlocutors and their amount of background knowledge about the topic of conversation are at odds with each other. Although Ion is obviously in no position to possess background

61 62 63 64

fact that he believes Xuthus will break the god’s fillets by touching him. It is only when this is brought up (522) and Xuthus persists (523), that Ion’s reaction becomes violent (524). This is in keeping with Ion’s pious attitude towards Apollo, particularly in the beginning of the play. If Ion had been offended by Xuthus’ presumed sexual advances, and if Ion had interpreted Xuthus’ initial address τέκνον as offensive, he would have reacted violently earlier. See also section 2.4.2.1, particularly group 3 on p. 69. Cf. Lee (1997) 220 on Xuthus’ ‘tunnel vision’. Verrall (1890) 48, Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1926). Lee’s (1997) 220

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information about his own conception, he still takes on a much more active role in reconstructing the past than Xuthus, who is supposed to possess this background information, because he must have played a major part in it. Where Xuthus does contribute to the conversation, he repeatedly misses the mark. His comment that the earth does not bear children (542) is obviously ludicrous within the context of this play in which the theme of autochthony plays such an important role.65 When Ion eventually draws a conclusion concerning his conception, Xuthus does not do him justice in saying that fate discovered it (554). Rather, Ion found out—albeit incorrectly—by means of his purposeful questions and perceptive reasoning. Both Ion’s way of asking and Xuthus’ way of answering play an important role in their characterization. Ion’s critical questions and his active narrative behaviour display ‘a genuinely Attic precociousness and fondness for reasoning and discussing’.66 By contrast, Xuthus’ ignorant answers and passive role in the reconstruction of the past reflect his slow-wittedness and uncritical attitude.67 The deep-seated gap68 between these characters subtly indicates that it is unlikely that the two are father and son. In addition, Xuthus’ incapacity to contribute fruitfully to the constitution of the narrative in this stichomythic dialogue may reflect his general incapacity: he is an impotent man, both on the narrative and intellectual levels and on the reproductive and physical levels.69 As such he is unlikely to have fathered Ion. Thus while the interlocutors ‘try to make sense out of falsehood, and … naturally arrive at false interpretation’,70 the form of the stichomythic dialogue, its pattern of questions and answers, 65 66

67

68

69

70

On this point cf. Burnett (1962) 91–92 and Wolff (1965) 183. Wassermann (1940) 593. Whitman (1974) 79, 85, 90 traces a development in Ion’s character over the course of the play from an innocent young man that gradually loses his innocence to obtain a calculating reasoning power. Burnett (1962) 92 calls Xuthus ‘pompous … and slow-witted’. Wolff (1965) 183 describes him as ‘a limited figure whose imagination does not extend beyond the everyday world and whose feelings, though well-intentioned, are obtuse … His way is to let things fall out as they might, pursuing no inquiry too far’. Whitman (1974) 80 notes that Xuthus, by contrast to Ion, is ‘easily satisfied’. Lee (1997) 220 emphasizes the contrast between Xuthus and Ion. I am not convinced by Whitman (1974) 75, who sees a parallel between Xuthus and Ion in the beginning of the play. Of course, Xuthus will beget children later, as we learn from Athena in the deus ex machina speech (1589–1594). However, at this point in the play we only know that Xuthus and Creusa are childless, but Creusa had a child by Apollo. The logical conclusion is that Xuthus is impotent. Whitman (1974) 72.

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and its distribution of narrative activity in various ways reflects and subtly foreshadows the truth about their relationship. The stichomythic conversation between Xuthus and Ion should be viewed in relation to two stichomythic mirror-scenes in the play. On the one hand, there is the conversation between Ion and Creusa at the beginning of the play (255–368). Although this dialogue represents a casual encounter between two strangers, it features a natural and growing sympathy between the interlocutors that reflects their true family relationship.71 This is visible in their communicative behaviour: Ion’s avid questions, featuring the historic present,72 are met by Creusa’s cooperative answers. Only when Ion unconsciously touches the soar point of Creusa’s rape, is she reluctant to provide information (256, 288, 336). As we have seen above, the exchange between Ion and Xuthus shows exactly the reverse. Although this dialogue represents a recognition-scene between father and son, the uncomfortable atmosphere between its interlocutors and their diametrically opposite communicative behaviour shows that the two are unlikely to be related.73 On the other hand, the false recognition scene between Ion and Xuthus can be compared and contrasted with the true recognition scene between Ion and Creusa towards the end of the play (1395–1444).74 In this scene struggle and argument turn into an interrogation where Creusa provides more information than was asked for in Ion’s questions (1413, 1415, 1423), and eventually even breaks free from the boundaries of the stichomythic form (1427–1429, 1433– 1436) in order to describe the recognition tokens and prove her identity as Ion’s mother. This is a far cry from Xuthus’ inability to reconstruct the circumstances of Ion’s conception. As Hartigan remarks: ‘In the earlier recognition scene, a carefully reasoned argument led to a false conclusion, here an emotionally tense interrogation leads to a true recognition’.75 At the end of the false recognition scene, Ion longs to see his mother (563–565), and after the true recognition scene he longs for the presence of his father (1468–1469).76 This is where things get complicated. Xuthus’ and Creusa’s childlessness, Xuthus’

71 72 73 74 75

76

Conacher (1959) 21, Willetts (1973) 207. Cf. section 4.2.2, p. 146–148. Cf. also Conacher (1959) 21. Wolff (1965) 172, 183. Hartigan (1991) 85: ‘He [Ion] wants a normal human world. But this is not to be. With Xouthos Ion had to be satisfied with an unknown mother, while now he learns that the father he has accepted is not, in fact, the one who engendered him.’ Wassermann (1940) 598, 602 draws attention to the irony of Ion’s reference to his father and of the fact that this and the two other scenes take place in front of Apollo’s temple.

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paternity and Creusa’s maternity are incompatible. One of the three must be false. It turns out to be the second and this raises in turn the questions of Ion’s paternity and Apollo’s reliability.77 The fact that these three related scenes are all composed in stichomythic form may be another, formal way of linking them. 3.3.4 Unilateral Narrative Activity In some stichomythic dialogues the narrative activity is unilateral. Unilateral narrative activity is usually located in the answerer, but occasionally it can be situated in the questioner. An example is Hec. 239–248, where Hecuba uses yes/no questions in order to refresh Odysseus’ memory while Odysseus responds by means of = answers: Hec.: 240

245 246 249 250 247 248

Od.: Hec.: Od.: Hec.: Od.: Hec.: Od.: Hec.: Od.:

οἶσθ’ ἡνίκ’ ἦλθες Ἰλίου κατάσκοπος yes/no question δυσχλαινίᾳ τ’ ἄμορφος ὀμμάτων τ’ ἄπο φόνου σταλαγμοὶ σὴν κατέσταζον γένυν; οἶδ’· οὐ γὰρ ἄκρας καρδίας ἔψαυσέ μου. = answer ἔγνω δέ σ’ Ἑλένη καὶ μόνῃ κατεῖπ’ ἐμοί; yes/no question μεμνήμεθ’ ἐς κίνδυνον ἐλθόντες μέγαν. = answer ἥψω δὲ γονάτων τῶν ἐμῶν ταπεινὸς ὤν; yes/no question ὥστ’ ἐνθανεῖν γε σοῖς πέπλοισι χεῖρ’ ἐμήν. = answer τί δῆτ’ ἔλεξας δοῦλος ὢν ἐμὸς τότε; open-ended x-question πολλῶν λόγων εὑρήμαθ’ ὥστε μὴ θανεῖν. = answer ἔσωσα δῆτά σ’ ἐξέπεμψά τε χθονός; yes/no question ὥστ’ εἰσορᾶν γε φέγγος ἡλίου τόδε. ≤ answer

Before we move on to a discussion of the distribution of narrative activity, it is worth noting two features of this stichomythic passage that are narratologically unusual. First, the unusual diegetic status of its interlocutors. In most stichomythic dialogues the questioner plays no part in the narrated events (heterodiegetic), while the answerer plays a part (homodiegetic) or even the main part (autodiegetic) in them. This difference in diegetic status explains the common discrepancy in background knowledge between the interlocutors, which in turn accounts for their exchange of narrative information. In the stichomythic conversation between Hecuba and Odysseus, the situation is different. Both interlocutors played an important role in the narrated events and therefore possess an equal amount of background knowledge. Hecuba is

77

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not telling Odysseus about an incident during the Trojan War, she is merely refreshing his memory. Secondly, most of Hecuba’s questions are in the second person singular, which causes the narrative to be in the ‘you’-form. This is highly unusual for a narrative. Again its use is related to the fact that Hecuba is refreshing Odysseus’ memory and her narrative has a specific rhetorical purpose. Although at the start of the conversation Hecuba defined her communicative role as asking and listening (237),78 in practice she takes on a more active narrative role predominantly posing yes/no questions. This mismatch between Hecuba’s rhetorically manipulative asking of permission to ask questions and her assertiveness in asking information-rich questions gives a first taste of her employment of rhetoric. By means of yes/no questions she leads Odysseus into confirming their propositions: Odysseus came to Troy as a spy (239–242), Helen recognized him and revealed him to Hecuba alone (243–244), Odysseus supplicated Hecuba and begged her for his life (245–250), and Hecuba spared him (247–248).79 Hecuba’s high narrative activity can be explained by her position in the dramatic context. As an old captive slave woman she is completely powerless.80 The favour (charis) she did for Odysseus during the Trojan War is the only possible way to get some moral hold over him. Therefore she has to make the most of this argument by presenting it with ample rhetoric. By gradually taking Odysseus back into the past and having him admit the narrated events one by one, Hecuba tries to lead him into returning his favour by complying with her request not to sacrifice Polyxena. Hecuba’s use of yes/no questions to revive the past with Odysseus gives another example of her employment of rhetoric. ‘Here Hecuba shows for the first time that rhetorical power which, for good or ill, is to prove her chief strength throughout the play’.81 Hecuba’s

78

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80 81

Mossman (1995) 103–104 points out that Hecuba’s request to speak ‘adds pathos when put into the mouth of the former queen’ and sees a parallel between it and her ‘longer and more fearful debate with herself just before she appeals to Agamemnon at 736ff.’. The story told in the stichomythic conversation between Hecuba and Odysseus is based on the Odyssey. Odysseus’ espionage and Helen’s recognition feature in Od. 4.244–256, cf. also Ilias Parva Davies (1988) 52–53, and Rhes. 710ff. However, Helen’s informing Hecuba appears to be a Euripidean invention. Cf. Conacher (1961) 5, Collard (1991) 144, Mossman (1995) 39. This Euripidean addition is criticized in scholia m as implausible, because, unlike Helen, Hecuba had no reason to betray Troy. Cf. Heath (2003) 222 n. 22. On the importance of power cf. Conacher (1961) 18, Buxton (1982) 274, and especially Kastely (1993). Conacher (1961) 16 and 14: ‘the uses of rhetoric, particularly in the passage between Odysseus and Hecuba [as] skillful devices by which the dramatist prepares us, quite early in the play, for the denouement’.

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rhetoric is further displayed in the ensuing ‘powerfully persuasive speech (251– 295), a very model of the rhetorician’s art’,82 and in her later confrontations with Agamemnon and Polymestor, which can be seen as parallels to the current conversation with Odysseus.83 In these three exchanges the development of Hecuba’s approach and rhetoric can be traced.84 By contrast, Odysseus’ communicative behaviour is passive and cooperative. His answers add little or no narrative information. They merely affirm Hecuba’s highly narrative questions. Odysseus gives Hecuba precisely the affirmative answers she wants, and does not oppose any of her claims about the past. Thus his communicative behaviour in this stichomythic exchange may be considered cooperative. There is one potential exception. It has been suggested by Weil that Odysseus is cooperative until Hecuba’s crucial question about what Odysseus said in Troy (249).85 In response to that question his answer is suddenly evasive and unanticipated (250), supposedly because he has some important promise—perhaps to help Hecuba should the need ever arise— to hide. However, I doubt whether such a promise actually took place. Only here in the entire stichomythic dialogue does Hecuba pose an open-ended x-question instead of a yes/no question, thus giving Odysseus almost total narrative freedom. If Hecuba had been keen on refreshing any particular promise of Odysseus, surely she would have used another yes/no question.86 This is exactly the form she returns to in 247 when she formulates what, in my opinion, is the truly crucial question, whether she saved his life. Considering Odysseus’ narrative freedom in line 250, his answer is relatively in keeping with Hecuba’s rhetorical purpose: the fact that Odysseus said whatever he could to save his life and ‘used his full persuasive repertoire’ once more illustrates the hopelessness of his situation.87 Thus I believe that Odysseus’ communicative behaviour is cooperative throughout the dialogue. Odysseus’ communicative cooperativeness and narrative passivity can be explained by the fact that he has got nothing to lose. Compared to Hecuba he finds himself in such a powerful position that he can afford to be cooperative. ‘The inequality of the speakers renders rhetoric irrelevant in the deter-

82 83 84 85 86 87

Conacher (1961) 16. Conacher (1961) 18, 22, Buxton (1982) 184 with reference to Steidle, Kastely (1993) 1037, 1039. Kirkwood (1947) 68, Abrahamson (1952) 128, Conacher (1961) 24, Reckford (1985) 115, 118–119, 124. Weil (1905) 232, cf. also Mossman (1995) 59, Gregory (1999) 75–76. The yes/no question is used for crucial confirmations in Hel. 1410–1415, Phoen. 901, 909, Bacch. 811, 819. Buxton (1982) 174.

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mination of the encounter: Odysseus permits Hecuba to speak because he knows beforehand that she will not affect his decision. Hecuba is an aged female slave who has no power, and without power she cannot speak in a way that might influence Odysseus’.88 Achilles’ claim on Odysseus to sacrifice Polyxena is more compelling than Hecuba’s claim not to. The former is a public claim from an equal in the same social group, whereas the latter is a private claim from an inferior from a different social group.89 Therefore she has no rights at all. But even apart from these political and social considerations, there are ways for Odysseus to wiggle out of his obligation towards Hecuba. Hecuba saved Odysseus’ life during the Trojan War. What Hecuba asks of him in return is to save the life of her daughter Polyxena. These favours do not correspond and therefore Odysseus is strictly speaking under no obligation to comply with her request and extend the favour to Polyxena.90 Odysseus claims that he is perfectly willing to spare Hecuba’s life. This is easy for him to say, when there is no need for that favour. Odysseus’ arguments may be considered a mask for pure force,91 albeit a very transparent one. Odysseus’ calculated communicative behaviour places him in a negative light:92 ‘We are shocked by the cold and official formality with which he enters and announces to Hecuba the decision of the Greeks. But we shudder when Hecuba reminds him of the time when, as a spy in Troy, he sat at her knees and begged for his life, and he then answers with cynical ambiguities’.93 However, thanks to Hecuba’s opposition Odysseus’ application of force does not go unchallenged.94

88 89 90 91 92

93 94

Kastely (1993) 1038. Cf. by contrast Gregory (1999) xxix–xxxi, who argues that the gods are on Hecuba’s side. This suggests that Hecuba does have power. Cf. Adkins (1966), Hogan (1972) 255. Cf. Gregory (1999) 74. Kastely (1993) 1047. Abrahamson (1952) 122, Conacher (1961) 5, Kastely (1993) 1038. Adkins (1966) argues that the audience would consider Odysseus’ behaviour as reasonable and would not have much sympathy for Polyxena. However, I agree with Hogan (1972) that this reading is too rationalistic and literal as well as incomplete. As Hogan (1972) 250–252 points out, the Greeks themselves rebel at the prospect of the sacrifice; it is eloquence, not divine necessity that moves the army to acquiesce in Achilles’ demand; and the efficacy of Polyxena’s sacrifice is nowhere stressed. Abrahamson (1952) 125. Hermsen (1994) 1029.

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Conclusion

In this chapter I have taken a narratological approach to narrative stichomythia, a type of stichomythia that has generally been considered especially problematic. In particular, I have tried to locate narrative activity in it by using typologies of questions and answers. This has resulted in the observation of structural differences between stichomythic dialogues. Most narrative stichomythiae contain a combination of different types of questions and answers. As stichomythic conversations progress and new topics are broached, openended x-questions and > answers gradually pass into disjunctive or yes/no questions and ≤ answers, which results in balanced narrative activity between the interlocutors. An example of this is the stichomythic dialogue between Aegeus and Medea in Med. 663–708. Some narrative stichomythiae show a preference for one particular type of question and/or answer. We have seen the accumulation of narrative activity by means of yes/no questions < answers (affirmative) in the stichomythic dialogue between Orestes and Hermione in Andr. 896–892, and replacement of false narrative information with true narrative information by means of yes/no questions < answers (negative) in various (stichomythic) passages featuring Theseus in Hippolytus (794–800, 856–886, 1157–1168). We have also seen the stagnation of narrative activity by means of open-ended x-questions or yes/no questions ≠ answers due to incapacity to narrate, such as in the stichomythic dialogue between Xuthus and Ion in Ion 539–554. Finally, we have seen unilateral narrative activity on the part of the questioner (yes/no questions = answers), for example in the stichomythic dialogue between Hecuba and Odysseus in Hec. 239–248. The distribution of narrative activity between questioner and answerer is intricately connected with the dramatic context. As such the interlocutors’ communicative behaviour in narrative stichomythic dialogue may reflect not only their communicative purpose in that particular dialogue, but also their character and behaviour in general in the play under discussion. Thus it may have an important function in the characterization of the interlocutors. The distribution of narrative activity and the form of questions or answers chosen may subtly expose the truth that somehow remains hidden in the semantic contents of the conversation.

Narrative Presentation While the previous chapter dealt with the narration of events and distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors in stichomythia, the remaining chapters are concerned with the presentation of these narrated events. In discussing first-person narratives, narratologists distinguish between narrating I and experiencing I.1 The difference between the two is a matter of focalization: a first-person narrator can focalize an event at the time of his telling the story or when he experienced it at the time when it took place.2 Accordingly, De Jong distinguishes between experiencing and narrating focalization.3 The distinction made by De Jong for first-person or internal narratives may be applied to third-person or external narratives as well: a third-person or external narrator will commonly narrate according to his narrating focalization, but he could narrate as if he were an eyewitness or participant in the story.4 The distinction between narrating and experiencing focalization made by De Jong is similar to that between the diegetic versus mimetic mode made by Kroon,5 and between the displaced versus immediate diegetic mode made by Allan.6 In the following chapters I will talk about the narrating versus the experiencing mode. In the narrating mode the narrator looks back on or forward to events which happened earlier or later on the time-line; in the experiencing mode the narrator pretends to be in the world of the story, observing events as they take place. Narratives may be presented in (an alternation of) different styles or narrative modes. 1 2 3 4 5 6

Cf. De Jong (1991) 2–3. De Jong (1991) 30. De Jong (1991) 1. Cf. Kroon (2002) and Allan (2007) especially 118–120. Kroon (2002) 191. Allan (2007) 98–99, following Chafe (1994).

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Historic Present 4.1

Introduction

One device that a narrator may employ in his narrative presentation is the use of different tenses. Of these the historic present is particularly interesting. The use of the present tense to present events that took place in the past has traditionally been explained as a stylistic device employed by narrators to make their story more vivid or dramatic. By collapsing the distance between the time in which the narrated events took place and the time in which they are recounted, the narrator suggests that the narrated events take place at the very moment of speaking, or, conversely, the narrator and narratee are transposed to the moment at which the narrated events took place.1 As such the historic present is characteristic of the experiencing mode.2 The historic present also occurs in narrative stichomythia. As the narrative in stichomythia is commonly created in cooperation between interlocutors, it is hardly surprising that the historic present should be employed not only by the narrator, but also by the narratee.3 However, the topic of the historic present in narrative stichomythia involves some difficulties that require discussion. The first difficulty concerns the historic present in general. In practice not all events referred to by means of this tense can be conceived as particularly vivid or dramatic. Therefore, scholars have tried to find different ways to account for its occurrence. Some have sought an explanation in the Greek verbal system or in the semantic properties of individual Greek verbs. For example, Von Fritz explains the absence of the historic present from Homeric epic by assuming a development of the Greek verbal system from purely aspect-based to more tense-based and argues that Homeric Greek ‘did not permit an event of the past and of definite extension in time

1 kg 1, 132: ‘Oft wird das Präsens in der Erzählung vergangener Ereignisse gebraucht, indem der Redende sich in die Zeit zurückversetzt, wo die Handlung sich abspielte (Praesens historicum).’ 2 Cf. Allan (2007) 100 with reference to Chafe (1994) and Kroon (2002). 3 kg 1, 134: ‘Auch im Dialog, wenn eine Person sich lebhaft in die von der anderen geschilderte Situation versetzt.’

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to be expressed by the so-called present tense’.4 For post-Homeric Greek Von Fritz sticks with a more traditional, stylistic explanation of the historic present.5 Koller argues that in early Greek and Latin only certain verbs could occur in the historic present and that this is related to the type of action they denote.6 According to him, the occurrence of negative historic presents is an indication of the fact that vivid or dramatic presentation of events is not its main function, for how should an event that did not take place be vividly represented?7 However, Euripidean narrative stichomythia contains four negative historic presents which express either a dramatically important action or a dramatically important absence of action.8 Koller furthermore postulates that the so-called historic present is used to express the ingressive aspect of non-durative verbs in contrast to the aorist which expresses their complexive aspect.9 However, many historic presents in narrative stichomythia do not clearly express the ingressive aspect of non-durative verbs. Several verbs are punctual, in which case their starting point and ending point coincide and there is no difference between the historic present and aorist as far as their aspects are concerned.10 Some historic presents seem to express the complexive rather than the ingressive aspect.11 It has recently been argued that there are even cases in which the historic present is used of durative verbs.12

4

5 6 7

8 9 10

11 12

Von Fritz (1949) 195. Ruijgh (1971) 266 thinks it unlikely that the historic present was not yet available in early Greek. Instead he suggests that it may have been part of popular language and as such unsuitable for epic, but he prefers to explain its absence from epic as related to the strict separation of the heroic and current spheres: ‘Si plus tard, dans la tragédie, le présent historique n’est nullement évité, c’est que là, ce sont toujours les héros ou les dieux eux-mêmes qui mentionnent des faits de leur passé’. Von Fritz (1949) 196. Koller (1951) 63. Koller (1951) 67. Cf. also Rijksbaron (2011) 8: ‘Historical presents cannot be combined with the negative, except under special conditions’ considering that ‘non-events may be expected to qualify less easily as decisive events than real events’ (10). Supp. 122 and 153 (οὐ modifies the question as a whole rather than the verb only), Ion 356 and ia 894. Koller (1951) 75–76. For the term ‘complexive’ compare Smyth (1956) 430: ‘The complexive aorist is used to survey at a glance the course of a past action from beginning to end’. The action expressed by verbs like θνῄσκω and κτείνω is so instantaneous that their starting point and ending point are hard to distinguish. Compare e.g. Hec. 695, El. 773, Bacch. 1041. This is recognized by Koller (1951) 77. E.g. Ion 356, ia 894. Boter (2012) arguing against Rijksbaron (2011) 7: ‘historical presents … are … almost con-

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Other scholars have tried to refine the traditional stylistic explanation in various ways. For example, Kühner-Gerth and Rijksbaron state that the historic present is employed by narrators to highlight events that are important or decisive for the development of the story or plot.13 However, this criterion seems rather subjective and flexible, and for narrative stichomythia it is even unclear: does the historic present mark events that are decisive for the development of the micro-narrative in the stichomythic conversation,14 for the development of the plot of the tragedy,15 or for both?16 How can the use of the historic present by the narratee, who does not know the story and is therefore unable to judge which events will prove important or decisive for its development, be explained? De Jong and Sicking-Stork also argue that the historic present is used to highlight important or decisive events, but from the perspective of the narrator’s communicative purpose.17 This criterion might seem equally subjective, but it is not when it can be supported by explicit statements of communicative purpose by the narrator himself or by other independent evidence. In an adjusted form this criterion may work for the use of the historic present in narrative stichomythia as well. Another difficulty is related to the topic of the historic present in narrative stichomythia and its use by the narratee as well as the narrator. It is not universally accepted that such presents exist. In the last few decades, Rijksbaron’s views on the historic present have become popular.18 He distinguishes between the perfective present, which denotes ‘some state of affairs that was carried out in the past but is still relevant at the moment of speech’ and which occurs ‘typically in expository discourse … and dialogue’ on the one hand, and praesens annalisticum / praesens tabulare and the true historic present, which occur in narrative discourse, on the other.19 Among the syntactic and semantic features

13 14 15 16 17

18 19

fined to telic and momentaneous verbs (so-called ‘accomplishments’ and ‘achievements’), and do not occur, then, with durative—stative verbs (‘states’ and ‘processes’)’. kg 1, 132, Rijksbaron (2002) 22, Rijksbaron (2011) 6, 10, 17. E.g. Ion 271. E.g. Ion 1001+1007. E.g. Supp. 122. De Jong (1991) 41: ‘historic presents highlight important or decisive actions which are thereby marked (by the speaker) as important or decisive’, Sicking-Stork (1997) 165: ‘The primary function of the hp is to lift out from their context those narrative assertions that are essential for what the speaker has stated to be his immediate concern: together the hp assertions constitute what is primarily important with respect to the purpose the narrative is to serve in its context’. Rijksbaron (1991) 1–4, Rijksbaron (2006) 127–135, Rijksbaron (2011) 4–10. Rijksbaron (1991) 2.

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of the historic present he lists that it ‘does not occur in exclamations or questions, but only in declarative sentences’, and that ‘the historical present does not occur in the second person, only in the third and first persons’.20 He also states that ‘historical presents are rare in the passive voice’.21 However, Rijksbaron himself concedes an exception to some of these rules in Soph. Ant. 406: πῶς ὁρᾶται κἀπίληπτος ᾑρέθη;22 The interrogative adverb πῶς suggests that a story will follow, and indeed a messenger-speech ensues. The present ὁρᾶται is linked by a copulative conjunction to the aorist ᾑρέθη, which indicates that the verbs are parallel and ὁρᾶται should be interpreted as a historic present. Yet it is in the passive voice and occurs in a question. If there is room for one exception, why could there not be more?23 In this chapter I will argue that narrative Euripidean stichomythia contains further examples of the historic present in questions,24 as well as some of historic presents in the second person.25 They are less frequent than those in statements and in the first or third persons, but they are not unknown. Thus I advocate a broader approach to the historic present. It is remarkable, however, that certain verbs tend to occur more frequently in the historic present than others.26 They all denote milestones in life—birth, marriage,27 exile and death—which often constitute the topic of narrative stichomythia. These are all non-durative verbs that denote actions and events rather than durative verbs that denote ongoing processes, but perhaps this is due to the fact that actions and events are more likely to be important or decisive than processes.28 Rijksbaron concludes his note on the historic present in his grammatical observations on Euripides’ Bacchae by saying that ‘on a more general semantic level the “highlighting” historic present of narrative discourse and the perfective present of expository discourse and dialogue are … related: in both cases the present gives prominence to states of affairs that 20 21 22 23

24 25 26

27 28

Rijksbaron (2011) 6–7. Rijksbaron (2011) 7–8. Rijksbaron (2006) 130. Examples of the historic present in narrative Euripidean stichomythia: Med. 701, Hec. 695, 697, 781, Supp. 122, 123, 131, 141, 153, El. 773, it 931, Ion 271, 297, 356, 948 (2×), 1001, 1007, 1347, 1458, 1459, 1496, Hel. 91, 101, 669, Bacch. 470, 1041, ia 703, 704. Med. 701, Hec. 695, 781, Supp. 123, 131, 141, 153, El. 773, Ion 271, 297, 948 (2×), Hel. 91, 101, 669, Bacch. 1041, ia 704. Hec. 695, Supp. 131, 141, Ion 948, 1458, 1459, 1496. Forms of δίδωμι occur 8 times in a main clause and 3 times in a relative clause, together constituting well over 25 % of the total number of instances. Forms of ἐκβάλλω occur 4 times, forms of θνῄσκω 3 times. Cf. also kg 1, 135–137. The verb δίδωμι is often used in this context. Cf. Sicking-Stork (1997) 166, Rijksbaron (2011) 7.

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belong to the past, either because they are important for subsequent historical events …, or because they are important for a certain person in the particular situation in which he finds himself’.29 Perhaps then, our positions are not that different. In this chapter I will treat the present tenses that refer to past events or actions in narrative stichomythia as historic presents and I will account for their use in rhetorical terms, that the historic present is used to highlight events that are important from the perspective of the narrator’s, or, in the case of narrative stichomythia, also the narratee’s communicative purposes in the specific context of the narrative.

4.2

Discussion of Examples

4.2.1 Narrator As far as the narrator is concerned, the selection of events to be presented in the historic present seems to be determined by his personal communicative purpose. This need not be restricted to the transmission of information, but may be related to other functions of human communication and interaction as well. The examples of the historic present discussed below are arranged from those with relatively more rhetorical purposes to those with relatively more social or emotional purposes. The first example features a messenger figure who reports bad news to her interlocutor using the historic present. The historic present serves the straightforward purpose of information-provision, but it has additional rhetorical functions as well. Hec. 697 Hecuba: 695

Maidservant: Hecuba: 700

Maidservant:

29

ὦ τέκνον τέκνον ταλαίνας ματρός, τίνι μόρῳ θνῄσκεις, τίνι πότμῳ κεῖσαι, πρὸς τίνος ἀνθρώπων; οὐκ οἶδ’· ἐπ’ ἀκταῖς νιν κυρῶ θαλασσίαις. ἔκβλητον ἢ πέσημα φοινίου δορὸς ἐν ψαμάθῳ λευρᾷ; πόντου νιν ἐξήνεγκε πελάγιος κλύδων.

Rijksbaron (1991) 3.

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In the epirrhematic exchange between Hecuba, the Maidservant and the Chorus, the Maidservant uses the present tense κυρῶ (Hec. 697) to refer to her discovery of Polydorus’ corpse. The location ἐπ’ ἀκταῖς … θαλασσίαις situates the action in another place and time, in the narrated past. This is also supported by the Maidservant’s use of the aorist ἐξήνεγκε in her folluw-up line (Hec. 701). Tierney and Gregory agree in calling κυρῶ a ‘vivid’ or ‘historical’ present.30 I believe they are right. One might expect the Maidservant’s use of the historic present to be triggered by that of Hecuba in the preceding question (695: θνῄσκεις), but apart from two other instances there is no evidence for the regularity of such patterns.31 Moreover, communicative contact between the interlocutors is difficult at this point in the conversation, which makes the interchange of linguistic patterns between them even less likely. On the other hand, the Maidservant may use the historic present as a means to restore communicative contact. By employing the historic present she engages Hecuba in her narrative and invites her to join her in (re-)experiencing the past. Whether or not as a result of the use of the historic present, in the following lines (699–700) Hecuba responds to the Maidservant’s narrative information, and conversational contact is briefly restored.32 The use of the historic present seems to have another function as well. The Maidservant delivers bad news to Hecuba, but she has only a limited amount of detailed information to offer (697: οὐκ οἶδ’), and her report is not followed by an elaborate messenger speech. I believe that the Maidservant uses the historic present to compensate for the bad news she delivers and the lack of detailed information. It is as if she gives Hecuba the full experience on the single point of information she has to offer in order to counterbalance the general lack of information. At the same time the use of the historic present and the experiencing perspective it involves, illustrates the Maidservant’s helplessness with respect to the narrated events: it makes the interlocutors eyewitnesses who see the events take place before their eyes without being able to intervene. The historic present may also be used for informative and rhetorical purposes by main characters. This is the case in the two following passages.

30 31

32

Tierney (1946) 94, Gregory (1999) on line 697. The other instances, Supp. 122 (οὐκ ἐῶσι) + 123 (λέγουσιν) and ia 703 (δίδωσ’) + 704 (γαμεῖ), will be discussed below. Cf. ‘Repetition in dialogue: tragedy compared with natural speech’, an unpublished paper by P. and M. Pickering read at the annual meeting of the Classical Association in Edinburgh on 5th April 2002. Note that Hecuba again breaks conversational contact by addressing Polymestor in line 705, following the Maidservant’s use of the aorist tense for the presentation of her narrative in line 701.

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Supp. 122 120 Adrastus:

Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus:

τούτους θανόντας ἦλθον ἐξαιτῶν πόλιν. κήρυξιν Ἑρμοῦ πίσυνος, ὡς θάψῃς νεκρούς; κἄπειτά γ’ οἱ κτανόντες οὐκ ἐῶσί με. τί γὰρ λέγουσιν, ὅσια χρῄζοντος σέθεν; τί δ’; εὐτυχοῦντες οὐκ ἐπίστανται φέρειν.

In Supp. 122 Adrastus refers to the Theban refusal to allow recovery of the bodies of the Argive warriors by means of the present οὐκ ἐῶσι. The Theban refusal is the crucial event in the explanation of his current appeal to Theseus for assistance (Supp. 114–115). By using the historic present, Adrastus highlights this event and presents it as important. At first sight, the present tense of οὐκ ἐῶσι might be explained by the fact that the Theban refusal has ongoing effect in the present: the Thebans are currently still refusing the Argives cooperation. However, οὐκ ἐῶσι is connected by means of the copulative conjunction and adverb κἄπειτα to the aorist ἦλθον (ἐξαιτῶν)33 in line 120, which clearly denotes a past action. Because the two verbs are coordinated, οὐκ ἐῶσι should be considered a historic present denoting an action in the past, instead of an ongoing state in the present. κᾆτα/κἄπειτα is often used by Euripides to introduce surprised, indignant, or sarcastic questions, but in statements καί may, often in combination with another particle such as γε, introduce the final step in a climactic series of events.34 I believe this is what happens here too. Not only does Adrastus present the Theban refusal as an important event for his current appeal, he also uses the historic present οὐκ ἐῶσι and the particle combination κἄπειτά γε to vent his own opinion about the narrated events. He is indignant at the Theban refusal and presents it as unreasonable. His reference to the Thebans as ‘the killers’, (122: οἱ κτανόντες) puts them in a bad light as well. Thus Adrastus tries to evoke Theseus’ sympathy for his own plight and increase his chances of successful supplication. Although Adrastus manages to obtain Theseus’ sympathy with respect to the Theban refusal (123: ὅσια χρῄζοντος σέθεν), in the end his supplication is unsuccessful. 33

34

Morwood (2007) 154 points out that both here and in line 154 the present participle is used ‘where a future participle to express purpose might be considered more regular’ and he refers to Jebb (1966) 186 on Soph. Phil. 1198 who ‘illustrates the way in which the present participle can be used with ἔρχομαι to add vividness’. Thus it is not by the present indicative alone, but also by the present participle that Adrastus highlights some of the actions and events in his narrative. Denniston (19542) 311, 291.

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Ion 1458–1459 Creusa: 1455

Ion: Creusa: 1460

Ion:

ἰὼ ⟨ἰὼ⟩ γύναι, πόθεν ἔλαβες ἐμὸν βρέφος ἐς ἀγκάλας; τίν’ ἀνὰ χέρα δόμους ἔβα Λοξίου; θεῖον τόδ’· ἀλλὰ τἀπίλοιπα τῆς τύχης εὐδαιμονοῖμεν, ὡς τὰ πρόσθ’ ἐδυστύχει. τέκνον, οὐκ ἀδάκρυτος ἐκλοχεύῃ, γόοις δὲ ματρὸς ἐκ χερῶν ὁρίζῃ. νῦν δὲ γενειάσιν πάρα σέθεν πνέω μακαριωτάτας τυχοῦσ’ ἡδονᾶς. τοὐμὸν λέγουσα καὶ τὸ σὸν κοινῶς λέγεις.

Ion 1496 Creusa: Ion: Creusa: 1490

1495

Ion:

δεκάτῳ δέ σε μηνὸς ἐν κύκλῳ κρύφιον ὠδῖν’ ἔτεκον Φοίβῳ. ὦ φίλτατ’ εἰποῦσ’, εἰ λέγεις ἐτήτυμα. παρθένια δ’ † ἐμᾶς ματέρος † σπάργαν’ ἀμφίβολά σοι τάδ’ ἀνῆψα κερκίδος ἐμᾶς πλάνους. γάλακτι δ’ οὐκ ἐπέσχον οὐδὲ μαστῷ τροφεῖα ματρὸς οὐδὲ λουτρὰ χειροῖν, ἀνὰ δ’ ἄντρον ἔρημον οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ εἰς Ἅιδαν ἐκβάλλῃ. ὦ δεινὰ τλᾶσα, μῆτερ. Creusa: ἐν φόβῳ, τέκνον καταδεθεῖσα σὰν ἀπέβαλον ψυχάν. ἔκτεινά σ’ ἄκουσ’.

In this epirrhematic conversation the narrated past and the scenic present alternate frequently. Following their recognition, Creusa wants to know what happened (1454–1455: ἔλαβες, ἔβα). Ion prefers to enjoy the moment and look forward to a positive future (1456–1457), while Creusa has a tendency to dwell on the negative past (1458–1459). She uses two presents, ἐκλοχεύῃ and ὁρίζῃ (1458–1459) to refer to the birth and separation of her baby in the past, and contrasts these events with the happy present (1460: νῦν δέ …). Owen notes the use of the present tense in line 1458 and points out the parallel with the use of present tenses in line 948, which will be discussed below, but he

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does not elaborate.35 Lee comments on ὁρίζῃ that it is ‘a striking use of the verb … which highlights the terrible moment of separation and takes up the Chorus’ ἐξόρισεν in 504’.36 It is not only the use of the verb, but also its present tense that highlights this terrible moment of separation. Whereas the Chorus used the aorist to place the past events of birth (503: τεκοῦσα) and exposure (504: ἐξόρισεν) in their local context—which was itself described in terms of repeated actions (495: στείβουσι, 500: ὑμνοῦσ’, 501: συρίζεις), Creusa uses the historic present to relive the past. Having kept her story and emotions bottled up for so long, she finally feels free to express herself, now that the truth has been revealed. The question about Ion’s father (1468–1469) results in another revival of the past mostly in the aorist (1484: ηὐνάσθην, 1487: ἔτεκον, 1490: ἀνῆψα, 1492: ἐπέσχον) and the occasional imperfect (1473, 1476: ἔτικτε), but culminating in Creusa’s exposure of Ion in the present tense (1496: ἐκβάλλῃ). It is remarkable that all three historic presents in this conversation are in the second person singular. Not only does Creusa want to relive the past, she wants Ion to re-experience it as well and concentrates on his experience of the past, thus showing that she is able to empathize with him. Moreover, all three historic presents are in the passive voice.37 This leaves ambiguous who was responsible for the actions referred to. Creusa temporarily suppresses her own responsibility for the narrated events, because she is ashamed of her actions. Ion’s shocked reaction (1497) indicates that she has reason to be ashamed,38 but Creusa defends herself, saying that she acted out of fear (1498–1499: ἀπέβαλον, ἔκτεινά). Both in this explicit motivation and in her narrative presentation, she tries to gain Ion’s sympathy and understanding for her past actions. Sometimes the use of the historic present serves not so much informative and rhetorical purposes, as emotional and social purposes. The narrator seems to use the historic present to share and vent his personal emotions with respect to the narrated events. The two following examples both feature the impressive event of divine inspiration.

