Wisdom and Folly in Euripides 3110452251, 9783110452259

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Wisdom and Folly in Euripides

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Kurt Raaflaub · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 31

Wisdom and Folly in Euripides Edited by Poulheria Kyriakou and Antonios Rengakos

ISBN 978-3-11-045225-9 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-045314-0 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-045228-0 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2016 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents I General Luigi Battezzato Euripides the Antiquarian

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Martin Hose Euripides-Poet of irritations

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G.O. Hutchinson Gods wise and foolish: Euripides and Greek literature from Homer to Plutarch 37 Maria Serena Mirto ‘Rightly does Aphrodite’s Name begin with aphrosune’: Gods and Men between Wisdom and Folly 45 Ruth Scodel Wisdom from Slaves

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II Individual Plays Laura McClure Hearth and Home in Euripides’ Alcestis John Gibert The Wisdom of Jason

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105

Justina Gregory The Education of Hippolytus

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Poulheria Kyriakou Wisdom, Nobility, and Families in Andromache

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Katerina Synodinou Wisdom through Experience: Theseus and Adrastus in Euripides’ Suppliant 155 Women Andrea Rodighiero ‘Sail with your fortune’: Wisdom and Defeat in Euripides’ Trojan Women 177 Matthew Wright The Significance of Numbers in Trojan Women

195

Andreas Markantonatos The Delphic School of Government: Apollonian Wisdom and Athenian Folly in 209 Euripides’ Ion David Konstan Did Orestes Have a Conscience? Another Look at Sunesis in Euripides’ Orestes 229 Anna Lamari Madness Narrative in Euripides’ Bacchae

241

Seth L. Schein The Language of Wisdom in Sophokles’ Philoktetes and Euripides’ Bacchae 257 Bernd Seidensticker The Figure of Teiresias in Euripides’ Bacchae Davide Susanetti The Bacchae: Manipulation and Destruction P. J. Finglass Mistaken Identity in Euripides’ Ino

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285

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III Reception David Sansone Whatever Happened to Euripides’ Lekythion (Frogs 1198 – 1247)?

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Thalia Papadopoulou Euripidean Frenzy goes to Rome: The Case of Roman Comedy and 335 Novel Barbara Goff The Leopard-skin of Heracles: traditional wisdom and untraditional madness in a Ghanaian Alcestis 347 Michalis Tiverios New Evidence for Euripides’ (?) Alkmene: Another Look at a South Italian 365 Vase-Painting List of Contributors Bibliography

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Publications by Daniel Iakov Index of Terms Index of Passages

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Preface The present volume of papers by students, friends, and colleagues of Daniel Iakov was originally conceived as a tribute on the occasion of his retirement in August 2014. Most unfortunately, Danny passed away on May 21, 2014, and the volume is now dedicated to his memory. All the participants who kindly accepted the invitation of the editors to contribute and especially the two editors wish to commemorate the wisdom demonstrated in his scholarship and life and his humane opposition to all manner of folly. Danny was a highly dedicated and productive scholar, whose work has greatly enriched the study of the authors he worked on, mainly Aristotle, Pindar and Euripides. His commentary on Alcestis, his last publication, is a monument to the poet he loved most and a true labor of love. His choice to publish mainly in Modern Greek has been a boon to a language poorly represented in classical scholarship. He has also been a tireless translator of books and editor or co-editor of volumes, making them much more easily accessible to students and especially the general public. This ceaseless, high-quality activity is all the more remarkable because fortune was unkind to Danny: his health kept deteriorating over the years and he eventually lost his sight. Nevertheless, he did not allow this terrible blow to any man and especially to a scholar and teacher to interrupt his work or even slow him down. Endowed with exceptional memory and sophistication, he found ways to circumvent his problems with the support of his beloved spouse Maria Iatrou, his daughter Esther Iakov, and a group of loyal students and colleagues. Only in the last couple of months of his life he could not continue his work. That was a source of great distress to him, and he looked forward to resuming his activity. Most remarkably and impressively, in all the years he suffered from various health problems, he never lost heart or complained. Far from wallowing in dejection, bitterness, or self-pity, he courageously pressed on in his usual steadfast way. Danny also never refused to undertake onerous administrative tasks, which might well tax the stamina even of younger colleagues in good health. He was always present, as member or chair, in meetings, conferences and virtually every event of the Department and the University. His dedication and enthusiasm earned him the respect and loyalty of virtually everyone he met but also honors by the Academy of Athens and the University of Ioannina. For all this recognition, he never displayed any hint of arrogance or vanity. Always gentle and good-natured, he freely offered his services and guidance but also sought advice even from junior friends and colleagues. He always managed to diffuse crises and mediate disputes. Since he was never mean-spirited and never held grudges,

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even those who occasionally disagreed with him did so with restraint and respect. His moderation, fairness, generosity, humility and gentleness were truly exceptional. His respect and appreciation for his predecessors and distinguished colleagues was ungrudging and unfailing as was his desire to foster the work of his juniors. It is of course his numerous students that benefited most of Danny’s moral and scholarly excellence. In almost forty years of service, scores of grateful young people attended his learned lectures and chose him as their advisor. One of the editors (Kyriakou) belongs to the fortunate group of his students and I wish to respectfully acknowledge him as a great model of teacher, scholar and friend. I will always treasure the memory of our conversations, his thoughtful counsel, love of books and scholarship, sense of duty and unfailing optimism. His motto was “we will do our work, or what we have been appointed to do, whatever it is worth, regardless of what others might do or say”. When he underwent his last operation, both editors were among a large group of friends who visited him in hospital the day after, on a Sunday morning. Despite his physical discomfort, he was his usual gentle and gracious self, inquiring about our wellbeing and work. As more people kept arriving, some had to wait their turn to enter the small hospital room in the corridor with his wife Maria, who was talking on the phone with friends unable to visit and anxious to find out about his health. Danny asked whether so-and-so was present and when we confirmed that everybody was there, he mischievously responded with the punch-line of a Jewish joke: “Then who is minding the store?” Even in the hospital, and despite his evident pleasure in hearing that we were all there with him, the “store” was on his mind, and he selflessly hinted with gentle irony that even on a Sunday morning we should not neglect our work for the sake of a hospital visit. His death was a great and irreparable loss to his family, friends, and colleagues. At least the editors and the contributors to the volume are confident that he would be very pleased to see that we continue minding the “store” as he wished and follow his example in taking care not to be “not without proof, seeming rather than being wise” (πεῖραν οὐ δεδωκότες/δοκοῦντες μᾶλλον ἢ πεφυκότες σοφοί). Poulheria Kyriakou and Antonios Rengakos

Thessaloniki, June 2015

I General

Luigi Battezzato

Euripides the Antiquarian 1 Introduction* The battle of Salamis is a key event in Greek history. According to Ion of Chios, Aeschylus fought at Salamis. According to the anonymous life of Sophocles, Sophocles as a young boy sung the paean celebrating the victory; Euripides was born on the very day of the victory. The coincidence is striking, and often mentioned in literature handbooks, even if there is a fair chance that it is fictitious. Handbooks, however, often forget another culturally significant synchronism, also mentioned by ancient sources:¹ ‘They say that Euripides was born on the same day as Hellanicus, when the Greeks won the naval battle of Salamis.’

The very name Hellanicus is appropriate for a person born on the day of one of the greatest ‘Hellenic victories’. This etymology may be wrong, and has recently been disputed by Robert Fowler.² However this may be, it is of interest that ancient scholars considered it appropriate to associate Euripides and Hellanicus, a major dramatist and an author whom modern handbooks normally classify as a historian. This paper discusses the relationship between Euripides and historiography, in particular with authors such as Pherecydes, Acusilaus, Hellanicus himself, Antiochus of Syracuse, and others.³ History handbooks variously classify these authors as historians, mythographers, geographers or antiquarians.

* I consider it a privilege to have been invited to honour and remember Daniel Iakov. I would like to thank. C. Cusset, G.B. D’Alessio, B. Graziosi, J. Haubold, E. Medda, P. Rhodes for comments on this paper. The responsibility for remaining errors is, of course, entirely mine.  See sch. A. Pers.  = Ion  F  Jacoby. Life of Sophocles: Radt ,  (T  lines  – ). Euripides, Vita, in Schwartz ,  lines  –  = T  A § lines  –  (p. ) in Kannicht .  Fowler ,  argued that this etymology of Hellanicus is false, and that the name simply means ‘Hellenic’, with a short iota. Kovacs a,  –  offers a reconstruction of the Life of Euripides which dispenses with the mention of Hellanicus altogether.  On these early historians and mythographers see Fowler , Fowler , and Fowler  in general. Pherecydes wrote ‘historical’ works on mythical and genealogical topics. The peak of his activity is to be dated around  BCE (Fowler , ): see Thomas ,  – , Dolcetti . Hellanicus of Lesbos lived ?/-post / BCE (Fowler , ). He wrote works on mythography and ethnography as well as chronicles. Acusilaus of Argos was active

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Several studies discuss the interaction of tragedy and historiography, focussing for instance on shared political and ethical themes, the use of similar literary techniques, the presence of ‘the tragic’ in historiography (fate, hybris, tragic irony, Thucydides as a ‘tragic’ historian).⁴ The possibility that historiography influenced tragedy is not generally taken into account, except for a few passages in Sophocles. Euripides deservers to be studied in relation to this aspect. First of all, most of his works were written when a considerable body of historical writing existed.⁵ Secondly, he often mentions religious practices and the origin of cults,⁶ foundations of cities, genealogies, and local myths. The description of local cults is crucial for some of his plays: the festival of Hera at Argos is central to his Electra, as Froma Zeitlin demonstrated, just like the cult at Brauron is essential for his Iphigeneia in Tauris. ⁷ The festivals of Sparta, Hyacinthia, and the cult of the Leukippides is crucial for understanding the chorus of the Helen;⁸ the whole of Medea is (among other things) a long aition explaining the cult in the temple of Hera at Corinth.⁹ The Erechtheus explains the origin of some minor cults of the Athenian acropolis (Hyacinthids).¹⁰ In the Cretans, another fragmentary play of Euripides, the text illustrates the curious religious practices of initiates of Zagreus: they dress in white, and, except for eating raw flesh, they are otherwise vegetarian.¹¹ Euripides of course does not deal with ‘history’ as we know it after Thucydides. He deals with matters that were clearly considered of ‘historical’ interest by Herodotus, and which some authors living in the time of Euripides started to consider a special branch of knowledge: archaiologia or ‘antiquarianism’.

before / BCE (Fowler , ). On the date of Antiochus see below, section  and nn. ,  and .  See Zeitlin , Cropp  on lines  – .  Aristophanes and other ancient sources attest that Euripides loved and collected books: T a-b, , a-b (= Ar. Ra.  –  and  – ) Kannicht.  See Scullion , Dunn , Seaford , and below, section .  Cropp ,  –  on  – , Scullion ,  –  (see below, section ), Dunn , Kyriakou ,  –  on E. IT  – a, Seaford ,  – , with references.  See Allan  on E. Hel.  –  and  – , Swift , Murnaghan , , Battezzato .  See Holland , Burkert , Seaford ,  – , Battezzato (forthcoming).  Cropp in Collard, Cropp and Lee , esp.  and , and on E. fr. ,  –  and  –  Kannicht; Sonnino ,  –  and passim.  See Collard in Collard, Cropp and Lee , ,  – ; fr.  Kannicht = fr.  Cozzoli  (with her comments ad loc.); Di Benedetto ,  –  = Di Benedetto ,  – .

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In 1950, Momigliano published a seminal paper discussing the relationship between history and antiquarianism: ‘From a famous passage in Plato’s Hippias maior (285 d) we learn that the genealogies of heroes and men, the traditions on the foundations of cities and the lists of eponymous magistrates of a city were part of a science called “archaeology.” This was probably the case of the works περὶ ἐθνῶν, ἐθνῶν ὀνομασίαι, κτίσεις ἐθνῶν καὶ πόλεων, νόμιμα βαρβαρικά by Hellanicus, ἐθνῶν ὀνομασίαι by Hippias, περὶ γονέων καὶ προγόνων τῶν εἰς Ἴλιον στρατευσαμένων ascribed to Damastes or Polus.’¹²

Euripides does not list magistrates or priestesses of Hera; however, he does deal a lot with genealogies of heroes, foundations of cities, and religious practices.

2 Genealogies and local history Let us consider the following two passages. Are they from tragedy or from historiography? One of them is by Pherecydes, the other by Euripides. ‘Danae’s son, conceived from the shower of gold, was Perseus, who after cutting off the Gorgon’s head came to Ethiopia and married Cepheus’ daughter Andromeda. She had three sons by Perseus: Alcaeus, Sthenelus, and thirdly Alcmene’s father Electryon, who held the city of Mycenae in the Argolid. Zeus entered Alcmene’s bed and sired glorious Heracles. Heracles fathered Hyllus, and Hyllus fathered Temenus, who resettled Argos, being from Heracles’ stock’ ‘Argos son of Zeus marries Peitho, daughter of Oceanus. His son is Kriasos: Kriasos’s sons are Ereuthalion, after whom is named the city Ereuthalie in the territory of Argos, and Phorbas. Son of Phorbas is Arestor; Arestor’s son is Argos. The goddess Here inserts an eye into his occipital bone, deprives him of sleep, and makes him guardian to Io. Afterwards, Hermes kills him.’

In the original Greek, metre was an obvious sign of the tragic genre, which is lost in translation. However, the translation stresses the similarities in style and in the treatment of the subject matter. It is not easy to guess which passage is by Pherecydes and which one by Euripides. In fact the first one is a fragment from the Archelaus of Euripides (fr. 228a.9 – 22 Kannicht);¹³ the second is from

 Momigliano , .  The translation printed above is taken from Collard and Cropp .