35 36 37

38

Owen (1939) 171. Lee (1997) 309. Rijksbaron (2011) 7 states that ‘historical presents are rare in the passive voice’, for ‘decisive events are typically caused by actively operating persons, not by persons undergoing an action’ (10). Here Creusa chooses to present selected events as decisive using historic present, and she chooses to suppresses her responsibility in them using the passive voice. Lee (1997) 312 compares Ion’s reaction to his mother’s admissions to that of the Old Man in 958–960: ‘amazement at her grim resolve’.

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Ion 1347 Ion: Priestess: Ion: Priestess:

σὺ δ’ ἐκ κελευσμῶν ἢ πόθεν σῴζεις τάδε; ἐνθύμιόν μοι τότε τίθησι Λοξίας. τί χρῆμα δρᾶσαι; λέγε, πέραινε σοὺς λόγους. σῶσαι τόδ’ εὕρημ’ ἐς τὸν ὄντα νῦν χρόνον.

In the stichomythic conversation Ion 1324–1356 the Priestess reveals to Ion his baby things and tells him about his background. At line 1347 she uses the present tense τίθησι to refer to the divine inspiration that made her hide the basket with Ion’s baby-things until now. The adverb τότε places this divine inspiration firmly in the narrated past, making this a historic present. Lee lists among the Priestess’ chief characteristics ‘pride in her office (1322–1323) and obedience to divine will (1347, 1353, 1357, 1359)’.39 Although I agree with Owen that ‘Ion interrupts, breaking the sense, because of the exigencies of stichomythia, not, as Verrall thinks, because the Pythia pauses, finding it difficult to say that the keeping of the cradle was prompted by Loxias’, I do believe that Apollo’s divine inspiration has made quite an impression on her.40 It has definitely had a significant impact on her life. Up until this moment the Priestess has been unable to talk about Apollo’s inspiration, but the present revelation gives her the opportunity freely to re-experience and share the past using the historic present. Apollo’s inspiration and influence is not only important for the Priestess personally, it also constitutes a central theme and shapes the action of the play as a whole.41 On a broader dramatic level too, then, the action highlighted by the Priestess’ use of the historic present plays an important role. Bacch. 470 Pentheus: 470 Dionysus:

πότερα δὲ νύκτωρ σ’ ἢ κατ’ ὄμμ’ ἠνάγκασεν; ὁρῶν ὁρῶντα, καὶ δίδωσιν ὄργια.

In Bacch. 470 the Lydian stranger refers to Dionysus’ gift of rites by means of the present δίδωσιν. This is part of a gradual process of approach. First the Lydian stranger used the aorist tense to refer to his initiation (466: εἰσέβησ’).

39 40 41

Lee (1997) 298. Owen (1939) 162. Verrall’s interpretation cannot be right. Ion’s question in line 1345 already suggests Creusa’s answer in line 1349. Cf. Lee (1997) 298, 300

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Pentheus’ response indicated that he considered Dionysus some god of distant countries (467: ἐκεῖ), but the Lydian stranger corrected him by situating the god closer to home (468: ἐνθάδε). Again Pentheus challenged the Lydian stranger by suggesting that he might not have seen it properly, using the aorist ἠνάγκασεν (469). At that point the Lydian stranger uses the historic present: ὁρῶν ὁρῶντα, καὶ δίδωσιν ὄργια (470). He invites Pentheus to see the initiation taking place before his eyes using the historic present. On the surface the situation is similar to that of the previous example: both the Priestess in the Ion and the Lydian stranger in the Bacchae are, or present themselves as, religious officials who use the historic present to refer to an impressive instance of physical interaction in the past with the gods they worship, Apollo and Dionysus respectively. However, in Bacchae the Lydian stranger is in fact Dionysus in disguise and his story about initiation is made up. Nevertheless, the communicative purpose of the Lydian stranger is to convince the sceptical Pentheus of Dionysus’ divinity and his right to worship. I believe that the use of the historic present plays a role in this as well. By means of the historic present the Lydian stranger visualizes his initiation and invites Pentheus to witness it as far as possible through language and as far as permitted by religion (cf. 471– 476). Even though Pentheus’ curiosity is piqued (471–476), he remains and will remain unconvinced. In two cases the narrator’s expression of personal emotions about the narrated events seems to be the main, almost sole purpose of his use of the historic present. it 931

930 931 934 935

Iphigenia: σιγῶ· τὸ δ’ Ἄργος πρὸς σὲ νῦν ἀποβλέπει; Orestes: Μενέλαος ἄρχει· φυγάδες ἐσμὲν ἐκ πάτρας. Iphigenia: οὔ που νοσοῦντας θεῖος ὕβρισεν δόμους; Orestes: οὔκ, ἀλλ’ Ἐρινύων δεῖμά μ’ ἐκβάλλει χθονός. Iphigenia: ἔγνωκα· μητρός ⟨σ’⟩ οὕνεκ’ ἠλάστρουν θεαί. Orestes: ὥσθ’ αἱματηρὰ στόμι’ ἐπεμβαλεῖν ἐμοί.

In the stichomythic conversation it 912–993 Orestes gives Iphigenia an update about past events in Argos. In response to Iphigenia’s question whether Menelaus has violated (930: ὕβρισεν) their house, Orestes uses the historic present ἐκβάλλει to refer to his exile by fear of the Erinyes (931). Iphigenia picks up this piece of information using the imperfect (934: ἠλάστρουν). Guilt naturally and noticeably occupies Orestes’ mind. In the current stichomythic conversation he avoids the topic of his mother’s murder (924–927). Guilt has

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driven Orestes mad (932–933, cf. also 281ff.) and away from his country (931, 934). It is only natural that Orestes should use the historic present to refer to such an emotional event, which has had such a substantial impact on his life. Ion 356

350

354 357 358 355 356 359

Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion:

εἰ δ’ οὐκέτ’ ἔστι, τίνι τρόπῳ διεφθάρη; θῆράς σφε τὸν δύστηνον ἐλπίζει κτανεῖν. ποίῳ τόδ’ ἔγνω χρωμένη τεκμηρίῳ; ἐλθουσ’ ἵν’ αὐτὸν ἐξέθηκ’ οὐχ ηὗρ’ ἔτι. ἦν δὲ σταλαγμὸς ἐν στίβῳ τις αἵματος; οὔ φησι· καίτοι πόλλ’ ἐπεστράφη πέδον. χρόνος δὲ τίς τῷ παιδὶ διαπεπραγμένῳ; σοὶ ταὐτὸν ἥβης, εἴπερ ἦν, εἶχ’ ἂν μέτρον. τί δ’ εἰ λάθρᾳ νιν Φοῖβος ἐκτρέφει λαβών; τὰ κοινὰ χαίρων οὐ δίκαια δρᾷ μόνος. ἀδικεῖ νυν ὁ θεός, ἡ τεκοῦσα δ’ ἀθλία. οὔκουν ἔτ’ ἄλλον ⟨γ’⟩ ὕστερον τίκτει γόνον. οἴμοι· προσῳδὸς ἡ τύχη τὠμῷ πάθει.

Various attempts have been made to make the order of the lines in this passage more natural, some involving change of speakers. I follow Diggle’s oct text, because I consider his order to be the most natural, the transitions between lines most fluid. Up until line 352 the stichomythic was about the narrated past. In 353 a link is made between past and present and the ensuing present tenses (357: ἐκτρέφει, 358: δρᾷ, 355: ἀδικεῖ) are probably about the current situation. Ion’s concluding remark ἡ τεκοῦσα δ’ ἀθλία (355) evokes in Creusa the association with giving birth and prompts her to continue οὔκουν ἔτ’ ἄλλον ⟨γ’⟩ ὕστερον τίκτει γόνον (356).42 The historic present τίκτει (356) refers back to the past and picks up the story. ‘This detail brings together the secret and open reasons for consulting the oracle. Creusa is so carried along by Ion’s sympathy that she lets her own situation surface (cf. 342), and introduces a potentially embarrassing similarity between her “friend” and herself’.43 I would argue that Creusa’s use of the historic present to refer to this particular similarity contributes to the blurring of boundaries between her own story and that of

42 43

Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1926) 101. Lee (1997) 198.

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her so-called friend. By using the historic present she highlights childlessness, stresses its importance within the context of the story about her ‘friend’, and invites (re-)experience of the past. At the same time childlessness has an important impact on her and Xuthus’ current life: it is the reason why they have come to consult Apollo’s oracle in Delphi. By using the historic present Creusa blurs the boundaries between past and present and reveals glimpses of her true past and identity. 4.2.2 Narratee Let us now turn to the narratee and the factors that determine his choice of events or actions to be presented in the historic present. First it is important to note that virtually all of the historic presents employed by the narratee involve a resumption of information that has been mentioned before by the narrator, that is easily inferable from what preceded in the conversation, or that the narrator knows via some other source. The historic present seems to function as a way of processing information for the narratee while at the same time providing the opportunity to display his personal response to the narrated events. Depending on the extent to which the narratee is personally involved in the narrated events and on whether he judges the narrated events as positive or negative, the attitude expressed by his use of the historic present may be described as (polite) interest, concern, surprise, shock, or eager curiosity. I will illustrate these categories with examples. The most neutral category of (polite) interest is found in situations where interlocutors do not know each other well and the narratee is not personally involved in the narrated events, but still has a reason for expressing (polite) interest. Hel. 91 + 101 Helen: 90 Teucer: Helen: Teucer: Helen: Teucer: 95 Helen: Teucer: Helen: Teucer: Helen:

τί δῆτα Νείλου τούσδ’ ἐπιστρέφῃ γύας;] φυγὰς πατρῴας ἐξελήλαμαι χθονός. τλήμων ἂν εἴης· τίς δέ σ’ ἐκβάλλει πάτρας; Τελαμὼν ὁ φύσας· τίν’ ἂν ἔχοις μᾶλλον φίλον; ἐκ τοῦ; τὸ γάρ τοι πρᾶγμα συμφορὰν ἔχει. Αἴας μ’ ἀδελφὸς ὤλεσ’ ἐν Τροίᾳ θανών. πῶς; οὔ τί που σῷ φασγάνῳ βίου στερείς; οἰκεῖον αὐτὸν ὤλεσ’ ἅλμ’ ἐπὶ ξίφος. μανέντ’; ἐπεὶ τίς σωφρονῶν τλαίη τάδ’ ἄν; τὸν Πηλέως τιν’ οἶσθ’ Ἀχιλλέα γόνον; ναί·

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100 Teucer:

Helen: Teucer: Helen: Teucer:

μνηστήρ ποθ’ Ἑλένης ἦλθεν, ὡς ἀκούομεν. θανὼν ὅδ’ ὅπλων ἔριν ἔθηκε συμμάχοις. καὶ δὴ τί τοῦτ’ Αἴαντι γίγνεται κακόν; ἄλλου λαβόντος ὅπλ’ ἀπηλλάχθη βίου. σὺ τοῖς ἐκείνου δῆτα πήμασιν νοσεῖς; ὁθούνεκ’ αὐτῷ ⟨γ’⟩ οὐ ξυνωλόμην ὁμοῦ.

These two examples occur in the stichomythic conversation between Helen and Teucer (Hel. 78–142), where Teucer tells Helen about his background, exile, the Trojan War and its aftermath. Although Helen does not know Teucer and is not personally involved, she nevertheless expresses polite interest in his story by twice resuming his narrated events using the present (Hel. 91: ἐκβάλλει; 101: γίγνεται). Kannicht suggests that ἐκβάλλει in line 91 might be an instance of ‘das von Pearson treffend so genannte “registrierendes” Präsens, vorzugsweise angewendet zur Feststellung von genealogischen Beziehungen oder Besitzverhältnissen’.44 Pearson points out that ‘this function of the present, which may be called “registering”, should be carefully distinguished from the historic. Its purpose is to identify persons or earmark things, as e.g. in genealogical statements of pedigree’.45 However, it is uncertain whether ἐκβάλλει in line 91 is a ‘registering present’. It does not identify a person. It does earmark a thing, i.e. Teucer’s exile, but so do most verbs. This criterion is therefore not decisive. Pearson does not list Hel. 91 among his examples and Kannicht does not seem certain of it himself either, for his comment is followed by a question mark.46 I advocate a more flexible approach to the use of the present tense for past events or actions. Teucer and Helen reconstruct the story of Teucer’s exile using mostly aorists (94, 96: ὤλεσ’, 100: ἔθηκε, 102: ἀπηλλάχθη, 104: ξυνωλόμην). Within this narrative context Helen uses the historic present to express polite interest in key aspects of Teucer’s story. In response to his remark that he has been exiled from his native country (90), she asks who exiled him (91: ἐκβάλλει). Her sympathy for Teucer becomes apparent from several empathic remarks (91, 93). After Teucer’s statements about Ajax’ suicide and the quarrel about Achilles’ armour after his death, Helen asks how this became a prob44

45

46

Kannicht (1969) on lines 91 and 568. The examples he lists are: Telephus 10 (Kannicht f696), Med. 955, Supp. 6, Bacch. 213; Supp. 640, hf 252, 967, Tro. 134, Bacch. 2, 244; kg 1, 137 (d); Hel. 33, 91, 109, 1476 (?), 1521. Pearson (1903) 110 on Hel. 568. He lists the following examples: Hel. 1521, 1645, Bacch. 2, 213, 244, hf 252, 967, Med. 955, Supp. 406, Tro. 134, Rhes. 945; Verg. Ecl. 8. 45, Aen. 9. 266, 10. 518. Kannicht (1969) also has doubts about Hel. 1476.

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lem for Ajax (101: γίγνεται). Kannicht draws attention to the particle combination καὶ δή ‘als Einleitung einer überraschten Frage’.47 I believe that the verb used, γίγνεται instead of ἐστί for example, and its present tense are in keeping with this and contribute to the expression of Helen’s involvement. The interest Helen expresses by means of her use of the historic present is supported by the dramatic context. Helen and Teucer are both Greeks in a foreign land, which increases their solidarity. If Helen shows herself polite and interested, she may be able to restore the bad impression she had initially made as a result of her physical resemblance to the ‘real’ Helen and Teucer may show himself willing to give information about the Greeks, Menelaus in particular, or provide assistance in the future. Hec. 781 Agamemnon: Hecuba: Agamemnon: 780 Hecuba: Agamemnon: Hecuba:

ηὗρες δὲ ποῦ νιν; ἢ τίς ἤνεγκεν νεκρόν; ἥδ’, ἐντυχοῦσα ποντίας ἀκτῆς ἔπι. τοῦτον ματεύουσ’ ἢ πονοῦσ’ ἄλλον πόνον; λούτρ’ ᾤχετ’ οἴσουσ’ ἐξ ἁλὸς Πολυξένῃ. κτανών νιν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐκβάλλει ξένος. θαλασσόπλαγκτόν γ’, ὧδε διατεμὼν χρόα.

In the stichomythic conversation between Agamemnon and Hecuba in Hec. 733–786 Agamemnon asks Hecuba about Polydorus’ fate. The story of Polydorus’ birth, secret upbringing, death at the hands of Polymestor and the discovery of his body is gradually and cooperatively reconstructed by means of aorists (762: ἔτεκον, 765: ἔτεκες, 768: ἐξέπεμψεν, 770: ηὑρέθη, 772: ἐπέμφθη, 774: ὤλεσε, 777: ηὗρες, ἤνεγκεν) and an occasional imperfect (762: κἄφερον, 767: ἐτύγχαν’). At line 781 instead of asking a question Agamemnon uses a hedging expression (ὡς ἔοικεν) referring to Polydorus’ expulsion by means of the present ἐκβάλλει (781). Gregory considers this a historic present,48 and rightly so. We are in the middle of a story and even within line 781 there is a clear succession of actions: Polymestor first killed Polydorus (κτανών), and then he threw him out (ἐκβάλλει). Agamemnon’s use of the historic present can be explained by and reflects his interest in Hecuba’s narrative. This is supported by additional evidence. In the beginning Agamemnon made great efforts to engage Hecuba in conversation and to find out what was going on (733–758). Once the conver-

47 48

Kannicht (1969) on line 91. Gregory (1999) on line 781.

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sation is underway Agamemnon remains interested (761) and compassionate (763, 775: ὦ τλῆμον, 783: ὦ σχετλία σὺ τῶν ἀμετρήτων πόνων, 785: φεῦ φεῦ· τίς οὕτω δυστυχὴς ἔφυ γυνή;). Supp. 123, 131, 141, 153 Adrastus: 115 Theseus:

120

125

130

135

140

Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus:

49

ὦ καλλίνικε γῆς Ἀθηναίων ἄναξ, Θησεῦ, σὸς ἱκέτης καὶ πόλεως ἥκω σέθεν. τί χρῆμα θηρῶν καὶ τίνος χρείαν ἔχων; οἶσθ’ ἣν στρατείαν ἐστράτευσ’ ὀλεθρίαν; οὐ γάρ τι σιγῇ διεπέρασας Ἑλλάδα. ἐνταῦθ’ ἀπώλεσ’ ἄνδρας Ἀργείων ἄκρους. τοιαῦθ’ ὁ τλήμων πόλεμος ἐξεργάζεται. τούτους θανόντας ἦλθον ἐξαιτῶν πόλιν. κήρυξιν Ἑρμοῦ πίσυνος, ὡς θάψῃς νεκρούς; κἄπειτά γ’ οἱ κτανόντες οὐκ ἐῶσί49 με. τί γὰρ λέγουσιν, ὅσια χρῄζοντος σέθεν; τί δ’; εὐτυχοῦντες οὐκ ἐπίστανται φέρειν. ξύμβουλον οὖν μ’ ἐπῆλθες; ἢ τίνος χάριν; κομίσαι σε, Θησεῦ, παῖδας Ἀργείων θέλων. τὸ δ’ Ἄργος ἡμῖν ποῦ ’στιν; ἢ κόμποι μάτην; σφαλέντες οἰχόμεσθα· πρὸσ σὲ δ’ ἥκομεν. ἰδίᾳ δοκῆσάν σοι τόδ’ ἢ πάσῃ πόλει; πάντες ⟨σ’⟩ ἱκνοῦνται Δαναΐδαι θάψαι νεκρούς. ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἐλαύνεις ἑπτὰ πρὸς Θήβας λόχους; δισσοῖσι γαμβροῖς τήνδε πορσύνων χάριν. τῷ δ’ ἐξέδωκας παῖδας Ἀργείων σέθεν; οὐκ ἐγγενῆ συνῆψα κηδείαν δόμοις. ἀλλὰ ξένοις ἔδωκας Ἀργείας κόρας; Τυδεῖ ⟨γε⟩ Πολυνείκει τε τῷ Θηβαιγενεῖ. τίν’ εἰς ἔρωτα τῆσδε κηδείας μολών; Φοίβου μ’ ὑπῆλθε δυστόπαστ’ αἰνίγματα. τί δ’εἶπ’ Ἀπόλλων παρθένοις κραίνων γάμον; κάπρῳ με δοῦναι καὶ λέοντι παῖδ’ ἐμώ. σὺ δ’ ἐξελίσσεις πῶς θεοῦ θεσπίσματα; ἐλθόντε φυγάδε νυκτὸς εἰς ἐμὰς πύλας τίς καὶ τίς; εἰπέ· δύω γὰρ ἐξαυδᾷς ἅμα.

This historic present is used by the narrator and has been discussed in section 4.2.1, p. 133.

historic present Adrastus: 145 Theseus:

Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: 150 Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: 155 Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: 160 Adrastus: Theseus:

143

Τυδεὺς μάχην συνῆψε Πολυνείκης θ’ ἅμα. ἦ τοῖσδ’ ἔδωκας θηρσὶν ὣς κόρας σέθεν; μάχην γε δισσοῖν κνωδάλοιν ἀπεικάσας. ἦλθον δὲ δὴ πῶς πατρίδος ἐκλιπόνθ’ ὅρους; Τυδεὺς μὲν αἷμα συγγενὲς φεύγων χθονός. ὁ δ’ Οἰδίπου ⟨παῖς⟩ τίνι τρόπῳ Θήβας λιπών; ἀραῖς πατρῴαις, μὴ κασίγνητον κτάνοι. σοφήν γ’ ἔλεξας τήνδ’ ἑκούσιον φυγήν. ἀλλ’ οἱ μένοντες τοὺς ἀπόντας ἠδίκουν. οὔ πού σφ’ ἀδελφὸς χρημάτων νοσφίζεται; ταύτῃ δικάζων ἦλθον· εἶτ’ ἀπωλόμην. μάντεις δ’ ἐπῆλθες ἐμπύρων τ’ εἶδες φλόγα; οἴμοι· διώκεις μ’ ᾗ μάλιστ’ ἐγὼ ’σφάλην. οὐκ ἦλθες, ὡς ἔοικεν, εὐνοίᾳ θεῶν. τὸ δὲ πλέον, ἦλθον Ἀμφιάρεώ γε πρὸς βίαν. οὕτω τὸ θεῖον ῥᾳδίως ἀπεστράφης; νέων γὰρ ἀνδρῶν θόρυβος ἐξέπλησσέ με. εὐψυχίαν ἔσπευσας ἀντ’ εὐβουλίας.

The conversation between Adrastus and Theseus in Supp. 110–162 provides four other examples. Theseus uses four historic presents (123: λέγουσιν, 131: ἐλαύνεις, 141: ἐξελίσσεις, 153: νοσφίζεται) to ask Adrastus about aspects of the history of his supplication. In line 123 he uses λέγουσιν to pick up Adrastus’ οὐκ ἐῶσι in the previous line and to ask for particulars about the Theban refusal. One might expect Theseus’ use of the historic present to be triggered by that of Adrastus in the previous line, but apart from this instance there is little evidence for such patterns.50 We have seen that although οὐκ ἐῶσι has ongoing import in the present, it should be considered an action in the past parallel with ἦλθον (120).51 In a similar way λέγουσιν has consequences for the present, but it even more clearly denotes past action in the current context where references to the past by means of the aorist abound (116: ἐστράτευσ’, 117: διεπέρασας, 118: ἀπώλεσ’, 120: ἦλθον).52 In line 131 Theseus uses ἐλαύνεις 50

51 52

One might consider Hec. 695 (θνῄσκεις) + 697 (κυρῶ) and ia 703 (δίδωσ’) + 704 (γαμεῖ) other examples. Cf. my discussion of these examples elsewhere in this chapter (p. 131–132, p. 152–153 and p. 155–156 respectively). See section 4.2.1, p. 133. Cf. by contrast the presents ἐξεργάζεται (119) and ἐπίστανται (124). These are not historic presents but generic presents, respectively referring to the consequences of war and the Thebans’ inability to handle their success.

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to ask Adrastus about the Theban expedition. Morwood correctly remarks that ‘the historic present adds vividness to Theseus’ enquiry about a great expedition’,53 but more can be said about it. The historic present in questions is usually used to pick up and process information given in or inferable from the preceding lines. Here, however, ἐλαύνεις reaches all the way back to line 116, where Adrastus first introduced the Theban expedition. In the meantime the Theban refusal to return the bodies of the Argive warriors, and the Argives’ subsequent decision to appeal to Theseus for support, have been discussed, but the expedition itself is not mentioned again until Theseus enquires about it in line 131. Theseus’ use of the historic present in this context is thus rather assertive. His communicative behaviour matches and reflects his position of power over Adrastus. In the following lines Adrastus explains to Theseus that his expedition was a favour to his sons-in-law. He gave (133: ἐξέδωκας, 134: συνῆψα, 135: ἔδωκας) his daughters in marriage to Tydeus and Polynices in response to an oracle from Apollo (138: ὑπῆλθε, 139: εἶπ’). In line 141 Theseus uses ἐξελίσσεις to ask about Adrastus’ interpretation of Apollo’s oracle just quoted. Collard points out Euripides’ predilection for this particular verb and states that ‘the emphatic σὺ δέ and postponed πῶς mark a change in Theseus’s questioning from 139 … he begins to put pressure on Adrastus himself, asking how he connected Tydeus and Polynices with the animals in the oracle, and so took them as husbands for his daughters’.54 I believe that Theseus’ use of the historic present contributes to the pressure he puts on Adrastus, but the change that Collard notes does not seem to me so strong and sudden. We have just seen that in line 131 Theseus’ use of the historic present was assertive, and his remarks in lines 117 (οὐ γάρ τι σιγῇ …), 119 (τοιαῦθ’ ὁ τλήων πόλεμος ἐξεργάζεται) and 127 (ἢ κόμποι μάτην;) were critical and slightly sarcastic as well. Thus already before line 139 Theseus put pressure on Adrastus. Instead of a change in Theseus’ questioning from 139, I would therefore argue that his questioning is critical throughout the conversation, in some questions more emphatically so than in others. After Adrastus’ explanation of his interpretation of Apollo’s oracle (144: συνῆψε, 145: ἔδωκας) and the respective backgrounds of Tydeus and Polynices (147: ἦλθον), Theseus uses the historic present νοσφίζεται (153) to ask for particulars about the injustice done by Eteocles to Polynices, which was mentioned by Adrastus in the previous line by means of the iterative imperfect ἠδίκουν (152). Collard points out the unusualness of the middle voice in the sense of ‘to rob’, and Morwood states that the question expresses ‘incredulous

53 54

Morwood (2007) 154. Collard (1975) 145.

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surprise’.55 This effect is partly due to the particle combination οὔ που, partly to the historic present. Here Theseus’ critical investigation is not so much aimed at Adrastus’ actions, as in the previous two instances, but at the actions of others, in this case Polynices and particularly Eteocles. In the last part of the stichomythic dialogue Theseus discovers that Adrastus went to war against the will of the gods.56 Theseus’ frequent use of the historic present can be explained from, and reflects, the dramatic context. He needs critically to investigate and evaluate the Argives’ situation in order to make a well-balanced decision as to whether or not he will provide assistance. Thus his interest as expressed by the historic presents is professional, critical and occasionally perhaps somewhat sceptical. As the interlocutors of narrative stichomythia get to know each other better and become more involved in the stories they tell each other, their reactions to some of the narrated events may be described as surprised or concerned. Med. 701 Medea: Aegeus: Medea: 695 Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus: 700 Medea: Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus:

ἀδικεῖ μ’ Ἰάσων οὐδὲν ἐξ ἐμοῦ παθών. τί χρῆμα δράσας; φράζε μοι σαφέστερον. γυναῖκ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν δεσπότιν δόμων ἔχει. οὔ που τετόλμηκ’ ἔργον αἴσχιστον τόδε; σάφ’ ἴσθ’· ἄτιμοι δ’ ἐσμὲν οἱ πρὸ τοῦ φίλοι. πότερον ἐρασθεὶς ἢ σὸν ἐχθαίρων λέχος; μέγαν γ’ ἔρωτα· πιστὸς οὐκ ἔφυ φίλοις. ἴτω νυν, εἴπερ, ὡς λέγεις, ἐστὶν κακός. ἀνδρῶν τυράννων κῆδος ἠράσθη λαβεῖν. δίδωσι δ’ αὐτῷ τίς; πέραινέ μοι λόγον. Κρέων, ὃς ἄρχει τῆσδε γῆς Κορινθίας. συγγνωστὰ μέντἄρ’ ἦν σε λυπεῖσθαι, γύναι.

The conversation between Aegeus and Medea in Med. 663–708 contains an example of the historic present expressing surprise. In 701 Aegeus uses the historic present δίδωσι to refer to Jason’s royal marriage, which was mentioned by Medea in previous lines (694, 700: ἠράσθη). Although Aegeus made a concluding remark at 699, Medea resumes her narrative and is able to rekin-

55 56

Collard (1975) 148, Morwood (2007) 156. In this section the present διώκεις is not a historic present, but an actual present, as Theseus is currently in the process of ‘prosecuting’ Adrastus.

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dle Aegeus’ interest in her story by mentioning Jason’s royal marriage.57 As Page explains: ‘Greek wives were accustomed to tolerate their husbands’ mistresses … It is thus natural that up to and including v. 699 Aegeus is not much impressed, though politely shocked in v. 695: the new fact in v. 700 is “it is a question of another wife”: this a Greek wife was not expected to tolerate easily’.58 However, it is not just significant that Jason is pursuing marriage with another woman instead of having a mistress, which was already suggested by 694, but also that the woman is a princess. That Aegeus is eager to hear more about Jason’s royal marriage is clear from the fact that ‘Aegeus’ δίδωσι follows directly on Medea’s λαβεῖν to enquire about the other side of the transaction’ and in his exhortation πέραινέ μοι λόγον (701).59 His use of the historic present seems to be triggered by his renewed interest and surprise as well. Ion 271 265 Ion:

Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: 270 Creusa: Ion: Creusa: Ion: Creusa:

πρὸς θεῶν, ἀληθῶς, ὡς μεμύθευται βροτοῖς τί χρῆμ’ ἐρωτᾷς, ὦ ξέν’, ἐκμαθεῖν θέλων; ἐκ γῆς πατρός σου πρόγονος ἔβλαστεν πατήρ; ’Εριχθόνιός γε· τὸ δὲ γένος μ’ οὐκ ὠφελεῖ. ἦ καί σφ’ Ἀθάνα γῆθεν ἐξανείλετο; ἐς παρθένους γε χεῖρας, οὐ τεκοῦσά νιν. δίδωσι δ’, ὥσπερ ἐν γραφῇ νομίζεται … Κέκροπός γε σῴζειν παισὶν οὐχ ὁρώμενον. ἤκουσα λῦσαι παρθένους τεῦχος θεᾶς. τοιγὰρ θανοῦσαι σκόπελον ᾕμαξαν πέτρας.

Ion 297 Ion: 290 Creusa:

Ion: Creusa: Ion:

57 58 59

πόσις δὲ τίς σ’ ἔγημ’ Ἀθηναίων, γύναι; οὐκ ἀστὸς ἀλλ’ ἐπακτὸς ἐξ ἄλλης χθονός. τίς; εὐγενῆ νιν δεῖ πεφυκέναι τινά. Ξοῦθος, πεφυκὼς Αἰόλου Διός τ’ ἄπο. καὶ πῶς ξένος σ’ ὢν ἔσχεν οὖσαν ἐγγενῆ;

Cf. section 3.3.1 above. Page (1938) 123. Mastronarde (2002) 289.

historic present Creusa: 295 Ion:

Creusa: Ion: Creusa:

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Εὔβοι’ Ἀθήναις ἔστι τις γείτων πόλις. ὅροις ὑγροῖσιν, ὡς λέγουσ’, ὡρισμένη. ταύτην ἔπερσε Κεκροπίδαις κοινῷ δορί. ἐπίκουρος ἐλθών; κᾆτα σὸν γαμεῖ λέχος; φερνάς γε πολέμου καὶ δορὸς λαβὼν γέρας.

The extensive stichomythic conversation between Ion and Creusa in Ion 255– 368 nicely illustrates how the atmosphere between interlocutors may develop within the scope of a single conversation. Lee points out ‘its picture of a growing sympathy between mother and son’.60 I believe that the use of historic presents reflects this too. Ion twice uses the historic present. The first example occurs in a reconstruction of Creusa’s ancestry and family history. Ion uses aorists (267: ἔβλαστεν, 269: ἐξανείλετο) to refer to Erichthonius’ birth and Athena’s picking him up from the earth. In line 271 he uses δίδωσι to ask about Athena’s entrusting the baby Erichthonius to the daughters of Cecrops. Owen explains this as ‘present for a past act with permanent result’.61 However, I do not see why this action should have more of a permanent result than any other action in the story. In fact, the girls’ subsequent suicide (274: θανοῦσαι … ᾕμαξαν) make the result of Athena’s gift less permanent. Rather, I would interpret δίδωσι as a historic present that expresses Ion’s general interest in Creusa’s family history and his excitement to be talking to this famous princess (cf. 262–263). The fact that Ion knows this particular story by hearsay (265: ὡς μεμύθευται βροτοῖς, 273: ἤκουσα …) and visual images (271: ὥσπερ ἐν γραφῇ νομίζεται) enables him vividly to picture the event and engage in the narrative. Ion is ‘instinctively sensitive and sympathetic (241ff., 307), curious and inquisitive (265 ff.), and concerned to establish the precise details of any story (347ff.)’.62 These characteristics are reflected by his use of the historic present. He tries to enter into Creusa’s family history and empathize with her. As the conversation progresses, the topic of Creusa’s marriage to Xuthus comes up. Ion uses aorists to ask Creusa who married her (289: ἔγημ’) and how the foreigner Xuthus obtained (293: ἔσχεν) the indigenous Creusa for a wife. After Creusa’s explanation that Xuthus assisted in a conflict with the neighbouring city of Euboea (296: ἔπερσε), Ion uses the historic present γαμεῖ (297) to ask Creusa again about her marriage to Xuthus. This time it seems to convey a stronger emotion than interest and excitement, namely surprise (cf. 291, 293). This is partially caused by κᾆτα, which is used

60 61 62

Lee (1997) 186. Owen (1939) 92. Lee (1997) 186.

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‘in surprised, indignant or sarcastic questions’.63 Lee points out that ‘all examples in this play (548, 946, 1286, 1300, 1408) except 946 are from Ion’ and that ‘the expressions may characterise his naïveté, shocked by the series of disclosures: foreigners marrying Athenians, mothers trying to kill sons, Apollo’s licentious behaviour’.64 Ion’s surprise presupposes an interest and involvement in Creusa’s story that is reflected by his use of the historic present too. Thus I believe that κᾆτα and the historic present γαμεῖ cooperate in the characterization of Ion as somebody who is naïve and easily shocked, but also interested and curious. Moreover, the fact that Ion dares to express his surprise at Creusa’s marriage to Xuthus indicates that he feels comfortable in her presence. Thus we see how in the course of a single conversation the atmosphere between Ion and Creusa becomes more and more familiar. As the interlocutors of narrative stichomythia grow closer and/or become personally involved in the narrated events, their reaction to those events becomes much stronger. This may result in eager and impatient curiosity. Bacch. 1041 Chorus:

ἔνεπέ μοι, φράσον· τίνι μόρῳ θνῄσκει ἄδικος ἄδικά τ’ ἐκπορίζων ἀνήρ;

In Bacch. 1041 the Chorus ask the Messenger about the way Pentheus died, using the present θνῄσκει. In this way they pick up his initial report of Pentheus’ death in 1030 (ὄλωλε). The interrogative τίνι μόρῳ and the imperatives ἔνεπε and φράσον suggest a story and in fact a messenger speech ensues. Given this narrative context the present θνῄσκει (1041) may be considered historic. Seaford, on the other hand, labels this verb form a ‘registering’ present tense, without, however, denying its importance: ‘the Greek verb is in the present tense, which expresses the importance of Pentheus’ death’.65 I agree with the latter part of his interpretation. Not only is Pentheus’ death the main point of information in the Messenger’s report and the most crucial event in the plot of this play, it also has a special significance for the Chorus. It constitutes their liberation, as they themselves explain in line 1035. Lacroix comments that ‘le choeur 63 64 65

Denniston (1954) 311, Fraenkel (1950) on Aesch. Ag. 481, Diggle (1994b) 498, Lee (1997) 192. Lee (1997) 297. Seaford (1996) 232 refers to his note on line 2, p. 149: ‘The Greek verb is in the (‘registering’) present tense, not surprisingly given the importance of the present fact (D. is the son of Semele), as when Oedipus uses the present tense to ask “who fathered me?” (Soph. ot 437). Compare the Greek presents in 11, 42, 44’.

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n’est nullement ébranlé par les remontrances du messager et, sans un seul mot de pitié, se borne à demander le récit des événements. Les termes de sa question manifestent fortement sa sévérité à l’endroit de Penthée’.66 It is not entirely clear what exactly Lacroix means by ‘les termes de sa question’. The clearest indication of harshness towards Pentheus is marked by the polyptoton ἄδικος ἄδικα (1042): despite his misfortune the Chorus still consider him a wicked man, contriver of wickedness. The Chorus’ eagerness for information, too, can be considered a sign of their harsh attitude towards Pentheus. It is common for recipients of bad news to be reluctant to hear it, while recipients of good news are usually eager for information. Here the Chorus’ curiosity and eagerness is expressed by the two imperatives ἔνεπέ μοι and φράσον and, I would argue, by the use of the historic present θνῄσκει (1041). El. 773 Electra:

ποίῳ τρόπῳ δὲ καὶ τίνι ῥυθμῷ φόνου κτείνει Θυέστου παῖδα; βούλομαι μαθεῖν.

In El. 773 Electra uses the present κτείνει to ask the Messenger about the way in which Orestes killed Aegisthus. Thus she resumes the Messenger’s earlier reports of Orestes’ victory and Aegisthus’ death in lines 762–764 and 769–770 (τέθνηκε). As in the previous example, the interrogative ποίῳ τρόπῳ δὲ καὶ τίνι ῥυθμῷ φόνου suggest a story and in fact a messenger speech ensues, which allows us to unequivocally label the present κτείνει (773) historic. Orestes’ murder of Aegisthus is a crucial event for the development of the plot as well as for Electra personally. Electra had said before that if Orestes did not succeed in killing Aegisthus, she would commit suicide (685–698, cf. also 757). Thus the information given by the Messenger is a matter of life and death for her. Although Electra can hardly believe the Messenger at first, once she has accepted his good news, she is eager to hear the gory details (772). She explicitly expresses her eagerness in the statement βούλομαι μαθεῖν (773). I would argue that her use of the historic present, too, is an expression of her eager curiosity. Both the Chorus in Bacchae and Electra in the play of the same name are personally involved in and excited about the reported deaths. It is therefore not surprising that they should use the historic present to refer to these crucial dramatic events.

66

Lacroix (1976) 230.

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Hel. 669 660 Menelaus:

Helen: Menelaus: Helen: 665 Menelaus:

Helen:

Menelaus: Helen: Menelaus: Helen:

πρός θεῶν, δόμων πῶς τῶν ἐμῶν ἀπεστάλης; ἒ ἔ· πικρὰς ἐς ἀρχὰς βαίνεις· ἒ ἔ· πικρὰν δ’ ἐρευνᾷς φάτιν. λέγ’, ὡς ἀκουστά· πάντα δῶρα δαιμόνων. ἀπέπτυσα μὲν λόγον οἷον οἷον ἐσοισόμεθα. ὅμως δὲ λέξον· ἡδύ τοι μόχθων κλύειν. οὐκ ἐπὶ βαρβάρου λέκτρα νεανία πετομένας κώπας, πετομένου δ’ ἔρωτος ἀδίκων γάμων … τίς ⟨-⟩ σε δαίμων ἢ πότμος συλᾷ πάτρας; ὁ Διὸς ὁ Διὸς ὦ πόσι με παῖς ⟨Μαίας τ’⟩ ἐπέλασεν Νείλῳ. θαυμαστά· τοῦ πέμψαντος; ὦ δεινοὶ λόγοι. κατεδάκρυσα καὶ βλέφαρον ὑγραίνω δάκρυσιν· ἁ Διός μ’ ἄλοχος ὤλεσεν.

In the epirrhematic exchange following their reunion and recognition, Menelaus asks Helen about her abduction. He uses the historic present συλᾷ (Hel. 669) to ask Helen who abducted her to Egypt. Kannicht remarks: ‘die Frage ergibt sich zwangsläufig aus der negativen Antwort 666–668’.67 To put it more precisely, Helen starts her narrative with a priamel, denying the commonly accepted view of her voluntary departure from Sparta and thus creating space for alternative courses of events. Menelaus interrupts her narrative, asking for particulars about these alternatives. Because this is an epirrhematic exchange and not stichomythia, Menelaus’ interruption cannot be explained away by the formal restrictions of stichomythia. Instead I believe it is a sign of his curiosity and eagerness for information. There are other indications of this in the text. Despite Helen’s reticence,68 Menelaus insists on her telling the story of her abduction (660–665), perversely arguing that ἡδύ τοι μόχθων κλύειν (665). In accordance with this, Menelaus does not use the historic present to resume narrative information provided by Helen, as is usually the case, but to pick up his own question from line 660.69 Helen responds by means of aorists (671, 682:

67 68 69

Kannicht (1969) on line 669. Allan (2008) 223. Cf. Supp. 131 discussed above, on p. 143–144.

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ἐπέλασεν, 674: ὤλεσεν). In the course of her narrative Menelaus utters various expressions of sympathy, involvement and curiosity (e.g. 672: θαυμαστά, ὦ δεινοὶ λόγοι, 681: ὦ τλᾶμον, 688: ὤμοι, 691). Menelaus’ use of the historic present to ask Helen about her abduction to Egypt, which constitutes the main event of Helen’s narrative, should also be viewed as an expression of his eager curiosity. If the narratee is highly involved in the narrated events, but judges them negatively, his reaction may result in shock. Ion 948 Old Man: Creusa: Old Man: Creusa:

κᾆτ’ ἐξέκλεψας πῶς Ἀπόλλωνος γάμους; ἔτεκον· ἀνάσχου ταῦτ’ ἐμοῦ κλύων, γέρον. ποῦ; τίς λοχεύει σ’; ἢ μόνη μοχθεῖς τάδε; μόνη κατ’ ἄντρον οὗπερ ἐζεύχθην γάμοις.

Following Creusa’s revelation to the Old Man of her rape by Apollo (939: ἠγωνίσμεθα, 941: ξυνῆψ’), her pregnancy (944: ἔστενες, 946: ἐξέκλεψας) and subsequent childbirth (947: ἔτεκον), he asks for particulars concerning the last event using the historic presents λοχεύει and μοχθεῖς (Ion 948).70 I believe that this use of historic presents contributes to his expression of shock. Creusa reacts to or anticipates the Old Man’s shock in line 947 (ἀνάσχου ταῦτ’ ἐμοῦ κλύων, γέρον.). Commentators have pointed this out as well. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff writes: ‘sie … gibt das Resultat an, das für ihn so niederschmetternd sein kann, daß er es zu hören kaum ertragen wird’,71 and Lee comments: ‘she would have gone on to explain, as in 340ff., that she gave birth secretly and then immediately exposed the child, but the Old Man’s shock at this revelation distracts her and she tries to soothe him with “bear up”’.72 Thus the Old Man’s shock seems to interfere with the arrangement of Creusa’s narrative. His verbal reaction consists of three short questions within one stichomythic line.73 This creates the impression of urgency, curiosity and shock. Two of these questions contain a historic present and I would argue that this too contributes to the impression of shock created. All questions are answered by Creusa in the following line and she ‘begins with the emphatic word in the Old Man’s shocked question 70 71 72 73

If Valckenaer is correct in reading ’μόχθεις there is only one historic present. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1926) 130. Lee (1997) 266. Owen (1939) 133 considers them as two separate questions instead of three. Cf. also section 1.4.2, p. 36–37 with n. 152.

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as a poignant expression of her terrible plight’.74 Lines 948–949 are deleted by Wiskemann, because their contents (place of birth = Pan’s cave) are inconsistent with the information given in the prologue (place of birth = Creusa’s home). However, the inconsistency may be less harsh than is usually believed, because the story of Creusa’s rape, childbirth and exposure gradually changes shape over the course of the play. In the prologue Hermes, who was not present at the rape, birth or exposure, until he was summoned by Apollo to rescue Ion, explicitly says that Creusa gave birth at home and exposed the baby in the same cave where Apollo raped her (16–18). In the conversation with Ion, Creusa says that her ‘friend’ exposed her baby outside the house (344), which also implies a movement from within the house. But in two subsequent odes the place of birth is left open (the Chorus: 503ff., Creusa: 897 ff.). From here the step to condensing the story by situating Creusa’s delivery of Ion in Pan’s cave is relatively small. Also, the inconsistency may be caused by the dramatic context and the interlocutors’ emotions in it. Creusa wallows in self-pity and the Old Man’s shock at her rape by Apollo and secret childbirth only increases her desire for more. Owen may therefore well be correct in surmising that Creusa is ‘adding picturesque touches in order to gain the maximum of pity’.75 The question as to what extent this is a conscious or subconscious process remains without a conclusive answer. In the following lines the narrative continues, covering the presumed death of Creusa’s child (951: τέθνηκεν, 952: τέθνηκ’), Apollo’s neglect (952: οὐδὲν ἤρκεσεν, 953: οὐκ ἤρκεσ’) and Creusa’s exposure of the child (954: ἐξέθηκεν). Hec. 695 Hecuba:

Maidservant: Hecuba: 700

Maidservant:

ὦ τέκνον τέκνον ταλαίνας ματρός, τίνι μόρῳ θνῄσκεις, τίνι πότμῳ κεῖσαι, πρὸς τίνος ἀνθρώπων; οὐκ οἶδ’· ἐπ’ ἀκταῖς νιν κυρῶ θαλασσίαις. ἔκβλητον ἢ πέσημα φοινίου δορὸς ἐν ψαμάθῳ λευρᾷ; πόντου νιν ἐξήνεγκε πελάγιος κλύδων.

In the course of the epirrhematic exchange between Hecuba and the Maidservant, Hecuba uses two presents θνῄσκεις and κεῖσαι (Hec. 695) to ask Polydorus

74 75

Owen (1939) 133, Lee (1997) 266. Owen (1939) 133.

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about his death. However, there is a difference between the two. Whereas θνῄσκεις refers back to the past, to the moment of Polydorus’ death, κεῖσαι is an actual present, as Polydorus’ corpse lies visible on stage throughout the scene. Hecuba uses θνῄσκεις to pick up the words she uttered when she first discovered Polydorus’ death (681: τεθνηκότα). Gregory labels the present tense of this verb form ‘“perfective”, expressing an enduring result’, but at the same time she notes ‘“By what fate are you dead?” = “How did you die?” ’.76 I agree with this outcome but disagree with its explanation. Viewing the verb form as an instance of the historic present is a more direct way to interpret a present tense referring to an action in the past. In addressing Polydorus Hecuba temporarily breaks conversational contact with the Maidservant, which is itself an indication of strong emotion on Hecuba’s part. In accordance with this, Collard calls Hecuba’s reaction to her son’s death ‘violent’, and states that Hecuba’s emotion is reflected by the metre of ‘excited dochmiacs’ and ‘repetition and assonance’ (689–690, 693–695).77 I would argue that it is also reflected in her use of the historic present. I believe that Hecuba’s use of the historic present conveys her difficulty in accepting Polydorus’ death as a past action. The very fact that she addresses him while he is dead is already an indication of this. It shows her difficulty in coming to terms with reality. The narratee may express anger and frustration at the narrated events, as in ia 894. ia 894 890 Clytaemestra:

Old Man: Clytaemestra: Old Man: Clytaemestra: 895 Old Man:

σὺ δὲ τάδ’, ὦ γέρον, πόθεν φῂς εἰδέναι πεπυσμένος; δέλτον ᾠχόμην φέρων σοι πρὸς τὰ πρὶν γεγραμμένα. οὐκ ἐῶν ἢ ξυγκελεύων παῖδ’ ἄγειν θανουμένην; μὴ μὲν οὖν ἄγειν· φρονῶν γὰρ ἔτυχε σὸς πόσις τότ’ εὖ. κᾆτα πῶς φέρων γε δέλτον οὐκ ἐμοὶ δίδως λαβεῖν; Μενέλεως ἀφείλεθ’ ἡμᾶς, ὃς κακῶν τῶνδ’ αἴτιος.

In this stichomythic conversation the Old Man tells Clytaemestra about Agamemnon’s plans with their daughter Iphigenia. Clytaemestra reproaches the Old Man for having failed to deliver Agamemnon’s second letter (οὐκ … δίδως), in which he revoked his earlier call for Iphigenia. Clytaemestra’s question begins with the combination of particle and adverb κᾆτα, which often ‘intro-

76 77

Gregory (1999) on line 695. Collard (1991) 166.

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duces surprised, indignant, or sarcastic questions’.78 I would argue that her use of the historic present, too, contributes to this process of making the question more subjective and lively. With δίδως Clytaemestra elaborates on narrative information given by the Old Man in line 891 (ᾠχόμην φέρων). Stockert labels the verb form a ‘registrierendes Präsens’.79 However, this involves an interpretation like ‘you are the giver’ which seems inappropriate here and undermines the importance of the present tense for the narrative presentation. I would prefer to regard it as a historic present that is used by Clytaemestra to highlight the narrated events she considers particularly important. The Old Man’s failure to deliver Agamemnon’s second letter, in which he revokes his order to bring Iphigenia to the Greek army to be killed, is of crucial importance for the development of the plot as well as for Clytaemestra personally. It constitutes the difference between life and death for her daughter Iphigenia. 4.2.3 Extra-Dramatic We have seen how both the narrator and the narratee employ the historic present in their contributions to the story in narrative stichomythia and what may be their motivations for doing so. At this point I would like to conclude with some examples where the function of the present may not be immediately clear, because the events they highlight do not seem that important in the narrative or in the communicative situation. Yet on the higher, more abstract level of extra-dramatic communication between the playwright and his audience, these instances gain significance. Ion 1001 + 1007 Old Man: Creusa: 1000 Old Man: Creusa: Old Man: Creusa: Old Man: 1005 Creusa: Old Man: Creusa: 998

78 79

τί δῆτα, θύγατερ, τοῦτο σοῖς ἐχθροῖς βλάβος; ’Εριχθόνιον οἶσθ’ ἢ ⟨οὔ⟩; τί δ’ οὐ μέλλεις, γέρον; ὃν πρῶτον ὑμῶν πρόγονον ἐξανῆκε γῆ; τούτῳ δίδωσι Παλλὰς ὄντι νεογόνῳ τί χρῆμα; † μέλλον † γάρ τι προσφέρεις ἔπος. δισσοὺς σταλαγμοὺς αἵματος Γοργοῦς ἄπο. ἰσχὺν ἔχοντας τίνα πρὸς ἀνθρώπου φύσιν; τὸν μὲν θανάσιμον, τὸν δ’ ἀκεσφόρον νόσων. ἐν τῷ καθάψασ’ ἀμφὶ παιδὶ σώματος; χρυσέοισι δεσμοῖς· ὁ δὲ δίδωσ’ ἐμῷ πατρί.

Denniston (1954) 311, Stockert (1992) on line 894. Stockert (1992) on line 894.

historic present Old Man: Creusa:

155

κείνου δὲ κατθανόντος ἐς σ’ ἀφίκετο; ναί· κἀπὶ καρπῷ γ’ αὔτ’ ἐγὼ χερὸς φέρω.

In a long stichomythic conversation (Ion 934–1028) Creusa tells the Old Man about her past misfortunes and they plot the murder of Ion. Within this context Creusa tells the Old Man about a bracelet filled with poisonous Gorgon blood she inherited and twice uses the historic present δίδωσι (Ion 1001 and 1007) to refer to and highlight the handing over of this golden ornament from one generation to another. The repeated use of the historic present seems to emphasize its long-standing tradition in the Athenian royal family. It is therefore all the more ironic that this ornament will be used in the attempted murder of Ion, who is actually a member of the family. Thus the emphasis given by the historic presents plays a role in dramatic irony and seems to operate on a higher level of communication. ia 703 and 704 Agamemnon: Clytaemestra: Agamemnon: 700 Clytaemestra: Old Man: Clytaemestra: Agamemnon: Clytaemestra: 705 Agamemnon: Clytaemestra: Agamemnon:

Αἴγινα θυγάτηρ ἐγένετ’ Ἀσωποῦ πατρός. ταύτην δὲ θνητῶν ἢ θεῶν ἔζευξε τίς; Ζεύς· Αἰακὸν δ’ ἔφυσεν, Οἰνώνης πρόμον. τοῦ δ’ Αἰακοῦ παῖς τίς κατέσχ δώματα; Πηλεύς· ὁ Πηλεὺς δ’ ἔσχε Νηρέως κόρην. θεοῦ διδόντος ἢ βίᾳ θεῶν λαβών; Ζεὺς ἠγγύησε καὶ δίδωσ’ ὁ κύριος. γαμεῖ δὲ ποῦ νιν; ἦ κατ’ οἶδμα πόντιον; Χείρων ἵν’ οἰκεῖ σεμνὰ Πηλίου βάθρα. οὗ φασι Κενταύρειον ᾠκίσθαι γένος; ἐνταῦθ’ ἔδαισαν Πηλέως γάμος θεοί.

In the stichomythic conversation in Iphigenia in Aulis between Clytaemestra and Agamemnon about Achilles’ family history and background, Agamemnon uses the historic present δίδωσ’ to refer to Zeus’ giving Thetis to Peleus in marriage. The verb form is connected to the aorist ἠγγύησε by means of the copulative conjunction καί and presented as parallel to it. Both denote an action in the past. ἐγγυάω refers to the promise of marriage, whereas δίδωμι refers to the actual marriage itself. England remarks that ‘the historic present following the aorist marks that the betrothal (naturally) preceded the wedding’.80 Although

80

England (1891) 74.

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this explains the order of the verb forms, it does not account for the difference in their tenses. England labels δίδωσ’ a ‘historic present’, while Stockert calls it a ‘registrierendes Präsens’.81 Clytaemestra picks up Agamemnon’s reference to the marriage by means of another historic present, γαμεῖ. Stockert calls this too a ‘registrierendes Präsens’.82 Considering the narrative context I would label both verb forms historic presents that are used to highlight the topic of the wedding between Peleus and Thetis on a higher, extra-dramatic level. Besides the fact that the wedding between Peleus and Thetis is a precondition for Achilles’ existence, whose background and family history is the main topic of this stichomythic conversation, it is also important on a thematic level. Their marriage may be seen as an ironic mythological parallel to the impending ‘marriage’ between Achilles and Iphigenia. 4.2.4 Problematic Presents My discussion of examples above shows that it may sometimes be difficult to determine what is a historic present as opposed to an actual or perfective present with ongoing import for the present. Especially in those ambiguous cases, it is important to consider all aspects of the context. To illustrate the difficulty at hand, I will close off this chapter with a brief discussion of complex examples of presents that cannot be considered true historic presents. First, there are a couple of examples where a question in the present tense is met by an answer in the perfect tense. This happens at Andr. 1060 and it 561. Andr. 1060 1055 Chorus:

βασίλεια γὰρ τῶνδ’ οἴχεται φυγὰς δόμων. Peleus: τίνος φόβου τυχοῦσα; διαπέραινέ μοι. Chorus: πόσιν τρέμουσα, μὴ δόμων νιν ἐκβάλῃ. Peleus: μῶν ἀντὶ παιδὸς θανασίμων βουλευμάτων; Chorus: ναί, καὶ γυναικὸς αἰχμαλωτίδος φόνῳ. 1060 Peleus: σὺν πατρὶ δ’ οἴκους ἢ τίνος λείπει μέτα; Chorus: Ἀγαμέμνονός νιν παῖς βέβηκ’ ἄγων χθονός.

In the brief conversation between Peleus and the Chorus in Andr. 1047–1069, Peleus uses the present λείπει (1060) to ask about Hermione’s departure. Even

81 82

Stockert (1992) on line 703. Stockert (1992) on line 704.

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though Hermione’s departure took place in the past, emphasis in this conversation seems to be on the current situation. Peleus’ λείπει (1060) picks up the Chorus’ οἴχεται (1055), which is itself a perfective present, and his own φρούδη (1050). Peleus’ question in the present tense is met with the Chorus’ answer in the perfect tense (1061: βέβηκ’). Hermione’s departure is the only event discussed in this conversation. Therefore it should probably not be considered narrative. Both the linguistic and the non-narrative context suggests that λείπει (1060) is not a historic present, but a perfective present with ongoing import for the present situation. A similar case occurs at it 561. it 561 Orestes: Iphigenia:

λείπει δ’ ἐν οἴκοις ἄλλον Ἀγαμέμνων γόνον; λέλοιπεν Ἠλέκτραν γε παρθένον μίαν.

In it 561 Iphigenia uses the present λείπει to ask whether Agamemnon has left behind another child in his house besides Orestes. Orestes repeats the verb in the perfect tense, λέλοιπεν (562), and answers that he has left one unmarried daughter: Electra. His response in the perfect tense suggests that Iphigenia and Orestes are concerned with the present situation resulting from the past rather than the past itself. This conclusion might be undermined by the description of Electra as a παρθένον (562). As Cropp remarks, Electra ‘is by now married to Pylades’, and is therefore no longer a παρθένος.83 However, at the moment when the action of which λέλοιπεν (562) presents the result actually took place, Electra was still a παρθένος. Therefore this designation need not be at odds with a perfective interpretation of the present λείπει (561). Moreover, in this stichomythic conversation Iphigenia asks Orestes about different aspects of the aftermath of the Trojan War. As such is is not so much a narrative as an informative stichomythia.84 All of this strongly suggests that λείπει (561) is a not a historic, but a perfective present. A more elusive example is found at El. 288:

83 84

Cropp (2000) 212. Cf. 695–696, 716–717, 912–915. Cf. Introduction to Part 2, 2 Definition (p. 96–97).

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El. 288 Orestes: Electra: 290 Orestes:

ὁ κατθανὼν δὲ σὸς πατὴρ τύμβου κυρεῖ; ἔκυρσεν ὡς ἔκυρσεν, ἐκβληθεὶς δόμων. οἴμοι, τόδ’ οἷον εἶπας· …

At the end of the stichomythic conversation between Orestes and Electra (El. 220–289), in which Orestes tells Electra that her brother is alive, and Electra gives Orestes an update about recent events and the current situation, Orestes uses the present κυρεῖ (288) to ask Electra whether Agamemnon (has) received a tomb. Electra answers with ἔκυρσεν ὡς ἔκυρσεν (289). As in the previous example, the verb from the question is repeated in the answer. However, this time it is not the perfect tense but the aorist tense that is being used. At first sight one might consider this an argument in favour of interpreting κυρεῖ (288) as a historic present. However, for a correct interpretation of κυρεῖ (288) it is important to establish what Electra’s answer actually means.85 Expressions like these are well described by Mastronarde as a ‘type of reticent euphemism, sometimes deprecatory, sometimes resigned in tone, refusing to go into specifics’.86 Thus it is may not so much be the tense as the choice of the verb to which Electra responds.87 In the rest of the line she adjusts Orestes’ assumption adding ἐκβληθεὶς δόμων (289). With Electra’s evasive answer, in a stichomythic conversation that wavers between narrative, informative and drama, it remains hard to establish whether κυρεῖ (288) is a historic, actual or perfective present. If nothing else, this final example illustrates the difficulty of the topic of this chapter.

4.3

Conclusion

In this chapter I have argued for a broader approach to the historic present. Whereas some scholars advocate a very strict distinction between the historic present on the one hand and the perfective present (Rijksbaron) or the registering present (Pearson) on the other, I have tried to show that such distinctions 85 86 87

On this question see Weil (1905) on lines 288–289, Wecklein (1906) on lines 288–289, Denniston (1939) 84, Cropp (1988) 118. Mastronarde (2002) on Med. 889. Cf. also Rijksbaron (2007) on Pl. Ion, 531c7 ὁμιλούντων ὡς ὁμιλοῦσι: ‘… the relative clause expresses the idea that the main verb used is perhaps not really the correct term for the verbal action in question’.

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are not always quite so clear if we look at the Greek verb forms in their linguistic, communicative and literary contexts. I have also argued for the existence of the historic present in narrative stichomythia, which entails the use of the historic present by both the narrator/answerer and by the narratee/questioner. I have interpreted these individual historic presents in narrative stichomythia using a stylistic approach: the historic present is used to highlight events that are important from the perspective of the narrator’s communicative purpose, or, as in some cases of narrative stichomythia, from the perspective of the narratee’s communicative purpose. My discussion of examples shows that the narrator may use the historic present to transmit narrative information either with a relatively more rhetorical purpose or with relatively more social and emotional purposes. These two categories are not mutually exclusive, but are the extremes of a scale. The narratee commonly uses the historic present to receive and process narrative information as well as to express his attitude towards the narrated events. Depending on the extent to which he is personally involved and judges them as positive or negative, these attitudes may be described as (polite) interest, concern, surprise, shock, or eager curiosity. Thus both narrator and narratee use the historic present in the presentation of their contributions to the narrative in order to pursue their personal communicative purposes. Which communicative purpose triggers the narrator’s or narratee’s use of the historic present at which given moment becomes clear from the communicative context and can often be gathered from independent textual clues in the conversation. There are some historic presents which cannot be explained from the interlocutors’ communicative purposes. These instances function on the higher, more abstract extra-dramatic level of communication between the playwright and his audience, where they often function in the regulation of dramatic irony already present in a scene.

chapter 5

The Proximal Deictic Pronoun ὅδε πέλας γὰρ πᾶν ὅ τι σπουδάζεται. ‘For close by is everything that is being zealously pursued’. euripides, Supplices 761

∵ 5.1

Introduction

The present chapter concentrates on a second device that may be employed by the interlocutors of narrative stichomythia for the presentation of their story: the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε. Before proceeding to a discussion of the use of this specific pronoun, it will be useful by way of introduction to dwell briefly on the ancient Greek demonstrative pronoun system in general. This system is tripartite and has traditionally been held to correspond to deictic contrasts in place related to the three grammatical persons and personal pronouns:1 the demonstrative pronoun ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε marks first person-deixis and refers to things close to the speaker;2 οὗτος, αὕτη, τοῦτο marks second person-deixis and refers to things close to the hearer;3 and ἐκεῖνος, ἐκείνη, ἐκεῖνο marks third person-deixis and refers to things distant from both speaker and hearer.4 A further distinction is made between anaphoric οὗτος, referring back to preceding text, versus cataphoric ὅδε, referring forward to text that is yet to come.5 Modern evaluations of the ancient Greek demonstrative pronoun system shift the emphasis to distance.6 Biraud believes that ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε entails prox-

1 Manolessou (2000) 120. Traditional accounts include kg 1, 641–651, Humbert (1945) 35–41, Schwyzer-Debrunner (1950) 207–212, Smyth (1956) 307–309, and Mendoza (1976) 92–97. Cf. also Brugmann (1904), Lehmann (1982) 137–142, and Klein (1996) 26–27. 2 E.g. Eur. Or. 380, Hdt. 1. 115. 3 E.g. Soph. Aj. 89, Ar. Ran. 189. Cf. Dickey (1996) 154–158, Mussies (1998) 566ff. 4 Cf. Manolessou (2000) 130. 5 Manolessou (2000) 120. 6 Manolessou (2000) 131.

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imity, οὗτος, αὕτη, τοῦτο is neutral, and ἐκεῖνος, ἐκείνη, ἐκεῖνο denotes distance.7 Ledesma considers both ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε and οὗτος, αὕτη, τοῦτο to imply proximity, while ἐκεῖνος, ἐκείνη, ἐκεῖνο entails distance.8 Martín-López agrees with Ledesma, but distinguishes between deictic ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε and anaphoric οὗτος, αὕτη, τοῦτο.9 Manolessou subscribes to the view of Martín-López and supports it with textual evidence.10 However, Parenti points out that οὗτος, αὕτη, τοῦτο is not exclusively used in anaphoric contexts,11 and I would add that nor is ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε exclusively used in purely deictic contexts.12 Kühner-Gerth already noted that ὅδε may occur in unexpected places. This proximal deictic pronoun, which they associate with the proximity of the first person, can be used in contexts where the more distant second or even third person features: So kann ferner ὅδε von Gegenständen gebraucht werden, die sich räumlich auf die zweite oder dritte Person beziehen und daher dem Bereiche des Redenden ferner stehen, die aber der Redende in lebhafter Auffassungsweise in seine unmittelbare Sphäre herüberzieht und als seine eigene Person berührend anschaut … Auch können beide Pronomen: ὅδε und οὗτος auf einen und denselben Gegenstand hindeuten, ὅδε denselben emphatisch vergegenwärtigend, οὗτος auf denselben bloß hinweisend.13

7 8 9 10

11 12

13

Biraud (1981). Ledesma (1987). Martín-López (1994). Manolessou (2000) 132–136. Examples include the teichoskopia in Il. 3.163ff. as discussed by Martín-López (1994); the use of ὅδε in the second book of Thucydides as analyzed by Díaz-Tejera (1972); the deictic use of ὅδε in tragedy (cf. Taplin (1989) 150–151 + references, Moorhouse (1982) 154, and kg 1, 641); the absence of deictic οὗτος and presence of deictic ὅδε with expressions of time in Homer as discussed by Magnien (1922) 167; the deictic function of ὅδε in inscriptions as discussed by Lejeune (1943); the use of οὗτος to refer to someone famous, and its pejorative nuance (cf. Cooper 1998: 522); the origin of οὗτος from ὁ + αὐτός; Homeric formulas. Parenti (1997) 183. Manolessou (2000) 136 covers herself against objections like these by arguing for a more ‘extended’ notion of deixis versus anaphora, based on the notion of ‘presence or givenness in context’: ‘Deixis entails “non-givenness” in the context, which therefore requires (gestural) ostension and precise local specification, and also includes cataphora. Anaphora, on the other hand, entails “givenness”, and presupposes presence either in the linguistic (more often) or in the extralinguistic context.’ kg 1, 644, my italics.

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So, according to Kühner-Gerth, the use of ὅδε adds vividness, involvement, emotion and emphasis. ὅδε can also be used anaphorically: Ungleich seltener, wenigstens in der attischen Prosa, werden ὅδε, τοιόσδε, τοσόσδε, ὧδε auf schon erwähntes bezogen, indem der Redende sich dasselbe vergegenwärtigt oder etwas Gegenwärtiges gleichsam vor Augen stellt …14 Again, the vividness that ὅδε expresses is stressed. ‘The restriction “wenigstens in der attischen Prosa” suggests that anaphoric use of ὅδε may be more frequent in Attic drama’,15 and this seems to be confirmed by my study of Euripidean stichomythia. The use of the proximal deictic pronoun in unexpected contexts including anaphora is paralleled in modern languages, as the following observation by Lyons indicates: In conclusion, we would draw attention to what we will call emphatic deixis and its role in anaphoric reference. It frequently happens that “this” is selected rather than “that”, “here” rather than “there”, and “now” rather than “then”, when the speaker is personally involved with the entity, situation or place to which he is referring or is identifying himself with the attitude or viewpoint of the addressee. The conditions which determine this emphatic use of the marked member of these deictically opposed demonstratives and adverbs are difficult to specify with any degree of precision. But there is no doubt that the speaker’s subjective involvement and his appeal to shared experience are relevant factors in the selection of those demonstratives and adverbs which, in their normal deictic use, indicate proximity.16 Thus Lyons too draws attention to the notions of emphasis and personal or subjective involvement, but he adds ‘appeal to shared experience’ as a characteristic of the use of the proximal deictic pronoun for anaphoric reference. This social dimension is also prominent in recent work on the deictic pronoun in ancient Greek. In an article on Homeric οὗτος Bakker argues that οὗτος is used for hearer-oriented deixis that acknowledges joint seeing (‘dialogic’

14 15 16

kg 1, 646–647, my italics. Ruijgh (2006) 154. Lyons (1977) 677, my italics.

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οὗτος), while he reserves ὅδε for speaker-oriented deixis marking unshared perception.17 However, I do not understand why pointing to an object the perception of which is not yet shared by the interlocutors must automatically entail speaker-oriented deixis. The speaker may also point at new objects or introduce new information into the conversation by means of the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε in order to anticipate its novel status for his interlocutor. This angle is taken by De Jong, who considers the use of the deictic pronoun in the prologue of Sophocles’ Trachiniae (Trach. 17: τῆσδε κοίτης) as a sign of the narratee.18 Thus she shows that the prologue is not simply a monologue, as is often thought, but has properties of a dialogue. The linguistic observations discussed above are employed by other scholars for textual, literary and dramatic interpretation. For example, in his case for reading ὁ μὲν γέρων οὖν ἔστιν Ἰόλεως ὅδε in Hcld. 793,19 Hunger argues that the use of ὅδε to refer to Iolaus does not necessarily entail his presence on stage, but denotes ‘eine beiden Gesprächspartnern wohlbekannte Person, von der allein jetzt die Rede sein kann, wenn man den Gedankengang des Gespräches berücksichtigt’.20 So far I agree with Hunger, but I find unconvincing his continuation that since ὅδε is exclusively used to refer to the living, it underlines the import of the question while simultaneously suggesting its answer.21 Forms of ὅδε can be used to refer to dead people.22 The criterion seems to be not whether a person is dead or alive, on stage or not, but whether or not he or she is at the forefront of the interlocutors’ mind.23 Hunger subsequently supplies many examples from drama to illustrate that mental instead of physical proximity is the decisive factor in the use of ὅδε to refer to people who are absent from the stage.24 The same 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24

Bakker (1999) 7. He supports his case with examples from the teichoskopia-scene in Iliad 3. De Jong (2007b) 21–23. He follows manuscript l in this respect, but with a change from οὐκ to οὖν. Elmsley suggested an additional change from ὅδε to ἔτι. Hunger (1950/1) 20. Hunger (1950/1) 20 n. 3. Cf. Soph. Ant. 567: ἀλλ’ ἥδε μέντοι μὴ λέγ’· οὐ γάρ ἐστ’ ἔτι. E.g. Soph. El. 540, Eur. Alc. 881, Hom. Od. 3. 352. Cf. Lloyd-Jones (1965) 242: ‘Since the long-dead person is vividly present to the speaker’s thought, ὅδε can be used when we should expect ἐκεῖνος; cf. Kühner-Gerth (1890–1904) 1.644; Denniston-Page (1957) on Aesch. Ag. 57; Handley (1965) on Men. Dys. 185, 234’. Hunger (1950/1). Examples: Aesch. Sept. 395, 424, 470, 472, 553, 631, Pers. 309, 313, 450, Supp. 318; Soph. Ant. 732, 748, 751, 763, Trach. 346, 462, 503, 545, 584, 718, 857ff., Phil. 1429f., Aj. 77, 98; Eur. Cyc. 30 f., Alc. 559, 749, Med. 39, 368 f., Hcld. 793, Hipp. 310, Supp. 391f., El. 646, hf 849, Ion 825f., Hel. 100, Phoen. 9, Or. 753, 917, 1189, Rhes. 613; Ar. Av. 271f., Ran. 1485f., Pax 390f.

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applies to actions and situations that do not take place on stage, but were previously mentioned.25 Although Hunger sums up numerous examples in support of his argument and proposed reading of Hcld. 793, he does not interpret these individual examples within their broader dramatic context. This further step is taken by Ruijgh, who has argued more recently and against Moorhouse that Sophocles maintains the tripartite pronoun system as proposed by Kühner-Gerth.26 He discusses concrete examples of demonstrative pronouns in their various uses, including emphatic and retrospective ὅδε,27 and shows how these linguistic phenomena may be related to and reflect their dramatic context. For example, he argues that the high frequency of emphatic ὅδε in Oedipus’ words in Soph. ot 698–799 reflects his anxiety: ‘Jocasta’s description of the circumstances of Laius’ death conjures up in his mind the scene at the σχιστὴ ὁδός; the mentioning of the cross-road makes him infer that he might be Laius’ murderer’.28 In this chapter I will follow Ruijgh’s method in studying concrete instances of the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε in relation to their dramatic contexts. A useful theoretical framework for the analysis of deictic pronouns exists in Bühler’s distinction between three different types of deixis: 1. deixis ad oculos or pointing to people, objects or states of affairs in the real world; 2. anaphora or referring to elements in the linguistic co-text; and 3. deixis am phantasma or pointing to objects or states of affairs in an imagined world.29 There is a partial overlap between the last two types of deixis, as an imagined world exists by virtue of language and so it is through language, by means of anaphora, that elements of the imagined world are pointed at.30 To express these different types of deixis the same deictic pronouns are used. This is interesting but also confusing, and this may be one of the reasons why a conclusive account of the Greek demonstrative pronoun system remains to be given. Distinction and

25 26 27

28 29 30

Hunger (1950/1) 23. Examples: Aesch. pv. 758, 760, 989f., Sept. 726; Soph. oc 451, 1113f., 1156ff., 1163, 1166, Aj. 22, 66, 798; Eur. it 1221. Moorhouse (1982) 153, 155, Ruijgh (2006) 152 and throughout. He shows instances of οὗτος in their prospective use, as neutral anaphoric pronouns, and introducing addressee-oriented deictic reference; instances of ὅδε to express a new arrival on the stage, to refer to what is present in the situation of the utterance; instances of ἐκεῖνος to refer to the remote past or future; and the combination of proximal and distal demonstrative pronouns to denote ‘present revelation’. Ruijgh (2006) 153, following the example of Kamerbeek (1967) on ot 798, who was in turn inspired by Campbell (1879). Bühler (1934) 80–81, 123. Cf. Bühler (1934) 121–140.

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identification of different types or levels of deixis may help to clarify matters. In deixis ad oculos forms of ὅδε are commonly used to point to entities in the immediate vicinity of the speaker,31 forms of οὗτος to entities in the vicinity of the addressee or otherwise close at hand,32 and forms of ἐκεῖνος to entities remote or removed from the communicative situation.33 Forms of ὅδε are also used to point to people, objects or states of affairs that suddenly emerge in the real world, even though they have been mentioned before,34 while forms of οὗτος are used to point to people, objects or states of affairs that have been or are currently still part of the linguistic co-text, which brings us to the second type of deixis.35 In anaphora forms of οὗτος and ἐκεῖνος are commonly used to refer back in the text (anaphora),36 and forms of ὅδε to refer forward in the text (cataphora).37 However, in stichomythia forms of ὅδε are also frequently used to refer back in the text, to parts of interlocutors’ previous utterances, particularly to point to objects or states of affairs in the imagined world that exists by virtue of language in deixis am phantasma.38 In this third level of deixis forms of ὅδε are used for virtual persons, objects or states of affairs that are suddenly or immediately present to the speaker’s mind, forms of οὗτος for more neutral reference to given virtual persons, objects or states of affairs, and forms of ἐκεῖνος for reference to virtual persons, objects or states of affairs that are remote or removed from the speaker’s mind. In addition to deixis ad oculos, anaphora and deixis am phantasma, I will distinguish a fourth type of deixis which I will call narrative deixis. In this type of deixis a speaker refers back to something that has been mentioned by his interlocutor (anaphora) and that is also part of an imagined world (deixis am phantasma), but in the specific form

31 32 33 34

35

36 37 38

E.g. it 1153–1154 τῶνδε δωμάτων, it 747 τήνδε, Tro. 713 τόνδε παῖδα, Med. 1378 τῇδ’ … χερί. E.g. Hec. 1127 οὗτος. E.g. Phoen. 159 ἐκεῖνος. E.g. Hec. 1053 ὅδ’ (previously referred to by means of νιν in Hec. 1049), El. 549 οἵδ’ (previously referred to by means of αὐτοὺς in El. 548), Ion 1424 τόδ’ and 1432 οἵδε (previously referred to by means of αὐτῶν in Ion 1414). E.g. it 69 μέλαθρα ταῦτ’: the relative clause in it 70 suggests that the temple of Artemis has been topic of conversation between Orestes and Pylades prior to this stichomythic conversation; Alc. 722: τὸ φέγγος τοῦτο: the light of the sun, in the sense of life, has been the major topic of the stichomythic discussion between Admetus and Pheres; Supp. 1055 οὗτος ὁ στολμός: Euadne’s dress has been the topic of conversation between Iphis and Euadne for some time. E.g. Med. 707 ταῦτ’, Alc. 529 κείνῃ. E.g. it 555 τοσόνδε. Cf. Smyth (1956) 308, kg 1, 641, 644, 646–648.

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of a story (narrative deixis). Thus narrative deixis is a specific sub-type of deixis am phantasma, which itself is realized by means of anaphora. In this chapter I will study narrative deixis by means of the proximal deictic pronoun. I will argue that instances of ὅδε bring elements of the narrative world close in place, as the historic present does in time,39 thus contributing to a vivid and experiencing story presentation and displaying the speaker’s involvement as well as lively interaction between the interlocutors. In the previous chapter we saw that the historic present was frequently noticed and occasionally commented on by scholars. In what follows we will see that there are but few such remarks on the use of the proximal deictic pronoun. It should be noted that the examples of ὅδε to be discussed below feature a relatively high frequency of the adjective as opposed to the substantive use, and of masculine or feminine as opposed to neuter forms. This is because it may sometimes be hard to determine what exactly forms of ὅδε, when used independently as neuter substantives, refer back to, and thus what type of deixis they bring about. Therefore, I have limited myself to clear and definite instances of narrative deixis. In what follows I will discuss the use of the proximal deictic pronoun for narrative presentation first by the narratee and next by the narrator. I will conclude with a discussion of some examples of overlap between different types of deixis and suggest possible dramatic functions of their ambiguity.

5.2

Discussion of Examples

5.2.1 Narratee The majority of instances of narrative deixis by means of the proximal deictic pronoun is brought about by the narratee. Within this group I will distinguish between narratives about the past, or occasionally the present on the one hand, and narratives concerning the future on the other. 5.2.1.1 Past The proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε adds a subjective, involved touch to the narratee’s response to the narrative. This ranges from relatively neutral polite interest, surprise and sympathy, to more subjective curiosity and eagerness for

39

Cf Ruijgh (2006) 152–153: ‘This interpretation of τούσδε [i.e. emphatic] is corroborated by the use of the historical present ἱκνοῦμαι, which suggests the “vivid” report of crucial events by an eye-witness’.