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Pherecyd. 3 F 66 = 66 Fowler = sch. E. Ph. 1116. The style is typical of the genealogies by Acusilaus and Pherecydes.¹⁴ Genealogies are a standard feature of Greek poetry from Homer onwards, even if they are generally much less bare than this. The genealogical poems attributed to Hesiod at times present lists of mothers and offspring with minimal additional details. Euripides is notorious for his fondness for genealogies in his prologues. In his Archelaus, Euripides is at his driest: the list of names is adorned by the briefest references to accessory details. The similarity to the procedure of Pherecydes and Acusilaus is clear, even if one has to admit that genealogies naturally take the form of list. Here Euripides had to introduce a (probably fictitious) Archelaus into Greek mythology, and had to be specific if he wanted to appear believable. He also wanted to please his patron. When he wanted to be believed he resorted to the driest, less poetic, and more matter-of-fact way to report genealogies, a way that resembled ‘historical’ research. This is, in short, a strategy calculated to enhance credibility and authority, specifically at the moment when Euripides was manipulating traditional genealogies. It is not simply that tragedy depends on ‘historiography’ for some facts about mythology or geography. What is of interest is that Euripides offers his audience a sweeping survey of Greek mythology, explaining genealogies, detailing information on the foundation of cities, on local cults and that he chooses some curiously remote mythical plots, often competing with historiography for the type of information he gives, and for the format he chooses to deliver this information to the audience. Jacoby famously argued that Greek historians did not write ‘local histories’ before Herodotus.¹⁵ Tragedy, and Euripides in particular, took pains to discuss local histories for an Athenian and Panhellenic audience. Several anecdotes confirm that the tragedies of Euripides were well known in Southern Italy; several publications by Eric Csapo, Oliver Taplin and other scholars have demonstrated that Athenian plays, esp. those by Euripides, were often staged in Southern Italy and that he wrote for an ‘international’ market.¹⁶

 See e. g.  F  (=  Fowler),  (=  Fowler),  (=  Fowler),  (=  Fowler), a (= a Fowler).  Jacoby , , Fowler , , Porciani , Clarke . See already the comments by Xenophon: historians discuss the glorious deeds of large cities, but forget those accomplished by small ones, an imbalance corrected in his own historical writings (Hellenica .., talking about Phlius).  Allan  has argued that the Heraclidae of Euripides were put on stage in Heraclea (Policoro) in southern Italy at the end of the fifth century, even if Heraclea was on Sparta’s side

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Attic tragedy is therefore both a local and a Panhellenic genre: Euripides usually writes for the Athenian stage, but he has also commissions from abroad (Archelaus, and possibly Andromache). He must have been definitely aware of the potential for re-staging in a number of Greek-speaking communities. Ancient scholars had a clear awareness of the connection between Euripides and early historians, mythographers or ‘antiquarians’. This becomes immediately clear if we look at the authors mentioned in the scholia on Euripides, as edited by Schwartz. Ancient scholars had the chance to read the texts of those historians or, at least, to read much larger portions of them than the fragments we have today. In the surviving scholia, Herodotus is mentioned twice, Thucydides four times. In contrast, we find: Amelesagoras 1x; Hellanicus 9x; Hippys 1x; Pherecydes 20x; Xanthos of Lydia 2x. In several of these cases the historians are the only source for a given mythical version or a piece of information on cult and geography. It is significant that ancient scholars could not find poetic sources for the same questions. Things are very different with Sophocles: in the corpus of scholia edited by Papageorgiou (incomplete, but significant as a sample) we find four mentions of Herodotus and one of Thucydides, four of Pherecydes, and only one each of Hellanicus and Hecataeus. The proportions, more than the number of quotations per se, show that ancient scholars perceived a connection between Euripides and these ‘minor’ historians, a connection much stronger than that between Sophocles and the ‘antiquarians’.

3 The date of the fall of Troy Let us examine an example from the Hecuba. The chorus of Hecuba is composed of women from Troy. They state that the attack of the Greeks started at midnight: E. Hec. 914 μεσονύκτιος ὠλλύμαν My ruin started at midnight

Euripides here imitates fr. 9 (Bernabé (1996)) of the Little Iliad = 11a Davies =14 West (2003) 132– 5 = 14 West (2013) 208 – 9, preserved by the scholium on Hec. 910:

against Athens. Note that Heraclaea was founded in / on the site of Siris (the setting of another play by Euripides, Melanippe Desmotis).

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νὺξ μὲν ἔην μεσάτη, λαμπρὰ δ᾿ ἐπέτελλε σελήνη. ‘it was midnight, and the moon rose shining’

The verb ἐπέτελλε is a technical term used in reference to the rising of the stars and the moon (see Hes. Op. 383). Later on, Euripides has Polymestor say that he desires to reach Sirius and Orion (E. Hec. 1102– 4 Ὠαρίων ἢ Σείριος). Polymestor does not explain why he mentions these stars, but he later states that he wants to put an end to his suffering. He has just been blinded and his children have been killed by Hecuba and the Trojan women, in retaliation for his killing of Hecuba’s son Polydorus. It is reasonable to imagine that the fierceness of Sirius and Orion were of appeal to him. However, the wish would not make much sense if Sirius and Orion were not visible in the sky at the time. As in the case of other people who were transformed into stars, the transformation should make astronomical sense. In fact, we know that several fifth century historians discussed the exact date of the fall of Troy. Hellanicus wrote that Troy was taken on day 12 of the month Thargelion.¹⁷ Other historians suggested day 23 (Damastes of Sigeum, FGrHist 5 F 7, D. Η. 1.63) or 24 (Ephor. FGrHist 70 F 226, Callisthenes, FGrHist 124 F 10) of the same month.¹⁸ These historians probably inferred the date from two sources. One is the fragment of the Little Iliad just mentioned. Fr. 14b West 2013 from the Little Iliad (= fr. 5 from the Sack of Ilion in West (2003)) is the other. It tells a story about the Pleiades in correlation to the fall of Troy. The story concerns Electra, the daughter of Atlas, and mother of Dardanus by Zeus. ‘They say that Electra did not want to watch the destruction of Troy, since the city had been founded by her descendants. That is why she left the position in the sky where she had been placed as a star. That explains why the Pleiades, which used to be seven in number, are now six. The story is narrated in one of the poems of the epic cycle.’

This story makes sense only if the Pleiades are visible at (mid)-night when Troy is taken, and suggest the time of the year (roughly, June). Hellanicus, Damastes and other scholars probably inferred the day of the month on the basis of the fragment of the Little Iliad. The question was: ‘on which day of the month Thargelion

 Hellanic.  F a =  Fowler.  See Jacoby’s commentary on these fragments in FGrHist, Grafton and Swerdlow , Battezzato , with references.

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does the full moon rise at midnight?’ The differences between Hellanicus, Damastes and the other historians depend on the reconstruction of the astronomical details. It is of course not very likely that the epic poet meant those details as precise astronomical descriptions, and the astronomical identification is pedantic and excessively literal-minded. What is important is that a date had been suggested. Euripides probably knew about these speculations about the date of the fall of Troy. Of course Euripides himself could have made the same calculation as Hellanicus. This seems much less likely: the reference to Orion would make better sense if at least the cognoscenti in the audience knew about the dating suggested by Hellanicus and others. We cannot be sure that Euripides knew one version in particular, and his lines do not suggest a specific day for the fall of Troy. However, several details of his text would make sense if he knew about the attempts to date the fall of Troy in the early summer.

4 Etymologies and place names Euripides often mentions en passant unparalleled mythical details. It is unlikely that he would have invented them out of thin air. At Ph. 662 the chorus states that Kadmos killed the dragon of Ares using a stone. The information is stated again at Ph. 1062: this suggests that ‘the earth-born dragon can be killed only by a kindred element.’¹⁹ In this case we know where Euripides could have taken the version. The scholia explain that this is the version of Hellanicus, whereas according to Pherecydes Kadmos used a sword. It is important to note that the scholia are unable to quote a poetic source for this detail.²⁰ In E. Andr. 17– 20, the daughter-in-law of Priam explains that she lives where the ‘sea-goddess Thetis…dwelt as wife with Peleus. The people of Thessaly call it Thetideion in honor of the goddess’s marriage.’²¹ One should note the strict correspondence between the text of Euripides and a fragment of Hellanicus. Hella-

 Mastronarde  on E. Ph. .  Sch. E. Ph.  (MSS MTAB): ὁ μὲν οὖν Ἑλλάνικος [ F  =  Fowler] λίθῳ φησὶν ἀναιρεθῆναι τὸν δράκοντα, ὁ δὲ Φερεκύδης [ F  =  Fowler; see see  F  =  Fowler] ξίφει.  What is Thetideion? Phylarchus ( F : third century BCE) stated that it was a city; so apparently Pherecydes ( F  = sch. Pi. N. . =  Fowler) and Hellanicus ( F  =  Fowler). Strabo .. is unclear but seems to consider it a city. See also Plb. .. and Walbank ,  – . On the question see also Allan ,  – .

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nicus stated that the correct name was not Thestideion, but Thetideion, without the sigma; his reason for this statement was the etymology: he connected the place name with the name Thetis. Euripides has the same form of the name and suggests the same (and obvious) etymology from the name of the goddess Thetis. It is however probable that the original name was Thestideion with a sigma: this form is quite strange, and the form without a sigma is easily explained as an adaptation. If the original name was Thestideion, Euripides followed Hellanicus in offering an etymological explanation and the correct form of the name.²² At the end of the Bacchae, Dionysus prophesises the final adventure of Cadmus: ‘you will change your form and become a snake, and your wife, Ares’ daughter Harmonia, whom you married though a mere mortal, will also take on the form of serpent. Then at the head of a barbarian army you will drive an oxcart (ὄχον δὲ μόσχων, χρησμὸς ὡς λέγει Διός, | ἐλᾷς) and will sack many cities with your innumerable host; that is what Zeus’s prophecy says’ (1330 – 36 tr. Kovacs).

The crucial lines for our argument are 1333 – 4: how can a snake drive an oxcart, ‘as Zeus’s prophecy says’? Interpreters have long noticed that this must be an allusion to the city called Bouthoe or Bouthoie. ²³ Etymological explanations for this are offered by the Etymologica, and they seem to confirm that this obscure passage of Euripides is a reference to that place. Commentators normally refer to the Etymologicum Magnum, but the Etymologicum genuinum offers an explanation that fits better Euripides’ passage. In particular, the Etymologicum genuinum uses the phrase ζεύγους βοῶν ὀχούμενον, which sounds like a paraphrase of, almost a scholion on, the Bacchae passage, ὄχον δὲ μόσχων … | ἐλᾷς. Euripides seems to presuppose that his audience would be able to identify the unnamed city and the etymological explanation.²⁴ We should note that in the Electra too Euripides gives an etymological explanation for the name of a town, Oresteion, which he does not mention in the text. Euripides alludes to the same city in the Orestes, though it is disputed whether the line that gives the name Oresteion is by him or by an interpolator.

 See sch. E. Andr.  = Pherecyd.  F c =  Fowler: τοῦτο ἀπὸ ἱστορίας εἴληφεν. αὐτόθι γὰρ αὐτῇ συνῴκησεν Πηλεύς· καὶ ἦν ὑπ’ ᾿Aχιλλέα τὸ Θετίδειον· ὅπερ ἐστὶ πόλις Θεσσαλίας ὥς φησι Φερεκύδης καὶ Σουίδας (FGrHist  F ).  ‘Modern Budua, on the coast of Montenegro’ (Dodds  ad loc.).  Sophocles mentioned the city, almost certainly in a play staged before Euripides wrote the Bacchae (fr. : see next note). Euripides was safe on that account. On this metamorphosis see also Buxton ,  – .

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The story about Oresteion is in Pherecyd. 3 F 135a, and may or may not have been generally known.²⁵

5 Euripides and the monuments Some scholars have even suggested that in fact many geographical, religious and mythical details given by gods ex machina are invented by Euripides. The most forceful and brilliant arguments are put forward in a paper by Scott Scullion arguing that tragedy ‘admits of the ad hoc generation for literary purposes of entirely imaginary aitia, rituals and cults’.²⁶ Scullion begins ‘with a few cases admitting fairly compelling arguments’.²⁷ At Andromache 1239 – 42 Thetis orders the burial of Neoptolemos: ‘Take the son of Achilles, who lies here slain, to the altar of Delphi and there bury him, a reproach to the Delphians, so that his grave may proclaim that he was violently slain by the hand of Orestes’ (tr. Kovacs) τὸν μὲν θανόντα τόνδ᾽ ᾿Aχιλλέως γόνον θάψον πορεύσας Πυθικὴν πρὸς ἐσχάραν, Δελφοῖς ὄνειδος, ὡς ἀπαγγέλλῃ τάφος φόνον βίαιον τῆς Ὀρεστείας χερός.

The tomb of Neoptolemus is attested by several sources, but Scullion claims that ‘there is no way for a tomb to “report” anything other than by means of an inscription’. Neoptolemus’ tomb at Delphi did not have an inscription. Scullion claims that ‘the verb ἀπαγγέλλειν means “report”… the usual translation of ἀπαγγέλληι in the Andromache passage is “proclaim”, but whereas that particular English word (unlike the verb “report”) can be used in a metaphorical sense equivalent to “indicate”, I can find no parallel in Herodotus, Thukydides, the tragedians or Aristophanes for such a use of ἀπαγγέλλειν, ἀγγέλλειν or their cognate nouns.’²⁸

This is a surprising objection: poets often invent metaphorical usages of common words. We cannot rule out the possibility that Euripides used the verb metaphori-

 See EM . – ; Et. Gen. β . –  (quoting S. fr.  and Call. fr. ). On Orestheion see Pherecyd.  F  (=  Fowler = sch. E. Or. ).  Scullion , .  Scullion , .  Scullion ,  n. .

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cally, even if we had no other examples in Greek poetry. In fact we have such a metaphorical usage of “announcing” in the Odyssey: the morning star “announces” dawn (Od. 13.93 – 94): ‘when the star that is brightest was up, the one that above all comes heralding the light of the Dawn that is born early’²⁹ εὖτ’ ἀστὴρ ὑπερέσχε φαάντατος, ὅς τε μάλιστα ἔρχεται ἀγγέλλων φάος Ἠοῦς ἠριγενείης

In Euripides’ Hecuba (734– 5), the dress of Polydorus’ body “announces” to Agamemnon that he is no Greek:³⁰ ‘the clothes that wrap his body announce to me that he is not an Argive’ οὐ γὰρ ᾿Aργεῖον πέπλοι δέμας περιπτύσσοντες ἀγγέλλουσί μοι.

Stars and clothes do not speak, nor do they normally carry placards. One can conclude that the metaphorical usage of ἀπαγγέλληι in E. Andr. 1241 is in keeping with epic and Euripidean usage, that the text makes no explicit or implicit reference to an inscription, and that the ancient audience had no reason to think that what Euripides reported was false. Note the comment of the scholium: ‘that Neoptolemus is buried in Delphi, is recorded also by Pherecydes; that his body came to Phthia and was then brought back to Delphi, is false’.³¹

That is completely different: the body comes to Phthia so that Peleus may mourn him, but is brought back so that the traditional story is left undisturbed. In conclusion: it is not proven that Euripides invented wholesale all his aitia. ³² The allusion to real cults and artefacts was a crucial element in his strategy of verisimilitude. Euripides did not compete with historical writings simply by telling lies that resemble truth.

 Translation Dawe .  See also E. Heracl. , S. El. .  Sch. E. Andr. : θάψον πορεύσας· ὅτι μὲν ἐν Δελφοῖς ὁ Νεοπτόλεμος τέθαπται, καὶ Φερεκύδης [ F b = b Folwer] ἱστορεῖ· ὅτι δὲ νεκρὸς ἐλθὼν εἰς Φθίαν πάλιν εἰς Δελφοὺς ἐπέμφθη, διέψευσται (MSS. MNOA).  For discussions of Euripides’ aitia, defending their plausibility, see Dunn , Seaford .

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6 Melanippe Let us now examine the fragmentary plays Euripides wrote about Melanippe. As Cropp and Collard note, ‘Melanippe (’Black-Mare’) belongs to the complicated mythology of Thessaly and Boeotia, but her story is obscure in origin and varies considerably in extant accounts; her only notable appearance in Greek poetry is in Euripides’ plays’,³³ Melanippe the Wise and Melanippe Captive. Melanippe the Wise was quoted by Aristophanes in 411, and the metrical evidence suggests a date after 425; Melanippe Captive was probably written before Melanippe the Wise, and is in any case to be dated before 412.³⁴ Melanippe Captive is set in Southern Italy, at Metapontum. The wife of king Metapontus is childless and passes off Melanippe’s children, Aeolus and Boeotus, as her own; when the queen gives birth to children of her own, she attempts to kill Melanippe’s children, but fails and is punished. This play was certainly staged before 412. Several details of the plot are disputed. The present discussion will focus on the relationship between the play and a fragment of an early historian, Antiochus of Syracuse. Strabo (6.1.15) reports that Antiochus claimed that: (1) the ancient name of the city was Métabos, not Metapòntion; (2) that there was a heroon, honouring the hero Métabos; (3) that Melanippe was brought to the house of Dios, not to Métabos; (4) that the epic poet Asios attested that Melanippe was brought to Dios. Other sources attest that the son of Dios Anthedon founded the city of Boeotia which has the same name.³⁵ Asios clearly places Melanippe’s story in Boeotia: after all, Melanippe’s son is called Boeotus. Is Antiochus responding to Euripides or vice-versa? Antiochus lived at the end of the fifth century. The latest events mentioned in his History of Sicily is the peace of Gela 424/3. This means that he probably wrote before the Athenian attack on Syracuse (415 – 412): it would have been very strange to omit a crucial event in the history of Sicily in general, and of Antiochus’ city, Syracuse, in par-

 Collard and Cropp , .  See Cropp and Fick ,  – ; Cropp in Collard, Cropp and Lee , ; Collard and Cropp , . A line from the Melanippe Captive was parodied in Eup. fr. . Kassel-Austin = , Telò (see Telò ,  – ).  See St. Byz. s.v. ᾿Aνθηδών: Giacometti  – ,  n. . In the poem of Asios, Melannipe is not the wife of Dios: she is ‘brought to his house’, probably because she was pregnant from Poseidon. She went there to give birth to the twins, away form her father’s house.

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ticular.³⁶ Antiochus also wrote a work On Italy. ³⁷ The latest event mentioned by Antiochus in this work is the foundation of Heraclaea (433/32).³⁸ Wünsch, Beloch, Burelli, Giacometti and Nafissi have argued that the mythical version adopted in the play of Euripides suited Athenian political interest in the area.³⁹ Wilamowitz thought that Euripides was following a traditional story, and that it was impossible that Antiochus criticised Euripides; Jacoby, Luraghi and others think just the opposite, and claim that Antiochus criticised Euripides. This is difficult, but not impossible: it is possible only if we assume an early date for Melanippe Captive, quick diffusion of this play to Southern Italy (e. g. staged at Heraclaea?) and a late date for Antiochus. Note that Strabo, in reporting Antiochus’ opinion, does not mention Euripides or his play Melanippe Captive. The opposite is easier: Euripides learns of the story from a local source, criticised by Antiochus, or knew the story from Antiochus himself. Euripides seems to be aware of historiographical and genealogical controversies. Let us read the beginning of the other play, Melanippe the Wise (E. fr. 481.1– 11 Kannicht): ‘Zeus, as is told by reliable tradition (ὡς λέλεκται τῆς ἀληθείας ὕπο), fathered Hellen who was father to Aeolus. All of the land that Peneus and Asopus bound and enclose within their watery arms acknowledges his rule and is named Aeolia after my father. This is one of the families that descended from Hellen, and he sent forth other offspring to other areas … to glorious Athens Xuthus, whose bride, Erechtheus’ daughter, bore Ion to him on Cecropia’s ridge’.⁴⁰

 See Luraghi , , with references; Jacoby on FGrHist . Antiochus is called ‘a very ancient writer’ by Dionysius of Halicarnassus ( T a). Diodorus (.. = Antioch. Hist.  T  Jacoby) states that he wrote a History of Sicily in nine books, which covered the period from mythical king Cocalus until the year / (the year of the peace of Gela: see Th. . – ).  σύγγραμμα περὶ τῆς Ἰταλίας ( F ) or Ἰταλίας οἰκισμός ( F )  The fragment quoted by Strabo was probably from the work On Italy ( F , from Strabo) but Strabo does not say this explicitly. Most scholars, including Niehbur, Busolt, Dover, and Hornblower, think that Thucydides follows Antiochus of Syracuse when he sketches a brief history of Italian colonies at the beginning of book  of his History. Thucydides must have completed this section of his History in the period  –  BCE at the latest. For references and extensive discussions, see Cuscunà ,  –  (date),  –  (on her F  = FGrHist  F ), Hornblower ,  – ,  – . For recent discussions of Antiochus see Frisone ,  – , Prontera ,  – .  See Giacometti  – , Cropp in Collard, Cropp and Lee ,  – , Nafissi , with full references to earlier bibliography. See also Lampugnani ,  –   Translation Collard and Cropp , here and below.

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Euripides feels the need to stress the veracity of what he is about to say, especially since the myth was not well known at all in Athens. ‘Truth’ is of course a crucial word for theories of historiography, and for Herodotus and Thucydides in particular. At the beginning of his work, Herodotus stresses the need to ‘follow the true logos’ (Hdt. 1.14.2 ἀληθέϊ δὲ λόγῳ χρεωμένῳ),⁴¹ and Thucydides, in his methodological considerations, famously speaks of the ‘search for the truth’, neglected by many (1.20.3 ἡ ζήτησις τῆς ἀληθείας) and stresses that ‘the logographoi wrote having in mind what attracts attention more than what is true’ (1.21.1). Curiously, Plutarch gives us a variant reading for the first line: (E. fr. 480 Kannicht) ‘Zeus, whoever Zeus is – for I know this only by report (οὐ γὰρ οἶδα πλὴν λόγωι).’ Melanippe, a wise philosopher (a woman philosopher—just like the Pythagorean women of Southern Italy), in this other version stresses the sources of her knowledge, in true Herodotean fashion: logos, or akoé, not opsis.

7 Cresphontes A similar problem occurs in the interpretation of Cresphontes. Euripides presents his Cresphontes as an authoritative version of the early history of Messenia. ‘No other Greek tragedian is known to have treated this story, nor indeed those of Cresphontes’s father, uncle and cousins which Euripides treated in Tem[enos], Temenid[ae], and Arch[eaus]’ (Cropp in Collard, Cropp and Lee (1995), 125). A long section in Strabo (8.5.6) preserves a series of lines by Euripides, probably coming from one of the plays of this ‘Messenian’ group: the lines give precise indication on the early rulers and on the geographical division of the Peloponnese (a division considered incorrect by Strabo). The myth of Cresphontes is not attested before Euripides. Even the name Cresphontes does not occur in myth before the play.⁴² Did Euripides invent the names and the story?⁴³ We would be inclined to think so.

 See also Hdt. .. ᾔδεα γὰρ λόγῳ, .. λόγῳ οἶδα (Amasis speaking). .. οὔρισμα δὲ ᾿Aσίῃ καὶ Λιβύῃ οἴδαμεν οὐδὲν ἐὸν ὀρθῷ λόγῳ εἰ μὴ τοὺς Αἰγυπτίων οὔρους, .. λόγῳ ἠπιστάμην (Gobryas speaking).  The plot is very similar to the story of Orestes: Cresphontes arrives in disguise to kill his uncle, who killed his father. Cresphontes announces his own death and is nearly killed by his mother (who however, unlike Clytaemestra, was not involved in the murder of her husband, and helps Cresphontes in the revenge).  In the Poetics, Aristotle notes that the Agathon wrote a successful play, the Anthos, whose plot and characters were ‘new’, that is a free invention by Agathon (b). However, Aris-

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However, the name Cresphontes occurs ‘as the name of a real person in an inscription from Miletus (SIG3 58 […]), that is generally dated about 450. The inscription declares as outlaws, because of blood-guilt, the son or sons of Nympharetus and two sons of Stratonax, Alcimus and Cresphontes. It was argued by Glotz, […] that the name Cresphontes unknown outside Messenia, was chosen by Stratonax for his son to emphasize the family’s Messenian origin.’⁴⁴

Cresphontes is a Messenian hero, and a hero of Messenia could be reasonably chosen to emphasize opposition to the Spartans by Milesian aristocrats. An epigraphic document shows that in fact Euripides was following a well-established onomastic and (probably) mythic tradition. We cannot be sure that a written account existed, but at least an oral tradition was well known. Note that Neleid traditions were well known in Athens: the family of Peisistratus claimed descent from Neleus. Here again Euripides presents his version of local history, giving authority to a tradition that was known to some groups, probably aristocratic groups, in a series of anti-Spartan plays.

8 Medea and Ino This last section argues that in fact Euripides took into account local traditions when he had a character or a chorus tell a myth or give information about cults and myths. A relevant case comes from the Medea: Med. 1282– 4 μίαν δὴ κλύω μίαν τῶν πάρος γυναῖκ’ ἐν φίλοις χέρα βαλεῖν τέκνοις, Ἰνὼ μανεῖσαν ἐκ θεῶν

totle also praises the plot of Cresphontes as peculiarly suited to arousing the tragic emotions of pity and fear (a – ). If the plot and characters of Cresphontes, Temenos, Temenidae, and Archelaus were invented by Euripides out of nothing, we would have expected Aristotle to know, and to cite them, instead of much more obscure Anthos. It is likely that Euripides invented some (or several) details of the plot and the story, but that he had some sort of general information about the family of Cresphontes. On the mythical ‘inventions’ of Greek tragedians see e. g. Stephanopoulos , Cingano  (Sophocles’ Antigone).  Quotation from Pearson ,  n. . See Glotz ,  – , Meiggs and Lewis ,  – , Bremmer ,  – . Even if Glotz’s hypothesis about the precise political and genealogical affiliation of Stratonax remains uncertain, the attestation of the name is certain, and the likelihood of an allusion to the Messenian story of Cresphontes remains probable.

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One woman, only one, of all that have been, have I heard of who put her hand to her own children: Ino driven mad by the gods⁴⁵

In Medea, the chorus claim that they have heard of a single other example of a woman who killed her offspring: ‘Ino, made crazy by the gods.’ Commentators have noted that in fact Greek myths include several other similar examples, such as Althaea, Agaue, and Procne, and have suggested various reasons for this absence. Newton, in a paper devoted to the interpretation of this passage, notes that ‘in parallel situations in other plays the chorus cites two or three paradigms in succession’.⁴⁶ Commentators suggest that the chorus (or the poet) is stressing the peculiarity of Medea’s crime, and does not want to make it look less horrific by listing several similar stories. In addition, some interpreters stress the appositeness of Ino’s story: Medea is turned into a goddess at the end of the play, just like Ino is transformed into the goddess Leukothea; their children become the object of religious cult.⁴⁷ However, interpreters have left out the most obvious reason explaining the omission: the identity of the chorus. The chorus is composed of ‘Women of Corinth’, as Medea stresses from the start (214): they refer to what they know best, local myths. Ino leapt into the sea near Corinth, and the Isthmian games were held in honour of Melicertes (Paus. 1.44.7– 8; 2.1.3; Pi. fr. 5). Ino’s son Melicertes was the object of cult in Corinth, in Poseidon’s temple (Paus. 2.2.1), under the name of Palaemon; Pausanias also states that an altar in honour of Melicertes was set in the vicinity of the place where a dolphin brought his body to the shore (2.1.3). It is not so surprising that the chorus of Corinthian women does not know about myths set in Thebes (Agaue), Aetolia (Althaea), and Thrace (Procne).⁴⁸

 Translation Kovacs b.  Newton , .  Newton ,  – . Euripides is apparently unique in stating that Ino killed both children, Learchus and Melicertes, not just one; the usual story has her husband Athamas kill Learchus. However, the plurals of lines  and  may be taken as ‘poetic’ plurals, and the phrase ‘she died, perishing at the same time as her two children’ does not necessarily imply that she killed them. Euripides is stretching the language in a way that would suggest a stronger similarity with Medea’s story, but his text does not necessarily imply a divergence from the common version. Newton argues that the audience thought that the version narrated by the chorus was an event that did not actually occur: against this see Mastronarde ,  ad E. Med. . See also the fine analyses by Rutherford ,  –  and Nicolai ,  – .  Or Phocis, according to Th. ..: see Hornblower ,  – , Parker , .

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The chorus is often imagined to be a blank entity, devoid of personal character. In fact tragic poets normally take great pains to characterise their choruses, and to make them speak in keeping with their personality.⁴⁹ In this passage, the chorus members stress their personal experience, and the limitation of their information: ‘I have heard (κλύω) of only one person…’. The choral statement is thus both meant to stress the uniqueness of Medea’s crime, and the local Corinthian character of the chorus. This leads us to discuss the interplay of local myth and Panhellenic vision: the play of Euripides had a Panhellenic diffusion but stages local, often obscure myths. The point of the Medea passage is that at least part of the audience was able to read the local allusion: after all, the Isthmian games had Panhellenic importance. Tragedy presents itself as a genre that is able to incorporate local versions and make local people tell those versions, for an Athenian and Panhellenic audience.

9 Conclusion In conclusion, what is the relationship between Euripides and early historians? We have seen several areas of overlap, which include genealogies, description of local cults, foundations of cities. He writes his plays primarily for Athens, but also for festivals in other parts of Greece, and it is very likely that he took into consideration the possibility of new performances in other areas. Athens had political links with cities and kingdoms of Southern Italy, Macedonia, Thessaly and Thrace, or at least tried to set up political alliances there: Euripides, writing plays set in those places, could envisage performances or (more likely) re-performances in those territories. Tragedy was thus presenting itself as a Panhellenic genre, presenting to a Panhellenic audience local myths that would otherwise have been confined to the narrow knowledge of individual cities. Who has ever heard about Melanippe? Thanks to the plays of Euripides, all Greece will. The tragic poet is a learned intellectual who gathers information from sources he cannot quote. He presents on stage gods and heroes who proclaim a ‘true’ version of the myth. This is a strong advantage over the historian. The tragic poet however is aware of the historical discourse and must compete with historians and antiquarians in presenting a credible and authoritative version of his story.

 In the Medea, the Women of Corinth are not especially astute: they are easily misled by Medea, who manages to obtain their sympathy and trust (Mastronarde , , ,  – ,  – , ). They were no experts on myth.