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information on the positive end of the spectrum, and scepticism, incredulity or shock on the negative end. I will illustrate this with some examples. Let us start with a supplication scene in which the narratee is professionally interested but relatively neutral, because he is not yet familiar with the narrator nor personally involved in the narrated events. Supp. 137, 145, 151

135

140

145

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Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus: Adrastus: Theseus:

ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἐλαύνεις ἑπτὰ πρὸς Θήβας λόχους; δισσοῖσι γαμβροῖς τήνδε πορσύνων χάριν. τῷ δ’ ἐξέδωκας παῖδας Ἀργείων σέθεν; οὐκ ἐγγενῆ συνῆψα κηδείαν δόμοις. ἀλλὰ ξένοις ἔδωκας Ἀργείας κόρας; Τυδεῖ ⟨γε⟩ Πολυνείκει τε τῷ Θηβαιγενεῖ. τίν’ εἰς ἔρωτα τῆσδε κηδείας μολών; Φοίβου μ’ ὑπῆλθε δυστόπαστ’ αἰνίγματα. τί δ’ εἶπ’ Ἀπόλλων παρθένοις κραίνων γάμον; κάπρῳ με δοῦναι καὶ λέοντι παῖδ’ ἐμώ. σὺ δ’ ἐξελίσσεις πῶς θεοῦ θεσπίσματα; ἐλθόντε φυγάδε νυκτὸς εἰς ἐμὰς πύλας τίς καὶ τίς; εἰπέ· δύο γὰρ ἐξαυδᾷς ἅμα. Τυδεὺς μάχην συνῆψε Πολυνείκης θ’ ἅμα. ἦ τοῖσδ’ ἔδωκας θηρσὶν ὣς κόρας σέθεν; μάχην γε δισσοῖν κνωδάλοιν ἀπεικάσας. ἦλθον δὲ δὴ πῶς πατρίδος ἐκλιπόνθ’ ὅρους; Τυδεὺς μὲν αἷμα συγγενὲς φεύγων χθονός. ὁ δ’ Οἰδίπου ⟨παῖς⟩ τίνι τρόπῳ Θήβας λιπών; ἀραῖς πατρῴαις, μὴ κασίγνητον κτάνοι. σοφήν γ’ ἔλεξας τήνδ’ ἑκούσιον φυγήν.

In the stichomythic conversation Supp. 110–162, Adrastus explains to Theseus the reason for his supplication and the background of the Theban expedition. After an introductory section on Adrastus’ motives for supplication (110–130), Theseus’ question in 131 sets off the actual narrative about the background of the Theban expedition. It contains four instances of narrative deixis by means of ὅδε. The first (131: τήνδε … χάριν) is expressed by Adrastus, the narrator, and will be discussed below. The remaining three are uttered by Theseus, the narratee, who uses them to pick up key elements of Adrastus’ narrative. Once Adrastus has disclosed the identity of his sons-in-law (136), Theseus asks what made him desire this marriage. With τῆσδε κηδείας (137) he refers

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back to the situation as described by Adrastus’ οὐκ ἐγγενῆ … κηδείαν (134). His choice of τῆσδε instead of ταύτης shows his surprise at the fact that Adrastus married his Argive daughters to foreigners, as well as his attempt to understand this surprising point of information. From an ancient Greek perspective to marry one’s daughters to foreign men was undesirable. When Adrastus first mentions his sons-in-law (132: δισσοῖσι γαμβροῖς), Theseus assumes that they are Argives (133: τῷ …’Αργείων;), but his false presupposition is soon rectified (134: οὐκ ἐγγενῆ … κηδείαν). Theseus’ confirmation-seeking question, which emphatically opposes the foreigners and Adrastus’ Argive daughters (135: ἀλλὰ ξένοις … Ἀργείας κόρας;), reflects his difficulty in understanding Adrastus’ surprising revelation. Theseus’ question in 137 shows that he wants to understand why Adrastus made this remarkable decision. Adrastus’ explanation involves an oracle from Apollo and his interpretation thereof. He explains to Theseus that Apollo told him to marry his daughters to a boar and a lion (138–140). Next he tells him that one day Tydeus and Polynices came to his door and fought (142–144). Theseus puts two and two together and guesses that Adrastus gave his daughters to these men (145: τοῖσδε), taking them to be the animals, which Adrastus confirms (146). Theseus’ choice of the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to two of the main characters of Adrastus’ narrative reflects his critical involvement in it. He is trying to get as close to the narrated events as he possibly can in order to try and understand Adrastus’ reasoning behind the decision to marry his daughters to Tydeus and Polynices. Theseus’ involvement, his critical attitude, and the pressure he puts on Adrastus are also visible in his increased use of x-questions (137, 139, 141, 143).40 Later on in the conversation Adrastus provides Theseus with background information about his sons-in-law. He tells him that Tydeus fled his country in blood-guilt for the killing of a relative (148), and Polynices left Thebes because of his father’s curse, to avoid killing his brother (149–150). In the following line Theseus refers back to Polynices’ exile by means of τήνδ’ ἑκούσιον φυγήν, which he evaluates positively as σοφήν (151).41 Again, Theseus uses τήνδ’ instead of ταύτην to refer to a phenomenon in Adrastus’ story that itself exists by virtue of language. His choice for the proximal deictic pronoun shows his professional and occasionally somewhat critical involvement in Adrastus’ narrative. Like the

40

41

Although the passage is not discussed in chapter 3, it displays unilateral narrative activity on the part of the answerer in the form of x-questioned followed by = answers and could thus be placed in section 3.3.4. Collard (1975) 148 mentions for comparison Alc. 257, which will be discussed below.

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historic present in the previous chapter,42 this is explicable from and reflects his position in the dramatic situation: he needs to submit Adrastus’ narrative to close scrutiny in order to make a well-balanced decision as to whether or not to provide assistance to the Argives.43 The narratees of the following passages of narrative stichomythia are not related to their interlocutors nor personally involved in the narrated events, but the nature of these events is such that they evoke sympathetic expressions of surprise and shock. Thus the narratee’s use of the proximal deictic pronoun becomes more involved and subjective.44 Med. 695, 705 Medea: Aegeus: Medea: 695 Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus: 700 Medea: Aegeus: Medea: Aegeus: Medea: 705 Aegeus: Medea:

42 43

44

ἀδικεῖ μ’ Ἰάσων οὐδὲν ἐξ ἐμοῦ παθών. τί χρῆμα δράσας; φράζε μοι σαφέστερον. γυναῖκ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν δεσπότιν δόμων ἔχει. οὔ που τετόλμηκ’ ἔργον αἴσχιστον τόδε; σάφ’ ἴσθ’· ἄτιμοι δ’ ἐσμὲν οἱ πρὸ τοῦ φίλοι. πότερον ἐρασθεὶς ἢ σὸν ἐχθαίρων λέχος; μέγαν γ’ ἔρωτα· πιστὸς οὐκ ἔφυ φίλοις. ἴτω νυν, εἴπερ, ὡς λέγεις, ἐστὶν κακός. ἀνδρῶν τυράννων κῆδος ἠράσθη λαβεῖν. δίδωσι δ’ αὐτῷ τίς; πέραινέ μοι λόγον. Κρέων, ὃς ἄρχει τῆσδε γῆς Κορινθίας. συγγνωστὰ μέντἄρ’ ἦν σε λυπεῖσθαι, γύναι. ὄλωλα· καὶ πρός γ’ ἐξελαύνομαι χθονός. πρὸς τοῦ; τόδ’ ἄλλο καινὸν αὖ λέγεις κακόν. Κρέων μ’ ἐλαύνει φυγάδα γῆς Κορινθίας.

See section 4.2.2, p. 142–145. Similar examples can be found in Hcld. 126 and 131, where king Demophon uses forms of ὅδε to ask the Chorus Leader about aspects of the Herald’s maltreatment of Iolaus and the Heraclidae. Like Theseus in Supp. 110–162, Demophon needs to obtain as much reliable information as possible, in order to make a well-informed judgment in the disagreement between the suppliants and the Herald. However, unlike Theseus, Demophon does not learn the narrated events directly from the suppliant(s), but receives a more objective report from an uninvolved informant: the Chorus Leader. Besides Med. 695, 705 and Hel. 97 discussed below, examples of this type can be found in Hec. 1122 and 1123, where Agamemnon asks Hecuba surprised and shocked questions about the harm she has caused Polymestor and his children. His questions simultaneously reflect sympathy for Polymestor and highlight Hecuba’s power.

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In the second half of the stichomythic conversation Med. 663–708, Medea updates Aegeus about Jason’s injustice. When she tells how Jason has accepted another woman as mistress of the house (694), Aegeus refers to Jason’s deed with ἔργον αἴσχιστον τόδε (695). His choice of τόδε instead of τοῦτο to pick up an element of Medea’s narrated world, reflects his involvement in and shock at Medea’s story and situation. In his note on 695 Page states that οὔ που (695) expresses ‘incredulous surprise’,45 but in his note on 701 he tones this down to ‘politely shocked’.46 However, I believe that Aegeus expresses genuine shock in both 695 and 701. Page thinks that the crucial new information in 694 is Jason’s extra-marital relationship, and in 700 his actual marriage to this other woman.47 However, I would argue that the fact of the new marriage was already established in 694, where Jason’s mistress was introduced as δεσπότιν δόμων, a role which could surely only be fulfilled by an actual wife. This triggers Aegeus’ shocked question in 695, including his use of the proximal deictic pronoun. The subjective, moral colouring of virtually each word in the question suggests that Aegeus genuinely condemns Jason’s behaviour and sympathizes with Medea. In the previous chapter on the historic present we saw that there are numerous indications of Aegeus’ interest in Medea’s story (e.g. 691, 693).48 The fact that he goes on questioning Medea about the origin of Jason’s love for the other woman (697) also shows that he is not merely being polite. It is true that Aegeus rounds off the topic of conversation in 699, but the revelation that Jason is getting married to a royal princess (700) renews his interest and triggers his surprised reaction for a second time (701). At 704 Medea introduces a third new point of information, her exile, into the conversation. In response to this Aegeus again expresses his shock, referring to the exile as narrated by Medea by means of τόδ’ ἄλλο καινὸν … κακόν (705). Again, the subjective, moral colouring of the statement suggests that Aegeus is genuinely concerned about Medea’s fate, and there are other textual clues which indicate that he continues to be sympathetic and interested in her story (e.g. 701, 703). Thus we see that Aegeus uses forms of ὅδε to express his interest in and shock at the events narrated by Medea. In this way he is subtly portrayed as an opportune candidate for Medea’s supplication and exactly the safe harbour she has been longing for so desperately (e.g. 389–390).

45 46 47 48

Page (1938) 122. Page (1938) 123. Page (1938) 123. See section 4.2.2, p. 145–146.

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Hel. 97 Teucer: 95 Helen:

Teucer: Helen:

Αἴας μ’ ἀδελφὸς ὤλεσ’ ἐν Τροίᾳ θανών. πῶς; οὔ τί που σῷ φασγάνῳ βίου στερείς; οἰκεῖον αὐτὸν ὤλεσ’ ἅλμ’ ἐπὶ ξίφος. μανέντ’; ἐπεὶ τίς σωφρονῶν τλαίη τάδ’ ἄν;

In the first part of the stichomythic conversation Hel. 78–142 Teucer tells Helen about his reason for coming to Egypt (78–104). When, as part of the explanation of his exile, Teucer tells Helen about Ajax’ suicide (96), she reacts: ‘In a fit of madness? For which sane man would dare this?’ (97). Helen uses τάδ’ instead of ταῦτα to refer to Ajax’s suicide as narrated by Teucer. Her use of the proximal deictic pronoun seems to reflect her shock. This is supported by the fact that she assumes Ajax must have done this in a fit of madness (μανέντ’;), and her rhetorical question: ‘Which sane man would dare this?’ (τίς σωφρονῶν τλαίη τάδ’ ἄν;). In the previous chapter on the historic present we saw that Helen showed herself interested in and sympathetic towards Teucer (e.g. 91, 93).49 Her use of the proximal deictic pronoun contributes to this picture. Helen is trying to make sense of Teucer’s narrative and expresses her personal reaction to it. Helen’s involvement may be related to the interlocutors’ shared status of Greeks in a foreign land, but it could also be out of self-interest, for Teucer may provide information about the Greeks and Menelaus or give assistance in the future. The remaining examples show interlocutors who are more closely related to each other and/or narratees who are personally involved in the narrated events. Depending on whether the information provided is positive or negative their reactions can be described as curious and eager for information, or surprised and shocked. I will start with some negative and end with some positive examples. Alc. 258 Alcestis:

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49

ὁρῶ δίκωπον ὁρῶ σκάφος ἐν λίμναι· νεκύων δὲ πορθμεὺς ἔχων χέρ’ ἐπὶ κοντῷ Χάρων μ’ ἤδη καλεῖ· Τί μέλλεις; ἐπείγου· σὺ κατείργεις. τάδε τοί με

See section 4.2.2, p. 139–141.

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Admetus:

σπερχόμενος ταχύνει. οἴμοι· πικράν γε τήνδε μοι ναυκληρίαν ἔλεξας. ὦ δύσδαιμον, οἷα πάσχομεν.

An interesting example occurs in the semi-lyric exchange between Alcestis and Admetus (Alc. 244–279). The fact that Alcestis sings while Admetus speaks reflects their different mindsets. They have different perceptions of reality: Alcestis is already experiencing her journey to death, while Admetus is still trying to hold her back and keep her in his own world. Yet both interlocutors are trying to bridge the gap between them in their own way. Alcestis tries to involve Admetus in her experience, visualizing it as much as possible by means of references to seeing (252: ὁρῶ … ὁρῶ, 259: οὐχ ὁρᾷς;), use of the present tense (255: καλεῖ, 257: ταχύνει, 259: ἄγει … ἄγει … ἄγει …, 269: ἐφέρπει), direct speech (255, 263), and proximal adverbs of time and place (255: ἤδη, 268: πλησίον).50 Admetus attempts to bridge the distance between them by emphasizing their shared suffering (246: σὲ κἀμέ, δύο κακῶς πεπραγότας, 258: οἷα πάσχομεν, 265: οἷς δὴ πένθος ἐν κοινῷ τόδε, 278: ἐν σοὶ δ’ ἐσμὲν καὶ ζῆν καὶ μή).51 Their repeated individual attempts to draw the other into their own world paradoxically enough make it clear that they will never be able truly to bridge the gap. I would argue that Admetus’ use of τήνδε in 258 to pick up the journey as narrated by Alcestis (252–257) plays a role in this as well. Admetus uses the proximal deictic pronoun to get as close as possible to the events narrated by Alcestis, but he is unable fully to join her in the experience and can merely summarize and evaluate it as a πικράν … ναυκληρίαν (258). The half-lyric exchange in general, and Admetus’ use of τήνδε (258) in particular, indicate how substantial the gap between Alcestis and Admetus really is. hf 552 Megara: Heracles: Megara:

50

51

φίλων ⟨γ’⟩ ἔρημοι· σὲ δὲ θανόντ’ ἠκούομεν. πόθεν δ’ ἐς ὑμᾶς ἥδ’ ἐσῆλθ’ ἀθυμία; Εὐρυσθέως κήρυκες ἤγγελλον τάδε.

Weber (1930) 115: ‘Visionäres und wirkliches Sehen stehen hier unvermittelt nebeneinander’, Dale (1954) 73: ‘She is desperately trying to make Admetus see and hear what she does’. Conacher (1988) 165–166: ‘… the psychic distance which, for all Admetus’ attempts to bridge it, continues throughout Alcestis’ monody … The King’s attempts to share her suffering, and his pleas that she not desert him, go unheard or, if heard, unheeded’ (my italics).

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In the stichomythic dialogue hf 531–561 Megara updates Heracles about their current plight and what has happened in his absence. Among other things her narrative contains a report of Heracles’ death (551: σὲ δὲ θανόντ’ ἠκούομεν). When Heracles learns this, he wonders from where this discouragement (552: ἥδ’ … ἀθυμία) reached them. He uses the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to feelings hinted at in Megara’s narrative.52 Heracles does not merely refer back to the report of his own death, he also interprets its effect on his family. Heracles is trying hard to understand what his relatives have been through in his absence, but despite his efforts it takes him a while fully to grasp the precariousness of their situation. There are other indications of this in the text. Heracles’ repeated use of the formula τί/πῶς φῄς; expresses his surprise.53 Megara’s impatience with Heracles’ disbelief is obvious towards the end of the conversation, for example in her sarcastic echo-question and critical use of the proximal deictic pronoun in 557, which will be discussed in more detail below,54 and in the repetition of her statement that misfortune does not have friends (559 and 561). Thus Heracles’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun simultaneously reflects the effort he makes and the difficulty he has to understand what his family has gone through in his absence. It is as if both literally and figuratively Heracles has just come from another world and has problems re-adjusting to his new situation.55 Hel. 131 Helen: Teucer: Helen: 130 Teucer: Helen: Teucer:

οὐ πᾶσι πορθμὸς αὑτὸς Ἀργείοισιν ἦν· ἦν, ἀλλὰ χειμὼν ἄλλοσ’ ἄλλον ὥρισεν. ποίοισιν ἐν νώτοισι ποντίας ἁλός; μέσον περῶσι πέλαγος Αἰγαίου πόρου. κἀκ τοῦδε Μενέλεων οὔτις οἶδ’ ἀφιγμένον; οὐδείς· θανὼν δὲ κλῄζεται καθ’ Ἑλλάδα.

In the second part of the stichomythic conversation Hel. 78–142 Teucer tells Helen about the Trojan War and its aftermath, including Menelaus’ journey back to Sparta. Teucer describes how on their way back the Argives were scattered over the Aegean Sea by a storm (128). In response to this Helen inquires about Menelaus’ fate from that point onwards in the narrative (131: ἐκ τοῦδε). Her use of the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to a specific point 52 53 54 55

Cf. by contrast Megara’s more neutral τάδε (553). See section 1.4.1.3, p. 31–32. In section 5.2.2, p. 186–187. Cf. Grummond (1983).

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in time in Teucer’s narrative reflects her interest in the story and eagerness for information about Menelaus’ whereabouts. It is as if she follows the narrated events as closely as she possibly can. Helen’s curiosity about Menelaus’ journey and his current location is understandable. He is her husband and she cares for him. However, her eagerness to hear news about Menelaus is nipped in the bud. Teucer has no certain information, but in Greece Menelaus is reported to be dead (132). This raises the wrong expectations and makes his arrival in Egypt all the more unexpected. Hcld. 660 Alcmene: Iolaus: 660 Alcmene:

… τίς γάρ ἐσθ’ ὅδε; ἥκοντα παῖδα παιδὸς ἀγγέλλει σέθεν. ὦ χαῖρε καὶ σὺ τοῖσδε τοῖς ἀγγέλμασιν.

In the stichomythic conversation Hcld. 630–641 the Servant reports Hyllus’ return to Iolaus. When Iolaus calls out Alcmene and passes on the good news to her, she responds by wishing the Servant well for these reports (660: τοῖσδε τοῖς ἀγγέλμασιν). Alcmene has learned the news indirectly, via Iolaus. When she uses the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to the Servant’s report, she is thus actually referring to the report as it has come to her through Iolaus in the preceding line (659: … ἀγγέλλει …). Alcmene’s use of τοῖσδε reflects her interest in, eager curiosity for, positive evaluation of and surprise about the Servant’s news concerning Hyllus. These emotions are visible elsewhere in the conversation too. Alcmene’s interest and curiosity are reflected by her accumulation of questions to the Servant in 661–663; her positive evaluation is inferable from the fact that she blesses the Servant because of his report (660);56 her surprise is anticipated by Iolaus in 642–645, and the positive news stands in sharp contrast with her expectation of bad news as expressed at 646–653. It is this mixture of emotions that is reflected in Alcmene’s use of the proximal deictic pronoun. Alc. 1141 Admetus: 1140 Heracles: Admetus: Heracles: 56

πῶς τήνδ’ ἔπεμψας νέρθεν ἐς φάος τόδε; μάχην συνάψας δαιμόνων τῷ κυρίῳ. ποῦ τόνδε Θανάτῳ φῂς ἀγῶνα συμβαλεῖν; τύμβον παρ’ αὐτόν, ἐκ λόχου μάρψας χεροῖν.

Allan (2001) 182.

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Upon Alcestis’ return to Admetus, the latter asks Heracles in a brief stichomythic exchange (Alc. 1139–1143) how he managed to bring her back from the Underworld. Heracles tells Admetus about his battle with the divinity in charge of her (1140: μάχην … δαιμόνων τῷ κυρίῳ). In his question about the location of this event, Admetus refers to the struggle as narrated by Heracles by means of τόνδε Θανάτῳ … ἀγῶνα (1141), identifying the god as Death. His use of τόνδε instead of τοῦτον to pick up an element of Heracles’ narrative reflects his interest, curiosity and perhaps a touch of incredulity. Of course Admetus is thrilled to have his wife back, but he also finds it hard to believe (1123–1135). He is therefore curious to know how Alcestis’ surprising return came about. By using the proximal deictic pronoun he tries to get as close to the narrated events as he possibly can in order to verify them. Admetus’ question about the location of Heracles’ struggle with Death should also be seen in this light. His use of φῄς (1141) further shows that Admetus remains somewhat sceptical. Admetus’ difficulty in believing that his wife has really come back from the dead highlights the amazing character of her return and the magnitude of Heracles’ reward for Admetus’ hospitality earlier in the play. Ion 1012 1010 Old Man:

Creusa: Old Man: Creusa:

πῶς οὖν κέκρανται δίπτυχον δῶρον θεᾶς· κοίλης μὲν ὅστις φλεβὸς ἀπέσταξεν φόνος τί τῷδε χρῆσθαι; δύναμιν ἐκφέρει τίνα; νόσους ἀπείργει καὶ τροφὰς ἔχει βίου.

The second part of the stichomythic conversation Ion 934–1028, in which Ion’s murder is plotted (970–1028), contains a description of a golden ornament which incorporates two drops of Gorgon’s blood, one of which is poisonous and with which Creusa plans to murder Ion. When Creusa starts to describe the first drop of Gorgon’s blood (1011), the Old Man interrupts her to ask about its (1012: τῷδε) use and effect. His employment of the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to an element of Creusa’s description reflects his interest and eager curiosity. This interpretation is supported by his interruptions (here and at 1002) and the enthusiasm with which he participates in plotting and carrying out the murder of Ion. The proximity effected by the deictic pronoun is paralleled by the interlocutors’ closeness in their stichomythic conversation and their dramatic interaction and cooperation. Now that we have an idea the of the effects created by the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε, which appears to be especially at home in contexts where interest,

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surprise, scepticism, curiosity, eagerness, disbelief or shock are key elements of the reaction of the narratee, it is possible to see how this pronoun may also be used to feign these emotions. Andr. 915 910 Hermione:

… κᾆτ’ ἔγωγ’ ἠμυνάμην. Orestes: μῶν ἐς γυναῖκ’ ἔρραψας οἷα δὴ γυνή; Hermione: φόνον γ’ ἐκείνῃ καὶ τέκνῳ νοθαγενεῖ. Orestes: κἄκτεινας, ἤ τις συμφορά σ’ ἀφείλετο; Hermione: γέρων γε Πηλεύς, τοὺς κακίονας σέβων. 915 Orestes: σοὶ δ’ ἦν τις ὅστις τοῦδ’ ἐκοινώνει φόνου; Hermione: πατήρ γ’ ἐπ’ αὐτὸ τοῦτ’ ἀπὸ Σπάρτης μολών.

In the stichomythic conversation Andr. 896–920 Hermione updates Orestes about the events that led to her current situation. When Hermione confesses her attempted murder of Andromache and her son (912: φόνον, taken up by Orestes in 913: κἄκτεινας;), Orestes asks whether she had an accomplice, referring to the murder as narrated by Hermione by means of τοῦδ’ … φόνου (915). Orestes’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun apparently reflects his interest in Hermione’s story and his sympathy for her situation. This is also apparent in the many and well-aimed questions he poses,57 and in his evaluative and sympathetic remarks at 909: κακόν γ’ ἔλεξας … and 919: συνῆκα. I submit that Orestes’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun is a way for him to cover up the fact that he already knows about the narrated events (cf. 959–963). In the preceding discussion of examples we saw that the narratee mostly uses the proximal deictic pronoun to pick up points of new narrative information that are somehow of interest to him. Here we see that Orestes does so with old narrative information, thus covering up his background knowledge. It is interesting to see that Orestes uses a form of ὅδε to pick up Hermione’s narrative information, while Hermione uses forms of οὗτος (906: τοῦτ’ αὐτό, 910: τοιαῦτα ταῦτα, 916: ἐπ’ αὐτὸ τοῦτ’)58 to confirm Orestes’ suggestions. Whereas Hermione confirms suggestions which contain old narrative information, Orestes asks particulars about supposedly new narrative information. Thus his use of ὅδε can be seen as another means by which he misleads and manipulates Hermione.

57 58

See section 3.3.2.1. For the colloquialism repeatedly used by Hermione see Stevens (1977) 27.

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5.2.1.2 Future In planning or plotting scenes we often find stichomythic conversations that can be considered as instances of prior narrating, or narrative stichomythia looking forward to events that are yet to take place. When in such conversations the narratee uses forms of the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε to refer to elements of his interlocutor’s narrative, this can often be interpreted as an expression of cooperation or eagerness on the part of the narratee to participate in the execution of the plan or plot. I will illustrate this with some examples from Helen.59 Hel. 1260, 1264 1255 Menelaus:

Theoclymenus: Menelaus: Theoclymenus: Menelaus: 1260 Theoclymenus: Menelaus: Theoclymenus: Menelaus: Theoclymenus: 1265 Menelaus:

προσφάζεται μὲν αἷμα πρῶτα νερτέροις. τίνος; σύ μοι σήμαινε, πείσομαι δ’ ἐγώ. αὐτὸς σὺ γίγνωσκ’· ἀρκέσει γὰρ ἃν διδῷς. ἐν βαρβάροις μὲν ἵππον ἢ ταῦρον νόμος. διδούς γε μὲν δὴ δυσγενὲς μηδὲν δίδου. οὐ τῶνδ’ ἐν ἀγέλαις ὀλβίαις σπανίζομεν. καὶ στρωτὰ φέρεται λέκτρα σώματος κενά. ἔσται· τί δ’ ἄλλο προσφέρειν νομίζεται; χαλκήλαθ’ ὅπλα· καὶ γὰρ ἦν φίλος δορί. ἄξια τάδ’ ἔσται Πελοπιδῶν ἃ δώσομεν. καὶ τἄλλ’ ὅσα χθὼν καλὰ φέρει βλαστήματα.

In the stichomythic conversation Hel. 1239–1278 the disguised Menelaus instructs the Egyptian king Theoclymenus about Menelaus’ impending funeral at sea. On several occasions Theoclymenus uses forms of the proximal deictic pronoun to pick up elements of Menelaus’ plan. On Menelaus’ instigation Theoclymenus proposes to offer a horse or a bull (1258). Menelaus responds that whatever sacrificial animal he decides to give, he should make sure that it is nothing malformed (1259: δυσγενὲς μηδέν). To this Theoclymenus replies: οὐ τῶνδ’ ἐν ἀγέλαις ὀλβίαις σπανίζομεν (1260). Strictly speaking τῶνδ’ should pick up δυσγενές. However, their numbers disagree and, more importantly, the meaning does not make sense: Theoclymenus would not say that his herds contain

59

A similar example is found in Bacch. 834, where Pentheus’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun to refer to elements of clothing as described by Dionysus seems to indicate that he is slowly warming to the idea of his metamorphosis: he is already envisaging himself wearing the Bacchic attire.

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plenty of malformed animals. Pearson is undoubtedly correct in stating that τῶνδε equals εὐγενῶν ἵππων ἢ ταύρων,60 but this interpretation can only be reached via implication, if we assume, with Dale, that τῶνδε ‘must mean “such as you imply”, such as are not δυσγενῆ’.61 Because this usage of the proximal deictic pronoun is unusual, Dale considers ‘tempting’ Bruhn’s suggestion οὐχ’ ὧδ’ instead of οὐ τῶνδ’.62 However, Bruhn’s conjecture requires that the verb be absolute and mean ‘to be in want’, which is characteristic of the passive forms, while here we have the active form σπανίζομεν ‘we lack, are in want of’, which requires an object in the genitive. The mental leap from δυσγενές to εὐγενῶν ἵππων ἢ ταύρων is not that hard to make in the given context, particularly because of the presence of the negative μηδέν (1259).63 We will see that τῶνδε is paralleled by Theoclymenus’ use of other forms of the proximal deictic pronoun later on in the stichomythic conversation. For these reasons we should probably retain τῶνδε here. A few lines later Theoclymenus uses a second instance of ὅδε to pick up another aspect of Menelaus’ plan. Menelaus advises Theoclymenus to offer armour of bronze (1263: χαλκήλαθ’ ὅπλα), to which Theoclymenus responds: ἄξια τάδ’ ἔσται Πελοπιδῶν ἃ δώσομεν (1264). Both Pearson and Dale comment that τάδ’ should not be taken as referring forward to the relative clause introduced by ἅ, but back to ὅπλα in the preceding utterance by Menelaus.64 In the former interpretation the relative clause becomes restrictive (‘These things that we will give will be worthy of Pelops’ descendants’), while the latter interpretation makes the relative clause non-restrictive, almost like an independent afterthought (‘Such a gift will be worthy of Pelops’ descendants, and we will give it’). From a linguistic point of view either interpretation would be possible. Restrictive relative clauses pertaining to the future commonly contain the subjunctive + ἄν.65 When the future indicative is used, it denotes purpose, present intention or an intended result.66 Here the relative clause could denote present intention. In a non-restrictive relative clause any mood may be found.67 However, as an antecedent to a restrictive relative clause we would perhaps have

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Pearson (1903) 161. Dale (1967) 146. Dale (1967) 146. Cf. also Or. 770–771, where Orestes’ Ἄργος is picked up by Pylades’ τοῖσδε. This reference also requires a small mental adjustment. Pearson (1903) 161, Dale (1967) 146. Rijksbaron et al. (2000) 135–138. Smyth (1956) 572 § 2545, Rijksbaron et al. (2000) 137. Rijksbaron et al. (2000) 138 § 4.8.

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expected ταῦτα instead of τάδε. If we look at the meaning and function of the sentence in its communicative context, the scales are tipped in favour of the non-restrictive relative clause. The main point of Theoclymenus’ response is that he grants the weapons, not that they will be worthy of Pelops’ descendants. We would expect to find the main point in the main clause and the secondary information in the subordinate clause. However, if the relative clause is interpreted as non-restrictive, perhaps even equivalent to a coordinate clause,68 the distribution of information becomes more natural and Theoclymenus’ answer more to the point. What are the reasons for and the dramatic effects of Theoclymenus’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun to pick up aspects of Menelaus’ plan? First of all, Theoclymenus is unfamiliar with the Greek burial custom Menelaus describes (cf. especially 1246). By using forms of ὅδε he is trying to get closer to and make himself familiar with this foreign custom. The irony is, of course, that for Helen and Menelaus too this is a new ‘custom’, and Menelaus is making up its various elements as he goes along. Theoclymenus’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun in combination with his immediate compliance with Menelaus’ requests illustrates his readiness to carry out any instruction he gets (cf. 1254, 1256). Traditionally this has been interpreted negatively as an example of barbarian stupidity, since the foreign king is ignorantly helping his Greek opponents to escape and thus simultaneously and unconsciously effecting his loss of Helen. More recently, however, the positive, non-barbarian aspects of Theoclymenus’ character and behaviour have been highlighted: in helping Helen and Menelaus he does not show the typical characteristics of a barbarian tyrant.69 A typical barbarian tyrant would have forced Helen to marry himself in the first place, without waiting for Menelaus’ burial at sea. Here we have a foreign king who goes out of his way to please Helen (1254). An aspect of Theoclymenus’ character and behaviour I believe has so far been neglected is his pride, particularly with respect to his material possessions. When Menelaus states that every man buries the dead at sea according to his means (1253), Theoclymenus instantly feels called upon to display his wealth (1254). Upon Menelaus’ suggestion that Theoclymenus might give a malformed sacrificial animal (1259), the latter reacts fiercely, stating that his rich herds do not lack proper victims (1260). When Menelaus asks for bronze armour (1263), Theoclymenus responds that he will provide weapons worthy of Pelops’ descendants (1264). It seems that Theoclymenus does not want to appear mean.

68 69

Smyth (1956) 560 § 2490, Rijksbaron et al. (2000) 138 §4.9. Wright (2005) 194–199.

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Hel. 1270 Theoclymenus: Menelaus: Theoclymenus: Menelaus: 1270 Theoclymenus: Menelaus:

πῶς οὖν; ἐς οἶδμα τίνι τρόπῳ καθίετε; ναῦν δεῖ παρεῖναι κἀρετμῶν ἐπιστάτας. πόσον δ’ ἀπείργειν μῆκος ἐκ γαίας δόρυ; ὥστ’ ἐξορᾶσθαι ῥόθια χερσόθεν μόλις. τί δή; τόδ’ Ἑλλὰς νόμιμον ἐκ τίνος σέβει; ὡς μὴ πάλιν γῇ λύματ’ ἐκβάλῃ κλύδων.

As Theoclymenus shows himself more willing to provide the means for Menelaus’ burial at sea, Menelaus starts feeling more free to ask for things. Whereas Menelaus initially left the choice of sacrificial animal up to Theoclymenus (1257), in the course of the conversation he asks for more specific items (1261: bedding, 1263: armour) and items of a specific quality (1265: other good fruits the earth brings forth, 1267: a ship and skilled rowers). When it becomes clear that Menelaus intends to take one of Theoclymenus’ ships so far from the land that one can barely see the surf, the latter seems to get suspicious and inquires after the reason for this Greek custom τόδ’ … νόμιμον (1270), referring back to Menelaus’ plans with a proximal deictic pronoun. Although Theoclymenus’ unfamiliarity with the Greek custom still applies, he does not immediately agree with this aspect of Menelaus’ plan. Here we are dealing with the sceptical use of ὅδε, such as we have come across earlier, for example in Supplices.70 However, once a plausible explanation for the custom has been given (1271), Theoclymenus is willing again to provide not just any ship but a speedy Phoenician one (1272). Euripides manipulates Theoclymenus’ reactions so as to create tension both in Menelaus and Helen and in his audience about whether or not Theoclymenus will grant them the means necessary to carry out their escape. In the first two instances of ὅδε, where minor elements of the plan including sacrificial animals and armour were discussed, Theoclymenus’ responses were immediately cooperative, but in the third instance, where the most crucial requirement for the plan, namely the ship, is at stake, Theoclymenus’ response becomes more hesitant and critical. The tension created is short-lived and Theoclymenus soon returns to his initial cooperative, generous and proud self, which ultimately leads to his loss of Helen. Just like the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε can be used by the narratee to feign interest, surprise, scepticism, curiosity eagerness, disbelief or shock in response

70

See section 5.2.1.1, p. 167–169.

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to narratives about the past and present, so too it may be used to feign interest, cooperation and eagerness (occasionally scepticism) in planning or plotting stichomythiae about the future. The antilabic exchange between Creon and Menoeceus in Phoen. 977–986 is a case in point: Phoen. 981, 983 Menoeceus: Creon: Menoeceus: 980 Creon: Creon: Creon: Creon: Creon:

ποῖ δῆτα φεύγω; τίνα πόλιν; τίνα ξένων; ὅπου χθονὸς τῆσδ’ ἐκποδὼν μάλιστ’ ἔσῃ. οὔκουν σὲ φράζειν εἰκός, ἐκπονεῖν δ’ ἐμέ; Δελφοὺς περάσας … Menoeceus: ποῖ με χρή, πάτερ, μολεῖν; Αἰτωλίδ’ ἐς γῆν. Menoeceus: ἐκ δὲ τῆσδε ποῖ περῶ; Θεσπρωτὸν οὖδας. Menoeceus: σεμνὰ Δωδώνης βάθρα; ἔγνως. Menoeceus: τί δὴ τόδ’ ἔρυμά μοι γενήσεται; πόμπιμος ὁ δαίμων …

After Teiresias has announced that the only way to save Thebes is to sacrifice Menoeceus, Creon is trying to escape fate by sending Menoeceus off abroad. His instructions can be considered a travel-narrative which is to take place in the immediate future. Menoeceus picks up the geographic locations Creon mentions in his narrative and refers to them with forms of the proximal deictic pronoun. When Creon advises Menoeceus to traverse Delphi to Aetolia (980– 981), Menoeceus asks where he shall go from here (981: τῆσδε). When Creon answers that he must go to Thesprotia, to the sanctuary of Dodona (982–983), Menoeceus asks how this (983: τόδ’) will protect him. Pearson and Mastronarde disagree about the antecedent of τόδ’. As can be inferred from his comment that τόδ’ is attracted to the number of the predicate ἔρυμα,71 Pearson believes that it refers back to σεμνὰ Δωδώνης βάθρα (982). Mastronarde regards the more abstract notion of going to the sanctuary of Dodona as its antecedent (cf. his translation: ‘What protection, then, will this (sc. going to Dodona) be for me?’), and considers ‘the demonstrative τόδ’ … idiomatic and desirable to the sense’.72 Creon’s answer πόμπιμος ὁ δαίμων (984) does not provide a conclusive answer in the matter. Another, in my opinion better, antecedent would be Θεσπρωτὸν οὖδας (983). This has the advantage that it grammatically agrees with τόδ’, is explicitly mentioned in the conversation, encompasses the

71 72

Pearson (1909) 151. Mastronarde (1994) 425.

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sanctuary of Dodona, and forms a nice parallel with Menoeceus’ reference τῆσδε to another geographical location: Αἰτωλίδ’ ἐς γῆν (981). What is the reason for and dramatic effect of Menoeceus’ repeated use of the proximal deictic pronoun in this scene? In the previous examples we saw that the narratee used it to express his interest in the plan and his enthusiasm about assisting in its execution. Here Menoeceus appears to use the proximal deictic pronoun in a similar way. The forms of ὅδε bring about a transportation in time (to the future) and place (to Aetolia, to Thesprotia). By using them Menoeceus makes it sound as if he imagines himself to be there already and comes across as very eager to embark on his trip. This effect is simultaneously produced by the antilabic form with its staccato question and answer, asyndeton and aposiopesis.73 However, whereas in the previous cases the narratee reacted genuinely, here the narratee uses the proximal deictic pronoun to feign interest and enthusiasm for the proposed plan, while actually planning an altogether different course of action. I believe that we can see in his use of ὅδε a deliberate attempt to mislead Creon into thinking that he will go, while instead he will throw himself off the city walls in order to save Thebes. This is what Menoeceus himself says when Creon has left (991– 992). Perhaps one of Menoeceus’ deceiving strategies is his use of the proximal deictic pronoun. This scene can be considered one of the multiple instances in this play ‘where actions and departures are anticipated only to be frustrated’.74 5.2.1.3 Upshot: Textual Problems? The information gained from our discussion of the narratee’s use of the proximal deictic pronoun may help us decide in cases where the text is debated. I will illustrate this with an example. The plotting stichomythia El. 612–676 consists of two parts. In the first (612–646) the Old Man and Orestes plot the murder of Aegisthus, while in the second (647–676) Electra and the Old Man plot the murder of Clytaemestra. The line that I am particularly interested in occurs right at the boundary, when Orestes asks the Old Man how he can simultaneously kill both Aegisthus and Clytaemestra (646: πῶς οὖν ἐκείνην τόνδε τ’ ἐν ταὐτῷ κτενῶ;). Scholars disagree over whether he uses the distal deictic pronoun ἐκείνην to refer to Clytaemestra and the proximal deictic pronoun τόνδε to refer to Aegisthus, or vice versa (… ἐκεῖνον τήνδε …). The former reading is found in the manuscripts and defended by Denniston: ‘τόνδε is used of Aegisthus

73 74

Craik (1988) 217, 225. Craik (1988) 217.