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In order to appear credible to his Panhellenic audience, Euripides also had to be careful in the presentation of his characters. He had to attribute to his characters a ‘realistic’ knowledge of myth: it is not by chance that his Corinthian women know only of one example that can be compared with Medea: audiences in Corinth or from Corinth would find it strange if the chorus missed the parallel with Ino, or if they were too knowledgeable about non-local myths. Like contemporary historians, he had to strike a balance between rationalism and mythical tradition, local and Panhellenic audiences. It is not by chance that many of the examples come from plays that did not make it into the mainstream tradition. The two plays on Melanippe, those on Temenus, Archelaus, Cresphontes, were not favoured by later audiences, in spite of the presence of set pieces, often excerpted (e. g. the speech about female condition delivered by Melanippe in the play where she is ‘Captive’). Some myths that were perceived as too ‘local’ did not after all manage to make it big. The same fate was in store for Antiochus, Hellanicus, Pherecydes, and other historians that were writing ‘local’ history, and sketchy genealogies.

Martin Hose

Euripides-Poet of irritations¹ Any prospective historian of Euripidean scholarship would observe immediately that there have been widely divergent interpretations of the 18 complete extant plays since the study of the poet by professional Hellenists intensified in the second half of the 19th cent.² This divergence is not to be attributed only to changing paradigms, which inform the various interpretations. Rather, there readily appear fault lines between interpreters and interpretations, which result in radically different readings of each drama. Already the earliest extant work, Alcestis, performed in 438, has divided scholarly opinion. One group of critics suggests that Admetus fails completely: he accepts his wife’s sacrifice and then proceeds to break his promise to her not to take another woman into his home. Another group stresses the hospitality of Admetus and views his recovery of his wife at the end as reward for his virtue.³ One may point to a multitude of contentious issues and similar disagreements in connection with every single play. Does Medea’s revenge on Jason go too far when she kills her children? What part does Hippolytus’ one-sided veneration of Artemis and contempt for Aphrodite have in his destruction? Does not Hecuba overdo the punishment of Polymestor, the killer of her son, when she kills his innocent children, etc. etc.? It is quite implausible to suggest that such issues are to be attributed to the poet’s ineptitude. The form of these dramas aims at great clarity, σαφήνεια, as numerous studies have demonstrated.⁴ An association between this σαφήνεια and the ambiguity of the dramas readily suggests itself, in the sense that Euripides’ tragedy strives for for-

 This paper owes much to the stimulation provided by the project “Rhetorik der Verunsicherung” developed by Therese Fuhrer and Martin Vöhler in the framework of the Excellence-cluster “Languages of Emotion” at FU Berlin. I am grateful to both for my repeated participation in workshops and conferences. Furthermore I try to develop and connect arguments presented in two previous papers: “Der “unnötig schlechte Charakter”. Bemerkungen zu Aristoteles’ Poetik und Euripides’ Orestes,” Poetica  ()  – , and “Der tragischste aller Dichter: Wandlungen des Euripides,” Hermes  ()  – . Euripides’ text is cited from J. Diggle (ed.), Euripidis fabulae,  vols., Oxford (//).  The history of these philological interpretations, mainly those of the late th and early th cent., for instance the verdict of Wilhelm August Schlegel, cannot be discussed here. On this see Behler ; also Hose . Cf. also Michelini ,  – .  On this see e. g. Lesky ; summary in Parker , xxxvi-lvi.  See e. g. Ludwig ; cf. the individual chapters in Jens . Already Euripides’ contemporaries seem to have recognized this as the signature of his work; see e. g. Aristophanes, Frogs  – . Aristotle’s verdict on bad plot economy (Poetics , a) contrasts with this view.

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mal clarity in order to suggest more clearly to the recipient its ambiguity.⁵ This suffices to delineate the subject of this paper, the presentation of Euripides as poet of “irritations” (or ‘disconcertment’), that is of the uncertainty of the recipient over how s/he should understand a play and a scene or a character. Specifically, I will investigate how the Euripidean dramas present interpretive problems and options that may not be tackled with the analytical tools that distinguish between closed and open form.⁶ These categories prove inadequate, as they may or may not be applied to the same play depending on the interpretation. The literature has so far made few attempts to address irritations beyond the analysis of each play.⁷ Indicatively, a recent, otherwise very incisive, work on Euripides discusses this problem (“Many critics have noted the frequency of a ‘sting in the tail’ in Euripidean drama”) and explains it as manifestation “of a more open form of dramatic composition” (emphasis added).⁸ *** Two ways of creating irritations may be distinguished in Euripides’ plays. One involves the thematization of irritation in the text, usually by having (central) characters of a play express distress over the action in which they participate and no longer are able to find any meaning in it. This process, which may be called “explicit irritation”, is easily identifiable and will be explained in more detail in the second half of the paper. The other way may be designated as “implicit irritation”: the text does not express the difficulty in making sense of the action but the difficulty faces the recipient, i. e. the spectator or the reader. This is hermeneutically harder to treat because it requires an objectification of the difficulty, which should not be merely reduced to a result of the recipient’s distance from the text. Naturally, an irritation or a problem of comprehension facing a 21st century reader of Euri-

 Here and in what follows I assume that such ambiguity is not resolved on a higher level of understanding, as some older scholars thought. They assumed that there were different interpretations of the play open to different classes of recipients: simple folk would interpret the plays “piously” while enlightened intellectuals would understand the criticism against religion and interpret them accordingly. Emphatically in this direction Verrall ; id. ; this thesis with modifications has been developed further by scholars who use the category of irony and suggest different levels of understanding in the plays, as e. g. Vellacott .  See Pfister ,  – .  The use of irritation in Euripidean tragedy is not an isolated occurrence in Greek literature and culture. Pericles in his speeches evidently used the technique of irritation (see Eupolis Fr.  PCG), and the comparison of the inquiring Socrates with a ray (Plato, Menon a-c; b-c) shows that there was awareness of similar techniques.  Mastronarde ,  and .

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pides cannot be attributed to the intentions of the poet or the text: such a reader does not know the social or religious framework of a 5th cent. BC text, for instance the restrictions of women or the meaning of cultic practices. Methodical caution dictates first an investigation of the history of reception, a search for indicators of irritations meant for spectators and readers close to the time of the plays’ composition. Sources of the indicators in question are the plays of Old comedy, the biographies of Euripides, which may be read as products of his plays’ reception (including by Old comedy), according to Mary Lefkowitz,⁹ as well as the criticism of Euripides by Plato¹⁰ and Aristotle.¹¹ It goes without saying that this a broader topic, which may be tackled here only by means of a few examples. *** An example of external indicator of irritation in a Euripidean play is found in Aristotle’s Poetics. In the context of his treatment of ἦθος, character, Aristotle (ch. 15) mentions four requirements: the characters should be good, appropriate, similar, and even. He then provides examples, although no explanation, of violations of these requirements. The “unnecessarily bad character” of Menelaus in Euripides’ Orestes is an example of a violation of the requirement of character goodness.¹² The Stagirite then saw in the presentation of the character of Menelaus in Euripides’ Orestes ¹³ an inexplicable lack of dramatic economy. This diagnosis provides the stimulus for a brief discussion of the play.¹⁴ Orestes dramatizes Euripides’ version of the events following Orestes’ matricide. The play was performed in 408, and Euripides apparently wished to outdo Aeschylus’ Eumenides, performed in 458, in which a chain of intergenerational internecine murders¹⁵ was broken in a court located in the mythically elevated city of Athens.¹⁶ Following the matricide, the Euripidean Orestes is under house arrest

 See esp. Lefkowitz .  See Sansone .  So far unsurpassed is Elsberger .  Poet. , a  – : “An example of an unnecessarily bad character is Menelaus in Orestes”, cf. Poet. , b – .  I assume with Cilliers  (among others against Porter ,  n. ) that Aristotle refers to the role as a whole rather than Or.  – .  I summarize here the conclusions of my paper, cited in n.  above, and develop them further. Fundamental for the understanding of Orestes remains the paper of Reinhardt  (first ), developed by Burkert .  See Käppel .  Summary in Föllinger ,  – , especially on Eumenides Hose  with further literature.

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(46) in Argos and is tortured by attacks of insanity, during which he takes others for the invisible Erinyes (253 – 76). His sister Electra is his caretaker, and he waits with her for the city’s verdict on his fate: a death sentence hangs over them (49 – 50). Their last hope is Menelaus, who arrived at Argos with Helen after the matricide and hid her in Agamemnon’s palace because of the wrath of the citizens against her on account of the Trojan war. But Orestes’ plea to his uncle for salvation proves unsuccessful because in the meantime Tyndareus, Clytaemestra’s father, arrives, accuses his grandson for the matricide and intimidates Menelaus (356 – 723). The frustrated Orestes is encouraged by Pylades; together they agree to go to the assembly of the people and defend Orestes’ act (778 – 806), but this goes awry, as a messenger reports (852– 956): Menelaus keeps quite in the assembly, although he had hinted otherwise, and the killers of Clytaemestra are sentenced to die by their own hand. Orestes returns with Pylades, and the siblings with their friend prepare to die in a moving scene (1018 – 97), which, as has been observed,¹⁷ surpasses in pathos and intensity similar scenes in Iphigenia among the Taurians or Sophocles’ Electra. This makes the shift in mood at 1098 – 99 all the more striking: Pylades proposes Menelaus’ destruction, and there follows the planning of a revenge intrigue, which also aims at bringing salvation: Orestes and Pylades agree to kill Helen in the palace and take her daughter Hermione hostage in order to force Menelaus to help them. The victims turn into a trio of bandits.¹⁸ The attempt on Helen fails, because the gods save her, but at the end of the play Orestes, Electra, Pylades and their hostage stand on the roof of the palace. Orestes holds his sword at Hermione’s neck and forces her father, who is standing helpless in front of the palace, to promise help, and he is even about to set the palace on fire. Apollo appears as deus ex machina (1625 – 65) and arranges a happy end; Orestes marries his hostage, Pylades Electra, and Menelaus goes back to Sparta. The play presents a split, as is obvious from the above summary: sufferers turn into ruthless perpetrators. One may ask what meaning an “unnecessarily bad” Menelaus may have in this context. An observation in the hypothesis ascribed to Aristophanes of Byzantium is helpful: “The play is one of those that succeed on the stage but is terrible in the morality of the characters. Apart from Pylades everyone is bad.”¹⁹ This observation appears to refer to the entire play and to take at least the part up to 1097 as mere preliminaries for the end. However, this obviously fails to reproduce the proportions of the play’s parts. The first two  Reinhardt ,  – .  The term in Wilhelm Schmid, see Burkert , .  Schwartz , p. ,  – : τὸ δρᾶμα τῶν ἐπὶ σκηνῆς εὐδοκιμούντων, χείριστον δὲ τοῖς ἤθεσι. πλὴν γὰρ Πυλάδου πάντες φαῦλοι ἦσαν.

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thirds of the play sketch a picture of Orestes and Electra in which all registers are utilized to generate pity for Orestes and his sister: disease, delusions, self-doubt and self-recriminations, a compassionate chorus: all this directs the reception (and constitutes a reception suggestion) toward a spectator or reader response that the modern theory of literature would categorize as “sympathetic identification”.²⁰ The recipient–the effect of the play may be understood in these terms–is encouraged to focus on Orestes and Electra and to follow the plot sympathetically, or “pityingly”, from the perspective of these characters. In addition, other characters, with whom there is no identification, may potentially be sketched in a similar manner: Helen (this was not mentioned above) is tactless, vain, and greedy (cf. 71, 126 – 31), and Menelaus cowardly, as his attitude toward Tyndareus shows. This negative portrayal, which clings from the very beginning to the only two possible identification characters,²¹ “blocks” the orientation of the recipient toward them. S/he remains fixed on Orestes and Electra and shares the experience of their mutation to criminals. This is where the irritation potential of the play lies, in misleading the spectator to identify first with victims and then with villains. This instrument, used to bring about the identification of the recipient, is important in other Euripidean plays too. Similar analyses may show that what is particularly evident in Orestes also appears elsewhere in Euripidean drama. Medea, Hecuba and Electra show the transformation of victims into perpetrators. In these plays too a character is initially a sufferer: Medea was abandoned by the oath-breaking Jason and is about to be exiled from Corinth; Hecuba must deal with the death of more children, Polyxena and Polydorus, after Troy’s fall; following Agamemnon’s murder Electra was given in marriage to a poor farmer and awaits her brother’s return, apparently in vain. There are also compassionate choruses, and intense pathos and despair are generated, mainly in the so-called introduction of the plays,²² which encourage sympathetic identification with the sufferers. There is also a revenge that alienates the recipient (and in Medea the chorus too²³). In any case, the irritation potential of the three plays decreases in comparison with Orestes. In Medea the dangerous potential of the eponymous character is demonstrated from the beginning.²⁴ Moreover, her revenge²⁵ through

 See Jauss ,  – ; on this model see also Effe , and more extensively Hose, “Der unnötig schlechte Charakter”  – .  The messenger is not perceived as an identification figure because he remains without the features necessary for that.  On the term and concept still important Nestle .  Cf. Med.  – .  Cf. Med. .

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magic creates distance between the “witch” and the recipient. In Hecuba Polymestor, the victim of the revenge, is so plainly a brutal, devious barbarian that the eponymous character’s hatred for him remains plausible (unlike the innocent Hermione in Orestes).²⁶ In Electra the perpetrators, who sink into helpless despair over their action after the matricide,²⁷ are again awarded a measure of pity by the recipient.²⁸ It is easy to see how Euripides builds up and then disturbs sympathetic identification in order to create irritation. In connection with pity, another interesting special case is Trojan women. Like Hecuba, this play too dramatizes the suffering of the captive and enslaved Trojan women after the fall of Troy. Their pitiful condition, with the focus on Hecuba, is stressed prominently. Hecuba, informed by the herald Talthybius, must experience the removal of her daughter Cassandra, who will become Agamemnon’s slave, the allocation of her daughter-in-law Andromache to Neoptolemus, the murder of her grandson Astyanax by the Greeks, the return of Helen to Menelaus without punishment,²⁹ and finally her own enslavement to Odysseus, as Troy is being set on fire by the Greeks. There is no transformation of victims into perpetrators, and even Hecuba’s attempt to have Helen punished in a trial-like debate before Menelaus fails. The recipient then preserves a sympathetic perspective, which, subjectively considered, is almost unbearably reinforced and thus also creates irritation. The common element of irritation in the plays under discussion lies obviously in humans with their attitudes and behavior. They cause irritation through a specific form of transgression and may clearly be conceived as sufferers (this is the meaning of the “sympathetic identification” pattern) who turn into perpetrators. As perpetrators, though, they go, or seem to go, too far, as the comments of the chorus in Medea suggest. *** Irritation functions in another way in a number of Euripidean dramas with internal projections of irritation. Let us begin with Electra. The matricide has taken

 See Burnett ; more extensively ead. .  Similar to this group of plays is Heraclidae, in which Alcmene ruthlessly champions the execution of Eurystheus against the opinion of the chorus, the representatives of Athens, who plead for clemency ( – ).  Cf. Hose, “Der tragischste aller Dichter”  – . An analysis of the perspective of characters in this play (after Pfister) is provided by Harder .  From this point of view Andromache may be thought to foreshadow Electra; see Hose, “Der tragischste aller Dichter”  – .  On this scene see Lloyd .

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place. Orestes, goaded by Electra, has killed Clytaemestra in the poor cottage outside Argos, in which Electra had to while away her life in a socially inappropriate marriage. The siblings come out of the cottage and share an amoibaion with the chorus (1177– 1232), in which they seem to realize the horror of their act. They are distraught, even traumatized by their behavior, which they go over in the song. The Dioscuri appear from the machine (1233 – 37). On the surface, they arrange things. Castor mandates that Electra shall marry Pylades, Orestes shall leave Argos and be tried in Athens so that he may escape the persecution of the Erinyes etc. (1238 – 91).³⁰ Noteworthy is Castor’s assessment of the matricide: δίκαια μέν νυν ἥδ’ ἔχει, σὺ δ’ οὐχὶ δρᾶις. Φοῖβος δέ, Φοῖβος – ἀλλ’ ἄναξ γάρ ἐστ’ ἐμός, σιγῶ· σοφὸς δ’ ὢν οὐκ ἔχρησέ σοι σοφά. αἰνεῖν δ’ ἀνάγκη ταῦτα. The treatment she received was just, but your act was not. And Phoebus, Phoebus– but since he is my lord I keep silent. He is wise, but the oracle he delivered to you was not. Still, one must accept these things. […]

(1244– 47)

Castor certainly criticizes Apollo’s mandate to Orestes to avenge his father by killing his mother–with the aposiopesis Castor seems to retract the criticism but he actually reinforces it rhetorically: Apollo, the god of wisdom kat’ exochen, gave an oracle that was not wise. In this manner, the deeper, divine justification of the deed is removed, or at least questioned, and the only means by which the traumatized siblings may be comforted becomes ineffective. This not only means that the siblings are affected more deeply by the moral catastrophe lamented in the amoibaion, as the divine justification for their action collapses, but also to the recipient the entire plot of the play becomes retrospectively questionable, when in the end its foundation turns out to be baseless. The Bacchae offer another example. Dionysus has achieved his retaliation. Because Thebes did not acknowledge and worship him as a god he made the women of the city frenzied and sent them to the mountains as maenads. Pentheus, the king of the city (and his cousin), who tried to imprison him, was deceived by him and as he tried to observe the Theban maenads in the mountains was delivered to them by Dionysus and torn apart. Pentheus’ mother Agave killed her son in frenzy. Then she returned to Thebes eerily triumphant, believing that she had hunted down a mountain lion. There her father Cadmus made her

 On this see Whitehorne .

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realize her awful deed. Dionysus appears as a sort of deus ex machina in a scene of despair and lament (1330 ff.): he does not offer comfort and put things in order but explains his revenge and announces a bitter transformation: Cadmus and his wife Harmonia will become snakes and leave Thebes. At the end of Euripides’ Bacchae the god annihilates his opponents. Cadmus’ reaction³¹ to this annihilation is noteworthy. He first asks for forgiveness (1344– 45): Cadmus: Dionysus: Cadmus: Dionysus:

Διόνυσε, λισσόμεθά σ’, ἠδικήκαμεν. ὄψ’ ἐμάθεθ’ ἡμᾶς, ὅτε δ’ ἐχρῆν, οὐκ ἤιδετε. Dionysus, we beg of you, we have done you wrong. You have understood me too late, but you did not know me when you should have.

These lines are reminiscent of the explanatory framework in which Aeschylean tragedy inscribes its catastrophes: the motif of “learning through suffering”,³² which appears in Persae and finds its theological formulation in the parodos of Agamemnon: Ζῆνα […] τὸν φρονεῖν βροτοὺς ὁδώσαντα, τὸν πάθει μάθος θέντα κυρίως ἔχειν. Zeus[…] has put mortals on the way to wisdom by establishing as a valid law “by suffering they shall win understanding.”

(176 – 78, transl. E. Fraenkel)

The motif of learning through suffering is used throughout Euripidean drama. In Alcestis Admetus admits after the funeral of his wife that he now understands that with her sacrifice his life has lost its meaning: […] ἄρτι μανθάνω (90). In the Bacchae man does not limit himself to this realization, which is always bitter for the individual. Much more, and this is unparalleled in Euripides’ work,³³ man blames god, Cadmus blames Dionysus (1346): Cadmus: ἐγνώκαμεν ταῦτ’· ἀλλ’ ἐπεξέρχηι λίαν. We understand that. But you have attacked us very severely.

Cadmus does not simply accept the divinely ordained destruction of his family: he accepts the learning that signifies the acknowledgment of a condicio humana  For the attribution of lines , ,  in P to Cadmus see Roux , vol. , .  Cf. Hdt. ... The popularity of this “theodicy” model is shown by its parody in Aristophanes’ Clouds; see Rau ,  – .  See Mastronarde , .

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and leads man to resign himself to his predicament but also questions the proportionality of the god’s revenge to the crime. Dionysus gives the following answer (1347): καὶ γὰρ πρὸς ὑμῶν θεὸς γεγὼς ὑβριζόμην. “And (rightly so) because I, a god, was insulted by you.”

Dionysus then justifies his act with a central principle of Greek culture, retaliation for insult, which in various forms underlies as cultural logic the plot of epic and tragedy.³⁴ Actually Dionysus may well evoke hubris in the face of the deeds of Pentheus,³⁵ who had imprisoned him (in his guise as Lydian stranger) in the stables (509) and insulted him (491 ff.). But Cadmus does not resign himself to this. He replies further (1348): ὀργὰς πρέπει θεοὺς οὐχ ὁμοιοῦσθαι βροτοῖς. “Gods should not be like mortals in rage.”

This is a remarkable thought; it implies a normative view, namely that gods differ positively from humans. Famously, this is found already in archaic poetry in Xenophanes (DK 21 B 11): πάντα θεοῖσ’ ἀνέθηκαν Ὅμηρός θ’ Ἡσίοδός τε, ὅσσα παρ’ ἀνθρώποισιν ὀνείδεα καὶ ψόγος ἐστίν, κλέπτειν μοιχεύειν τε καὶ ἀλλήλους ἀπατεύειν. “Homer and Hesiod have attributed to the gods all that is shameful and blameworthy among men, theft, adultery, and mutual deceit.”

“To attribute” (ἀνέθηκαν) implies that the humans ascribe to the gods faults of which the gods are free and thus better than the humans. The context of this fragment may be reconstructed according to Xenophanes’ view. Xenophanes’ starting point is that the images or notions that the humans form of the gods are projections of human behavior or outlook. He detects not only “anthropomorphism”³⁶ but also human morality and psychological dispositions in the

 On this see Blundell ,  – ; Gehrke . On Bacchae see further Winnington-Ingram ,  n. .  At  –  Dionysus explicitly announces to Pentheus that he will take revenge for the ὑβρίσματα he has suffered.  On this see e. g. DK  B  – .

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ideas of the Greeks about the gods. Whether and to what extent he had a conception of the divine cleansed of these human projections hangs on the difficult interpretation of a fragment³⁷ cited (indicatively) by Clemens of Alexandria: εἷς θεός, ἔν τε θεοῖσι καὶ ἀνθρώποισι μέγιστος, οὔτι δέμας θνητοῖσι ὁμοίιος οὐδὲ νόημα. (DK 21 B 23 = Clem. Al. Strom. 5, 109 [vol. 2, 399, 16 St.]). “One single god, greatest among gods and humans, totally unlike mortals in appearance and thought.”

Let us put it this way for the sake of simplicity: the god of Xenophanes is superior to humans because of his dissimilarity in appearance and thought, and this difference prescribes in principle a duty for humans to approach and become similar to him.³⁸ The archaic and classical literature presents this as the project of the “hero”, for instance the paradigmatic Heracles, who strives after (aristocratic) virtue. Philosophy, primarily Plato,³⁹ presents it as the project of the man who strives after moral excellence. The homoiosis,⁴⁰ to use a pointed formulation, is an anagogical model. Against this background Cadmus’ criticism of divine propriety (πρέπει) also formulates a paradox: when the gods act according to human logic, they engage in an ὁμοίωσις ἀνθρώπωι. Instead of an anagogical they perform a “catagogical” motion and so lose their divine rank. Cadmus then directs a severe attack on the divinity of Dionysus, in other words on the status that the latter wished to force at all costs the Thebans to recognize. For a moment, there shines through a perspective from which Dionysus, who wished to prove his status through his terrible revenge on the theomachos Pentheus, has intellectually forfeited this very status. The response of Dionysus to this attack is therefore highly significant. He could have asserted his position by pointing out the limitations of human perspective in relation to the workings of the gods and, as in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans (11.33), brought up the opaqueness of divine ways to humans. Also, in late fifth century, he could have used a sleight of hand and armed himself with the agnostic argumentation of Protagoras, who declared that human limitations rendered the knowledge of god impossible (DK 80 B 4):

 See recently the summary in Schirren , esp.  – , with further literature.  See Roloff .  See Plato, Theaetetus a-b; Republic , a-b; Timaeus d – .  On this term and the relevant concept see, beside Roloff, Merki ; Becchi ,  – ; Männlein-Robert ,  – .

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περὶ μὲν θεῶν οὐκ ἔχω εἰδέναι, οὔθ’ ὡς εἰσὶν οὔθ’ ὡς οὐκ εἰσὶν οὔθ’ ὁποῖοί τινες ἰδέαν· πολλὰ γὰρ τὰ κωλύοντα εἰδέναι ἥ τ’ ἀδηλότης καὶ βραχὺς ὢν ὁ βίος τοῦ ἀνθρώπου. “Concerning the gods I am unable to have any knowledge, whether they exist or not and what form they may take. There are many obstacles in the attainment of such knowledge, both obscurity and the brevity of human life.”

In Euripides the notion of the unknowability of gods and their ways appears in the famous prayer of Hecuba in Trojan Women (884 – 88): ὦ γῆς ὄχημα κἀπὶ γῆς ἔχων ἕδραν, ὅστις ποτ᾽ εἶ σύ, δυστόπαστος εἰδέναι, Ζεύς, εἴτ᾽ ἀνάγκη φύσεος εἴτε νοῦς βροτῶν, προσηυξάμην σε: πάντα γὰρ δι᾽ ἀψόφου βαίνων κελεύθου κατὰ δίκην τὰ θνήτ᾽ ἄγεις. “You that support the earth and have your seat upon it, whoever you may be, so hard for human conjecture to find out, Zeus, whether you are the necessity of nature or the mind of mortal men […]” (transl. Kovacs)

The address at 885, δυστόπαστος εἰδέναι, could have also been taken up by Dionysus in Bacchae in order to prove Cadmus’ accusations were false because of human limitations. Instead the god replies (1349): πάλαι τάδε Ζεὺς οὑμὸς ἐπένευσεν πατήρ. “My father Zeus long ago approved (by nodding) these things.”

Dionysus invokes the assent of Zeus, which through the verb ἐπινεύειν recalls the loftiest scene in Greek literature in which Zeus grants a request.⁴¹ In Iliad Thetis supplicates Zeus to back the revenge of her son Achilles on Agamemnon by granting victory to the Trojans. Zeus agrees and declares that his nod is the greatest possible confirmation of his agreement (1.524– 25). In Homer’s narration this nod makes the entire Olympus shake (1.528: ἦ καὶ κυανέηισιν ἐπ’ ὀφρύσι νεῦσε Κρονίων. 530: μέγαν δ’ ἐλέλιξεν Ὄλυμπον).⁴² As far as I know, scholars had failed so far to detect this intertextual link and thus struggled with Dionysus’ answer: Bruhn considered it merely a failure of Dionysus, who hides behind the almighty will of Zeus,⁴³ and Dodds concurs: “[…] a weak evasion” and also points out that other Euripidean gods appeal to higher authority to justify themselves.⁴⁴

 See Schwabl .  It seems conceivable that the verb ἐπινεύειν at Bacch.  is Euripides’ interpretation of the tmesis at Il. . ἐπ’ […] νεῦσε.  Bruhn , .

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Still, there is certainly more in Dionysus’ reply. On the one hand, it evokes through the Iliadic reminiscence a literary (and because of the canonical status of the Iliad even a cultural) logic according to which a just revenge for an insult may demand colossal victimization–in the proem of the Iliad (1.2) explicitly designated as μυρία ἄλγεα. Naturally, though, there is a clear difference between Achilles and Dionysus. Achilles takes a passive revenge on the Achaeans by refusing to offer help while Dionysus takes an active revenge by bringing about the gruesome fall of Pentheus and turning his mother into a killer. In this light, Dionysus’ allusion to the Iliad as a parallel for his action is misguided, and Cadmus’ accusation of excess (λίαν, 1346) remains valid. On the other hand, Dionysus’ appeal to Zeus compromises even the greatest god of the Greek pantheon. Now this divinity, traditionally viewed as the guarantor of justice, is presented as responsible for the excessive retaliatory punishment. Thus Dionysus’ answer achieves something remarkable (and, as far as I know, so far unobserved by scholars): in contrast, for instance, to Electra, not only a single god is problematized, who in Bacchae–Dionysus as foreign god (13 – 42) and as alterity⁴⁵–especially appears as coming from outside Greece, but the entire divine heaven is involved in the irritation. In this manner, in the play most concerned thematically with the gods, Euripides offers the most shocking representation of the gods. Electra and Bacchae with their explicit textual irritations reinforce the catastrophe the human characters suffer. The latter are robbed of all access to a divine level, which might help them make sense of the predicament that befell them. Euripidean tragedy certainly had the option of employing “theological irritations” in other ways. I will show this with the example of Ion, in which the end is also remarkable. Ion too contains explicit textual irritation. The eponymous hero, fruit of an old rape of the Athenian princess Creusa by Apollo, was born secretly and exposed by his mother. He was brought to Delphi by Hermes and there grew up as a temple slave. According to Apollo’s plan, which Hermes reveals in the prologue, Ion is due to be installed in Athens as heir to the throne. Creusa’s marriage to the Dorian Xuthus has been childless, and Xuthus will come to Delphi to consult the oracle. Apollo plans to proclaim that Ion is Xuthus’ so far unknown son and at some point in Athens also bring Creusa in the picture. Things at first go as planned, Xuthus appears, but so does Creusa, who believes that the child she

 Dodds ,  ad loc.  On the understanding of Dionysus as ‘other god’ see Schlesier and Schwarzmaier ; Carpenter and Faraone .