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because, unlike Clytemnestra, he is close at hand’.75 The latter reading was suggested by Vitelli. Although Aegisthus is physically closer than Clytaemestra (cf. 623: πέλας [Aegisthus], 640–641: Ἄργει [Clytaemestra]), Clytaemestra was mentioned more recently than Aegisthus and has been in the forefront of the interlocutors’ mind since 640. I suggest that we can use the information obtained from our discussion above in support of Vitelli’s conjecture. Having established Clytaemestra’s location (640–645), Orestes picks up the plotting of her murder and refers to her by means of τήνδε. Aegisthus, whose murder was plotted in 612–639, has moved to the background in the interlocutors’ mind and is therefore referred to by means of ἐκεῖνον. After 646 the topic of conversation continues to be (the murder of) Clytaemestra. 5.2.2 Narrator The narrator in stichomythia also makes use of the proximal deictic pronoun. I will distinguish between those instances where he uses forms of ὅδε to adjust the narratee’s existing perception of reality on the one hand,76 and those that introduce new narrative information on the other.77 I will start with the former group. Hipp. 797 Theseus: 795

Chorus: Theseus: 800 Chorus:

μῶν Πιτθέως τι γῆρας εἴργασται νέον; πρόσω μὲν ἤδη βίοτος, ἀλλ’ ὅμως ἔτ’ ἂν λυπηρὸς ἡμῖν τούσδ’ ἂν ἐκλίποι δόμους. οὐκ ἐς γέροντας ἥδε σοι τείνει τύχη, Θησεῦ· νέοι θανόντες ἀλγύνουσί σε. οἴμοι, τέκνων μοι μή τι συλᾶται βίος; ζῶσιν, θανούσης μητρὸς ὡς ἄλγιστά σοι.

Upon his return Theseus asks the Chorus about the situation at home (Hipp. 790–796). The servants’ shouts and his inhospitable reception indicate that something is wrong. When Theseus suggests that something untoward (794: τι

75 76

77

Denniston (1939) 129. Besides the examples discussed below, an additional example can be found in Or. 771, where, in response to Orestes’ question whether he is not afraid that Argos will kill him, Pylades tries to take away Orestes’ worries saying that he does not fall under Argive authority (τοῖσδε). An example not discussed is Or. 752, where Orestes uses τοῦδε to refer to Menelaus.

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… νέον) may have happened to Pittheus, the Chorus Leader picks up his implicit allusion to death (cf. 795–796) by means of ἥδε … τύχη (797), and states that it does not apply to the old (οὐκ ἐς γέροντας), but to the young (νέοι) (797–798). The Chorus Leader uses ἥδε to relate to Theseus’ false suspicions and replace them with a more accurate perception of reality. Her choice of the proximal deictic pronoun appears to reflect her caution in breaking the bad news of Phaedra’s death to Theseus. It shows her consideration for Theseus’ anticipated reaction. This is also perceptible in her negative report of the state of affairs (796: οὐκ …), which is geared towards Theseus’ expectations; her gradual revelation of the truth in two steps (797–800); her explicit anticipation of Theseus’ reaction (800: ὡς ἄλγιστά σοι); and her compassion towards Theseus (805: πάρειμι σῶν κακῶν πενθήτρια). Although the Chorus Leader’s prolonged report of bad news is dramatically explicable from her consideration for Theseus’ feelings, in practice it only seems to aggravate matters and sustain the audience’s feelings of pathos. In broader dramatic terms, the Chorus Leader’s use of the proximal deictic pronoun to adjust Theseus’ faulty perception of reality corroborates Theseus’ portrayal throughout the play as somebody who constantly underestimates the situation, with dramatic consequences.78 Supp. 132 Theseus: Adrastus:

ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἐλαύνεις ἑπτὰ πρὸς Θήβας λόχους; δισσοῖσι γαμβροῖς τήνδε πορσύνων χάριν.

The first of four instances of the proximal deictic pronoun that occur in the stichomythic conversation between Adrastus and Theseus (Supp. 110–162) is uttered by the narrator.79 The topic of the Theban expedition had been first introduced into the conversation by Adrastus at 116 (ἣν στρατείαν ἐστράτευσ’ ὀλεθρίαν). Following an episode on the Argives’ reason for supplication, Theseus asks about the expedition again at 131 (ἐλαύνεις), and Adrastus refers to this particular element of the narrative by means of τήνδε … χάριν (132). By using the proximal deictic pronoun he draws Theseus, who is mostly familiar with the outward appearance of this campaign through hearsay (cf. 117), and considers it just another war (cf. his generalizing remark at 119), into his own narrative world, which consists of personal actions and motivations: for Adrastus the

78 79

See section 3.3.2.2. For a discussion of the other three instances, uttered by the narratee see section 5.2.1.1, on p. 167–169 above.

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expedition was a personal favour to his sons-in-law instead of just any military campaign. Thus he replaces Theseus’ superficial perception of the Theban expedition with his own more intense personal experience. Adrastus’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun ties in with his use of the historic present as discussed in the previous chapter:80 by inviting Theseus to take a look in and share the experience of his private narrative world, Adrastus hopes to gain his sympathy and support. Supp. 763: Adrastus: Messenger: ⟨Adrastus: Messenger: 765 Adrastus: Messenger: Adrastus: Messenger:

ἦ που πικρῶς νιν θέραπες ἦγον ἐκ φόνου; οὐδεὶς ἐπέστη τῷδε δοῦλος ὢν πόνῳ. ⟩ φαίης ἂν εἰ παρῆσθ’ ὅτ’ ἠγάπα νεκρούς. ἔνιψεν αὐτὸς τῶν ταλαιπώρων σφαγάς; κἄστρωσέ γ’ εὐνὰς κἀκάλυψε σώματα. δεινὸν μὲν ἦν βάσταγμα κᾀσχύνην ἔχον. τί δ’ αἰσχρὸν ἀνθρώποισι τἀλλήλων κακά;

In the stichomythic dialogue about the return of the bodies of the Argive warriors in Supp. 750–771 Adrastus asks the Messenger about the servants’ gruesome experience of removing the bodies from the carnage (762). Two assumptions underlie Adrastus’ question: a. that it was the servants who carried out this action and b. that this action was experienced as gruesome. In his response the Messenger picks up Adrastus’ reference to the activity of removing the bodies from the carnage by means of τῷδε … πόνῳ and corrects Adrastus’ first assumption that this was done by slaves: οὐδεὶς … δοῦλος ὤν (763). I believe that the Messenger’s use of τῷδε indicates his consideration for Adrastus’ misconception. This is also visible from his use of the negative οὐδείς … which is geared towards Adrastus’ expectations. In the following lines it turns out that it was Theseus who removed the bodies of the Argives (764–766). Adrastus’ second assumption, that this task was experienced as gruesome, is repeated (δεινόν) and taken further (κᾀσχύνην ἔχον) in 767. The Messenger’s refutation of Adrastus second and persistent assumption shows less consideration, as it is cast in the form of a rhetorical question (768). In the course of the conversation the Messenger seems to become less and less patient with and tolerant of Adrastus’ assumptions and quick judgment. The effect of these communicative interac-

80

See section 4.2.1, p. 133.

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tions is to portray Adrastus as morally inferior not only to Theseus, who, in contrast to Adrastus, does not turn up his nose at tending to the dead Argives, but even to the Messenger, who has to rectify Adrastus’ unflattering assumptions almost at every turn. hf 557 Heracles: 555 Megara: Heracles: Megara:

τί δ’ ἐξελείπετ’ οἶκον ἑστίαν τ’ ἐμήν; βίᾳ, πατὴρ μὲν ἐκπεσὼν στρωτοῦ λέχους κοὐκ ἔσχεν αἰδὼς τὸν γέροντ’ ἀτιμάσαι; αἰδώς; ἀποικεῖ τῆσδε τῆς θεοῦ πρόσω.

In the stichomythic dialogue hf 531–561 Megara updates Heracles on what happened in his absence and the situation in which she, her children and Amphitryon currently find themselves. One of the many aspects of Megara’s narrative about which Heracles seems surprised81 is the fact that shame (αἰδώς) did not prevent Lycus from throwing Amphitryon from his bed (555–556). Megara sarcastically echoes Heracles’ surprised question (557: αἰδώς;). She picks up this element of the narrative as mentioned both by Heracles and herself by means of τῆσδε τῆς θεοῦ (557). By representing shame as a goddess, Megara stresses the brutality and irreverence of their assailant Lycus and the severity of their situation. Using the proximal deictic pronoun she picks up Heracles’ contribution to the conversation, holds it up for close scrutiny, and subsequently rejects it (557: ἀποικεῖ … πρόσω). Thus she firmly adjusts Heracles’ over-optimistic perception of reality. Megara displays similar communicative behaviour in 559, where she poses another rhetorical echo-question (‘What friends does a man in misfortune have?’), and in 561, where Megara has to repeat to Heracles that misfortune has no friends. Megara’s sarcastic reactions to Heracles’ naïve questions clearly show that the interlocutors are on different psychological levels, which complicates their communication.82 Megara is less considerate than the other narrators we have encountered so far. This can be explained from the urgency of the dramatic situation and the close relationship of the interlocutors. Megara is initially excited at Heracles’ long-awaited arrival,83 but when his state of disbelief is prolonged she becomes impatient. As we have seen previously,84

81 82 83 84

See also section 1.4.1.3, p. 31–32. Cf. Grummond (1983) 83. Cf. section 1.4.3, p. 41–44. See section 1.4.1.3, p. 31–32.

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this impression of Heracles is built up throughout the stichomythic conversation. Megara’s impatient use of the proximal deictic pronoun adds to the characterization of Heracles as eager but unable truly to connect with his relatives. The narrator may also use the proximal deictic pronoun to introduce new narrative information into the conversation. In its most conspicuous form this occurs by means of an οἶσθα-question followed by a form of ὅδε instead of οὗτος. Hel. 100 Teucer: Helen: 100 Teucer:

τὸν Πηλέως τιν’ οἶσθ’ Ἀχιλλέα γόνον; ναί· μνηστήρ ποθ’ Ἑλένης ἦλθεν, ὡς ἀκούομεν. θανὼν ὅδ’ ὅπλων ἔριν ἔθηκε συμμάχοις.

The first example occurs in the stichomythic conversation between Teucer and Helen in Hel. 78–142. Teucer explains to Helen the reason for his presence in Egypt: he has been sent into exile following his brother Ajax’ suicide upon losing the contest for Achilles’ armour. Teucer introduces one of the main characters, Achilles, into this narrative by means of an οἶσθα-question (98). Once Helen has confirmed her familiarity with Achilles (99), Teucer resumes the narrative and refers to him again by means of the proximal deictic pronoun (100: ὅδ’).85 Commentators have picked up on the fact that ὅδε does not refer to somebody who is physically present on the stage here. For example, Dale writes that ‘such a use of the pronoun, where the person is not on the stage or to be indicated by a gesture toward the σκηνή, is rare but has a close parallel in Or. 1189 τήνδε, where again the person has been explicitly summoned into the speakers’ thoughts by the formula “you know …?” ’.86 However, by now we have seen enough examples of ὅδε in deixis am phantasma and narrative deixis to know that the phenomenon is not as rare as Dale would have us believe. Teucer’s choice of ὅδε instead of οὗτος to refer to Achilles here seems induced by communicative considerations. Teucer introduced Achilles into his narrative carefully, with much consideration for Helen’s potential lack of

85 86

About ὅδ’ / δ’: Kannicht (1969) …: ‘⟨ὅ⟩δ’ ist sichere Emendation: über die Idiomatik von ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε s. u. zu 324–326 τήνδε’. Dale (1967) 74.

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background knowledge. Besides the οἶσθα-question itself, this is apparent from the indefinite pronoun τιν’ (98). Helen’s response is spontaneously firm (99: ναί), but immediately afterwards she self-consciously tones it down using the indefinite adverb ποθ’ and qualifying her statement by means of ὡς ἀκούομεν (99). I believe that Teucer’s use of ὅδε picks up on this (feigned) uncertainty of hers. At the same time it adds vividness to his narrative: it is as if the interlocutors of the stichomythic conversation and the audience are physically present at Achilles’ death and the quarrel over his weapons which arose as a result of it. Or. 1189 Electra: Orestes: 1185 Electra: Orestes: Electra: Orestes: Electra:

Ἑλένης κάτοισθα θυγατέρ’; εἰδότ’ ἠρόμην. οἶδ’, ἥν ⟨γ’⟩ ἔθρεψεν Ἑρμιόνην μήτηρ ἐμή. αὕτη, βέβηκε πρὸς Κλυταιμήστρας τάφον … τί χρῆμα δράσουσ’; ὑποτίθης τίν’ ἐλπίδα; χοὰς κατασπείσουσ’ ὑπὲρ μητρὸς τάφῳ. καὶ δὴ τί μοι τοῦτ’ εἶπας ἐς σωτηρίαν; συλλάβεθ’ ὅμηρον τήνδ’, ὅταν στείχῃ πάλιν.

Another example is found in the stichomythic plotting conversation Or. 1177– 1190. Electra discloses to Orestes her plan to take Hermione hostage in order to manipulate Menelaus. She introduces the main character of this plan, Hermione, into the conversation by means of an οἶσθα-question (1183). Once Orestes’ familiarity with this character has been established (1183–1184), Electra starts the exposition of her plan, referring to Hermione with αὕτη (1185) and later with τήνδ’ (1189). Although the basic pattern of οἶσθα-question introducing a character who is (later) referred back to by means of a proximal deictic pronoun is the same, and although Dale considers Hel. 100 and Or. 1189 close parallels, there is a crucial difference in structure between the two. Whereas ὅδε in Hel. 100 referred back to Achilles, who was introduced by the immediately preceding οἶσθα-question, τήνδ’ in Or. 1189 comes much later and is preceded by another reference by means of αὕτη (Or. 1185). The difference seems again tied up with the interlocutors’ presumed cognitive status. In contrast to the Helen example, Electra assumes that Orestes knows Hermione (1183: εἰδότ’). Orestes’ answer endorses this assumption (1184: οἶδ’ …). I believe this explains Electra’s use of the customary neutral deictic pronoun αὕτη instead of ἥδε here (1184): she relates her narrative to information already known to Orestes. It is only when Orestes has trouble understanding the point of Electra’s preliminary narrative information (1186, 1188, 1190) that she refers to Hermione by

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means of τήνδ’. This instance of the proximal deictic pronoun too reflects the narrator’s consideration for the narratee’s difficulty in understanding the narrative.87 it 558 555 Iphigenia:

τοσόνδε γ’, εἰ ζῇ τοῦ ταλαιπώρου δάμαρ Orestes: οὐκ ἔστι· παῖς νιν ὃν ἔτεκ’ αὐτὸς ὤλεσεν. Iphigenia: ὦ συνταραχθεὶς οἶκος. ὡς τί δὴ θέλων; Orestes: πατρὸς θανόντος τήνδε τιμωρούμενος.

Towards the end of the stichomythic conversation it 492–569 Iphigenia asks Orestes about the house of Agamemnon, despite his reluctance to provide information on this particular topic (cf. 546, 554). Presumably triggered by Orestes’ reference to Agamemnon’s wife (552: ἐκ γυναικός, cf. also 553: ἡ κτανοῦσα), Iphigenia inquires after Clytaemestra (555). In his response Orestes refers to Clytaemestra first by means of the unemphatic νιν (556) and only a few lines later by means of the more emphatic τήνδε (558). We would perhaps expect the opposite order, but this case has similarities with the Orestes example just discussed. Clytaemestra is known to both interlocutors. In 556 Orestes emphasizes the fact that Clytaemestra is dead and has been killed (οὐκ ἔστι … ὤλεσεν) by her own son (παῖς … ὃν ἔτεκ’ αὐτός). These two new points of information receive due emphasis. Only when Iphigenia asks about Orestes’ motivation for the murder (557), does Orestes use the proximal τήνδε (558). With Agamemnon’s death given (πατρὸς θανόντος) and the motive of revenge (τιμωρούμενος) as the only new information in the sentence, there is room for the more emphatic τήνδε. Therefore, although the order νιν—τήνδε may be somewhat unexpected, I agree with Platnauer that ‘it is difficult to see what is wrong with τήνδε— unless, indeed, one holds the persistent but erroneous view that in tragedy ὅδε must be used of persons present on the stage’.88 Thus I believe that it is unnecessary to follow Weil in reading ‘πατρὸς θανόντος τῇδε τιμωρούμενος (sousentendez νιν qui se trouve au v. 556), pour la punir ainsi du meurtre de son père’.89 87

88 89

It is interesting to see that Orestes uses parallel pronouns to refer to Electra’s plan (1188: τοῦτ’, 1190: τόδ’). It is as if he too is trying more and more to get a clear perspective on the plan in its full significance. Platnauer (1938) 107. As examples to support his position he lists Eur. Hipp. 48, Andr. 1116, Or. 771, ia 72, Rhes. 588; Soph. Trach. 718. Weil (1905) ad loc.

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5.2.3 Overlap and Ambiguity Because the same deictic pronouns are used for different types of deixis (i.e. deixis ad oculos, anaphora, deixis am phantasma, and narrative deixis), when a particular deictic pronoun is used there may be an overlap or ambiguity in the types of deixis it denotes. The following examples and passages will illustrate how the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε may indicate an overlap between deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis, and what the effect of this overlap may be. Tro. 626 Andromache: Hecuba: 625

Andromache:

τέθνηκέ σοι παῖς πρὸς τάφῳ Πολυξένη σφαγεῖσ’ Ἀχιλλέως, δῶρον ἀψύχῳ νεκρῷ. οἲ ’γὼ τάλαινα· τοῦτ’ ἐκεῖν’ ὅ μοι πάλαι Ταλθύβιος αἴνιγμ’ οὐ σαφῶς εἶπεν σαφές. εἶδον νιν αὐτὴ κἀποβᾶσα τῶνδ’ ὄχων ἔκρυψα πέπλοις κἀπεκοψάμην νεκρόν.

In the distichomythic dialogue Tro. 610–633 Andromache tells Hecuba that her daughter Polyxena died. She supports this narrative information with a claim of autopsy (626: εἶδον … αὐτή),90 and continues her report: ‘Getting down from this wagon (τῶνδ’ ὄχων) I covered her corpse with a garment and mourned for her’ (626–627). Andromache refers to the wagon on which she is being transported by means of the proximal deictic pronoun. This wagon is present both physically on stage during the current stichomythic conversation and in the narrated events of Andromache’s viewing and mourning Polyxena’s corpse. I believe that this overlap between deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis creates continuity between the narrated past and communicative present, and adds credibility to Andromache’s narrative: the wagon on which she is transported can be seen as a witness of her viewing and mourning Polyxena’s corpse in the narrated past. At the same time Andromache’s use of ὅδε affects her narrative presentation in that it invests it with vividness and empathy by bringing items from the narrated world closer to the interlocutors of the current conversation.91 On a broader dramatic level the use of the proximal deictic

90 91

Cf. Biehl (1989) 262: ‘Die Bezeugung durch Autopsie gilt als untrüglicher Nachweis der Wahrheit’. Cf. Biehl (1989) 262: ‘Zugleich ist in εἶδον auch das lebhafte Mitempfinden zu spüren, wofür die emphatische Stellung des Verbbegriffs bezeichnend ist’. I suggest that it is not only εἶδον which does this, but also the proximal deictic pronoun.

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pronoun helps to create a close connection between two different scenes in which the effects of the Greek victory on the lives of the Trojan women are illustrated.92 Or. 1125 Orestes: 1125 Pylades:

ἔπειτ’ ἀγῶνα πῶς ἀγωνιούμεθα; κρύπτ’ ἐν πέπλοισι τοισίδ’ ἕξομεν ξίφη.

Whereas in the previous distichomythic conversation Andromache looked back and narrated events that had taken place in the past, in the plotting stichomythia Or. 1105–1131 Pylades looks forward to the future and tells Orestes about his proposal for murdering Helen. Upon Orestes’ question how to go about the actual killing of Helen (1124), Pylades responds: ‘We will have swords hidden in these garments’ (1125: ἐν πέπλοισι τοισίδ’). Again, the proximal deictic pronoun is simultaneously used for deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis: the garments qualified by τοισίδ’ are physically present in the current communicative context and they will play a role in the murder of Helen.93 This overlap between deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis establishes a close physical link between the present and the future and makes the plan more concrete, the narrative more vivid. Several commentators state that Pylades’ response is most likely accompanied by a gesture which mimes the concealment.94 Pylades is

92

93

94

Cf. Biehl (1989) 262: ‘Die in Gang befindliche Handlung, d.i. Wegführung Andr.s auf einem griechischen Beutewagen (569), verbindet sich in der Erzählung mit dem bereits zurückliegenden Vorgang, d.i. Einhüllen der Leiche Polyxenes in ein Totengewand … Auf diese Weise wird—im Zuge der Dramatisierung—das bereits zurückliegende hinterszenische Geschehen nachträglich in den Handlungsvorgang einbezogen’. In what follows these effects of the Trojan War, i.e. death versus captivity, are the subject of a more abstract, theoretical discussion between Andromache and Hecuba. In contrast to the swords, which are at this point still inside the house. Cf. Willink (1986) 271. I agree: while Orestes was ill he obviously had no sword: he asked for his bow and arrow to ward off the Erinyes (268–270). When Orestes and Pylades return from the assembly, it is advised to get ready and sharpen a sword (953, 1035–1036), which implies that they do not yet have one. Orestes has to go inside to commit suicide using a sword (1063–1068). At the end of the plotting scene, Orestes urges Pylades to go in and put a sword in their hands (1222–1223). Later, numerous references are made to Orestes and Pylades as having a sword (e.g. 1346, 1457–1459, 1503–1505). Di Benedetto (1965) 221–222: ‘L’aggettivo dimonstrativo τοισίδ’ … non si spiega se non supponendo che Pilade aprisse il mantello e accennasse all’ atto di nascondere il ξίφος’. Willink (1986) 271: ‘Miming the concealment’.

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already envisaging how his plan will become reality. This reflects his eagerness to carry out the murder plan, which is also supported by other prompts in the conversation: Pylades already anticipates the effect Helen’s murder will have on Menelaus (1105: Μενέλεῳ λύπην πικράν); Orestes comments on Pylades’ eagerness (1106: τὸ … ἕτοιμον); Pylades seems convinced that his plan will be successful (1109: ἀλλ’ οὐκέθ’, 1131: ἄκουσον δ’ ὡς καλῶς βουλεύομαι) and is not intimidated by Helen’s slaves (1111, 1115). Pylades’ confidence as partially reflected by τοισίδ’ stands in sharp contrast with what will actually happen in the course of the play, for Helen will mysteriously vanish before she can be killed (1494–1498, 1579–1586, 1613–1615, 1629–1643). The fact that the same demonstrative pronouns are used for deixis on different levels enables the speaker or playwright to create ambiguity as to the level on which a particular demonstrative pronoun functions. This ambiguity may be exploited to bring about dramatic effects. El. 237–245: Electra: Orestes: Electra: 240 Orestes: Electra: Orestes: Electra: Orestes: 245 Electra:

λόγον δὲ δὴ τίν’ ἦλθες ἐκ κείνου φέρων; εἰ ζῇς, ὅπως τε ζῶσα συμφορᾶς ἔχεις. οὔκουν ὁρᾷς μου πρῶτον ὡς ξηρὸν δέμας; λύπαις γε συντετηκός, ὥστε με στένειν. καὶ κρᾶτα πλόκαμόν τ’ ἐσκυθισμένον ξυρῷ. δάκνει σ’ ἀδελφὸς ὅ τε θανὼν ἴσως πατήρ. οἴμοι· τί γάρ μοι τῶνδέ γ’ ἐστὶ φίλτερον; φεῦ φεῦ· τί δ’ αὖ σοῦ σῷ κασιγνήτῳ δοκεῖς; ἀπὼν ἐκεῖνος, οὐ παρὼν ἡμῖν φίλος.

A first example is the stichomythic dialogue between Electra and Orestes in El. 220–289. Because Orestes has been spying on Electra, he knows that his interlocutor is his sister. Electra does not know the true identity of her interlocutor, and thinks he is a herald who has come from Orestes to inquire about her current situation. One of the ways in which this dramatic irony is played out is by the use of demonstrative pronouns.95 This happens in lines 237–245 in particular. At 237 Electra uses a form of ἐκεῖνος (κείνου) to refer to Orestes. Although this distal deictic pronoun explicitly marks the intended

95

Cropp (1988) 115 on the dramatic irony in this scene, with references to Solmsen (1967) 11–14 and Lloyd (1986) 11–13.

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referent as removed from the communicative situation, Orestes is in fact her interlocutor. As the conversation progresses, and information is exchanged, Orestes re-introduces the subject of Orestes. This time Electra uses a form of ὅδε (243: τῶνδε) to refer to her brother and her father. Believing both of them to be part of the imagined world only, she tries to get as close to them as language permits, using the proximal demonstrative pronoun. She does not realize that Orestes is in fact closer than she could have imagined. Orestes does not reveal his identity or allow Electra to come closer. Instead he refers to himself by means of a kin term anchored in Electra (244: σῷ κασιγνήτῳ).96 Orestes’ diversion appears to work, as Electra resumes her use of the distal pronoun ἐκεῖνος in the subsequent turn, which is itself an explicit statement of Orestes’ absence (245: ἀπὼν ἐκεῖνος, οὐ παρὼν ἡμῖν φίλος). It will take another few hundred lines before Electra will eventually recognize Orestes, but when she does, the first thing she asks is: ἐκεῖνος εἶ σύ; (581) which is commonly taken to mean ‘Are you hím?’, but which against the background of our discussion might equally well mean or play with the idea of: ‘Are you the person I was previously referring to by means of ἐκεῖνος?’. Bacch. 1168–1199: Agaue: Agaue: 1170

Chorus: Agaue: 1175

Chorus: Agaue: Agaue: Chorus: 1180

Chorus: Chorus:

96

Ἀσιάδες βάκχαι … Chorus: τί με θροεῖς, ⟨γύναι⟩; φέρομεν ἐξ ὀρέων ἕλικα νεότομον ἐπὶ μέλαθρα, μακαρίαν θήραν. ὁρῶ καί σε δέξομαι σύγκωμον. ἔμαρψα τόνδ’ ἄνευ βρόχων ⟨…⟩ νέον ἶνιν, ὡς ὁρᾶν πάρα. πόθεν ἐρημίας; Κιθαιρών … Chorus: Κιθαιρών; κατεφόνευσέ νιν. τίς ἁ βαλοῦσα; … Agaue: πρῶτον ἐμὸν τὸ γέρας· μάκαιρ’ Ἀγαυὴ κλῃζόμεθ’ ἐν θιάσοις. τίς ἄλλα; Agaue: τὰ Κάδμου … τί Κάδμου; Agaue: γένεθλα

See section 2.4.6, group 3 on p. 82–84.

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1185 Agaue:

Chorus: Agaue: 1190

Chorus: Agaue: Agaue: 1195 Chorus: Chorus: Chorus:

μέτεχέ νυν θοίνας. Chorus: τί μετέχω, τλᾶμον; νέος ὁ μόσχος ἄρτι γένυν ὑπὸ κόρυθ’ ἁπαλότριχα κατάκομον θάλλει. πρέπει γ’ ὥστε θὴρ ἄγραυλος φόβᾳ. ὁ Βάκχιοις κυναγέτας σοφὸς σοφῶς ἀνέπηλ’ ἐπὶ θῆρα τόνδε μαινάδας. ὁ γὰρ ἄναξ ἀγρεύς. ἐπαινεῖς; Chorus: ἐπαινῶ. τάχα δὲ Καδμεῖοι … καὶ παῖς γε Πενθεύς … Agaue: ματέρ’ ἐπαινέσεται, λαβοῦσαν ἄγραν τάνδε λεοντοφυᾶ. περισσάν. Agaue: περισσῶς. ἀγάλλῃ; Agaue: γέγηθα, μεγάλα μεγάλα καὶ φανερὰ τᾷδ’ ἄγρᾳ κατειργασμένα.

A final example of ambiguity in levels of deixis is found in the lyric exchange between Agaue and the Chorus in Bacch. 1168–1199. Agaue tells the Chorus about her hunt on mount Cithaeron, while carrying the head of Pentheus, which she believes to be the head of a lion cub that she has killed. This passage is full of ambiguities. First, Agaue’s reference to the animal of which she supposedly holds the head as τόνδε … νέον ἶνιν (1173–1174) is ambiguous. Although the word ἶνις is probably meant to refer to the cub of a lioness, as can be gathered from λεοντοφυᾶ (1196) and is indeed supplied in Kovacs’ Loeb edition (⟨λέοντος ἀγροτέρου⟩), it might also refer to Agaue’s own son. Secondly, the use of the pronoun τόνδε (1174) in combination with the clause ὡς ὁρᾶν πάρα (1175) suggests that this is a case of deixis ad oculos, referring to the head that Agaue holds in her hands. However, what Agaue holds in her hands is only part of the animal she is referring to.97 The reference is part of a narrative that takes place in the past: ἔμαρψα … ἄνευ βρόχων (1173). The same is true for τοῦδ’ … θηρός 97

Cf. also Bacch. 1292, where Agaue uses ὅδε to pick up Pentheus from Cadmus’ narrative, while she holds Pentheus’ head in her hands, but is still unaware of the presence of the rest of his corpse on stage. As (part of) the character referred to is physically and noticeably present on stage the deixis is multiply motivated.

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(1183) and θῆρα τόνδε (1190–1191). Are these proximal deictic pronouns pointing to the physical context of the lyric exchange, to the events that took place on mount Cithaeron, or both? The references consisting of proximal deictic pronoun + ἄγρα (1183: ἅδ’ ἄγρα, 1196: ἄγραν τάνδε λεοντοφυᾶ, 1199: τᾷδ’ ἄγρᾳ) are more ambiguous still. ἄγρα can mean both the hunting and the prey, both the process taking place in the narrative world shaped by language, and its result in the real, physical world. To which of the two do these noun phrases refer? The ambiguities and overlap between narrative past and dramatic present reflect Agaue’s confused state of mind in which she cannot distinguish illusion from reality. My analysis of the use of deictic pronouns thus enriches the picture of Agaue’s deluded double vision which scholars have painted so far.98 At the same time, Agaue’s repeated proud references to her imaginary catch of a lion’s cub, in combination with the actual result of her hunt in the form of Pentheus’ head, endow this scene with an enormous sense of pathos.99 5.2.4 Narrative Deixis outside Stichomythia Narrative deixis is not limited to narrative stichomythia. A quick look at the messenger speech reveals that narrative deixis occurs there as well, although not as frequently. Many proximal deictic pronouns occur at the beginning or end of the messenger speech when the narrative is not yet fully under way, apparently to place the narrative in its communicative setting. The proximal deictic pronoun is also used to mark different stages in the narrative. A good example is the messenger speech in Orestes, where the messenger marks different stages in the Argive assembly by means of ἐπὶ τῷδε (Or. 887, 898, 902). Often the proximal deictic pronoun is used to introduce or conclude a character’s direct speech, or for deixis ad oculos within that direct speech. Only a handful of unequivocal examples of narrative deixis by means of the proximal deictic pronoun in the messenger speech remain: it 326 (τούσδ’ refers to a group of men that has just been described in 325–326), Ion 1176 (τόνδε πόνον refers to the Old Man’s eager hosting which has just been described in 1173–1176), Hel. 1549 (ἥδ’ ὑποψία, interestingly, does not refer back, but seems to originate before the narratees’ very eyes), Phoen. 1163 (τάσδ’ … πύλας refers back to the seven gates of Thebes which have just been described in 1113–1162), Phoen. 1455 (τήνδε συμφοράν refers back to the death of Eteocles and Polynices described in 1454), and 98 99

Cf. Dodds (1960) 223–224, Seaford (1996) 242–243. Cf. Lacroix (1976) 246: ‘L’ensemble de ce stasimon tire son effet pathétique du jeu permis par le dialogue. Agavé chante ses victoires, le choeur lui répond par des propos à double sens. De telles scènes, où l’ironie tragique se fonde sur une équivoque, sont nombreuses dans le théâtre grec’.

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Bacch. 707 (τῇδε refers back to the spot in the ground just described in 706). It is interesting that the majority of instances of proximal deictics in the messenger speech should occur in contexts of communication, either at the edges of the messenger speech or in or around direct speech within the messenger speech. The relationship between the proximal deictic pronoun and communication may explain why its use for narrative deixis is more frequent in narrative stichomythia than in the messenger speech.

5.3

Conclusion

In this chapter I have argued that the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε may be used for narrative deixis as another important element in narrative presentation alongside the historic present discussed in the previous chapter. First, I have concentrated on ὅδε employed by the narratee, which makes up the majority of instances. Within this group I distinguished between narratives about the past and narratives concerning the future. In narratives about the past the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε adds a subjective, involved touch to the narratee’s response. This ranges from relatively neutral, professional interest (Supp. 131, 145, 151; Hcld. 126, 131), and sympathetic surprise and shock (Med. 695, 705; Hel. 97; Hec. 1122, 1123), to more personally involved and subjective scepticism, incredulity or shock on the negative end of the spectrum (Alc. 258, hf 552, Bacch. 1292, Hel. 131), and to curiosity and eagerness for narrative information on the positive end of the spectrum (Alc. 1141, Hcld. 660, Ion 1012). The proximal deictic pronoun may also be used by the narratee to feign interest (Andr. 915). With respect to narratives concerning the future, mostly planning or plotting stichomythiae, the narratee uses forms of ὅδε to pick up aspects of his interlocutor’s plan or plot to express his cooperation and eagerness to take part in its execution (e.g. Hel. 1260, 1264, 1270; Bacch. 834). The proximal deictic pronoun may also be used by the narratee to feign cooperation (Phoen. 981, 983). Secondly, I have discussed instances of ὅδε for narrative deixis employed by the narrator. Within this group I have distinguished between the narrator’s use of ὅδε to adjust the narratee’s existing perception of reality on the one hand (e.g. Hipp. 797, Supp. 132, 763, hf 557, Or. 771), and to introduce new narrative information on the other (e.g. Hel. 100, Or. 1189, it 558, Or. 752). The narrator’s use of the proximal deictic pronoun often seems to reflect his consideration for the emotional or cognitive state of his interlocutor, and to anticipate the novel nature of his narrative information for the narratee.100 100

Pace Bakker (1999) 7, who reserves this social, hearer-oriented form of deixis for οὗτος.

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Finally, I have drawn attention to some examples of overlap between different levels of deixis and the ambiguity this may create. I showed how overlap between deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis may add credibility and vividness to a narrative about the past (Tro. 626), and readiness, confidence and vividness to a narrative concerning the future (Or. 1125). Overlap between different types of deixis may also play a role in dramatic irony (El. 220–289) or reflect mental delusion (Bacch. 1168–1199), creating feelings of pathos in the audience for the characters involved. It is significant that narrative deixis by means of ὅδε is found in many stichomythic dialogues which also contain the historic present (e.g. Supp. 110–162, Med. 663–708, Hel. 78–142, Andr. 896–920). In fact, it has become apparent from our discussion that the proximal deictic pronoun functions much the same way as the historic present: it brings elements of the narrative world close in space, as the historic present does in time, thus contributing to a vivid and experiencing story presentation and displaying involvement as well as lively interaction between interlocutors.

chapter 6

Ex Eventu Knowledge 6.1

Introduction

A third phenomenon that affects narrative presentation is the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge. The narrating and experiencing modes differ not only in terms of time but also in terms of knowledge. Let us start with time. When a narrator chooses to employ the experiencing mode, there is a one-on-one relationship between the events as they take place, are experienced and are narrated. The narrated events coincide with the present or the moment in the development of the narrated events with which the narrative is concerned at the time, and so they will be ordered chronologically. When a narrator chooses to employ the narrating mode, he may look back on or forward to narrated events. As the narrator is in complete control of the presentation of the narrated events, the story he tells may contain chronological deviations or anachronies. Depending on the direction of these deviations, i.e. future versus past, a distinction can be made between prolepsis or ‘any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or evoking in advance an event that will take place later’, and analepsis or ‘any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the story where we are at any given moment’.1 Genette distinguishes between explicit prolepsis, implicit prolepsis, and amorce, the significance of which is not recognized until the reader arrives at its allusion.2 In narrative stichomythia we will mainly find implicit prolepses.3 A similar distinction can be made for analepses. An event presented in anachrony is thus separated by an interval from the present, that is, from the moment in the development in the narrated events with which the

1 Genette (1972) 111–112. Narratological prolepsis must be distinguished from: a. syntactic prolepsis: the subject of the subordinate clause is anticipated and made object in the principal clause, on which see kg 2, 577ff., Smyth (1956) 2182. b. rhetorical prolepsis: anticipation of an opponent’s arguments and objections. c. stylistic prolepsis: the anticipation of the result of the action of a verb in objective predicate adjectives or nouns, on which see kg 1, 276, Schwyzer-Debrunner (1950) 2.181, Smyth (1956) 3045, Gonda (1958). This last type of prolepsis may in some cases overlap with narratological prolepsis. 2 Genette (1972) 111–112. Cf. also De Jong & Nünlist (2007) 3–8, especially 7–8. 3 As in the Euripidean messenger speech, cf. De Jong (1991) 45–46.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004282612_010

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narrative is concerned at the time the anachrony interrupts it,4 and so it does not entirely fit its immediate narrative context. The difference between the experiencing and narrating modes is also a matter of knowledge. When the narrator chooses to employ the experiencing mode he suppresses his ex eventu knowledge and adjusts the amount of information he gives to the knowledge level of the character through whose eyes the narrated events are seen. When the narrator chooses to employ the narrating mode, he expresses his ex eventu knowledge. In that case, the narrative contains elements that are not in keeping with the amount of knowledge available to its characters at that stage of the narrative and can only be understood with knowledge of its outcome. This may lead to discrepant awareness between the characters that participate in the narrated events, the dramatic characters involved in a narrative stichomythic conversation, and the audience.5 Thus the suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge may play a role in creating and maintaining various effects, including dramatic irony. Ex eventu knowledge about the narrated events that constitute the narrative inserted in the dramatic action should be distinguished from knowledge about the dramatic action itself. Narrative stichomythia is closely connected with the dramatic action. We are constantly reminded of this by the continuous change of speakers. Its narrative is fragmented and interspersed with language related to communication. To make matters even more complex, there may be overlap between the contents of narrative stichomythia and the dramatic plot. Yet knowledge on these two levels should not be confused. For example, Phaedra’s struggle to withhold information about her love for Hippolytus in Hipp. 310–352 is not so much a matter of story presentation as a dramatic action in itself. Even Orestes’ demonstration of background knowledge about Hermione’s situation in Andr. 879–920 is not a matter of narrative presentation but constitutes a dramatic action in its own right. Although these examples feature respectively suppression and expression of information or background knowledge, their context is the plot instead of the inserted narrative. While these and similar passages may be important and interesting, they will not be the topic of discussion in this chapter. In what follows, examples of expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge will be organized in chronological order as much as possible in order to facilitate literary interpretation. Only where two examples are very similar will I interrupt this arrangement. Examples in which similar narratological phenomena occur will be related and compared in the conclusion. 4 Bal (1985) 89. 5 Cf. De Jong (1991) 50–51, 57.