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had exposed is dead. Ion learns from her that “a friend” suffered a terrible fate, a rape by Apollo. Ion is distraught, as a monologue reveals: […] νουθετητέος δέ μοι Φοῖβος, τί πάσχει· παρθένους βίᾳ γαμῶν προδίδωσι; παῖδας ἐκτεκνούμενος λάθρᾳ θνῄσκοντας ἀμελεῖ; μὴ σύ γ᾽· ἀλλ᾽, ἐπεὶ κρατεῖς, ἀρετὰς δίωκε. καὶ γὰρ ὅστις ἂν βροτῶν κακὸς πεφύκῃ, ζημιοῦσιν οἱ θεοί. πῶς οὖν δίκαιον τοὺς νόμους ὑμᾶς βροτοῖς γράψαντας, αὐτοὺς ἀνομίαν ὀφλισκάνειν; “[…] I must rebuke Apollo: what is wrong with him? Ravishing unwedded girls and abandoning them? Begetting children and then sitting idly while they die? Do not act this way! Since you have power, pursue goodness! Any mortal who is base is punished by the gods. So how is it right that you who prescribe laws for mortals should yourselves be guilty of lawlessness?” (436 – 43, transl. Kovacs)

Faced with the possibility that, by human standards, gods behave immorally, even criminally, Ion is distraught and apparently demands that the gods should observe precisely the same rules which they wish for humans to observe. But Apollo has behaved in the manner that Ion finds incredible. Even worse, the attempt of the god to alleviate the suffering of Creusa and the fate of Ion leads to near disaster: Creusa believes that Ion is an illegitimate son of Xuthus, whom the latter tries to foist on her with a manipulated oracle, and tries to kill him. Her attempt to have him poisoned falls through at the last minute, and now Ion is about to have his unrecognized mother stoned for the attempt.⁴⁶ At the last moment, the Pythia comes out and intervenes but also gives Ion his cradle and baby clothes through which Creusa recognizes Ion for the son she had thought dead. Ion’s doubts about his parentage are dissolved only by Athena, who appears as dea ex machina (1553 – 1605). Beside factual explanation her speech contains two remarkable suggestions. First, she explains why Apollo does not appear in Delphi as deus ex machina: ἐπώνυμος δὲ σῆς ἀφικόμην χθονὸς Παλλάς, δρόμῳ σπεύσασ᾽ ᾿Aπόλλωνος πάρα, ὃς ἐς μὲν ὄψιν σφῷν μολεῖν οὐκ ἠξίου, μὴ τῶν πάροιθε μέμψις ἐς μέσον μόλῃ, ἡμᾶς δὲ πέμπει τοὺς λόγους ὑμῖν φράσαι·

 On the balancing act between destruction and happy outcome, which informs this play. see Matthiessen .

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“I, Pallas, who gave my name to your land, have come here, sent in haste by Apollo. He has not thought it best to come to see you lest reproach for what happened before come between you and him. He has sent me to talk to you.” (1555 – 59, transl. Kovacs with modifications)

An Apollo who fears public censure is socially perceived as a human. This should indicate that the standard which Ion had naively set for the gods (436 – 43) turns out to be validated by the god’s shame–and Apollo’s rape of Creusa should count as a serious crime according to this standard. Furthermore, Athena’s admonition to Creusa is remarkable: νῦν οὖν σιώπα, παῖς ὅδ᾽ ὡς πέφυκε σός, ἵν᾽ ἡ δόκησις Ξοῦθον ἡδέως ἔχῃ, σύ τ᾽ αὖ τὰ σαυτῆς ἀγάθ᾽ ἔχουσ᾽ ἴῃς, γύναι. καὶ χαίρετ᾽· ἐκ γὰρ τῆσδ᾽ ἀναψυχῆς πόνων εὐδαίμον᾽ ὑμῖν πότμον ἐξαγγέλλομαι. “Now therefore tell no one that he is your son: Xuthus will enjoy a pleasant delusion and you, lady, will go your way in possession of the blessing that belongs to you. Farewell! Your troubles are now ended, and hereafter, I promise you, your fortune will be good.” (1601– 5, transl. Kovacs)

Keep silent, and everything will be fine: a goddess admonishes a wife to hide from her husband that she is the boy’s mother, for the sake of her happiness. As in Alcestis, it remains open whether this might be a recipe for a future happy life. Scholars have been sharply divided over this controversial issue.⁴⁷ The conclusion that may be drawn from the discussion of these plays is that explicit irritation concerns the relationship of men and gods. Generally, the irritations involve the projection of human norms on the gods. This could be taken as a foolish human figure of thought. However, as the discussion of Ion has shown, the gods experience shame as humans do and thus operate with the same concept of right and wrong. This exposes a deficit in the view of the divine. *** By way of conclusion, let us bring together and contextualize our observations on the Euripidean irritation technique. First of all, it is evident that this technique does not have an impact only on some aspects of a play but ultimately affects the “meaning” or “understanding” of the play as a whole. Irritation may be viewed as an instrument which allows the poet to bring about equivocation in his plays. He selects for relativization at the end propositions that are readily  See e. g. the opposite interpretations of Leimbach  and Erbse ,  – .

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understandable in the play, even if mostly conventional, because of their clear formal and linguistic structure, as e. g. in Bacchae: a man who opposes a god is ruined deservedly. Without irritation, there would have been a simple fabula docet: the man who abandons his wife like Jason deserves punishment; a child-killer like Medea is wrong; a husband-killer like Clytaemestra must die– or a matricide causes himself great suffering etc. etc. Without irritation, Euripides’ art would have been in the service of a plain didacticism that affirmed the social and religious organization of the polis. Euripides’ tragedy avoids this by turning for its irritations mainly to the intellectual tradition that in Greek culture included transmitted “counter-discourses” to the fundamental ordering views about men and gods or promoted and developed them anew with the Presocratics and Sophists. In Bacchae it exploits the conflict potential that results from the recognition that the Greek concept of the gods is an extrapolation from concepts about men. In Orestes it exploits the potential resulting from the newly fashioned conception of the thoroughly base motive forces of humanity at the end of the 5th cent. The distinguishing mark of Euripidean irritation then is the inscription of a conflict between cultural mainstream positions (one might call them “orthodox” thinking after Bourdieu⁴⁸) and cultural minority positions (one might call them “heterodox” thinking after Bourdieu). In any case, it seems important to me that this generates a juxtaposition: the adoption of heterodoxy does not signify its stealthy victory in the plays. This would amount to “settlement of accounts” with orthodoxy (and let this objection be raised against those interpretations based on this view), which would make the plays in question similar to those without irritation, plain and humdrum.

 Terms after Bourdieu .

G.O. Hutchinson

Gods wise and foolish: Euripides and Greek literature from Homer to Plutarch* Wisdom is a word that comes to mind when one thinks about Daniel Iakov. These slight thoughts are offered to the memory of a tireless scholar and a gentle person. ‘With arrogance in our hearts we think we are wiser than the gods.’ ‘You are a foolish god or you are not just.’ ‘Gods should be wiser than mortals.’ ‘Zeus’s partner Leto could not have given birth to anything so stupid.’ ‘I do not think Hera and the virgin Pallas reached such an extreme of stupidity…’. ‘He [Apollo] is wise, but this oracle of his was not.’ “‘Apollo, who told me to accomplish the killing of my mother.’ ‘He was more foolish than right and justice.’” ‘Like a base man, he [Apollo] kept in mind the old quarrel: how could he be wise?’ ‘It is terrible that divinity did not make laws well for mortals, nor with wise thought.’ ‘Not even the gods, called wise, are more infallible than winged dreams.’ ‘Zeus, you are called “father” and a wise god; so look upon us.’ ‘“You are wise, very wise, except for what you should be wise in.” “(Dionysus) I am wise in the things that matter most.”’¹

These and other utterances jangle discordantly through the plays of Euripides. One can see them as part of a story in ancient thought, and one can also use the story to see more of their significance. What follows is a very light and incomplete sketch. We might tend to assume that wisdom is a natural and fundamental attribute of deity. This will be partly because of its vital part in Jewish religion as it develops, and then in Christianity. Is it so in Greek literature? We could start by thinking about the English word ‘wise’ as used now; I am fortunate (or unfor-

* I am grateful to Professor Robert Parker for conversation on this subject, and not least for confirming my impression that little has been written on the wisdom of Greek gods.  E. Suppl.  –  τὸ γαῦρον δ᾿ ἐν φρεϲὶν κεκτημένοι | δοκοῦμεν εἶναι δαιμόνων ϲοφώτεροι, HF  ἀμαθήϲ τιϲ εἶ θεὸϲ ἢ δίκαιοϲ οὐκ ἔφυϲ, Hipp.  ϲοφωτέρουϲ γὰρ χρὴ βροτῶν εἶναι θεούϲ, IT  –  οὐκ ἔϲθ᾿ ὅπωϲ ἔτεκεν ἂν ἡ Διὸϲ δάμαρ | Λητὼ τοϲαύτην ἀμαθίαν, Tr.  –  ἐγὼ γὰρ Ἥραν παρθενόν τε Παλλάδα | οὐκ ἐϲ τοϲοῦτον ἀμαθίαϲ ἐλθεῖν δοκῶ…, El.  ϲοφὸϲ δ᾿ ὢν οὐκ ἔχρηϲέ ϲοι ϲοφά (cf. , and also S. Ph. ), Or.  –  Ορ. Φοῖβοϲ, κελεύϲαϲ μητρὸϲ ἐκπρᾶξαι φόνον. | Με. ἀμαθέϲτερόϲ γ᾿ ὢν τοῦ καλοῦ καὶ τῆϲ δίκηϲ, Andr.  –  ἐμνημόνευϲε δ᾿ ὥϲπερ ἄνθρωποϲ κακόϲ | παλαιὰ νείκη· πῶϲ ἂν οὖν εἴη ϲοφόϲ;, Ion  –  δεινόν γε θνητοῖϲ τοὺϲ νόμουϲ ὡϲ οὐ καλῶϲ | ἔθηκεν ὁ θεὸϲ οὐδ᾿ ἀπὸ γνώμηϲ ϲοφῆϲ, IT  –  οὐδ᾿ οἱ ϲοφοί γε δαίμονεϲ κεκλημένοι | πτηνῶν ὀνείρων εἰϲὶν ἀψευδέϲτεροι (suspected by Diggle), Hel.  –  ὦ Ζεῦ, πατήρ τε καὶ ϲοφὸϲ κλήιζηι θεόϲ· | βλέψον πρὸϲ ἡμᾶϲ, Ba.  –  Πε. ϲοφόϲ, ϲοφὸϲ ϲύ, πλὴν ἃ δεῖ ϲ᾿ εἶναι ϲοφόν. | Δι. ἃ δεῖ μάλιϲτα, ταῦτ᾿ ἔγωγ᾿ ἔφυν ϲοφόϲ.

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tunate) enough to be a native speaker of this language. The word seems to connote not just knowledge but a sort of understanding; it appears (a) to be primarily the preserve of those who are no longer young, and (b) to suggest a kind of thoughtful restraint rather than ruthless cunning. (a) is a widespread aspect in the use of this and semantically related words, both in English and in Greek and Latin; with (b) matters are less clear.² The stem ϲοφ- is very rare in archaic epic. There and in the archaic period generally it denotes skill at a craft, in which Athene or other gods might help (so Hom. Il. 15.411– 412 (note this is a simile), Hes. Op. 648 – 9 (a technical skill the speaker does not possess), Stes. fr. 100.11– 12 Finglass); gods themselves might be skilled, like the horse-riding Dioscuri (Alcm. PMGF 2). The general idea of wisdom, as just outlined for contemporary English, is clearly visible in a figure like Nestor, older and less impetuous than the younger kings (cf. e. g. 9.93 – 4 for the excellence of his advice; 1.247– 52, 259 on his age). It could plausibly be seen as a quality of the supreme god, superbly formed into a character by the Iliad. He is in manner as well as age older than gods like Athene and Apollo, more detached and reflective than them or indeed his wife. His νόοϲ (16.688, 17.176) is more powerful than that of men; but that does not create so clear an idea of his wisdom as the scenes of isolation and thought. In the Cypria fr. 1 West he devises a cosmic plan ἐν πυκιναῖϲ πραπίδεϲϲιν. This wisdom is not a quality particularly to be seen in other deities of the Iliad. Athene in the Odyssey excels among the gods in μῆτιϲ and κέρδεα (13.296 – 302); these are connected with good counsel (βουλή, 298), but with a twist towards Odysseus’ own craftiness and trickery.³ Thereafter, the stem ϲοφ- comes to include a more general prudence and discernment (so Simon. fr. 260.12 Poltera on Pittacus), and is importantly connected with Zeus and the gods by Heraclitus. Wisdom appears to be a crucial thing in the universe and to be in some sense equivalent to Zeus: ἓν τὸ ϲοφὸν μοῦνον λέγεϲθαι οὐκ ἐθέλει καὶ ἐθέλει Ζηνὸϲ ὄνομα (fr. 84 Marcovich), i. e. there is one name only by which what is wise wants and does not want to be called, that of Zeus. Humanity’s relative foolishness is compared with that of a child: ἀνὴρ

 The association of wisdom and age is apparent already at Beowulf  –  ‘Ƿē ƿā wordcwydas wigtig Drihten | on sefan sende; ne hȳrde ic snotorlicor | on swā geongum feore guman ƿingian. | Ƿū eart…| wīs word-cwida’ (‘The wise Lord sent these utterances into your mind. I never heard a person make a speech more judiciously at such a young age. You are…wise in utterance.’). For wisdom in Judaism and Christianity and its relation to the divine, cf. e. g. Witte , Leuenberger , Grandy , Brachtendorf .  On σοφ- see esp. Gladigow . On Hes. fr. . Most, note Hutchinson ().

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νήπιοϲ ἤκουϲε πρὸϲ δαίμονοϲ ὅκωϲπερ παῖϲ πρὸϲ ἀνδρόϲ (fr. 92 Marcovich). The hierarchy of age remains part of the concept of wisdom.⁴ In Aeschylus, the obscurity of Zeus’s plans for mortals seems to relate to his superior mind: it is his πραπίδεϲ which form an entangled forest impenetrable to human sight (Supp. 86 – 7, 93 – 5). The wisdom of Athene is connected with that of Zeus: he has granted her φρονεῖν…οὐ κακῶϲ, though she politely, and wisely, claims to be less wise than her elders the Erinyes (Eum. 848 – 50; κάρτ’ ἐμοῦ ϲοφωτέρα; cf. them to her at 431 τῶν ϲοφῶν γὰρ οὐ πένηι). One can see how Athene has come to attain this quality, in part through her original association with crafts, but also through her wider intelligence, as in the Odyssey. She now appears as the patron goddess of Athens, who sorts everything out, through Zeus (cf. 973, 1045 – 1046). Here she seems much more mature than Apollo; but he is in general another god set up for connection with wisdom. Prophecy is a skill in which humans can be ϲοφοί (Soph. Aj. 783, Ant. 1059, OT 563, Hdt. 2.49.2); and knowledge of everything takes us close to wisdom, as we see when Apollo, learning a matter of fact, heeds ‘his companion most straight in judgement, his mind that knows all’ (Pi. P. 3.28 – 29, κοινᾶνι παρ᾿ εὐθυτάτωι γνώμαν πιθών, | πάντα ἰϲάντι νόωι). This brings us to the second half of the fifth century. Various factors become relevant. The first is that ϲοφία, beyond the sense of skill in a craft, is intensely prized as a quality by humans, particularly in Athens: it forms part of the Athenians’ self-image. This is seen, for example, in Ar. Nub. 518 – 527, where ϲοφόϲ and δεξιόϲ are as often synonyms and are attributes of the Athenians as audience, or in Cleon’s speech in Thucydides, where the Athenians want to be thought at least as clever as the speakers in the assembly and wiser than the laws (3.37.4, 38.5 – 7, again with δεξι- as a synonym, and with ἀμαθ- as an antonym). In the rarefied picture at E. Med. 824– 845 the Athenians feed on most famous ϲοφία and a personified Sophia sits with the Erotes, who produce all kinds of ἀρετή. One might suppose that this quality would be applied to the gods in some Athenian literature, and especially in Euripides: he uses the stem almost twice as much as Sophocles, when the size of the corpora is taken into account. The most radically advanced Athenians can be seen casting the gods in their own image, as in the Melian Dialogue, where the gods, as is thought, and hu-

 Marcovich ,  renders fr.  ‘One (being), the only (truly) wise, is both unwilling and willing to be called by the name of Zeus’ (similarly e. g. Robinson , ). This understanding of ἕν has not been adequately supported; τὸ ϲοφόν is more satisfactory as an entity than as an attribute, cf. frr. , . See also for Heraclitus Wohlfart , Marin ,  – . On the development of ϲοφ- and the role of intellectuals see Jufresa , esp.  – , and note e. g. Sánchez Manzano and Rus Rufino .

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mans, as is clear, rule through natural necessity (Thuc. 5.105 ἡγούμεθα γὰρ τό τε θεῖον δόξηι τὸ ἀνθρώπειόν τε ϲαφῶϲ διὰ παντὸϲ ὑπὸ φύϲεωϲ ἀναγκαίαϲ οὗ ἂν κρατῆι ἄρχειν)—a justification of the Athenians’ ruthlessness. But there is something striking in the emphasis on this fashionable quality in assessing gods throughout Euripides’ plays. Even when the term is actually applied to them, the application does not have the air of a self-evident truism.⁵ Sophocles and Aristophanes make little use of such application explicitly; the most obvious instance is Pl. 8 – 12 (not strictly fifth-century): ‘they say’ (cf. E. IT 570, Hel. 1441) that Apollo is a wise prophet (μάντιϲ, ὥϲ φαϲιν, ϲοφόϲ, 11), but he has sent the master back mad. The possibility of application could be seen to loom in the background of the Clouds: there the eponymous goddesses are extensively shown as generating ϲοφία and cleverness, but are not themselves actually said to be wise. (In fact they are executing a plan of divine morality, 1454– 1461, which could be thought to approach a deeper type of wisdom.) In the first stasimon of the Oedipus Tyrannus, the ϲοφία of Oedipus and Teiresias are confronted, in a general context of human ϲοφία (483 – 511; cf. also 563, 568); Zeus and Apollo are called ξυνετοί, a connected term (518; cf. E. HF 655 – 656 εἰ δὲ θεοῖϲ ἦν ξύνεϲιϲ | καὶ ϲοφία κατ᾿ ἄνδραϲ). In this play Apollo’s planning runs through all, but we do not reach the level of motivation restlessly worried at in Euripides; the divine is profoundly inaccessible. In Euripides ϲοφία is not usually just applied to the gods as a quality they possess, and possess supremely; there is generally a twist. Mortals think they are wiser than the gods; the gods ought to be wiser than mortals, but are not; the gods might be no wiser than dreams (note what follows, IT 572– 575); the gods produce unwise sayings or actions, even if they are wise; the gods are called wise, but it remains to be seen if they will act accordingly; the nature and scope of Dionysus’ wisdom is disputed between him and an unknowing mortal. The passages mostly present disputes or doubts on the propositions p: The gods are wise and q: the gods are wiser than anyone else; often the doubt appears reasonable, and should trouble the viewer. Ba. 654– 655, and other passages in that play, do not wholly fit in here, in that Pentheus does not realize that the stranger is a god; but in the play the god and the mortal talk intriguingly about each other’s ϲοφία or ἀμαθία, mostly in a hostile and competitive fashion. The chorus say τὸ ϲοφόν οὐ ϲοφία (396), with some suggestion of mortals denying q. Agave’s presentation of the unrecognized Dionysus as inciting the Mae On ϲοφ- in Euripides, see Origa  (gods  – , cf.  – ), and, among other works, López-Ferez , Leinieks ,  – , Di Benedetto . Note that in a sophistic context, the term is not particularly associated with being older: sophistic education can fasttrack you (cf. e. g. Ar. Nub.  – ).

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nads against the unrecognized Pentheus ϲοφὸϲ ϲοφῶϲ (1190) should make the audience question p or q, particularly in view of passages like Hipp. 120, cf. Ba. 1348. (Agave herself at 1190 intends a meaning based on skill.) They might have questioned p before. A number of contemporary elements enter into these doubts and disputes. Thinking oneself wiser than traditional religion (Ba. 396) or the gods (Supp. 218) is like wishing to be thought wiser than the laws (Thuc. 3.37.4); the idea offers an updated version of the bold sinner seen in Aeschylus. Uncertainty on the nature and even existence of the gods is expressed with new bleakness in this period (so Protag. B4 DK), and the expression is reflected in Euripides (esp. Hel. 1137– 43; note also Tr. 883 – 7); added to the mix is the bewildering unpredictability of events, which especially suits tragedy, a story-telling form. Anthropomorphism produces special difficulties, for knowledge and for evaluation. If the gods are like us, that might help us understand them. But the notion that they are is suspicious (Xenoph. fr. 15 Lesher; cf. also E. IT 386 – 391); and tales that give the gods bad human qualities and actions endanger p and q, and clash with some conceptions of what gods should truly be (E. HF 1341– 1346, IT loc. cit.; Xenoph. A32 Lesher; Antiphon Soph. fr. 10a Pendrick). On the other hand, if the universe is created or run by forces radically different from human beings, the necessity of nature (E. Tr. 886), or Love and Strife (Empedocles), or even Mind (Anaxagoras), terms like ‘wise’ might be too human to apply. An element which leads to the disputing of q (and p) is the wider fifth-century interest in disputing the importance and validity of familiar hierarchical distinctions: are barbarians, slaves, women radically different from and inferior to Greeks (e. g. Antiphon Soph. fr. 44(b) Pendrick cols. ii-iii), free people (e. g. Arist. Pol. 1.1255a1– 4, b4– 5), men (e. g. E. fr. 494.1– 3 Kannicht)? The questioning seen in our group of utterances is related.⁶ We will return later to the dramatic and poetic forms in which these utterances have their existence; but let us for now look cursorily at what follows Euripides, since the story as a whole throws light on him. In the development of Greek philosophy, no school of thought would grant that it held a negative view of the gods, though critics of that school could regard their view as negative. Nor would most philosophers think uncertainty on the divine a promising position to adopt (Academic doubt offers one exception). Anthropomorphism takes some intriguing directions; there remain links to human beings. The

 Allan ,  (though not , ) brings Hel.  –  into connection with Protag. B. On Xenoph. A see Lesher , , cf. , .

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term ‘wise’, or at least the idea of wisdom, can be applied to gods or divine entities, but it is not articulated as a central point of interest.⁷ In Plato’s Symposium, Agathon has praised Love as a ϲοφόϲ poet (197d5-e2); Diotima presents Love as an intermediary being, a philosopher born of a wise father (Poros) and foolish mother (Penia), and striving for wisdom (204b1– 7). The whole idea may be too allegorical for us to link wisdom itself with the divine. In Laws 10, the soul (or souls) which creates and moves the cosmos is equated with the gods (899b3 – 8); it is φρόνιμοϲ and full of ἀρετή (897b6-c1): it sounds as if wisdom could be ascribed to it. (The whole discussion aims at a reply to a young representative of sophistic-sounding impiety.) Aristotle takes his account of what ϲοφία means beyond specific skills to a general knowledge or understanding, in particular of the things that are of most value (the divine is in view as an object; EN 6.1141a9-b8). In Metaphysics Λ, god’s prime and delightful activity is thought about himself (1072b14– 31); Mind, something similar to Plato’s soul, is concerned with thinking about itself (1074b15 – 35). The intellectual nature of the divine is obvious.⁸ Epicureanism and Stoicism denominate their ideal person ὁ ϲοφόϲ. That makes against applying the term to the gods, since a distinction may be wanted; but the affinity between the wise man and the gods is apparent in either school. The term is not frequently applied to the gods in the evidence that we have; but in Cicero’s De Natura Deorum the Epicurean speaker depicts the Epicurean god (one of a plurality): sua sapientia et uirtute gaudet (1.51, cf. 84). The Stoic speaker depicts the cosmos as a god and sapiens (2.21– 22 (Zeno), 36 – 8; notable here is sapiens est igitur et propterea deus, 38). Time is required for a human to become sapiens (one thinks of the link between wisdom and age); the universe has been there for ever, so is likely to be wise.⁹ Some of the most notable presentation of divine wisdom comes in Plutarch. In De E apud Delphos, where ideas of the deity underlie the speakers’ interpretations of the mysterious letter, Apollo appears as ϲοφόϲ (386c); he is as interested in philosophy as in prophecy and music, but outdoes the humans (cf. 385b, 386c, 387c). In De Sera Numinis Vindicta, we return to Euripidean territory and to challenging the god’s wisdom. A speaker says that Euripides’ frank accusations of the gods (ἃ γὰρ Εὐριπίδηϲ ἐγκαλεῖ καὶ παρρηϲιάζεται πρὸϲ τοὺϲ θεούϲ, 556e;

 Cic. ND . perdifficilis…et perobscura quaestio (cf.  (Cotta) and  (Simonides quoted by Cotta; cf. Pease  – , i.)) seems to recall the ἀδηλότηϲ etc. at the beginning of Protagoras’ work on the same subject (B DK).  For wisdom in Aristotle see Herzberg , and also Marin ,  – . On the relation of soul and the divine in Laws , cf. Mayhew ,  – ,  – .  Cf. SVF ii. –  for the cosmos as a being.

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fr. 980 Kannicht) are silently shared by us now; the subject is the punishment of sinners’ descendants. Apollo is seen as more ἄτοποϲ ‘peculiar’ than some bizarre humans (557c). The word ‘laughable’ is used later of a god who so punishes (γελοιότερον 561c, cf. 561a; Bion fr. 27 Kindstrand). But the dialogue vindicates the divine, which excels the poet Hesiod, and human wisdom in general: ὁ θεὸϲ οὐδὲν τοῦ Ἡϲιόδου ϲοφώτεροϲ;…ἐκεῖνο δ᾿ οὐκ ἔϲτι καθ᾿ Ἡϲίοδον, οὐδ᾿ ἀνθρωπίνηϲ ἔργον ϲοφίαϲ ἀλλὰ θεοῦ (562a-b). It is interesting to see a positive notion of the gods in antagonism with a negative one seldom expressed openly; Euripides is used as the spokesman for these silent thoughts.¹⁰ We see philosophy after Euripides proceeding in such a way that divine wisdom makes sense, but is not a special focus of concern or emphasis. The discussion is not on the whole bound up with specific human stories or even practices, as are the utterances in Euripides. The material outside Plutarch deals particularly with a general force which makes and moves the cosmos as a whole. Without Euripides, the idea of wise gods would not seem particularly prominent in the second half of the fifth century; the recurrent probing in Euripides shows what looks like an individual choice, at least within drama. But it can only be made at this intellectual moment: the idea has built up, and thoughts on gods, and their expression, have reached a new point of boldness. Controversies on universal issues are coming to the fore in pointed form. Epigrammatic pithiness is a potent medium in the fifth century for disconcerting remarks on the gods (so Hdt. 2.3.2 τὰ μέν νυν θεῖα τῶν ἀπηγημάτων οἷα ἤκουον οὐκ εἰμὶ πρόθυμοϲ ἐξηγέεϲθαι, ἔξω ἢ τὰ οὐνόματα αὐτῶν μοῦνον, νομίζων πάνταϲ ἀνθρώπουϲ ἴϲον περὶ αὐτῶν ἐπίϲταϲθαι, Hipp. Morb. Sacr. 18.2 Grensemann ταῦτα δ᾿ ἐϲτὶ θεῖα ὥϲτε μὴ δεῖν ἀποκρίνοντα τὸ νόϲημα θειότερον τῶν λοιπῶν νομίζειν, ἀλλὰ πάντα θεῖα καὶ πάντα ἀνθρώπινα). Mythological tragedy adds new possibilities. While mythological humans can be taken as real by historians, the divine element in myths is particularly liable to doubt or drastic reconception (as in Pi. O. 1.25 – 53 or 9.27– 41). Euripides often retains and sharpens worrying elements in his tellings; he can also challengingly incorporate into the characters’ own discourse the notions of editing and scepticism (so HF 1341– 1346, IT 385 – 391; El. 737– 744 (chorus)). The Bacchae presents two temporal perspectives, so that Dionysus’ religion is both a sophist-like novelty and a tradition which is

 Cf. Def. Orac. a, where Euripides is corrected by the speaker: it is not ϲοφίϲματα by which the gods make us lose our footing, but events.

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being impiously questioned. The paradoxes of represented myth intensify the force in many of our passages.¹¹ Needless to say, these passages are not the only or most important element in the consideration of divinity. It would need a book to discuss gods in Euripides as dramatic characters and as objects of speakers’ narrative; frequently modern accounts over-simplify and under-theorize. So in the Hippolytus the presentation of Artemis does not boil down to her being essentially the same as Aphrodite (indeed, the final forgiveness between the humans is instigated by the deity); on the other hand, these opposite goddesses should be seen to have an allegorical aspect, like those in Prodicus’ tale of Heracles (B1– 2 DK). None the less, the short utterances we have been considering have a significant impact, each within its play, and together within the accumulating œuvre of Euripides (Aristophanes shows the importance of this perspective). As we have seen, they present their own built-in disputes, and their generalizing implications particularly stimulate and disturb.¹² They are telling dramatically as well as internally. The utterances are often placed in settings which exploit the expressive force of staging: so in the isolation of a speech with chorus alone present, the words resound at the end of a scene with private reflection or private prayer. Likewise a messenger’s own comment at the end of his narrative. Such location maximizes the sense that here the play is aggressively raising problems. Plutarch quoted above (or rather a character in Plutarch!) seems to us simple-minded for ascribing the language to Euripides, not his speaker; but it is apparent from Aristophanes that the audience could link the shock of lines to the creator of the character. At any rate, the quality of such moments—argumentative, neat, unsettling—is highly Euripidean. On a large scale, both doubt and assertion can be conveyed both through philosophical treatises and dialogues and through plays; Euripidean tragedies can offer an especially effective form, on a large scale, for massive disturbance—and on a small, for moments that leave a lasting sting.