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Discussion of Examples

Hec. 239 In preparation for her appeal to spare Polyxena’s life, Hecuba refreshes Odysseus’ memory about his past supplication to her, when their positions were reversed. She starts by reminding him by means of an οἶσθα-question6 how he came to Troy as a spy (239: Ἰλίου κατάσκοπος). However, at the moment of his actual arrival (239: ἦλθες) Hecuba did not yet know this; it was only later, when Helen told her, that she discovered he was a spy (243).7 Hecuba’s expression of ex eventu knowledge in Ἰλίου κατάσκοπος can obviously be seen as a sign of her own narrating mode. Odysseus’ characterization as a cunning spy on Troy presents Hecuba’s assistance to him at the time as remarkably generous, which enlarges her claim to similar treatment in the current dramatic situation. Alternatively, ’Ιλίου κατάσκοπος could be interpreted as Hecuba’s adoption of her narratee’s experiencing focalization. Odysseus knew about his status as a κατάσκοπος whereas Hecuba did not. The vivid image obtained is supported by Hecuba’s visual description of Odysseus’ physical appearance (240–241: δυσχλαινίᾳ τ’ ἄμορφος ὀμμάτων τ’ ἄπο | φόνου σταλαγμοὶ σὴν κατέσταζον γένυν;). Thus Hecuba tries to revive Odysseus’ memories of the past.8 His graphic replies, particularly line 246 (ὥστ’ ἐνθανεῖν γε σοῖς πέπλοισι χεῖρ’ ἐμήν),9 suggest that her attempt is successful. The two explanations of Hecuba’s expression Ἰλίου κατάσκοπος are not mutually exclusive. They cooperate in accomplishing Hecuba’s communicative purposes: to emphasize the mutual understanding and good-will between herself and Odysseus past and present, to win his sympathy and obtain his cooperation in preventing Polyxena’s sacrifice. The point of Hecuba’s introduction of the anecdote of Odysseus’ espionage here is to establish her moral hold over Odysseus and to win his sympathy.10 It shows that when Hecuba was in a position of power, she jeopardized her own city for a personal favour to Odysseus.11

6

7 8 9 10 11

On the οἶσθα-question as an ab ovo technique ‘beginning an answer from some fixed point of origin and forcing the dialogue-partner to participate in the unfolding of the answer’ see Mastronarde (1979) 43–44. As we have seen in section 3.3.4, p. 122, n. 79, Helen’s informing Hecuba seems to be a Euripidean invention. In section 3.3.4 we have seen that she uses many yes/no questions to the same end. Cf. Segal (1993) 166: ‘with vivid recollection of the occasion’ (my italics). Collard (1991) 114. For the χάρις theme cf. Adkins (1966), Mossman (1995) 28–29 with references to Collard (1991) 114, Zeitlin (1991) 70–71.

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The current stichomythic dialogue prepares the way for a rhesis, in which she will supplicate Odysseus in turn to give precedence to his personal favour to Hecuba over his public favour to Achilles and the Greek army (251–295).12 Despite her efforts Hecuba’s appeal proves unsuccessful. Odysseus applies the principle of χάρις so narrowly that he is only willing to spare Hecuba’s life and not Polyxena’s (301–305), a decision which is useless to Hecuba in the present context.13 It is often said that in the current stichomythic conversation and ensuing speeches Hecuba and Odysseus are presented as contrasting characters. Hecuba is depicted as ‘one who sets great value on friendship and returning the proper χάρις (gratitude) to her φίλοι (friends, dear ones)’,14 while Odysseus is characterized as a prototype of the cruel henchman.15 Their interaction further increases sympathy for Hecuba and makes Odysseus’ image more atrocious.16 However, Hecuba is not as helpless and innocent as might at first sight appear. In the stichomythic dialogue and ensuing speech she displays a skill in rhetoric that foreshadows her communicative behaviour in the later confrontations with Agamemnon and Polymestor.17 This rhetorical skill is exemplified among other things in her subtle expression of ex eventu knowledge and/or adoption of her narratee’s experiencing focalization in the noun phrase Ἰλίου κατάσκοπος.

12

13 14 15 16 17

For the preparatory function of stichomythia for a rhesis of supplication cf. Mannsperger (1971) 170, Schwinge (1968), passim and 197–198; on this particular passage, Lloyd (1992) 8–9, Mossman (1995) 55. Cf. Conacher (1961) 17, Buxton (1982) 175, Kasteley (1993) 1038, 1043. Mossman (1995) 104, 106, 166. Cf. also Luschnig (1976) 230, who comments on Hecuba’s piety and generosity. Abrahamson (1952) 122, 124. Abrahamson (1952), Luschnig (1976) 230, 125, Heath (2003) 257–258. For a defense of Odysseus, Adkins (1966), but cf. Hogan (1972), who argues against him. Conacher (1961) 16. Kasteley (1993) argues that ‘Hecuba’s failure with Odysseus and Agamemnon raises the failure of rhetoric as an issue for the play’ (1037) and that ‘Hecuba’s inability to get Odysseus to consider her words seriously exemplifies the rhetorical powerlessness of marginalized speakers’ (1038). However, I agree with Hermsen (1994) that ‘although Hecuba’s rhetoric is ineffective in persuading Odysseus, it demystifies and subverts his authority by revealing that the event’s conclusion was not immanent and unalterable but determined by social and political forces—forces that can and should be challenged’ and that ‘… the ceaseless interchange of logos and antilogos … opens up possibilities for an effective marginal rhetoric and an effective challenge to the dominant authority’ (1029). Cf. also Mossman (1995) 105.

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Hec. 705 and Tro. 624–625 The Maidservant reports Polydorus’ death in irregular stichomythia which blends into an epirrhematic sequence between Hecuba, the Maidservant and the Chorus at Hec. 684–722.18 Hecuba connects the news of Polydorus’ death with a dream she had earlier. She calls it μελανόπτερον (φάντασμα) (705), thereby evoking her earlier use of μελανοπτερύγων (ὀνείρων) (71).19 Gregory remarks that ‘neither adjective conveys a literal, eyewitness description of Polydorus’ ghost, for Hecuba was not visited by the ghost in her sleep … Rather, both serve to characterize as ominous Hecuba’s allegorical dream “concerning” her son …’.20 Gregory explains her position as follows:21 1. Hecuba did not have a waking encounter with the ghost, ‘for Polydorus exits at 54 with the express purpose of avoiding his mother’.22 2. Hecuba did not have a dream visitation, ‘for Polydorus does not mention having conveyed any message to his mother, and Hecuba reports no dialogue with his phantom’.23 However, in 30–34 Polymestor says that he has been hovering over Hecuba for three days. This information in combination with the fact that ‘elsewhere in Greek literature, a ghost hovering above the head of someone asleep appears to him as a dream’ suggests that Polymestor appeared to Hecuba in a dream as well.24 The verbs ἀίσσω (31) and αἰωρούμενος (32) suit the idea of wings in μελανοπτερύγων (71) and μελανόπτερον (705). In line 54 Polymestor explicitly announces Hecuba as φάντασμα δειμαίνουσ’ ἐμόν (‘fearing my appearance’). This corroborates the idea of Polymestor’s appearance to Hecuba in a dream. Gregory suggests instead that ‘3a. Polydorus’ proximity qua ghost (31–34) seems to have combined with Hecuba’s well-founded fears for her daughter to create a pervasive anxiety that expresses itself in an allegorical dream pertaining to both her children (90– 91)’.25 However, this interpretation is not supported by the text. Hecuba’s fears

18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Mossman (1995) 61 correctly points out the importance of this dialogic form instead of a connected rhesis. However, I cannot completely agree with her explanation that the most compelling reason for this was ‘to move action on as quickly as possible’. Instead I believe that the stichomythic form draws out the report of bad news in order to heighten the scene’s pathos and suspense for the audience, an explanation that Mossman considers merely incidental. Cf. Segal (1990) 311, Collard (1991) 167. Gregory (1999) 130. Gregory (1999) 49–50. Gregory (1999) 49. Gregory (1999) 49. Kovacs (1995) 403 n. 3. Gregory (1999) 49–50.

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for her daughter are never explicitly mentioned as causing her dream. It is even uncertain when exactly they originated.26 If this happened after the dream, Hecuba’s fears may well be caused by her dream. Gregory further argues that ‘3b. Hecuba herself reports not that she saw her son in her sleep, but that she had a nighttime vision “concerning” him (ἀμφὶ σοῦ, 706);27 that is, the dream and the ghost were not identical, and her dream made only allegorical reference to Polydorus’.28 However, one thing does not necessarily exclude the other. Polydorus may have appeared to Hecuba in a dream and predicted his own future, as he does to the audience in the prologue, in a more or less abstract form. Only if the allegorical reference to the fawn and wolf (90–91) is applied to Polydorus as well as Polyxena29 is there an abstract reference to Polydorus to begin with. The meaning of Hecuba’s dream concerning Polydorus seems to be fairly straightforward. In lines 79–86 and 429 Hecuba expresses her fear for Polydorus’ life, and in 709–711 she can tell from the dream that Polymestor killed Polydorus, information which seems hard to deduce from the allegorical reference in lines 90–91. Other interpretations of Hecuba’s dream vary in the extent to which they separate the concrete appearance of Polydorus’ ghost and the abstract vision of the fawn and wolf. Erbse considers them two distinct dreams.30 Lennig distinguishes between an Aussentraum of the ghost and a related Innentraum of a fawn and wolf.31 Brillante considers the ghost and the dream as one and the same, with the dream conveying to Hecuba in symbolic form the same information that the ghost is conveying to the audience in narrative form.32 Finally, Bremer suggests that the φάντασμα appears simultaneously to the audience and Hecuba.33 The fact that Polydorus can physically lie on the 26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Lines 74–76 and 90–91 explicitly give the contents of Hecuba’s dream, including an allegorical reference to Polyxena’s sacrifice, but are suspected by Baier and Wilamowitz, followed by Kovacs. Lines 93–97 describe Achilles’ apparition and demand of sacrifice. They may or may not continue the contents of Hecuba’s dream. καὶ τόδε δεῖμά μοι· (92) introduces them as expressing Hecuba’s fear, but the exact relation between the dream(s) and Hecuba’s fear is left implicit. The past tenses ἦλθ’ (93) and ᾔτει (94) suggest narration of events as they appeared to Hecuba in her dream. These lines are also suspected by Baier and Wilamowitz, but Kovacs is uncertain whether they are right. Cf. also lines 74–76. Gregory (1999) 50. E.g. Gregory (1999) 55–56. Erbse (1984) 52–53. Lennig (1969) 147–149. Brillante (1988) 434, 441–442. Bremer (1971) 234–236.

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beach (28: κεῖμαι …), while simultaneously hovering over Hecuba (30: νῦν δ’ … ἀίσσω) and speaking the prologue, suggests a physical and spiritual fluidity that enables such interpretations. At the same time, the fact that Polydorus has been hovering over Hecuba for three days now (32: τριταῖον ἤδη φέγγος), gives sufficient scope in time for several dreams. The exact relationship between the concrete appearance of Polydorus’ ghost and the abstract vision of the fawn and wolf may be deliberately left implicit. For the reasons given above I advocate an interpretation that at least involves Polydorus’ appearance to Hecuba in her sleep. The ambiguous combination of the concrete and abstract in Hecuba’s dream(s) is reflected in the adjective μελανόπτερον (705). Dreams are often envisaged and depicted with black wings.34 Therefore I believe, contrary to Gregory, that the adjective conveys an eye-witness description of Polydorus’ ghost. At the same time, the adjective has an ominous ring. However, in the present context of Hecuba’s realization of Polydorus’ murder (703: ἔμαθον), neither the concrete eye-witness description nor the vague qualification of the dream as ominous are in place. Hecuba does not see the dream-vision anymore, and the dream has been given a concrete realization for which the ominous adjective μελανόπτερος no longer seems sufficient. We may consider its use here a form of suppression of ex eventu knowledge. This serves to create a link between the past as represented by the relative clause ἃν ἐσεῖδον ἀμφὶ σ’, ὦ τέκνον, | οὐκέτ’ ⟨ἄρ’ οὐκέτ’⟩ ὄντα Διὸς ἐν φάει (705–706), and the present as represented by the main clause ὤμοι, αἰαῖ, ἔμαθον ἔνυπνον ὀμμάτων | ἐμῶν ὄψιν (οὔ με παρέβα φάντα- | σμα μελανόπτερον) (703–705). It also serves to illustrate Hecuba’s pitiable transition from ignorance to knowledge. Luschnig considers this gradual realization the essence of the play: ‘The play focuses attention on Hecabe’s reactions to events and individuals, as she sees, step by step, her dream coming true: here lies the unity of the play’.35 It also constitutes a turning point in Hecuba’s behaviour and the plot: from now on Hecuba surrenders to her maternal instincts, which urge her to take revenge.36 A similar example can be found in Trojan Women, which likewise deals with the aftermath of the Trojan War. When Hecuba learns about Polyxena’s death from Andromache, she responds τοῦτ’ ἐκεῖν’ ὅ μοι πάλαι | Ταλθύβιος αἴνιγμ’ οὐ σαφῶς εἶπεν σαφές (624–625). This expression contains a combination of

34 35 36

See limc 7 s.v. oneiros / oneiroi. Luschnig (1976) 228. Cf. Conacher (1961) 21, Reckford (1985) 118.

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suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge. On the one hand, αἴνιγμ’ and οὐ σαφῶς reflect Hecuba’s lack of knowledge at the moment when she received Talthybius’ message at 260–270. There Talthybius was deliberately evasive in reporting what had happened to Polyxena, yet Hecuba accepted his answer. It is convincingly argued by Dyson and Lee that ‘only if we see Talthybius …, whether from sympathy or diplomacy, consoling Hecuba who feared something worse, is her acceptance of his answer and the immediate transition to the next topic plausible’.37 Polyxena’s sacrifice had also been reported by Poseidon in the prologue as unknown to Hecuba (39–40), which immediately distinguished the Polyxena of Trojan Women from that of Hecuba, where the sacrifice is prominently and positively presented on stage.38 On the other hand, σαφές expresses Hecuba’s newly acquired ex eventu knowledge. As Lee remarks, ‘the different meanings in οὐ σαφῶς … σαφές are for rhetorical effect. Hecuba says that the riddle was true, σαφές, but that she did not discover the truth because it was expressed covertly, οὐ σαφῶς’.39 The juxtaposition of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge contrasts past and present and serves to create sympathy for Hecuba who is learning through bitter experience.40 Polyxena’s death is not dwelt upon for long by Hecuba, and it is used by Andromache as a favourable alternative compared to her own fate.41 A link can also be seen between the deaths of Polyxena and Astyanax: both are young victims of the Trojan war, but whereas Polyxena remains unburied, Astyanax receives a proper funeral.42 I suggest a further link between the death of Polyxena in Trojan Women and the death of Polydorus in Hecuba. In both cases the children involved constitute Hecuba’s last hope.43 In formal terms their deaths are connected by Hecuba’s similar response and suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge.

37

38 39 40 41 42 43

Dyson & Lee (2000a) 150. Gilmartin (1970) points out ‘the difficulties of communication’ in the dialogue between Hecuba and Talthybius, sees ‘the awkward switches of topic’ as signs of ‘Hecuba’s distraction’, and emphasizes ‘Talthybius’ sympathetic attempt to spare Hecuba’s feelings’ (221). This last point is elaborated by Dyson & Lee (2000a) in a discussion of Talthybius’ evasive report about Polyxena to Hecuba (148–150). Meridor (1989) 24–25, Croally (1994) 77–78. For a discussion of the role of Polyxena in Tro. and a comparison with Polyxena in Hec., cf. Petersmann (1977) 150–158. Lee (1976) 184–185. Petersmann (1977) 158: ‘Das von Poseidon angekündigte Nichtwissen der Hekabe muß einem Wissen weichen, das die Tragik der alten Frau vertieft’. Scodel (1998) 148, Dyson (2000b) 19. Petersmann (1977) 158, Meridor (1989) 34, Dyson (2000b) 17, 19–20. For this aspect of Tro. cf. Meridor (1989) 33–34.

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Hec. 772, 774, 782 Following a remarkable passage of distichomythia in which Agamemnon keeps trying to establish communicative contact with Hecuba, while she keeps deliberating with herself in an extended passage of asides whether or not she should implore his assistance,44 Hecuba tells Agamemnon about what happened to Polydorus in a narrative stichomythia (Hec. 760–786). Hecuba played an important role in some of the narrated events (e.g. Polydorus’ birth), was an eyewitness to others (e.g. Polydorus’ expulsion to Thrace), and was absent from what took place in Thrace afterwards. She nevertheless possesses more background information than Agamemnon, who was absent from all of the narrated events. Mossman emphasizes Hecuba’s emotive presentation of information to Agamemnon:45 ‘… there are a number of devices that Hecuba uses to engage Agamemnon’s sympathy … Line 762 emphasizes the intimate bond between mother and child, 766 the waste of his young life, 768 the useless care of his father …; and 771ff. tell the wretched story of his death and the finding of his corpse. The stichomythia drags the miserable tale out slowly …’.46 The narrative presentation in terms of ex eventu knowledge contributes to this emotive presentation of information and reflects Hecuba’s communicative purpose of engaging Agamemnon’s sympathy. Hecuba tells Agamemnon that Polydorus was sent to Thrace as a guard of πικροτάτου χρυσοῦ (772). Collard comments that πικρός ‘commonly expresses the unpleasant recoil of an action’.47 Here the gold had an unpleasant recoil because, as Gregory remarks, ‘it was intended to sustain Polydorus (10–12) but instead provoked his death’.48 However, at this point in the narrative, when Polydorus was sent to Thrace (772: ἐπέμφθη), nobody, except perhaps Polymestor, could have anticipated that the gold would prove πικρότατος.49 The epithet thus expresses Hecuba’s ex eventu knowledge about the narrated event and constitutes a proleptic element pointing forward to its outcome. As such it can be seen as an indication of Hecuba’s narrating mode. Collard’s comment that πικρός ‘often evaluates an action from the viewpoint of the agent, “to …’s

44 45 46 47 48 49

Mossman (1995) 180. Mossman (1995) 123–124, 182. Mossman (1995) 182. Collard (1991) 169. Gregory (1999) 136. In fact, it was intended to sustain not only Polydorus, but also τοῖς ζῶσιν … παισί (12). Depending on whether Polymestor had planned to murder Polydorus from the very beginning or not.

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own cost”’50 seems to apply here as well: the gold would prove particularly unpleasant for Polydorus. Hence, in using the epithet πικροτάτου, Hecuba may also be giving a glimpse of Polydorus’ experience of the narrated events. In response to Agamemnon’s question about who killed Polydorus, Hecuba answers with an impatient rhetorical question and the statement Θρῄξ νιν ὤλεσε ξένος (774). Polymestor has acted as Polydorus’ host throughout the narrated events, but at this particular stage, when he killed him (774: ὤλεσε), his behaviour is no longer in keeping with that status.51 Hecuba’s use of the term ξένος here is ‘an ironic appellation, emphasized by its placement at the end of the line’.52 The irony is caused by Hecuba’s suppression of ex eventu knowledge and assumption of the restricted knowledge of the characters involved in the narrated events, with the possible exception of Polymestor. Thus she temporarily adopts the experiencing mode. This presents Polydorus and his family as innocent victims and stresses Polymestor’s impiousness, thus contributing to Hecuba’s communicative purpose of indicting Polymestor. When Agamemnon concludes that Polymestor must have killed Polydorus and thrown him out, Hecuba adds θαλασσόπλαγκτόν γ’ (782). Gregory points out that this is a ‘proleptic adjective modifying νιν, to be supplied from the previous line’.53 When Polymestor killed Polydorus and threw him out to sea (781: κτανών … ἐκβάλλει), it was to be expected that he would become θαλασσόπλαγκτος, but he was not yet at that particular point in the narrative. Hence, the adjective looks forward to Polydorus’ ‘sea-journey’ yet to come and constitutes another example of expression of ex eventu knowledge on Hecuba’s part. It cooperates with ὧδε διατεμὼν χρόα (782) to stir Agamemnon’s sympathy for Polydorus, and thus to win his support for Hecuba’s revenge on the perpetrator, Polymestor.54 These instances of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge, and the narrating and experiencing modes they reflect, play a role in Hecuba’s manipulation of Agamemnon’s reaction to her story: by depicting Polydorus

50

51 52 53 54

Collard (1975) 317 with reference to Fraenkel (1950) ii, 301 n. 1, and Collard (1975) 302 with reference to Cobet (18732) 573. Cf. also Kannicht (1969) on Hel. 448 and Lloyd-Jones (1962) 191 n. 1. Cf. Mossman (1995) 178 on κτείνει … ξένος πατρῷος (Hec. 25–26) which brings about a similar effect. Gregory (1999) 136. Gregory (1999) 137, 110. Gregory uses the term prolepsis in the stylistic sense. Here stylistic and narratological prolepsis coincide. Cf. Collard (1991) 169: ‘Polym. at 1076 echoes Hec. in describing her butchery of his sons; cf. his wish to retaliate in kind at 1126’.

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and herself as pitiable and Polymestor as cruel, she tries to elicit Agamemnon’s pity and obtain his support in taking revenge on Polymestor.55 This illustrates Hecuba’s continued employment of rhetoric in her encounters with male interlocutors: ‘Hecuba is laying the foundation for the request elaborated in the great rhesis at 786ff.’.56 To what extent is Hecuba’s use of rhetoric successful? Throughout the narrative stichomythia Agamemnon shows himself sympathetic towards Hecuba. Mossman emphasizes the sympathetic nature of Agamemnon’s responses to her story: ‘He becomes more and more intrigued and sympathetic, and even respectful, from the moment he knows that the body is one of her children. He calls her ὦ τλῆμον (“unhappy one”) at 763, γύναι (“lady”) at 765, ὦ τλῆμον again at 775, and he also begins to guess at what she is going to say next (771, 775, 781), which gives a strong impression of engagement and sympathy on his part. This culminates in Agamemnon’s words at 783 and 785’.57 Agamemnon’s sympathetic reactions raise the expectation that Hecuba’s appeal may be successful, both in the audience and in Hecuba herself.58 In her speech to Agamemnon Hecuba consecutively appeals to χάρις (787–797), νόμος (798– 811), πειθώ (812–823), and finally to Agamemnon’s love for Cassandra (824–845). Although sympathetic (850–854), Agamemnon refuses to provide active assistance (855–863).59 But he is prepared to turn a blind eye to Hecuba’s revenge (876–904),60 whether this be due to his compassion for Hecuba, uneasiness about his love affair with Cassandra,61 or disbelief in the execution of Hecuba’s revenge plan. Thus Hecuba’s appeal is partly successful.62 This scene between Hecuba and Agamemnon constitutes a parallel with the previous scene between Hecuba and Odysseus on several levels. Both combine narrative stichomythia with a speech of appeal and supplication on Hecuba’s part.63 In both scenes the themes of χάρις and νόμος play an important

55

56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

Cf. Mossman (1995) 124: ‘… she loads every word with as much argumentative force as it will bear in her indictment of Polymestor, stressing again and again the salient feature of his crime: its impiousness …’. Mossman (1995) 62. Mossman (1995) 123. Mossman (1995) 124. Cf. Luschnig (1976) 231. Buxton (1982) 180, Mossman (1995) 50, 63. Cf. Abrahamson (1952) 126, Reckford (1985) 121 Contrast Reckford (1985) 121: ‘Hecuba’s persuasion in fact works … Agamemnon gives in’, and Kastely (1993) 1042: ‘Her appeal does not succeed’. Mossman (1995) 62–63, 124.

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role,64 and Hecuba employs powerful rhetoric, which is present also in her narrative presentation.65 However, there are also differences. The dynamics between the interlocutors are different: in Hecuba’s exchange with Odysseus the atmosphere is closed/negative and her plea is unsuccessful, while in her exchange with Agamemnon the atmosphere is open/positive and her plea is partly successful.66 Supp. 116, 138, 143 and Phoen. 417, 418 The stichomythic conversation between Adrastus and Theseus contains three instances of expression or suppression of ex eventu knowledge. The first two are uttered by Adrastus, the narrator, who played a main part in the events leading up to the Theban expedition. The last one is uttered by Theseus, the narratee, who has only heard about them through hearsay (cf. 117). When Adrastus starts his narrative with οἶσθ’ ἣν στρατείαν ἐστράτευσ’ ὀλεθρίαν (116), he calls the Theban expedition disastrous (ὀλεθρίαν), but at the point in the narrative when he led the expedition he could not yet have known its outcome. One might argue that the narrative has not really started here yet, as the verb occurs in a relative clause which in turn depends on the object of an οἶσθα-question, which may serve as a device to gradually and cooperatively start a narrative in stichomythia.67 However, both the antecedent στρατείαν and its adjective ὀλεθρίαν are subsumed in the relative clause, which causes ὀλεθρίαν … στρατείαν to be more closely related to the narrative ἐστράτευσ’ than to the communicative οἶσθ’. Of course Adrastus could have expected the disastrous outcome of the Theban expedition, especially given the fact that he left against the will of Amphiaraus and the gods, as will become clear later (155–162), but he could not yet have been certain. Thus the adjective ὀλεθρίαν looks forward to the outcome of the expedition and expresses Adrastus’ ex eventu knowledge about it. By calling the Theban expedition ὀλεθρίαν Adrastus makes explicit the consequences of the narrated events in the current dramatic situation and forges close links between the narrative past and the dramatic present. This is in keeping with his communicative purpose of eliciting Theseus’ sympathy and thus trying to secure his assistance. On a broader dramatic level the adjective ὀλεθρίαν summarizes the Theban expedition as a failure and sets up a contrast

64 65 66 67

On χάρις: Conacher (1961) 22–23, Mossman (1995) 28. On νόμος: Luschnig (1976) 231, Kirkwood (1947) 68, Mossman (1995) 167. Cf. Conacher (1961) 24. Abrahamson (1952) 125, Segal (1991) 124, Kastely (1993) 1039, Mossman (1995) 63, 124. Mastronarde (1979) 44.

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between Adrastus’ rash and disastrous expedition and the well-considered and successful war which Theseus will undertake in the course of the play.68 As part of the explanation of his decision to marry his daughters to Tydeus and Polynices, Adrastus confesses that Apollo’s dark oracles beguiled him (138: Φοίβου μ’ ὑπῆλθε δυστόπαστ’ αἰνίγματα). This statement contains a mixture of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge. The verb ὑπῆλθε expresses ex eventu knowledge. It is only in retrospect that Adrastus can see that Apollo’s oracle tricked him into marrying his daughters to Tydeus and Polynices, which in turn led to the disastrous Theban expedition. The subject of the sentence, δυστόπαστ’ αἰνίγματα, suppresses this ex eventu knowledge and reflects the limited amount of knowledge available to Adrastus at the time of receiving the oracle. This combination of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge serves as an attempt to justify Adrastus’ modus operandi and to shift responsibility to Apollo. However, in the subsequent lines Theseus transfers responsibility back to Adrastus by asking how he interpreted the oracle (141: ἐξελίσσεις). The case of Apollo’s oracle is part of a larger discussion on the role of religion in the exchange between Adrastus and Theseus. Adrastus not only was beguiled by or misinterpreted Apollo’s oracle, he also undertook the Theban expedition against the will of Amphiaraus and the gods (155–160). In his ensuing speech Theseus accuses Adrastus of arrogance towards the gods, giving as examples his interpretation of the oracle and unauthorized expedition against Thebes (211–231).69 The latter is indisputable, but the former raises questions. Is Adrastus being reproached for observing Apollo’s oracle? Conacher believes that ‘Adrastus’ marriage of his daughter to Polynices, which is what this particular oracle led to, can hardly be taken as following the will of the gods, for it was precisely this action which led to war with Thebes, which Theseus clearly shows to have been done in rash disregard of the gods … the implication seems to be that Delphi does not speak for the gods’.70 However, this interpretation seems to

68

69 70

Cf. Fitton (1961) 435. However, as Fitton himself argues, since the Argives have dubious credentials and Theseus’ war is not inspired by high motives, it is not a Just War and therefore no unqualified success either. Cf. also Shaw (1982) 4–5 who considers ‘the importance of good leadership’ and ‘exposition of Theseus’ character’ as important themes in the first episode of Supp., and who states that ‘in … the exchange with Adrastus, a contrast is drawn between Theseus’ character and that typical to youth’. Cf. also Michelini (1994) 241: ‘Adrastos appeared in the first scene as a foil to Theseus’. For the link between youth and rashness and the theme of youth in Supp. in general, cf. Thury (1988). Unless ὅστις … ζυγεὶς … ἔδωκας (220–221) is taken as concessive, but I agree with Conacher (1956) 17–18 that it is more easily taken as causal/inclusive. Conacher (1956) 18.

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exaggerate Apollo’s culpability without clear dramatic point.71 Adrastus at least shares in the responsibility. First, he may have misinterpreted Apollo’s oracle. Secondly, even if Apollo’s oracle meant marriage between Adrastus’ daughter and Polynices, the Theban expedition was still Adrastus’ own decision.72 Other scholars have taken a more balanced view and drawn attention to the ambivalence in Theseus’ attitude towards religion as well as to the religious outlook of the play as a whole.73 For example, Michelini inquires ‘what degree of fault applies to Adrastus’ and points out the dissonance between ‘Theseus’ new theodicy of human development’ and the ‘traditional account’ to which he subsequently returns.74 These scholars see the ambivalence in Theseus’ religious attitude as an integral part of Euripides’ intention in depicting ambivalence and uncertainty as a central part of contemporary society or mankind in general.75 However one chooses to interpret Theseus’ religious attitude as expressed in his speech, more remains to be said on the question of Adrastus’ culpability. I believe that Theseus reproaches him not so much for following Apollo’s oracle as for misinterpreting it. Already in the stichomythic conversation, Theseus expressed his surprise at the marriage between Adrastus’ daughters and the foreigners Tydeus and Polynices (cf. 137: τῆσδε … κηδείας),76 and critically inquired about Adrastus’ interpretation of the oracle (cf. 141: ἐξελίσσεις).77 Consequently, I disagree with Michelini, who claims that ‘Theseus responds only with faint tones of surprise (135) to Adrastus’ account of the marriages’.78 Moreover, Theseus keeps distancing himself from Adrastus’ interpretation of the oracle, first in the stichomythic conversation (141: ἐξελίσσεις, 145: ὥς) and next in his speech (221: ὡς δόντων θεῶν).79 Even Adrastus himself has doubts about his interpretation (138: ὑπῆλθε, 146: ἀπεικάσας). Although Adrastus’ misinterpretation of Apollo’s oracle may not in itself be reproachable, his blunder with the Theban 71

72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79

Natanblut (2005) 101 sees a link between Apollo’s oracle to Adrastus on the one hand and his oracle to Laius and Oedipus’ curse on the other. Although this may be relevant to the dramatic context of Phoen., it is hardly so in the context of Supp. Cf. Natanblut (2005) 101, who contrasts Adrastus’ responsibility for the Theban expedition in Phoen. with Aeschylus’ Sept., where Tydeus is said to have given bad advice to Adrastus and responsibility is thus placed with Tydeus. The same contrast can be seen between Euripides’ Supp. and Aeschylus’ Sept. Fitton (1961) 443, Gamble (1970) 398–402, Michelini (1991) 24–25. Michelini (1991) 24–25. Fitton (1961) 448, Gamble (1970) 404. See section 5.2.1.1, p. 167–168. See section 4.2.2, p. 144. Michelini (1991) 24, my italics. Following Scaliger.

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expedition surely is,80 and this may retroactively influence Theseus’ perception of Adrastus’ earlier behaviour as well. Finally, we should not forget the identity of the speaker and the context of the speech. Throughout the stichomythic conversation Theseus has been submitting Adrastus to critical investigation. Once Theseus has decided to refuse political assistance, he tries to place Adrastus’ past behaviour in a bad light in order optimally to justify his refusal. On a broader dramatic level Theseus’ political and religious justification makes his change of mind brought about by Aethra and his subsequent acceptance of the supplication ‘stand out the more strongly as a gesture of unalloyed altruism’.81 Next, Adrastus explains his interpretation of Apollo’s oracle to Theseus. Although Adrastus told Theseus before that he married his daughters to Tydeus and Polynices (133–136) in accordance with Apollo’s oracle (137–140), when he starts his elaborate explanation of the oracle with ἐλθόντε φυγάδε νυκτὸς εἰς ἐμὰς πύλας … (142), Theseus asks τίς καὶ τίς; (143). In theory the two exiles could have been other men than Tydeus and Polynices, but in practice this seems unlikely. Instead it looks like Theseus is here asking for the obvious. Collard states that ‘143 is a weak verse typical of long stichomythic exchanges: it serves only as a bridge from the duals 142 ἐλθόντε φυγάδε to their defining co-ordinated noms. 144 Τυδεὺς … Πολυνείκης θ’ἅμα’.82 However, I believe that it has an additional function. Theseus seems to be getting so involved in the narrative that he suppresses the ex eventu knowledge he obtained earlier in the conversation and instead assumes the limited knowledge he would have if he were taking part in or witnessing the events that constitute the narrative. By assuming a genuinely experiencing mode, Theseus not only shows his critical involvement in the narrated events, he also contributes to a vivid story presentation. This is in keeping with his use of historic presents (123, 131, 141, 153) and proximal deictic pronouns (137, 145, 151) elsewhere in the conversation.83 His employment of the experiencing mode is explicable from the dramatic context: he needs to critically investigate and evaluate the Argives’ situation and motivation before deciding whether or not he will provide political assistance.

80 81 82

83

Theseus and Adrastus agree on this, although Adrastus keeps trying to make his behaviour understandable to Theseus (155–166). Collard (1975) 132. Cf. Collard (1975) 146, who defends the homoeoteleuton in 143–144 showing that ‘the two verses are individually unshakeable’ and by pointing out that the phenomenon is common in Greek tragedy, particularly in stichomythia. I might add that the homoeoteleuton may be explicable from or reflect the dramatic situation: Adrastus takes up Theseus’ words in order to underline their mutual involvement in the story. See sections 4.2.2, p. 142–145 and 5.2.1.1, p. 167–169.

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It is interesting that suppression of ex eventu knowledge should be found at exactly the same point in the same story in Phoenissae. Whereas in Supplices the story is told by Adrastus to Theseus as part of his explanation of the Theban expedition, in Phoenissae it is told by Polynices to Iocaste as part of his account of how he went to Argos as an exile.84 Earlier in the stichomythic conversation Polynices said that Apollo had advised Adrastus to marry his daughters to a lion and a boar (409–411).85 Iocaste already knows about Polynices’ marriage to one of his daughters (77, 337–340, 400, 414) and Tydeus’ marriage with his other daughter appears to be common knowledge, as Antigone mentions it when she sees Tydeus from the city walls (135–137). Against this background Polynices tells that it was night, he came to Adrastus’ dwelling, and then another exile arrived.86 Although Polynices knows and Iocaste is likely to know this exile’s identity, Polynices chooses to suppress his ex eventu knowledge and refer to him as ἄλλος αὖ φυγάς (417). The ‘intensifying pleonasm’ ἄλλος αὖ87 highlights Polynices’ suppression of ex eventu knowledge. In the next line, Iocaste continues Polynices’ suppression of ex eventu knowledge in her question τίς οὗτος; (418). In theory, the exile could have been someone else, but considering the direction in which the narrative is headed, it is likely to be Tydeus. Polynices could easily have mentioned Tydeus by name, as Iocaste would have possessed sufficient background knowledge to understand the reference. Alternatively, Iocaste could have guessed ‘Was it Tydeus?’. But neither of them do

84 85

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87

Cf. Robert (1915) 198. The story is also told by the Chorus in the fragmentary Hypsipyle (fr. 753c). The oracle to Adrastus, the comparison of Tydeus and Polynices to wild beasts, and their quarrel over a lair can be seen as ‘a bitter presage of the later behavior of the brothers’, as Eteocles and Polynices too are called boars and lions at 1380 and 1573 and δίδυμοι θῆρες at 1296. Cf. Podlecki (1962) 365. It is uncertain who is compared to which beast, but Goff (1988) 142, 147 suggests that Tydeus is compared to the lion, because he wears a lion skin in battle (1220–1221), and Polynices to the boar. One might argue that Ἀδράστου ἐς παραστάδας (415) contains an expression of ex eventu knowledge too, because Polynices may not have known whose dwelling he had come to. On the other hand, he may have asked directions to the king’s palace, which may have been left out of the narrative for economical purposes. However, even if this were another instance of expression of ex eventu knowledge, it does not seem to serve a specific rhetorical purpose, but aims simply at ensuring a smooth communication between the interlocutors and an easy understanding of the narrative. In fact, it would perhaps be artificial and confusing to repress the basic common knowledge of Adrastus’ name, which has been repeatedly implied or mentioned in the previous lines (400, 408, 409, 414), simply to establish the experiencing mode. Mastronarde (1994) 266.

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so. Instead they both opt for the experiencing mode. Iocaste’s question is followed by the explanatory comment: ὡς ἄρ’ ἄθλιος κἀκεῖνος ἦν (418). According to Mastronarde, this comment should be interpreted as ‘explaining the tone of sympathy in the question τίς οὗτος;’.88 However, what exactly causes this tone of sympathy is left unexplained. I suggest that it is the experiencing mode of the interlocutors as exemplified by their suppression of ex eventu knowledge. Although the phenomenon of suppression of ex eventu knowledge is the same, the dramatic and communicative contexts in the Supplices and Phoenissae are different. First of all, the diegetic status of the narrators is different. Adrastus was at most an eyewitness to the narrated events. Unless he had a sleepless night due to Apollo’s oracle, as is the case in the fragmentary Hypsipyle, it is unlikely that he witnessed Polynices’ and Tydeus’ arrival, but he probably saw them fighting afterwards. Polynices, on the other hand, played one of the main parts in the narrated events. This may explain why his account in Phoenissae is fuller than that of Adrastus in Supplices in two respects: first, it is made clear that Polynices arrived before Tydeus, and secondly, quarrel over a sleeping place is explicitly stated as the cause for their fight.89 As Polynices was personally involved in the narrated events, he is in a position to provide more narrative detail. The diegetic status of the narratees is the same: they are both outsiders to the narrated events.90 However, their mutual relationships are different. Whereas Theseus and Adrastus do not have a personal relationship, Iocaste and Polynices are mother and son. The fact that in Phoenissae Iocaste has not committed suicide after the discovery of Oedipus’ doom, but is still alive, is probably a Euripidean innovation that allows for new combinations of characters, including this exchange between Iocaste and Polynices.91 Moreover, the interlocutors’ difference in gender may play a role.92 Both Adrastus 88 89

90 91 92

Mastronarde (1994) 266–267, following Wecklein (1905). Cf. Robert (1915) 198–199, Collard (1975) 144. Morwood (2007) 155 claims that ‘neither here nor in Phoen. nor in the fragmentary Hypsipyle does Euripides give any reason for their fighting’. This is incorrect. First, the need for a sleeping place is mentioned as Polynices’ reason for coming to Adrastus’ palace (416–417); next, it is explicitly mentioned as the cause of his quarrel with Tydeus (421). Cf. also Robert (1915) 200. The reason for the fight is clearly discernible in Hypsipyle too (fr. 753c 11–18). Natanblut (2005) 99: ‘Jocasta has not seen her son all this time and is curious to hear details from him, instead of hearsay, on which until now she had to rely’. Cf. Baldry (1956) 36. E.g. Rehm (1988) 284–287 and Scully (1996–1997) 72–74 characterize the exchange between Theseus and Adrastus as masculine compared to the more feminine exchanges between Aethra and the Argive mothers, and between Aethra and Theseus. Other scholars have discussed these different exchanges in terms of atmosphere, e.g. Smith (1967b) 157 speaks

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and Polynices present their narrative in such a way as to elicit their interlocutors’ sympathy and support, but whereas the exchange between Adrastus and Theseus is purely political and professional, the exchange between Polynices and Iocaste is both political and personal. Polynices has been invited by Iocaste to enter Thebes under a truce (273, 365), and it is clear that he wants to make the most of the situation (cf. 435ff.).93 However, both interlocutors display their emotions as well. Iocaste in particular responds intensely to Polynices’ longawaited arrival (301ff.), but Polynices too cries (366, 370) and expresses love for his fatherland (359, 406–407).94 Their use of the experiencing mode fits well in this more personal type of supplication. Thus Mastronarde’s positive evaluation that ‘the form is dramatically justified by the co-operative and sympathetic contributions made by Joc.’ seems definitely in place here.95 hf 546 Upon his long-hoped-for but unexpected return from the Underworld, Megara tells Heracles about the events that have taken place in his absence and led to their current plight. Megara played an important part in these narrated events, but Heracles does not have any background knowledge about them. When Megara explains that the new ruler Lycus is about to kill them, Heracles asks why this man fears his orphaned children (546: ὀρφάνευμ’ ἐμῶν τέκνων). Most of the participants in the narrated events believed Heracles to be dead. Lycus in particular is sure of this (145–146, 245–246), but even the Chorus (266– 267, 428–429) and Megara (73–79, particularly 296–297, 490–496) have given up hope. Only Amphitryon is slightly more optimistic (25, 37, 44–46, particularly 97). Heracles himself, however, has known all along that his children are not orphaned. Still he refers to them as ὀρφάνευμ’ ἐμῶν τέκνων (546). He

93 94

95

of passion and religion versus rational political deliberation, Gamble (1970) 387 of involvement versus separateness and detachment, and Burian (1985) 13 of emotion (pathos) versus intellect (logos). Altena (1999–2000) 318–319 seems to me to be overplaying the political, calculating aspect at the expense of the emotional, genuine aspect in Polynices’ attitude. Altena (1999–2000) 318–319 suggests that Polynices’ reference to his crying may be significant because it recalls not his actual crying but his actual not-crying when he enters, and states that ‘the mention of his [Polynices’] own grief is immediately followed by an emotional reference to Jocasta’s state of mourning (371 f.), which serves to underscore their shared emotions’. However, Polynices may have cried before he entered the stage. There are two references to his crying at 366 and 370 and so the mention of his own grief is more emphatic and longer than Altena would have us believe. For Polynices’ love for his fatherland and patriotic sentiment in this scene, cf. Natanblut (2005) 100. Mastronarde (1994) 264.

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temporarily suppresses his ex eventu knowledge and assumes Lycus’ experiencing focalization, because he is trying to understand his motives. Heracles’ interest in and concern for his family’s plight fit the picture of Heracles as a ‘family man’ often drawn by critics.96 However, Megara’s answer (547) shows that Heracles’ attempt to understand the situation has not been successful. Lycus’ fear is not related to Heracles, as is implied in his question τί ταρβῶν ὀρφάνευμ’ ἐμῶν τέκνων; (546). Rather, he fears the sons of Heracles in their own right, as Creon’s avengers (547: μή ποτε Κρέοντος θάνατον ἐκτεισαίατο). Heracles does not seem to realize that his children have grown up fast. This is only one of his many miscalculations and underestimations Heracles makes in the course of this conversation. Other examples include his naïve expectations that decency would have prevented Lycus from dishonouring an old man (556),97 and that his friends would have assisted his household in misfortune (558–561), which are met by Megara’s sarcastic counter-questions.98 In combination with Heracles’ repeated use of πῶς/τί φῄς; (533, 540, 546)99 they show just how far Heracles is removed from his family in the current dramatic situation.100 Papadopoulou claims that ‘[Grummond] is completely unjustified in arguing that in Heracles the hero is unable to bridge the gap between himself and his family’s world because of their different kinds of reality’, but she does not offer counter-arguments.101 By now it seems clear that Heracles and Megara do live in different realities, which makes communication and understanding between them hard. Despite the effort it visibly takes Heracles to adjust, he chooses for his family.102 This makes his eventual downfall all the more pathetic and tragic. Ion 941 and 1494–1495 The story of Creusa’s rape and Ion’s birth and exposure is told repeatedly in the Ion: Hermes tells it to the audience in the prologue, Creusa tells it to Ion before their recognition under the guise of a story about her friend, the Chorus tell

96

97 98 99 100 101 102

Papadopoulou (2005) 77–78. Blaiklock (1945) 49, 54 already stressed Heracles’ human side. By contrast, Conacher (1955) 150 and Hartigan (1987) 127–128 see Heracles here more as a hero. Cf. section 5.2.2, p. 186–187. Cf. section 1.4.3, p. 40–44. See section 1.4.1.3, p. 31–32. Cf. Grummond (1983). Papadopoulou (2005) 78 n. 61. This adds a third dimension to Heracles ὁ πολύπονος, discussed by Willink (1988) in terms of Heracles’ epic labours and his tragic anguish.

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it in a choral ode, Creusa sings about it in her monody, confesses it to the Old Man, and finally reveals it to Ion after their recognition. Each version differs in contents, presentation and context. It has been suggested that ‘the retelling of a story out of the past marks the stages of its fulfillment in the present—the actual plot that we witness’.103 In two dialogic versions we find instances of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge. First, when Creusa talks about her rape to the Old Man, she refers to her intercourse with Apollo (941: γάμον) as δύστηνον (941). The adjective is probably an adequate description of Creusa’s actual experience at the time of this narrated event (941: ξυνῆψ’). It has been argued by defenders of Apollo’s behaviour that ‘violence [is] only one aspect of Apollo’s character, counterbalanced … by his care for his child and finally also for the child’s mother’ and even that ‘Creusa was blessed in her association with Apollo’.104 Although the god’s violence may prove beneficent in the larger scheme of things,105 at the moment of the rape Creusa is suffering. In the immediately preceding monody she said that she cried out to her mother (893) and called Apollo shameless (895: ἀναιδείαι).106 In the current conversation she says that she has struggled a terrible struggle (939: ἀγῶνα δεινὸν ἠγωνίσμεθα) against her will (941: ἄκουσα). The repetition of the rape-story emphasizes Creusa’s suffering and creates sympathy for her.107 This idea is revived in more recent literature on the Ion. For example, Lloyd observes that ‘the traumatic effect on Creusa is not minimized’, Dunn argues that ‘Creusa’s relations with Apollo, who raped her, challenge traditional attitudes toward sexual violence’ by generating sympathy for the rape-victim, and Hoffer sees the rape as ‘merely one step in a long sequence of male oppression’.108 But the adjective δύστηνον (941) is perhaps even more appropriate to its aftermath: the secret conception, birth and exposure of Ion all seem to

103 104 105 106

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108

Wolff (1965) 176. Wassermann (1940) 588, Burnett (1962) 90. Rosivach (1977) 290 even goes so far as to claim that Creusa’s resistance to Apollo was a crime of rebellion against the gods. Wolff (1965) 177. Scholars have observed the contrast between the contents of Creusa’s monody, which constitute a reproach of Apollo, and its hymnic form, e.g. Wassermann (1940) 591, LaRue (1963), Wolff (1965) 180, and beautiful language, e.g. Burnett (1962) 96: ‘baroque technique’, Lee (1997) 257. Cf. Gellie (1984) 94–95, who relates the repetition of the story to our repeated condemnation of Apollo, but who sees this as a comic element of the play, because as ‘gods must sin in order to become our ancestors’, ‘there is no real sense … to the condemnation of Apollo and that makes it the more amusing’. Lloyd (1986b) 37, Dunn (1990) 130, 132, Hoffer (1996) 302.

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add to the wretchedness of Creusa’s intercourse with Apollo.109 Therefore, the adjective may have a double impact: it may combine a description of Creusa’s actual experience with an expression of ex eventu knowledge about its disastrous consequences.110 This is in keeping with Creusa’s communicative purpose of sharing her past and present troubles with the Old Man and acquiring his sympathy and support. Creusa accomplishes her goal, as the Old Man is sympathetic and not incredulous as Ion had been (339 ff.).111 But the adjective δύστηνον (941) functions on a further level still. As stated before, Apollo’s rape will prove beneficent in the larger scheme of things. Thus on a drama-external level the adjective reflects Creusa’s limited knowledge of the events as they are presented in the plot of the play. Wolff states about Creusa’s monody: ‘At this dramatic crux of the plot an expression of the greatest intensity of feelings coincides with the greatest ignorance of circumstances. Revealing her innermost experience, Creusa is in the deepest obscurity about its actual ramifications’.112 To some extent this is true for the stichomythic conversation between Creusa and the Old Man as well, particularly for Creusa’s use of the adjective δύστηνον (941). Following their recognition Creusa tells Ion about her rape and his birth and exposure in a lyric exchange. In the course of her narrative she refers to him as οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ (1494–1495). The reference expresses Creusa’s expectations about the future at the moment of Ion’s exposure (1496: ἐκβάλλῃ).113 In previous accounts Creusa’s expectations have consisted of two different, apparently conflicting strands. Most versions of the story express the expectation of Ion’s death by predators,114 but to the Old Man Creusa expressed her hope that Apollo would save him (965).115 How do these two strands relate 109 110

111 112 113 114

115

Burnett (1962) 91 states that ‘her charge is not one of rape but of desertion and nonsupport’. I would say instead that her charge is of rape, but even more of desertion and nonsupport. Cf. line 506 where the Chorus refer to Creusa’s πικρῶν γάμων. Here too we find a combination of description of Creusa’s experience at the time of the rape, and reference to its aftermath, as the adjective πικρός ‘commonly expresses the unpleasant recoil of an action’ Collard (1991) 169. Cf. my discussion of Hec. 772 and the adjective πικρός on p. 206–207 with n. 50. However, whereas Creusa played the main part in the narrated events, the members of the Chorus are merely outsiders. Lee (1997) 266. Wolff (1965) 171. See section 4.2.1, p. 134–135. Ion 18, 27 (Hermes focalizing through Creusa in the prologue); 348 (Creusa about ‘her friend’ to Ion); 504–506 (Chorus); 902–904, 916–917 (Creusa monody); 952 (Creusa to the Old Man). Hoffer (1996) 302. In 358 Creusa had responded negatively to the idea of Apollo having saved Ion, but her criticism was directed at his selfishness in hiding this.

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to each other? I believe that as Creusa has no evidence that Apollo saved her child, she resorts to the assumption that he is dead in order to protect herself against disappointment and obtain much-needed closure.116 In the current lyric exchange Creusa knows that her expectations concerning Ion’s death have luckily been unfounded, but in the noun phrase οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ (1494–1495) she suppresses this ex eventu knowledge. As Lee remarks, ‘the knowledge that Ion was rescued has not obliterated the memory of what she did nor the nightmarish imaginings of the intervening years’.117 Creusa’s reference to Ion as οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ here is thus different from similar previous references.118 Whereas the previous references reflected a genuine lack of knowledge, here it becomes a narrative device. Creusa chooses to present death by predators instead of salvation by Apollo as her expectation at the moment of Ion’s exposure, because it is more dramatic and increases her suffering. Her choice of the specific formulation οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ (1494–1495) is particularly effective here: ‘Kr. sadly contrasts Ion’s providing the birds with a feast with her own failure to nurture him’.119 There may also be a thematic connection between the birds slaughtering Ion and his chasing away the birds from Apollo’s temple in lines 154 ff., for in both passages the word γαμφηλαῖς is used (159 and 1494). In conclusion, Creusa’s suppression of ex eventu knowledge in οἰωνῶν γαμφηλαῖς φόνευμα θοίναμά τ’ (1494–1495) is a sign of her experiencing mode, which she employs in order to share with Ion the emotions she experienced at the moment of exposure, and elicit Ion’s understanding and sympathy for her past actions. From a drama-external point of view the use of the experiencing mode is attractive, because it beautifully illustrates the intimate mother and son relationship between Creusa and Ion.120

116

117 118 119

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Burnett (1962) 90: ‘… from her inability to trust Apollo she created a conviction that their son was dead, and this is the source of her apparent suffering’ is too harsh on Creusa, whose behaviour is perfectly understandable. Wassermann (1940) 591: ‘Creusa’s assumption of the child’s death makes it easier for her to hide her secret (cf. 868)’ seems beside the point. Lee (1997) 312. E.g. 504–506: πτανοῖς … θοίναν θηρσί τε φοινίαν δαῖτα, 904: πτανοῖς … θοίνα. Lee (1997) 312. Cf. also Wassermann (1940) 592: ‘she compares her own neglect with the god’s care for the child (1610)’. Note that Wassermann reads ἠμέλησα (Heath) rather than ἠμέλησε. Creusa’s use of historic presents in the same exchange (1458–1459, 1469) are in keeping with this. See section 4.2.1, p. 134–135.

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Hel. 690 and 696 Following their recognition, Menelaus subjects Helen to an interrogation (Hel. 660–697) in which she argues her innocence.121 Helen’s lyric narrative about her abduction to Egypt, her purported marriage to Paris, and its aftermath, contains two combinations of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge (690 and 696). Both take the shape of an oxymoron, which will prove significant. Before I proceed to interpretation, it is necessary to discuss a textual problem in 690. When Menelaus asks about Hermione, Helen answers ἄγαμος ἄτεκνος, ὦ πόσι, καταστένει | γάμον ἄγαμον † αἰσχύνα † (689–690). The transmitted reading is unmetrical, ungrammatical and unclear: is the object of Hermione’s complaint her own marriage or her mother’s? Those critics who believe that Hermione complains about her own marriage (i.e. the fact that she does not yet have one) read ἄγαμον αἰσχύνα⟨ν⟩.122 Kannicht defends this choice as follows: ‘Diese Deutung würde Hermione keine direkte Tatlosigkeit gegen ihre Mutter zumuten und dennoch ihren Hintergedanken an deren αἰσχύνη nicht ausschließen; denn in Hermiones sozialer Schande ist ja Hel.’s moralische Schande notwendig mitgegeben’.123 However, Hermione’s tact is beside the point here. It is the impact of Helen’s supposed shamelessness that is the focal point of this passage. Leda committed suicide for shame at Helen’s marriage (686–687). From Menelaus’ reaction ὦ πᾶν κατ’ ἄκρας δῶμ’ ἐμὸν πέρσας Πάρις (691) it is clear that reference must have been made to the purported marriage between Helen and Paris. The critics who believe that Hermione complains about her mother’s marriage commonly read γάμον ἄγαμον ⟨ἐμόν⟩, and consider αἰσχύνα (690) an intrusion from 687 (αἰσχύναν),124 which seems likely. Wilamowitz, on the other hand, sees αἰσχύνα as the pivot on which the entire passage hinges (cf. 687 and 697), and therefore suggests reading γάμων αἰσχύνα⟨ν⟩ instead.125 However, I agree with Kannicht that this reading requires

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122 123 124 125

Allan (2008) 216. The interpretation of this scene is crucial for our understanding of the play as a whole. The traditional interpretation is that Menelaus wants to find out exactly what has happened before he accepts the new Helen. Schmiel (1972) 292 considers Helen and Menelaus selfish and calculating, and argues that reconciliation is not accomplished in the recognition scene, but ‘gradually worked out in subsequent scenes’. For my current purpose, it is merely important that Helen’s intends to assert her innocence, regardless of whether she is sincere (traditional view) or not (Schmiel). Reiske (1754), Matthiae, Kannicht (1969). Kannicht (1969) 200. Dindorf, Hermann, Dale (1967) 113, Kovacs (2002), Allan (2008) 111. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1921) 565.

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⟨ἐμῶν⟩ or ⟨ἐμάν⟩ to clarify that Hermione laments Helen’s marriage.126 This is made clear by the emendation γάμον ἄγαμον ⟨ἐμόν⟩. This reading makes Helen’s marriage the direct cause of Hermione’s unmarried and childless state, which is suitable in a passage which is entirely about the disastrous impact of Helen’s marriage.127 Moreover, it forms an oxymoron, a figure that is paralleled in ἔλιπον οὐ λιποῦσ’ (696). The expression γάμον ἄγαμον ⟨ἐμόν⟩ (690) combines Helen’s suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge about the narrated events. The substantive γάμον denotes Helen’s relationship with Paris, which was generally taken for real, but which Helen herself knew did not exist. In speaking of γάμον Helen assumes the experiencing focalization of Hermione and the Greeks in general. The adjective ἄγαμον has multiple layers. In the eyes of Hermione and the other Greeks, it may mean disastrous marriage considering its many disastrous consequences. The adjective may also mean that the marriage between Paris and Helen was not a real marriage, because it was adultery. In Helen’s eyes it can also mean that it was a marriage that never occurred. This last interpretation reflects Helen’s narrating mode using her ex eventu knowledge. Alternatively, the combination γάμον ἄγαμον ⟨ἐμόν⟩ (690) might refer to Helen’s sundered marriage with Menelaus.128 A similar approach may be taken to Helen’s expression ἔλιπον οὐ λιποῦσ’ a few lines later (696). As several commentators have remarked, the indicative and participle should not be separated, but interpreted as another oxymoron.129 Helen explains how she left without leaving Menelaus’ house and bed. Although she physically left his house, she did not defile his marriage bed and mentally stayed close to him, but ‘the consequences happened as if it [the marriage bed] had been [defiled]’.130 Thus ἔλιπον suppresses Helen’s ex eventu knowledge and reflects experiencing focalization of the narrated events through the eyes of Menelaus and Greeks in general, while οὐ λιποῦσ’

126 127 128

129 130

Kannicht (1969) 199. Dale (1967) 113. Willink (1989) 67, Allan (2008) 225–226. Cf. Fehling (1969) 153: ‘Man kann auch bei γάμος an Menelaos statt an Paris denken (Grégoire: “ma triste union”). Dann ist ἄγαμος im Sinne von Hermione selbst gesagt, nicht Korrektur der Helena, und die Stelle würde o. in die erste Gruppe gehören. Doch ist die Erklärung wegen der Parallele v. 362 nicht empfehlenswert’. I might add that Menelaus’ response, his address to Paris (Hel. 691), also suggests that reference has just been made to the purported marriage between Helen and Paris. Pearson (1903) ad loc., Dale (1967) 114, Kannicht (1969) 200 (2) points out parallels in Hel. 35–36, 611, and Bacch. 332. Dale (1967) 113.

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reflects Helen’s own narrating focalization using her ex eventu knowledge. For ‘h.’s actual departure was different: it was the phantom who left with Paris ἐπ’ αἰσχροῖς γάμοις’.131 On the drama-internal level, Helen’s combination of suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge can be explained as follows: Helen seems to be afraid fully to assume the experiencing mode and view past events through the eyes of the unknowing characters in her narrative, without letting go of her own narrating mode. This is understandable given the dramatic context. Until recently everybody believed the traditional story about Helen’s betrayal of Menelaus. In this conversation Helen is still in the process of convincing her interlocutor of her abduction to Egypt. Therefore, she cannot risk losing her interlocutor’s credence by immersing him in the falsely experiencing mode. On the drama-external level the expressions γάμον ἄγαμον ⟨ἐμόν⟩ (690) and ἔλιπον οὐ λιποῦσ’ (696) may have a deeper meaning still. In his book on rhetorical figures including repetition, Fehling notes the exceptional status of Hel. 690.132 He mentions it as an example of oxymoron where ‘nicht die Kopula, sondern die Existenz negiert wird. Hier handelt es sich … um intellektuelle Spielereien, in denen mit einer ganz ungewöhnlichen Verwendung der Form Effekt gemacht wird … “meine Verbindung mit Paris—die es gar nicht gegeben hat”’.133 The same goes for ἔλιπον οὐ λιποῦσ’ in 696. Both instances of oxymoron contribute to the broader theme of appearance versus reality that permeates the entire play.134

6.3

Conclusion

In this chapter I have discussed examples of expression of ex eventu knowledge (often characteristic of the narrating mode, but cf. Hec. 239) and suppression 131 132

133 134

Allan (2008) 226. Fehling (1969) 155 argues: ‘Die Form νόμον ἄνομον ist ursprünglich Gemination des Typs μῆτερ δύσμητερ, in der das Praefix ἀ- synonym zu δυσ-, αἰνο-, κακο- ist. In der Tragödie überwiegt adjektivische Auffassung des erweiterten Gliedes, ohne daß eine Veränderung im Sinn des Praefixes eintritt. Die Form gliedert sich vielmehr den Pleonasmen des Typs ὅμαιμον αἷμα ein … An einigen Stellen ist sekundär eine Umdeutung des isolierten ‘pejorativen’ ἀ- zur Negation eingetreten’. Fehling (1969) 153. He mentions Hel. 362: ἔργ’ ἄνεργ’ as another example. On oxymoron cf. also Synodinou (1978). For these themes cf. Segal (1971) and Kannicht (1969) 115: ‘erfolgt sie dagegen durch ἀprivativum, so wird die sinnvolle Anwendung des Hauptbegriffs überhaupt verneint, so daß das σχῆμα zum Oxymoron, also zum verkürzten Ausdruck der ὄνομα-πρᾶγμα Antithese wird’.

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of ex eventu knowledge (often characteristic of the experiencing mode). Some examples of expression of ex eventu knowledge (Hec. 772, 782, and Supp. 116), and of suppression of ex eventu knowledge (Hec. 705, 774, Supp. 143, hf 546, Ion 1494–1495, Phoen. 417 and 418) are unequivocal. Combinations of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge include: Supp. 138, Tro. 624–625, Hel. 690 and 696. These often involve some form of oxymoron which expresses two sides to a story, two perspectives on the narrated events, or past versus present. However, not all examples can be categorized unequivocally: Hec. 239 can either be seen as Hecuba’s adoption of the experiencing focalization of Odysseus, who had more knowledge than the other characters in the narrated events, or as an instance of the narrating mode through Hecuba herself with expression of ex eventu knowledge. Ion 941 can either be seen as an instance of suppression of ex eventu knowledge/experiencing mode through Creusa at the moment of her rape, or as an instance of expression of ex eventu knowledge/narrating mode through Creusa in the current stichomythic conversation, as the rape brought much extra misfortune with it. However, Creusa’s ex eventu knowledge proves false, as Apollo planned her rape and misfortune for the greater good. Thus the suppression and expression of ex eventu knowledge plays an important role in dramatic irony on the drama-external level, producing discrepancies in awareness between the characters of the play and the audience. Most examples of implicit prolepsis / expression of ex eventu knowledge are based in the past: (Hec. 238), 772, 782, Supp. 116, (Ion 941). The proleptic elements of these examples are usually fulfilled at some point before the narrative stichomythia takes place. A distinction can be made between first person narratives and third person narratives. The following examples occur in (predominantly) first person narratives: Hec. 705, Supp. 116, 138, 143, Tro. 624–625, Ion 941, 1494–1495, Phoen. 417, 418. The following examples occur in (predominantly) third person narratives: Hec. 772, 774, 782, hf 546, Hel. 690, 696. There is even an instance that occurs in what could be considered (predominantly) second person narrative: Hec. 239. A final distinction can be made between expression or suppression of ex eventu knowledge by the narrator as opposed to the narratee. Most instances are uttered by the narrator, but Hec. 705, Supp. 143, Tro. 624–625, hf 546, and Phoen. 418 are employed by the narratee. It has become clear that, like the historic present and the proximal deictic pronoun, the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge functions on two levels. First, it is often closely related to the communicative purpose of the interlocutors of narrative stichomythia on the drama-internal level. For example, it may serve to evoke sympathy and/or obtain support (e.g. Hec. 239,

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772, 774, 782, Supp. 116, 138, Ion 941, 1494–1495, Hel. 690, 696, Phoen. 417) or to show interest (e.g. Supp. 143, hf 546, Phoen. 418). It may also function on the drama-external level, in the communication between the playwright and his audience. For example, it may increase pathos (e.g. Hec. 705, Tro. 624–625). Secondly, the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge affects story presentation. In narrative stichomythia one would perhaps expect the mode to be mainly narrating, considering that the narrative is so closely connected with the dramatic action and so frequently interrupted by language related to communication. However, the previous chapters on the historic present and the proximal deictic pronoun have already shown that the experiencing mode also features, and my study of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge as part of experiencing and narrating modes corroborates this idea. De Jong has explained the messenger’s frequent use of experiencing focalization in the messenger speech by relating it to ‘the unexpected reversals and unpredictability of human life’ and ‘the open perspective structure’ of Euripidean tragedy.135 The combination of narrating and experiencing modes in narrative stichomythia may be similarly explained. However, whereas in the messenger speech the narrative is relatively uniform and straightforward, the narrative in stichomythia is more complex. It is shared between the interlocutors, who each may choose to present the narrative as they wish and to narrate according to their experiencing or narrating mode. Thus narrative stichomythia does not just present a ‘double perspective’ as the messenger speech may do,136 but a multiple and multifaceted perspective on the narrated events. 135 136

De Jong (1991) 38, 114–116. De Jong (1991) 61.

Conclusion In the first part of this book I have studied Euripidean stichomythia as a form of conversation using pragmatics. Comparison between the turn-taking systems in Euripidean stichomythia and naturally occurring conversation has resulted in a more objective and nuanced picture of the relationship between convention and realism in this particular dramatic form than has hitherto been offered. Although the conventional nature of stichomythia cannot be denied, I have drawn attention to the aspects that Euripidean stichomythia and everyday conversation have in common, particularly turn-allocation, turn-extent variation, and turn-taking errors, violations and repairs. These aspects have thus far remained underexposed. By highlighting the similarities between Euripidean stichomythia and naturally occurring conversation I have tried to offer some counterweight against the scholarly verdict on this dramatic form as entirely unnatural. The issue of convention versus realism in Euripidean stichomythia is closely related to the question of convention versus realism in Euripidean tragedy in general. After centuries in which the emphasis had been on realism and character, the scales have tipped the other way and emphasis is on convention, form and plot.1 While it is not my intention to put the critical clock back, I think it is important not to lose sight of the fact that Euripidean tragedy is a representation of life, and similarity between the two worlds is a necessary precondition for dramatic effect on the audience.2 As a dramatic representation of communicative interaction, Euripidean stichomythia often takes place between individuals of different social groups. In the second chapter I have studied concrete linguistic manifestations of this social interaction. In particular I have investigated how speakers use the anchorage of socially deictic terms to manipulate their interlocutors and bring about rhetorical effects. But the anchorage of socially deictic terms may also function on the drama-external level, in the communication between the playwright and his audience. My discussion has been centered around three different categories based on differences in ethnicity, gender and kinship. The self-referential use of the Graeco-centric term βάρβαρος by non-Greek speakers has been interpreted as a way of blurring and even reversing distinctions between Greeks and non-Greeks. Thus Euripides can be placed in a broader

1 For realism see e.g. Easterling (1973), for formalism e.g. Gould (1978). 2 Cf. also Allan (2007) 86–87, 91.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004282612_011

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literary and philosophical context, for Herodotus too utilizes this blurring,3 and ethnic relativism is propagated in Sophistic philosophy (e.g. Dissoi Logoi and Antiphon). The socially deictic ambiguity of the gender term γυνή is put to dramatic use in Alcestis, where it contributes to the theme of reality versus appearance and truth versus image familiar to us also from Helen. This too is a Sophistic topos. Kinship terms and their anchorage have proven to be powerful rhetorical and manipulative tools in the hands of characters, as well as important means for the playwright to create and maintain dramatic irony. From a methodological point of view I hope that the first part of my book will have illustrated the potential cross-fertilization between linguistics and literary interpretation. I have tried to demonstrate how a scholar of Euripidean stichomythia can benefit from linguistic analysis of real conversation. Linguistic research may provide a solid basis for literary interpretation and offer fresh perspectives from which to study literature. In the second part of my book I have used narratology to study narrative Euripidean stichomythia as a special form of narrative. The application of the narratological functions of narrator and narratee to narrative stichomythia has proven problematic due to its dialogic character. However, typologies of information-seeking questions and information-providing answers have helped to establish the distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors. Although this narrative activity fluctuates in most stichomythiae, some feature the accumulation, replacement, and stagnation of narrative activity or unilateral narrative activity. The interlocutors’ communicative behaviour may reflect not only their purpose in a particular dialogue, but also their general behaviour and characterization throughout a play. In addition, the distribution of narrative activity may subtly expose the truth that somehow remains hidden in the semantic contents of the conversation. In the last three chapters I have studied various aspects of narrative presentation, particularly the experiencing mode, including the historic present, use of the proximal deictic pronoun and suppression versus expression of ex eventu knowledge. In the fourth chapter I have argued for a broader, stylistic approach to the historic present, and for its use in narrative stichomythia by the narrator as well as the narratee. My discussion of examples has shown that the narrator may use the historic present to give a more rhetorical, social or emotional colouring to his narrative. The narratee may use the historic present to process the narrative and express his attitude—more or less involved, and positive or negative—towards the narrated events. Thus both narrator and narratee use

3 Cf. Pelling (1997).

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the historic present for the presentation of their contributions to the narrative and in order to pursue their personal communicative purposes. These purposes can often be gathered from independent textual clues in the communicative context of the conversation. Historic presents which cannot be explained from the interlocutors’ communicative purposes regulate the dramatic irony on the drama-external level of communication between the playwright and his audience. In the fifth chapter I have argued that the proximal deictic pronoun ὅδε may function much as the historic present: it may bring elements of the narrative world close in space, as the historic present does in time. Like the historic present, the proximal deictic pronoun contributes to experiencing story presentation and displays the speaker’s involvement as well as lively interaction between the interlocutors. Most instances of the proximal deictic pronoun are used by the narratee. Narratees use the proximal deictic pronoun to add a subjective touch—more or less involved, and positive or negative—to their response to narratives about the past. They may also use it to feign interest. In narratives concerning the future, narratees use the proximal deictic pronoun to express their cooperation and eagerness about (aspects of) the interlocutor’s plan or plot. They may also use it to feign cooperation. Narrators’ use of the proximal deictic pronoun reflects their consideration for the emotional or cognitive state of the interlocutor. They use it to adjust the narratee’s existing perception of reality or to introduce new narrative information and anticipate the interlocutor’s response to it. The fact that outside stichomythia this type of narrative deixis seems to feature mainly in communicative contexts suggests that there is a link between the proximal deictic pronoun and communication. Finally, there may be overlap between different levels of deixis. Overlap between deixis ad oculos and narrative deixis may lend credibility to narratives about the past, and readiness or confidence to narratives concerning the future. Overlap may also play a role in dramatic irony or reflect mental delusion. In the sixth chapter I have discussed examples of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge. Most instances are used by the narrator, but some by the narratee. The expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge functions on two levels. First, it is closely related to the communicative purpose of the interlocutors of narrative stichomythia on the drama-internal level. It may serve to evoke sympathy and/or obtain support, to show interest, or to gloat at someone else’s misfortune. It may also function on the drama-external level, in the communication between the playwright and his audience, where it may contribute to dramatic irony or increase pathos. Secondly, the expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge affects the story presentation. Expression of ex eventu knowledge is characteristic of the narrating mode, while suppres-

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sion of ex eventu knowledge is again, like historic presents and the proximal deictic pronoun, characteristic of the experiencing mode of narrative presentation. Combinations of expression and suppression of ex eventu knowledge often involve some form of oxymoron which expresses two sides to a story, two perspectives on the narrated events, or past versus present. From a methodological perspective the narratological discussion of Euripidean narrative stichomythia has proven interesting and rewarding. The application of narratology to this unusual dialogic text-type, which in most narratological studies only features as an interruption of instead of as a form of narrative, and which hovers on the verge of narrativity, has stretched the existing narratological apparatus. The narratological functions of narrator and narratee have proven inadequate to describe the status quo in narrative stichomythia, where narrative is created in cooperation between interlocutors. Therefore I have introduced the term ‘distribution of narrative activity between interlocutors’. Thus my application of narratology to Euripidean narrative stichomythia has led to an extension of the narratological apparatus. As far as narrative presentation is concerned, the use of the historic present and expression versus suppression of ex eventu knowledge are by now wellestablished features in the study of ancient Greek narrative. The use of the proximal deictic pronoun, on the other hand, has not been studied much for ancient Greek narratives, although observation of its use in the context of the experiencing mode of narrative is not entirely new.4 In general the cooperative creation of a narrative by two interlocutors has resulted in a potential doubling of narrative modes. In narrative stichomythia we would perhaps expect the mode to be mainly narrating, considering that the narrative is so closely bound up with the communicative and dramatic action. However, the chapters on the historic present, the proximal deictic pronoun and the suppression of ex eventu knowledge have shown that the experiencing mode frequently occurs as well. Both interlocutors may choose to present their contributions to the narrative as they wish, which results in a multiple-faceted perspective on the narrated events. A double perspective is characteristic of most dialogic text types, including those in ancient Greek literature. The Melian dialogue in the fifth book of Thucydides (5. 85–113) presents a clash of interests between the Athenians and the Melians as well as their opposite political philosophies of realism versus liberalism. The dialogic form of the debate is motivated at the outset of the dialogue as providing the opportunity for interruption and immediate refutation

4 Allan (2007) 100, following Chafe (1994).

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in the setting of a private gathering (5. 85). Argument and counter-argument are presented in rapid succession in the form of a dialogue. The Melian dialogue is sometimes seen as creating a bridge between tragedy and Plato.5 In Plato too the dialogic form plays a crucial role, as the dialectic Socratic method is considered to be the best way to discover the truth. ‘The Melian Dialogue, like its predecessors, the tragic dialogues, and its successors, Plato’s Socratic dialogues stresses the irreconcilability of opposing characters and philosophies’.6 This general tendency may have its origins in Sophistic thought. Protagoras pointed out that there are two sides to every question.7 But whereas the Melian and Socratic dialogues are argumentative in character, only some Euripidean stichomythiae are. The stichomythiae that constitute the topic of the second part of my book are primarily narrative. Yet these too present at least two different, if not necessarily conflicting, perspectives on the narrated events. Each interlocutor may choose to present his contributions to the narrative as he wishes, using the narrating and/or experiencing mode. Thus a multi-faceted perspective on the narrative can be created. In this lies the unique value of narrative stichomythia. 5 E.g. by Wassermann (1947) 18–19. 6 Wassermann (1947) 23. 7 d.l. 9. 51= d-k 80B6a.

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Index Locorum bold: examples discussed in the main text regular: examples merely mentioned in the main text or footnotes Aeschylus Ag. 57 481 1049 Cho. 105–107 Eum. 585–586 Pers. 309 313 450 702–738 pv 758 760 989f. Sept. 395 424 470 472 553 631 726 Supp. 291–347 318 Antiphon f 44 (b) ii–iii Aristophanes Av. 271f. Pax 390f. Ran. 189 949–953 1485f.

163n23 148n63 25n83 25n83 1n1 163n24 163n24 163n24 93 164n25 164n25 164n25 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 164n25 93 163n24

62

163n24 163n24 160n3 50n2 163n24

Aristotle Eth. Nic. 1165a Poet. 1448a 1454b30–36 1455a16–20

94n8 45 45

Dissoi Logoi 1.8–9 2.15–17

61 61–62

Euripides Alc. 141 244–279 246 252 252–257 255 257 258 259 263 265 268 269 271 278 304–319 328–342 372 388 391 479 509–545 516 521 529 559 708 714 718

67n89 172 172 172 172 172 172, 168n41 171–172, 196 172 172 172 172 172 69n96 172 114n52 66 73n120 78n138 37n154 23n74 64 114n49 67n89 165n36 163n24 23n74 21n64, 68n95 24n80

71n107

249

index locorum 722 749 821 835–836 881 897–899 995–1005 1056–1061 1060 1072–1152 1088 1093 1095 1098 1121–1122 1123 1123–1135 1125 1131 1132 1139–1143 1140 1141 Andr. 70–71 234 243 251 257–259 261 511 545–746 577 808–810 840 855–860 869–875 883 884 884–890 892 896–920 906 908 909–910 912–913 915 918

165n35 163n24 64 66n86 163n22 66n86 66n86 66n86 65n78 64–66, 175 36n151 21n54 21n54 21n62 66n88 26n106 175 66n88 26n106 23n74 175 175 31, 174–175, 196 36n151 20–21 53n23 23n74 39n159 53n23 69n96 110 21n65 109n30 109n30 109n30 109n30 21n59 109n28 111 109n28 38, 99n9, 108–111, 125, 176, 197, 199 176 36n150 176 176 176, 196 176

920 927–928 957–966 1047–1069 1050 1055 1056 1057 1058 1060 1061 1073 1079 1116 Bacch. 2 11 42 44 213 244 332 460 461 466 466–468 468 469 470 471–476 476 480 482 483–484 485–488 488 489–490 492 494 496 500–502 506 507 576 576–641 581 602–603 651 652

27n117 109n30 110–111, 176 156 157 157 23n74 109n30 110n30 156–157 157 21n60 23n74 189n88 140n44–45, 148n65 148n65 148n65 148n65 140n44–45 140n44–45 221n129 23n74 27n113 79–81, 136 60, 137 80–81 137 130n23, 136–137 137 79–81 60 60–61, 63 60 60 79–81 60 23n74 79–81 79–81 60 60 36n150 21n61, 23n74 79 80–81 80–81 79–81 21n55

250 Bacch. (cont.) 653 657 706 707 790 792 811 819 825 834 923 944 966–970 1029 1030 1041 1042 1168–1199 1195 1267 1271 1276 1288 1292 1296 1344 1345 1367 Cyc. 30f. 175–176 El. 89 100–101 112–212 220–290 226 230 237–245 250 275 276 278 280 287 288 289

index locorum

21n65 21n60, 23n74 196 196 79–81 21n57, 24n79–80 123n86 123n86 79–81 177n59, 196 79–81 21n54 39n159 21n57 148 148–149 149 193–195, 197 71n110 36n150 20n47, 21n61, 25n84 36n150 23n74 194n97, 196 21n60 21n64 21n60 69n96 163n24 28n126 89 84 84 82–84, 158, 192–193, 197 23n74, 24n80 21n56, 27n110 192–193 23n74 20n47, 21n58, 36n151 89 90 26n106 36n150 157–158 158

343–344 548–549 563 566 579–580 581 582 600 612–676 614 618 619 620 623 640–645 646 647–676 651–652 659 664–665 675 685–698 757 762 762–764 769–770 772 773 885 900 901 904–906 905 959–987 962 971–973 974 976 1058 1102 1165 1183 1183–1184 1292 1295 1326 Hcld. 91

89 27n109, 165n34 21n64, 23n74 36n151 39n159 193 89 89 182–183 89 23n74 23n74 21n57, 25n84 183 183 89, 163n24, 182–183 182 16n26 23n74 39n158 20n47, 21n58 149 20n49, 149 21n56 149 149 149 21n60, 128n10, 130n23, 130n24, 149 79n142 27n109 23n74, 36n151 39n159 23n74, 25n89 78–79, 88–90 26n105 39n159 51 51 25n84 79n143 68n95 72n111 78n141 27n115 27n116 23n74 23n74

251

index locorum 95 115 122 126 131 132 565 630–641 642–645 646–653 659 660 661–663 666 693 736–738 787–788 793 797–798 1018 Hec. 10–12 25–26 28 30–34 54 71 74–76 79–86 90–97 177 184 186 187 192 194 236–237 237 238 239–248 239 240–241 243 246 249–250 251–295 301–305 326ff. 414ff.

23n74 36n150 23n74 169n43, 196 53n23, 169n43, 196 26n101 20n47, 21n58, 23n74 174 174 174 174 174, 196 174 20n47, 21n58, 27n120 25n93 39n159 27n110 163–164 21n56 21n54, 27n110

425 426–428 427 428 429 513 678 681 684–722 689–690 693–695 694 695

206 207n51 203–304 202, 204 202 202 203n26–27 203 202–203 20n49 23n74, 24n77 69n96 21n56 21n57, 23n74 21n56 26n99, 27n119 20n47, 21n58, 122 20n47, 21n58, 23n74 99n8, 121–125 200–201, 222–224 200 200 200 122–123 123, 201 201 53n23 39n159

706 709 709–711 711 712 733–786 736 760–786 761 762 763 765 766 767–768 770 771 ff. 772

697 699–700 701 703 705

774 775 777 781 782 783 785 786 ff. 787–797

36n150 39n159 69 36n150 36n151, 203 69n96 20n49 153 202 153 153 69n96 128n10, 130n23–25, 132, 143n50, 152–153 130n23, 131–132, 143n50 132 132 204 132n32, 202–204, 223–224 203–204 25n90 203 75 24n82 141 122n78 206 142 141, 206 208 141, 208 206 141, 206 141 206, 208 141, 206–209, 218n110, 223–224 141, 206–209, 223–224 208 141 130n23–24, 141–142, 207–208 206–209, 223–224 142, 208 142, 208 208 208

252 Hec. (cont.) 798–811 812–823 824–845 850–854 855–863 876–904 877 976–1018 978–979 980 983 986 988 991 992 998 999 1000–1002 1003 1011 1049 1053 1076 1122 1122–1123 1123 1124 1125 1126 1127 1129–1131 1130 1247f. 1252–1287 1256 1259–1261 1264 1271–1273 Hel. 33 35–36 46–48 60–61 61–63 78–142 84–90 90

index locorum 91 208 208 208 208 208 208 53n26 30 27n109 21n65, 23n74 26n98 23n74 20n47, 21n58, 26n104 21n60, 25n87 71–72 27n110 24n80 39n159 25n87 25n87 165n34 165n34 207n54 169n44 196 169n44 24n82 23n74 207n54 21n64, 165n32 53 23n74 53n23 93 36n151 39n158 36n150 39n159 140n44 221n129 57n46 57n46 56n41 79n146, 140, 171, 173, 187, 197 39n159 140

93 94 96 97 98–99 100 101 102 104 109 120 128 131 132 141 155 293–297 314 315–317 324–326 362 441 447–449 448 471 501 546–596 551–552 562 566 566–574 568 576 602 604 611 646 656 660–697 662 663 665 669 671 672 674

130n23–24, 139–141, 171 140, 171 140 140, 171 169n44, 171, 196 187–188 140, 163n24, 187–188, 196 130n23–24, 139–141 140 140 140n44 21n57, 23n74 173 173–174, 196 174 33 56n41 56n41 56n41 39n159 187n85 221n128, 222n133 25n92 39n159 207n50 23n74, 36n151 53n23 87 56n41 21n60, 27n110 69n97 64, 66–67 140n44–45 66n88 23n74 21n56 221n129 21n64 26n106 39n159, 150, 220 20n47, 21n58 23n74 23n74 130n23–24, 150–151 150 151 151

253

index locorum 680 680–683 681 682 684 686–687 688 689–690 690 691 696 697 700 702 772 773 778–785 779 798 803 807 822 825–827 833 835–836 835–840 900ff. 909ff. 1033–1034 1035 1043–1044 1049 1085–1086 1193–1249 1195 1196 1202 1205 1207 1208 1209 1210 1215 1222 1228 1229 1230 1231 1237–1239

23n74 39n159 151 150–151 21n61 220 151 220 220–224 151, 220, 221n128 220–224 220 23n74 23n74 20n47, 21n58 23n74 56n41 24n82, 36n151 56n41 56n41 56n41 23n74 39n159 56n41 39n158 38 56n41 57n46 26n98, 27n118 23n74 32–33 23n74 56n41 81n160 26n106 81–82 21n60, 36n151 81–82 81–82 81–82 36n15 53n23, 56–57, 63 81–82 82 36n151 82 81–82 82 39n159

1239 1239–1278 1240 1241–1243 1246 1248 1250–1278 1251 1253–1254 1256 1257 1258 1259 1260 1261 1263 1263–1265 1264 1265 1267 1270 1271–1272 1277 1410–1415 1416 1416–1417 1417 1436–1440 1476 1521 1522 1523 1549 1631–1634 1645

81–82 177 36n151 39n159 179 82 79n146 36n150 179 23n74, 179 180 56–57, 63, 177 177–179 177–179, 196 180 179–180 39n159 177–179, 196 180 180 180, 196 180 82n163 123n86 21n60, 21n65, 23n74 20 21n65 57n44 140n44+46 140n44–45 21n60 27n112 195 39n159 140n45

25 37 44–46 73–79 97 140–143 145–146 245–246 252 266–267 269–297 318 ff. 428–429

215 215 215 215 215 28n126 215 215 140n44–45 215 215 43 215

hf

254 hf (cont.) 502 514 519–520 523–530 530–533 531 531–561 533 534–535 536–537 537 540 545 546 547 551 552 553 555–556 557 558–561 559 561 713–717 849 910–911 967 1050ff. 1056 1112 1118 1119 1120 1124 1130 1136 1137 1178 1178–1180 1185 1187 1235 1249 1418 1420 Hipp. 48 89

index locorum

43 26n106 74 42 41–42 69n97 31–32, 45, 173, 186 216 15, 40–44 41–43 2n10, 7n44, 11n2, 93n1 216 41n163 215–216, 223 216 173 172–173, 196 173n52 186, 216 173, 186–187, 196 216 173, 186 173, 186 39n159 163n24 39n159 140n44–45 39n159 71n110 68n95 23n74 27n108 20 23n74 24n80 36n151 20n47, 21n58 36n150 39n159 21n56, 23n74 36n151 21n54 21n66 36n151 36n151 189n88 25n84

92 100 126 270 296 300 310 310–353 312 327 332 336 337–341 340 342 344 345 348 350 351–352 352 353 517 571 572 579 580 586 704 788 790–796 794–800 797 800–801 801 805 856–886 876 887–890 893–898 1040 1074 1081 1154 1157–1168 1165 1171 1249–1254

20n47, 21n58 23n74 113–114 21n59+61, 27n108– 109 34 34 163n24 34–35, 199 21n64 21n59, 24n80 24n80 26n102, 27n108 39n159 20 23n72 21n61, 27n109 25n84, 27n118 36n150 36n151 39n158 21n61 24n82 21n60, 23n74, 25n87 20 23n74 26n103 23n74 20n49, 23n74 20 21n61 183 113–114, 125, 183–184 183–184, 196 75, 184 36n15 184 114, 125 23n74 114 114 71n110 25n84 68n95 23n74 115–116, 125 71n110 23n74 116

255

index locorum 1257–1260 1267 1399 1411 1451 1452 1454 Hyps. fr. 753c1 ia 72 333 412 631–632 635–639 640–677 643 654 655 669 680 681–690 696 703 703–704 704 711 727–729 728 729 824 859 861 863 867 872 873–875 874 879–881 886 894 1009 1010 1014 1110 1117 1124 1129

116 116 36n150 36n150 38 69n96 36n150 213n84, 214

1129–1130 1130 1133 1134 1135 1136 1137 1139 1256 1345 1345–1348 1346 1355–1356 1436 1447 1454 1459–1460 1465 1538 1539

189n88 21n53 68 70 70 69–71 26n106 26n104 21n54 73n120 69 70 Ion 21n60, 27n110 16–18 130n23, 132n31, 143n50 18 155–156 27 130n23–24, 132n31, 154 ff. 143n50 159 78n138 241 ff. 39n159 255–368 72n111 258–259 78n138 262–263 21n54 265 ff. 36n151 265–267 23n74 266 25n84 23n74, 25n89 267 23n74 269 39n159 271 36n151 271–272 39n159 274 69n96 284 128n8 + 11, 153–154 286 23n74 289 26n100 289–297 23n74 291 72n111 293 75 296 27n108 297 20n47, 21n58, 23n74 307

23 20n47, 21n58+65, 26n96, 27n110 20n47, 23n74 20n47, 21n58, 25n84 20n47, 21n58, 23n74 36n150 36n150 21n59 70 20n49, 36n150 39n159 23n74, 37 39n159 23n74 73n120 77 39n159 69 27n110 23n74 152 218n114 218n114 219 219 147 86, 120, 147–148 36n151 147 147 39n159 20n47, 21n58+60, 25n88 147 147 129n14, 130n23–24 39, 146–148 147 20n47, 21n58 36n151 147 76 147 147 147 130n23–24, 146–148 147

256 Ion (cont.) 308 319–321 328 330 335 336 339 340ff. 342 344 347ff. 348 352–353 355 356 357–358 358 362 495 500–501 503–504 503ff. 504–506 506 517 522–524 527 529 530 534ff. 539–554 544 548 548–549 551–552 554 556 558–559 561–562 563–565 589–592 606–615 750 758 759 760 769–770

index locorum

99n7 39n159 86 86, 99n7 25n84 23n74 23n74, 218 151 138 152 147 218n114 138 138 128n8 + 11, 130n23, 138–139 138 218n115 20n47, 21n58, 23n74 135 135 135 152 218n114, 219n118 218n110 117 118n60 118 23n72 24n82 39n159 37–38, 116–121, 125 26n105 148 39n159 39n158 39n158 69n97 39n159 39n159 120 76 76 23n74 26n106 23n74 23n72 39n159

770 776 784 786 789 800 802 825 f. 868 891 893 895 897 ff. 902–904 916–917 933 934 934–1028 936 939 941 943 944 946 947 948 948–949 951–954 952 958–960 965 970–1028 987 1001 1001–1003 1002 1007 1011 1011–1013 1012 1020 1113 1173–1176 1176 1286 1287

21n60 20n49 20n49 23n74 76 75–77 75–77 163n24 219n116 154 217 217 152 218n114 218n114 23n74 26n104 155, 175 23n7 151, 217 151, 216–219, 223–224 27n108 151 148, 151 151 36–37, 130n23–25, 134, 151–152 152 152 218n114 135n38 218 175 23n74 129n15, 130n23, 154–155 39n159 175 129n15, 130n23, 154–155 175 39n159 175, 196 26n101 24n82 195 195 148 76

257

index locorum 1300 1322–1359 1331–1333 1335 1336 1345 1347 1347–1349 1348 1349 1395 1395–1444 1408 1414 1416 1424 1430 1432 1439 1446 1454–1457 1458 1458–1459 1459 1460 1468–1469 1469 1473 1476 1477–1487 1478ff. 1485 1490 1492 1494–1495 1496 1497–1499 1589–1594 1610

148 136 39n159 23n74 25n84 136n40 130n23, 136 39n159 23n74 136n40 23n74 120 148 24n81, 165n34 23n74 165n34 23n74 21n60, 27n112 69 20n49, 26n106 134 130n23, 130n25 134–135 69n97, 130n23+ 25, 219n120 134 120, 135 219n120 135 36n151, 135 39–40, 135 39n159 23n74 135 135 216–219, 223–224 130n23 + 25, 134–135, 218 135 119n69 219n119

31 69–70 225–228 239 247 248 256 281ff.

53n23 165n35 55 23n74 27n110 25n90 23n74 138

it

305 325–326 326 389 417 481–491 492–569 493 494 496 501 505 506 513 528 530 536 540 546 547 549 552–557 554 555 556 558 561 562 563 574–575 611–612 620 623 627 659 670–671 673 695–696 716–717 738 739 743 743–752 744 745 747

21n55 195 195 53n23 53n23 86 85–86, 97, 189 21n60, 27n110 21n60, 25n86 21n60 20n47, 21n58, 23n74, 25n84 25n84 20n47 25n84 20n47, 21n58 20n47, 21n58, 23n74, 26n104 21n64, 23n74 21n59 23n74, 189 23n74 36n151 189 20n47, 21n58, 23n74, 24n77 165n37 72n111 189, 196 157 157 72n111 86n188 85n185 55n36 20n47, 21n58, 27n118 85n185 20n47, 21n58 85 21n60, 25n84 157n83 157n83 23n74 53n23 21n64, 23n74 38 26n98 45 21n64, 165n31

258 it (cont.) 753 760–761 767 769ff. 769–787 770 773 774–776 776 779 781 802 809 810 811 822 839 866 886 896 897 912 912–915 912–993 919 923 924–927 925 927 930 931 932–933 934 939 995–997 1023 1030 1035–1037 1134 1153–1154 1153–1221 1156 1162 1170 1171 1172 1174 1188

index locorum

23n74 47n195 23n74 39n159 44–47 21n61 23n74 55 26n106 21n60 23n74, 36n151 69 21n59, 23n74 26, 27n118 27n108 26 26n106 69n97 53n23 21n61 21n61 21n59, 24n80 157n83 137 36n150 36n150 137 26n105 23n74, 26n95 137 130n23, 137–138 138 137–138 27n108 55n36 21n54 21n60, 23n74 39n159 21n61 165n31 81n160 23n72 23n74 55–56, 63 55 21n60, 27n112 55–56, 63 23n74

1203 1206ff. 1221 1288 1304 1313 1322 1325 1458–1461 Med. 39 63 65 223 279 336 338 359–361 386 f. 386–391 389–394 441–443 502–505 596 603–604 608 613 663–708 675 678 679–681 684 691 693 694 695 697 699 700 701 704–704 705 707 745–755 889 955 1021–1080

26n101 39n159 21n64, 164n25 21n65, 27n118 21n56 23n74 23n74, 24n77 23n74 55–56 163n24 23n74 23n74 33n141 106n18 21n62 21n63 106n18 163n24 106n18 108, 170 106n18 106n18 78n138 106n18 21n64 106n18 33–34, 103–108, 125, 145, 170, 197 36n150 23n74, 27n115 39 36n150 23n74, 170 23n74, 170 145–146, 170 146, 169–170, 196 170 145–146, 170 145–146, 170 23n74, 130n23–24, 145–146, 170 170 169–170, 196 21n54, 165n36 38 158n86 140n44–45 4n33

259

index locorum 1310 1323ff. 1339–1340 1363–1364 1376 1378 1393

24n82 53n23 53n23, 55n33 74 36n151 165n31 36n150

95 197 237 239 255 268–270 380 380ff. 382 396 398–400 406 414–416 415 439 637 638 736–738 747 750–751 752 753 757 763 770–771 771 774 775 775–776 783 784–785 786 790–791 795–796 805–806 849 852–854 887 898 902 917

21n65 68n95 23n74 24n80 21n63 191n93 160n2 59 59 58 39n159 36n150 39n159 24n77 25n91 23n74 23n74 39n159 27n110 31 183n77, 196 163n24 23n74 99n7 178n63 183n76, 189n88, 196 26n98, 27n118 39n158 39n159 36n151 39n159 21n54 39n159 39n159 59 36n151 23n74 195 195 195 163n24

Or.

953 1035–1036 1045–1046 1046 1063–1068 1072 1105–1131 1106 1110 ff. 1118 1124 1125 1177–1190 1181 1182 1183 1183–1186 1188 1189 1190 1222–1223 1231 1231–1234 1235–1237 1238 1332–1334 1346 1351 1369 ff. 1370 1374 1385 1391 1426 1457–1459 1484–1485 1494–1498 1503–1505 1507 1508–1509 1515 1516 1516–1517 1517 1518 1520–1521 1523 1524 1525

191n93 191n93 36 69n96 191n93 20n47, 21n58 191–192 21n54 53n23 23n74 191 191–192, 197 188 23n74 23n74 20n47, 21n58 188 188, 189n87 163n24, 187–189, 196 188, 189n87 191n93 21n61, 68 23n74 39n159 21n61, 24n78+80 39n159 191n93 53n23 53n23 57 57 57 57 57 191n93 60n56 192 191n93 57–60, 63 58, 60 58, 60 21n64, 23n74 38 21n64 58, 60 58, 60 58, 60 36n151, 58–59 36n151

260 Or. (cont.) 1527ff. 1576 1576–1577 1577 1578 1579–1586 1582–1584 1602–1603 1610–1611 1613–1615 1629–1643 Phoen. 9 77 118 124 135–137 158 159 273 301ff. 337–340 359 365–366 366 370 371f. 383 384 385 387 400 406–407 408–409 409–411 410 414 415 416–417 417–418 421 427 435ff. 497–498 602 603

index locorum

59 20n47, 21n58 + 61, 25n88 21–22 21n61, 26n97 21n60, 25n87 192 39n159 39n159 39n159 39n159, 192 192 163n24 213 21n60, 25n87 23n74 213 23n74 165n33 215 215 213 215 215 215n94 215 215n94 20n47, 21n58, 27n111–112 27n111–112 19–20, 21n58, 23n74 19–20, 21n58 213 215 213n86 213 21n60, 36n151 213 213n86 214n89 213–215, 223–224 214n89 71n110 215 53n23 20n47, 21n58 36n151

604 604–610 606 612 613 614 615 616 617 621 623 624 706 737–739 898 901 903 909 911 923–925 926 977 977–986 979 980 981 982 983 984 991–992 1076 1083 1088 1113–1162 1163 1207 1209 1210 1212 1215 1220–1221 1272 1274 1277 1296 1324 1334 1335

36n150 39n159 36n150 36n150 36n150 21n54, 36n151 36n151 36n150 36n150 20n47, 21n58 36n151 74 26n104 39n159 23n74 25n88, 123n86 21n60–61, 25n84, 27n110 26n106, 123n86 23n74 39n159 21n65 36n151, 37 181 26n94 39n159, 181 181–182, 196 181 181–182, 196 181 182 23n74 23n74 23n74 195 195 23n74 23n74 26n100 21n61 27n108 213n85 74 24n82 74 213n85 23n74 21n56, 23n72 26n106

261

index locorum 1337 1340 1355 1380 1454 1455 1547 1558 1573 1656 1677 1681 1683 1691 1693 1695 1701 1702 1704 1708 Rhes. 588 613 710ff. 945 Supp. 6 105 110 110–162 110–111 111 114–115 116 117 118 119 120 122 123 124 127 131 132 133–135

20n49 20n49 23n74 213n85 195 195 74 74 213n85 21n60 38 21n60 21n54 68n95 74–75 36n150, 77 36n150, 69n96 36n150 24n81 68n95

136 137 138 138–140 139 141

189n88 163n24 122n79 140n45

154 155–166 203–204 211–231 221 293 347 391 f. 395 406 412 417 425–426 459–462 509 513–516 566 566–580 567 570 571 581–584 640 750 750–771 751

140n44 36n150 20n47, 21n58 143, 167, 184, 197 29 23n74 133 143–144, 184, 209–212, 223–224 143–144, 184, 209 143 143n52, 144, 184 133, 143 128n8, 129n16, 130n23, 132n31, 133, 143 130n23–24, 132n31, 142–145, 133, 212 143n52 144 130n23–25, 142–145, 150n69, 184, 196, 212 168, 184–185, 196 144, 168, 211–212

142–144 143 144 145 146 147 148 149–150 151 152 153

761

36n150, 167, 212 167–169, 211–212 144, 209–212, 223–224 168, 211–212 144, 168 130n23–25, 142–145, 168, 210–212 39n159, 168, 212 23n74, 168, 209–212, 223 144 144, 167–169, 196, 211–212 168, 211 144 168 168 167–169, 196, 212 144 128n8, 130n23–24, 142–145, 212 133n33 209–210, 212n80 29 210 210 26n106 29 163n24 29 140n45 29 29 29 29 47 29, 45, 47–48 26n106 28–29 23n74, 25n87 23n74, 25n87 21n61, 27n108 29 140n44 21n60, 26n104, 27n109 93, 185 20n47, 21n58, 26n104, 27n109 160

262 Supp. (cont.) 762 763 764–769 803 819 836–855 934 934–935 1044 1045 1052 1055 1060 1062 1064 1123–1164 1141 1164 Telephus 10 (Kannicht f696) Tro. 35 39–40 48–50 51 55 61 63 73 134 245 247 260–270 261 267 569 590 603 610–633 624–625 626 627 710 713 713–714 717 717–718

index locorum

185 185–186, 196 185 69n96 71n110 48 36n150 39n158 23n74 20n47, 21n58 68n95 165n35 21n60, 27n111 36n150 24n79 72–73 69n96 69n96 140n44 21n54 205 27n114 25n92 21n56 23n74 27n110 21n60 140n44–45 21n59, 23n74 23n74 205 20n47, 21n58 20n49 191n92 69n96 69n96 190 204–205, 223– 224 190–191, 197 190 21n56, 26n104 26–27, 165n31 39n158 26n106 26–27

719 720 721–725 764 764–765 903 1212 1229 1234 1239 1303

21n59 21n61 39n159 53n23 53 27n114 69n96 72n114 73n120 20n49, 23n74 69n96

Herodotus 1. 60. 3 1. 115 8. 144 2. 158. 5 3. 38

61 160n2 52n17 53 61

Hesychius a 5432 Latte

1n1

Homer Il. 3.163ff. Od. 3.352 4.244–256

163n22 122n79

Ilias Parva Davies (1988) 52–53

122n79

Menander Dys. 185 234

163n23 163n23

Plato Grg. 462b Ion 531c7 Resp. 392d2–394c5 Plutarch Thes. 3

161n10

22n69 158n87 94n11

107n25

263

index locorum Pollux Onom. 4, 113 Bethe

oc 1n1

Polybius 38. 18. 7

63n70

451 1113 f. 1156 ff. 1163 1166

164n25 164n25 164n25 164n25 164n25

ot Protagoras d.l. 9. 51 = d-k 80b6a

229

Ps-Apollodorus 3. 15. 6

107n25

Sophocles Aj. 22 66 77 89 98 798 Ant. 406 567 732 748 751 763 El. 540 1501–1502

164n25 164n25 163n24 160n3 163n24 164n25 130 163n21 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n22 14–15

437 698–799 928 Phil. 103 1198 1429 f. Trach. 17 346 462 503 545 584 718 857 ff. Thucydides 5. 85–113 Virgil Aen. 9. 266 10. 518 Ecl. 8. 45

149n65 164 75n123, 77n134 24n77 133n33 163n24 163 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24 163n24, 189n88 163n24

228–229

140n45 140n45 140n45

Index of Subjects ab ovo technique 200n6 adjacency pair 17, 102, 105 agon 11, 28–29, 47 ambiguity 63–65, 67, 69n98, 70, 77, 80, 83, 87, 111, 117n60, 124, 135, 156, 166, 190, 192, 194–195, 197, 204, 226 see also: deictic ambiguity, γυνή deictic ambiguity of the term amorce see: prolepsis anachrony 66n85, 198–199 analepsis 198 prolepsis see: prolepsis anagnorisis see: recognition anaphora 160–162, 164–166, 190 anchor / anchorage 51–53, 64–65, 68–69, 71–83, 85–88, 193, 225–226 complex 77 egocentric 51, 73, 75, 80–81, 83, 85 exclusive 64, 78–79 explicit 51, 64–65, 75, 77–79, 81, 83 implicit 51, 77–79 polycentric 77 shift 51–53, 76, 88, see also: βάρβαρος and kinship (terms) answer delayed 12, 46 information-providing 8, 100–102, 226 < answer 101–102, 104–105, 108–109, 112–117, 120, 125 ≤ answer 101–102, 104–105, 117, 121, 125 = answer 101–105, 108, 116–117, 121, 123, 125, 168n40 > answer 101–105, 117, 125 ≠ answer 101–102, 116, 118, 125 piecemeal 12 antilabe 1, 16, 36, 181–182 aside 46–47, 206 attribution / distribution (of speakers) 41–42, 44–45, 78n138, 88–90, 138 autopsy 190 barbarian

see: ethnicity

capping 3–4 cataphora 160, 161n12, 165

charis see: χάρις childlessness 33, 39, 86, 103–104, 106–107, 119n69, 120, 139, 221 commissive 19n39, 26 convention see under: stichomythia: unnaturalness conversation (naturally occurring) 3, 5–7, 11–19, 22, 27–28, 35–36, 40, 43–44, 48–49, 153, 225–226 characteristics of 13–14, 17–18, 48 three-way 44 conversation analysis 6, 102n14 deceit / deception 3–4, 30, 33, 38, 55, 57, 61, 67, 70, 79, 81–82, 111, 176, 180–182, 188, 196, 227, see also: kinship (terms) > shift anchorage > in order to hide identity / create an alter ego deictic ambiguity 64, 192–195, 197, 227 deictic overlap 164, 166, 190–192, 195, 197, 227 deixis 6–7, 50–52, 63–64, 87, 160, 161n12, 162–164, 166–167, 187, 190–192, 194–197, 227 see also: deictic ambiguity, deictic overlap, proximal deictic pronoun ad oculos 164–165, 190–191, 194–195, 197, 227 am phantasma 164–166, 187, 190 discourse 7 emphatic 162 hearer-oriented 162, 196n100 narrative 165–167, 187, 190–191, 195–197, 227 person 7, 50–51, 160 first 160 second 160 third 160 place 7, 50, 160 social 6–7, 50–52, 87, 196n100, 225 speaker-oriented 163 text 50, 160, 164–165, see also: anaphora and cataphora time 7, 50 demonstrative pronoun system 160–166 dialogue 2–6, 8, 11–15, 19, 22, 25n83, 35, 38, 44, 47, 96, 99–100, 114, 129–130, 132n31, 162–163, 200n6, 202n18, 226, 228–229

265

index of subjects diegesis / telling 94–95 diegetic mode 8n47, 126 displaced 8n47, 126 immediate 8n47, 126 diegetic status 99, 121, 214 autodiegetic 99, 121 heterodiegetic 99, 121 homodiegetic 99, 121 directive 18, 19n39, 23, 28n125 discourse analysis 6 distichomythia 1, 16, 18, 36, 190–191, 206 dramatic irony 71, 79, 81–86, 88, 98, 111, 114, 155, 159, 192, 197, 199, 223, 226–227 dramatic presentative 95 dream 86, 202–204 epirrhema 1, 75, 132, 134, 150, 152, 202 ethnicity 7, 52, 55, 57, 60–63, 82, 225–226 – barbarian 52–63, 82, 179 – blurring of stereotypes 55–58, 60–63, 179, 225–226 – cultural absolutism / relativism 57–63, 226 – inferiority / superiority 53, 55, 60–63, 63, 82, 179 – self-definition: aggregative / oppositional 52 ex eventu knowledge 198–199, 206 expression of 8, 97, 198–201, 206–207, 209, 213n86, 222–224, 226–228 suppression of 8, 97, 198–199, 204, 207, 209, 212–214, 216, 219, 222–224, 226–228 combination of expression and suppression of 204–205, 210, 217–218, 220–224, 228 experiencing mode 8, 126–127, 166, 197–199, 207, 212–215, 219, 222–224, 226–229 face (save …) 23, 110 floor (competition for the …) 15–16, 47 focalization 100n10, 126 experiencing 126, 200–201, 216, 221, 223–224 narrating 126, 222 gap (conversational) 13–15, 18 gender 7, 52, 63, 73, 76n129, 214, 225–226

high involvement style 18n35 historic present 8, 37, 97, 120, 127–159, 166, 168–171, 185, 196–197, 212, 219n120, 223–224, 226–228 and the Greek verb 127–128, 130 in narrative stichomythia 129, 226 in the passive voice 130, 135 in the second person 130, 135 in questions 129–130, 144 negative 128, 138–139 stylistic explanation of 127–129, 131, 159, 226 used by the narratee 127, 129, 139–154, 159, 226–227 used by the narrator 129, 131–139, 154, 226–227 homoeoteleuton 212n82 illocutionary expression 18–27, 29–33, 48–49, see also: speech act > illocutionary act imperative see under: modality > mood implied author / playwright 98–99 implied reader / audience 98–99 incrementum 4, 112–116 interpolated / intercalated narrating 96 kinship (terms) 7, 52, 67–69, 71–83, 85–88, 117n60, 193, 225–226 referential / vocative use 67 shift anchorage: – in order to hide identity / create an alter ego 79–86, 88, 193 – reference to a referent by means of a kin-term anchored in the addressee 73–75 – reference to a referent by means of a kin-term anchored in another referent 75–77 – self-reference by means of a kin-term anchored in the addressee 68–71, 117–118 – self-reference by means of a kin-term anchored in a referent of the conversation 71–73 kommos 72–73 leap-frogging see under: syntax letter 44–47, 153–154

266 locutionary act see under: speech act lyric exchange 1, 68, 72, 172, 194–195, 218–220 messenger speech 8n46, 93, 95, 115–116, 130, 132, 148–149, 195–196, 198n3, 224 mimesis / showing 94–96 mimetic mode 8n47, 94, 96, 126 modality 19, 22–27, 30 mood: 22–27, 29, 178 – deliberative subjunctive 26–28, 30 – future indicative 24, 26, 30, 178 – hortative subjunctive 26, 30 – imperative 22n68, 23–24, 25n83, 28, 30, 148–149 – potential optative 25, 27–28, 30 – prohibitive subjunctive 24, 30 modal expression 22, 25–27, 30 move (conversational) 27, 29 narratee 8, 94–95, 97–99, 127, 129, 131, 139, 151, 153–154, 159, 163, 166–167, 169, 171, 176–177, 180, 182–183, 184n79, 189, 195–196, 200–201, 209, 214, 223, 226–228 definition 98 types according to diegetic status: – autodiegetic 99, 121, 214 – heterodiegetic 99, 121, 214 – homodiegetic 99, 121, 214 see also: diegetic status according to dramatic status: 95 according to narrative levels: – primary / secondary 95 according to person: – first person / internal 126 – second person see: narrative > types of > according to person > second person – third person / external 126 narrating mode 8, 126, 198–200, 206–207, 221–224, 227–229 narrative definition 94–97 types according to person: – first person / internal 126, 223 – second person 122, 223 – third person / external 126, 223

index of subjects according to time: – about the future 8, 166, 177–183, 191–192, 196–197, 227 see also: planning / plotting scenes – about the past 8, 166–176, 180–181, 190–191, 196–197, 223, 227 narrative activity 8, 100–102, 105–109, 112, 116, 118, 121–122, 125, 168n40, 226 distribution of 8, 38, 98–99, 101, 105–106, 108, 118, 120–121, 125–126, 226, 228 – accumulation 108–111, 125, 226 – balanced 102–108 – replacement 112–116, 226, see also: incrementum – stagnation 116–121, 125, 226 – unilateral 121–125, 168n40, 226 spontaneous continuation of the narrative 105, 107, 109–110 narrative presentation 4, 8, 93, 97, 100n10, 126–127, 135, 154, 166, 190, 196–199, 206, 209, 224, 226, 228–229 narratology 4, 7, 94–95, 226, 228 narrator 8, 94–95, 97–99, 112, 126–127, 129, 131, 135, 137, 139, 142n49, 154, 159, 166–167, 183–184, 186–187, 189, 196, 198–199, 209, 214, 223, 226–228 definition 98 types according to diegetic status: – autodiegetic 99, 121, 214 – heterodiegetic 99, 121, 214 – homodiegetic 99, 121, 214 see also: diegetic status according to dramatic status: 95 according to narrative levels: – primary / secondary 95 according to person: – first person / internal 126 – second person see: narrative > types of > according to person > second person – third person / external 126 nomos see: νόμος oath 38 oracle 33, 39, 76, 103–107, 117–118, 138–139, 144, 168, 210–214

index of subjects overlap conversational 13–16, 18 deictic see: deictic overlap oxymoron 220–223, 228 pathos 2, 68–70, 98, 122n78, 184, 195, 197, 202n18, 215n92, 224, 227 performative 19–20 planning / plotting scenes 175, 177, 181–183, 188, 191, 196 politeness 6, 19, 22–29, 33n141, 49, 51, 72n114, 139–141, 146, 159, 166, 170 see also: face (save …) praesens see: present pragmatics 4–7, 9, 13, 16–17, 19, 36–38, 40, 49, 102n14, 225 present actual 145n56, 153, 156, 158 annalisticum 129 generic 143n52 historic see: historic present perfective 129–130, 153, 156–158 registering 140, 148, 154, 156, 158 tabulare 129 prolepsis 198, 206, 207, 223 amorce 198 explicit 198 implicit 198, 223 narratological 198n1, 207n53 rhetorical 198n1b stylistic 198n1c, 207n53 syntactic 198n1a proposition (of a question) 100, 112–113, 115, 122 protocol (conversational) 22 proximal deictic pronoun 8, 65, 97, 160–166, 168–191, 195–197, 212, 223–224, 226–228 physical / mental proximity 163–164, 182–183, 187, 189, 192–193 used by the narratee 166–183, 227 used by the narrator 183–190, 227 question confirmation-seeking 168 echo 32, 173, 186 leading 99 meta-communicational 100n10 οἶσθα see: οἶσθα-question information-seeking 8, 100–102, 226

267 – x-question 100–102, 104–105, 116, 118, 123, 125, 168 – disjunctive question 100–102, 104–105, 118, 125 – yes/no question 100–102, 104, 108–113, 118, 121–123, 125, 200n8 rhetorical 100n10, 108, 111, 171, 185–186, 207 realism see under: stichomythia > unnaturalness recognition 45, 64, 69, 76, 83–84, 86–87, 89, 120, 122, 134, 150, 193, 216–218, 220 referent 50–52, 64, 68, 71–75, 77–78, 80, 85, 87, 193 repetition lexical / verbal 15, 32, 132, 143, 153, 158, 173 story 152, 216–217 rhesis 22, 93, 95, 97n23, 201, 202n18, 208 sacrifice 55–56, 63, 69–71, 75, 122, 124, 181, 200, 203n26, 205 showing see: mimesis Sophism / Sophists 61, 226, 229 speech act 6, 18–20, 38 illocutionary act 18–19 see also: illocutionary expression locutionary act 18 perlocutionary act 18 stichomyhtia definition 1 development 2 distichomythia see: distichomythia form / composition 1–3, 93 function 2–4, 93, 229 language 2 origin 1–2 types – Beratung 2 – informative / Frage und Antwort 2, 97, 157 – narrative/Erzählung 2, 4, 7-8, 93–100, 102, 104, 108, 125, 127–131, 145, 148, 154, 159, 160, 169, 177, 195–196, 198–199, 206, 208, 223–224, 226–229 – Streitscenen / Konflikt 2–3 – Überlistung 2 – Vereidingung und Gebet 2 unnaturalness / realism versus convention 2–4, 6–7, 11–13, 48, 93, 212, 225

268 supplication 19n39, 34–35, 59, 107, 110, 122, 133, 143, 167, 170, 184, 200–201, 208, 212, 215 syntax 5, 12, 15–16, 34–35, 36n149, 38–39 break of 34 cooperative completion of 15, 39 discontinuous 15 hypotactic linking of lines 12 leap-frogging 39 paratactic linking of lines 12 suspension of 12 telling see: diegesis theoxeny 80

index of subjects tragic aorist 32n140, 33n141 turn allocation 14, 18–19, 26, 34–35, 48, 225 contents 13, 17 distribution 13, 16–17 extent 36–40, 48–49, 225 order 13, 15–17 size 13, 16 taking 6–7, 11–15, 17–18, 28–29, 40, 44, 48–49, 225 – error / violation / interruption 12, 29, 34, 41–49, 150, 175, 225 – repair 14, 18, 40–41, 44, 48–49, 225

Index of Greek Words βάρβαρος (self-referential use of the term by a non-Greek speaker) 52–63, 225 γυνή (deictic ambiguity of the term) 63–67, 226 δάμαρ θυραῖος

52,

οἶσθα-question 187–188, 200, 209 οὗτος (dialogic, indicating hearer-oriented deixis) 162–163, 196n100 see also: demonstrative pronoun system πειθώ 208 πικρός 206–207, 218n110 πῶς φή̣ ς; 31–32, 173, 216

87 59

σύνεσις καὶ δή 141 κἄπειτα / κἆ̣τα μᾶτερ / μῆτερ μῶν 113, 115 νόμος

133, 147–148, 153–154 72

208, 209n64

ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε ὀθνεῖος 64

see: proximal deictic pronoun

58–59

τέκνον 117, 118n60 τί λέξεις; 24 τί φή̣ ς; 31–34, 41–42, 173, 216 τότε 136 Φρύξ / Φρύγιος χάρις

54, 57–58

122, 200n11, 201, 208, 209n64