 Thomas ,  –  takes περὶ αὐτῶν in Hdt. .. to refer to the names; but this is unlikely, as τὰ δ᾿ ἂν ἐπιμνηϲθέω αὐτῶν immediately follows, and αὐτῶν there refers to τὰ θεῖα. Furthermore, the participial clause would hang on oddly to the prepositional phrase; it is not evident how mankind could have equal knowledge of the names but not of divinity, as the argument would need; and we expect the participial clause to justify the οὐκ εἰμὶ πρόθυμοϲ.  Artemis’ intervention is turned against her by de Romilly , . On Prodicus, cf. Harbach ,  – .

Maria Serena Mirto

‘Rightly does Aphrodite’s Name begin with aphrosune’: Gods and Men between Wisdom and Folly* The anthropomorphic and allomorphic features that make the gods a more powerful copy of humans, but which also result in their being the antithesis of human nature, are a hallmark of Greek religious thought. Wisdom and folly, too, when associated with one or the other sphere, help us to notice the differences between gods and men, or indeed their similarities. The gods can be a model of wisdom, but are also capable of imposing a violent twist on human reasoning; men meanwhile try to follow the paths of rationality, to find their way in life, but also to discover the divine beings’ will and nature; alternatively, they may give in to their passions and mental blindness, but then attempt to understand what it was that triggered their madness, and may come to the conclusion that it was a vindictive or jealous divinity who struck them with a temporary delirium. In this paper I propose to investigate how Euripides frames the phenomena of wisdom and folly, in order to distinguish between mortals and the gods. Both the triumph of reason and its breakdown are subject to the relativism that derives from human ideas of good judgement, which are apparently different from the gods’. In his tragedies, Euripides outlines characters who wonder whether it is possible to define wisdom unambiguously, as the result of cognitive effort. We will look at examples of a plausible double system of values, and at the difficulty of being able to attach coherent definitions of both wisdom and folly to the very same phenomena, which indicates the inadequacy of human language and its incapability of signifying reality. These examples bring out an interesting aspect of Euripides’ incessant exploration of the meaning of the divine. Henk Versnel illustrates the Greeks’ various strategies for ‘coping with the gods’, especially with their being so numerous and with the apparently chaotic multiplicity of their manifestations.¹ Ancient religious experience fed precisely on the gods’ disharmony, in its attempt to discover and describe the divine in

* I would like to thank Seth Schein for his constructive comments on an earlier draft of this paper.  Versnel , , .

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a coherent way, and to deal with the less predictable events of life. Moreover, the Greeks’ inability to imagine the gods without the anthropomorphic features due to analogical thought processes, combined with their need to conceive of them as radically different because they possess the perfection that human nature lacks, is a consistent feature in philosophical reflection on religion, from Xenophanes onwards.² Thus, it has always been that the “gods are condemned to this schizophrenic nature of being both fundamentally different and ‘of the same race as man’. Had they been only different, they would have been both inconceivable and incommunicado; had they been only and completely ‘in the image of man’, they would have been neither gods nor interesting”.³ It is from this ambiguity that Euripides draws the key elements of a discourse which swings between questioning the true nature of the gods – echoing themes current in contemporary Sophistic thought – and traditional mythical material. The most original aspects of this can be seen in a few passages in which wisdom and folly are defined in accordance with concepts that are deprived of all absolute value: not exclusively positive or negative, but relative to a particular point of view, be that human or divine. Referring to archaic thought, Plato affirms that the gods can pass a sort of madness on to men that is more precious than their wisdom (Phdr. 244 d 2– 5): The ancients, then, testify that in proportion as prophecy (μαντική) is superior to augury, both in name and in fact, in the same proportion madness (μανία), which comes from god, is superior to sanity (σωφροσύνη), which is of human origin.

This principle is linked to the observation that mania – connected to eros, among other things – sometimes comes with positive aspects, and can bring great benefits to people when the gods send it to them. Hence one of the ways that the gods intervene in human affairs conveys a privilege, even though it deprives individuals of rational control and takes possession of their minds.

 On Xenophanes’ criticism of the anthropomorphic representation of the gods, see Sassi , , who speaks of “an attitude of ‘epistemological prudence’ in relation to the divine, […] developing in the wake of Xenophanes throughout the fifth century”.  Versnel ,  f.

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1 Folly and wisdom in the dual perspective of the Bacchae Euripides hints, on several occasions, at ideas later picked up in Platonic thought. One such example is when he has Tiresias insist, while celebrating Dionysus’ virtues, on the intrinsic link between folly and divination, emphasising the etymological relation between the terms mania and mantic: ⁴ μάντις δ᾽ ὁ δαίμων ὅδε· τὸ γὰρ βακχεύσιμον καὶ τὸ μανιῶδες μαντικὴν πολλὴν ἔχει· ὅταν γὰρ ὁ θεὸς ἐς τὸ σῶμ᾽ ἔλθῃ πολύς, λέγειν τὸ μέλλον τοὺς μεμηνότας ποιεῖ. This god is also a prophet: for the bacchic and the manic have much mantic power: for when the god enters abundantly into the body, he makes the maddened speak the future.

Euripides’ particular inclination for word play based on etymology is not the only similarity between this passage and Plato’s Phaedrus: in both texts, we notice how far things have come since the beginning of the high season of Attic tragedy, when Aeschylus trusted Zeus’ wisdom so much as to suggest, to whoever might have doubted it, that such wisdom is also achieved by imposing sufferings on mortals, from which they may learn to be wise (A. Ag. 160 – 181). In Euripides’ plays the boundary separating the human from the divine is crossed in both directions, with unpredictable results, and there is no longer a moral project or a divine model of virtue that mortals might be able to intuit. In the same contexts, folly represents both the traditional punishment for those who resist a cult and oppose a god’s power, and also a form of possession, through which a god is able to broaden the mortal devotee’s cognitive horizons. The Bacchae displays the full range of the phenomenology of delirium in a particularly disturbing manner: anyone who, like Pentheus, fails to recognise Dionysus’ divine nature and stubbornly opposes the spread of his rites in Thebes is labelled as “mad”

 E. Ba.  –  (text and translation are cited from R. Seaford’s edition of the Bacchae). Immediately before the passage of the Phaedrus just mentioned, Plato describes the evolution of the adjective that qualifies the art of prophecy; he claims that it is derived from an original word μανική, a term chosen by the ancient legislators who established the Greek vocabulary, because of its connection with μανία; contemporary people, however, oblivious to beauty and not realising this connection with the mania sent by god, introduced a τ transforming the word into μαντική ( c  – ).

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(326, μαίνῃ γὰρ ὡς ἄλγιστα, “For you are behaving madly in the most painful way”); Dionysian mania spreads among the Asian maenads, successfully conveying the exaltation that guarantees bliss and purity (135 – 169), yet later cruelly strikes king Pentheus and the Theban women guided by the sisters of Semele – indeed, all relatives of Dionysus who fail to recognise his divine origins. They experience an atrocious madness: instead of enabling them to escape everyday life, free themselves from all social and rational constraints, and enter into a joyous communion with their god, the ‘unbelievers’’ mania turns on their nearest and dearest, clouding their reason so much that a mother kills and dismembers her son. It is heart-rending to see Agave, as she regains her senses, asking her father: Πενθεῖ δὲ τί μέρος ἀφροσύνης προσῆκ᾽ ἐμῆς; (1301, “What part of my folly belonged to Pentheus?”). The elderly Cadmus can only point out their shared obstinacy in resisting the cult of the god born of Agave’s sister and Zeus, a hostility that has brought ruin on the whole royal line. Disguised as a stranger and priest of the new cult, Dionysus appears on stage to exhort “his” god to chastise Pentheus, while in fact expressing his own strategy with wild joy: the punishment that will bring the ungodly antagonist to his death unfolds from the madness that will creep into his mind, persuading him to dress up as a woman in order to attend the Maenads’ rites (850 – 853): τεισώμεθ᾽ αὐτόν. πρῶτα δ᾽ ἔκστησον φρενῶν, ἐνεὶς ἐλαφρὰν λύσσαν· ὡς φρονῶν μὲν εὖ οὐ μὴ θελήσῃ θῆλυν ἐνδῦναι στολήν, ἔξω δ᾽ ἐλαύνων τοῦ φρονεῖν ἐνδύσεται. Let us take vengeance on him. First put him outside his mind, sending into him a light-headed frenzy; for in his right mind he will never wish to put on female dress, but if he drives off the course of sanity he will put it on.

Dionysus thus sarcastically draws a boundary between wisdom and folly along essentially human lines.⁵ Only madness planted in his mind by the god will lead Pentheus to abandon his rigid sense of dignity and don a costume that mocks his fierce manly pride, and it is precisely this madness – a sign of bliss for the devout – that paves the way to the theomachos’ ruin. Even so, the idea that a balanced sense of reason should result in his refusing clothing that would both give him an effeminate appearance and make him similar to the feared stranger belongs to Pentheus’ per-

 In ll.  –  Pentheus threatens Cadmus, who wanted to put a crown of ivy on his head, defining his participation in the rites as ‘madness’.

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spective, not Dionysus’. The women of the chorus also appear to be witnesses to two different types of madness (399 – 400), when they use the participle of the verb μαίνομαι to indicate the ‘insanity’ of the perverse men who wish to trespass beyond the boundaries imposed on mortal nature.⁶ It is my belief that this oscillation demonstrates how the same terminology can change its meaning with a change of point of view: the chorus celebrates the wisdom of the followers of Dionysus and the folly of the Bacchic delirium, which brings joy to the initiated and frees them from pain; meanwhile, they condemn the folly of those who hide behind their narrow rationalism, a negation of true wisdom, and refuse to recognise divine reality. Hence the god’s gift is also his instrument of revenge, and the madness that takes hold of the Theban Bacchae will form the very framework for their undoing: following the Dionysian rites without believing in the divine nature of Dionysus involves a destructive and self-damaging loss of reason. The difficulty with defining wisdom, where relationships between gods and mortals are concerned, corresponds to the vision of madness as an instrument used by the gods to bend men to their will, whether for good or for bad. In the Bacchae, the ambiguity of the terms in the semantic area of σοφία is sufficiently ostentatious as to have attracted the attention of critics and commentators, who have observed how impossible it is to discern any consistent and non-contradictory meanings for them.⁷ These words frequently occur in expressions by those who recognise Dionysus’ power and see wisdom as appropriate devotion to the god: Tiresias and Cadmus (vv. 178 – 179, 186, 196, 359, 369), as well as the Stranger (the god himself, in disguise, 480), in his debates with Pentheus as to the meaning and content of true wisdom (489 – 490, 655 – 656).⁸ The messenger who narrates Pentheus’ death describes the awful lesson taught to Agave when the god drives her to kill her son while delirious, in these terms (1150 – 1152): τὸ σωφρονεῖν δὲ καὶ σέβειν τὰ τῶν θεῶν κάλλιστον· οἶμαι δ’ αὐτὸ καὶ σοφώτατον θνητοῖσιν εἶναι κτῆμα τοῖσι χρωμένοις.

 Roux , , observes that this single term defines two phenomena: “il est curieux d’entendre des ‘ménades’ employer ce terme avec un sens péjoratif. Il y a donc une bonne et une mauvaise folie”.  Cf. in particular Origa ,  –  and  – .  Seaford , , on Ba. , observes: “Here ἀμαθής, which in general means ignorant or boorish, probably also carries the particular sense ‘uninitiated’”. Cf. Roux , ; Leinieks ,  – .

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The best thing is to be moderate and to revere the things of the gods; and I think that this is also the wisest possession for mortals to use.

Meanwhile, the Lydian followers of the Dionysian cult who make up the chorus ask themselves about the most authentic meaning of the concept of wisdom, and express the belief that it is wise to maintain one’s sense of limits, to abstain from excesses, and not to assume that practical intelligence, or cunning, constitute a form of wisdom (395 – 401, 427– 429, 1005). Pentheus’ reckless violence, and the arrogance that pushes him to despise his ancestral religion will be punished as he deserves, and the god will affirm his power over the enemy (877– 881, lines repeated in 897– 901).⁹ Dionysus ironically states that gentleness and self-control are the most appropriate behaviour for the wise man, calmly advising the women of the chorus (641, πρὸς σοφοῦ γὰρ ἀνδρὸς ἀσκεῖν σώφρον’ εὐοργησίαν): “For what a wise man does is to exercise self-controlled gentleness of temper”, while he awaits the arrival of Pentheus, who believes he has attacked the god, chained him up and defeated him, but who has actually been the victim of a series of hallucinations. Nevertheless, when Cadmus encounters the god ex machina, he observes bitterly that his hostility has reached a level comparable with human excesses, even though (1348, ὀργὰς πρέπει θεοὺς οὐχ ὁμοιοῦσθαι βροτοῖς) “It is not right for gods to resemble mortals in their anger”. Dionysus’s response – that the events that destroyed the ruling house of Thebes had been established since time immemorial by Zeus, his father and the highest deity (1349) – does not sound like a justification so much as a simple objective fact, which he is now reporting with some detachment. If we had to draw a net conclusion from this analysis of the Bacchae, beyond simply observing that ambiguity and contradiction are this drama’s signature feature, we can only avoid aporia by pointing out two distinct perspectives. Wisdom and folly are qualified in entirely different ways, depending upon whether they are seen from the divine point of view and from the point of view of men who consider religiosity and respect for the gods to be a fundamental component of knowledge, or whether they are considered by men who are overly confident  There has been much debate over the interpretation of this refrain in the third stasimon, which hangs on the issue of whether one assigns positive or negative meaning to τὸ σοφόν in l. . The use of different punctuation, and a few minor interventions in the text, have enabled some scholars to suggest that the chorus here denies that wisdom and the most beautiful gift from the gods consist in dominating one’s enemy (Roux, Leinieks, Seaford); otherwise, vendetta against one’s enemy would be preferred over wisdom, according to the archaic moral code that obliges one to damage one’s enemies, and sees vindictive violence as a useful and specific form of wisdom (Dodds, Winnington-Ingram).

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in their own intellect. E. R. Dodds observes, in relation to the antithetical characterisation of the divine Stranger and Pentheus, that: “to the σοφία of the King, the ‘cleverness’ or ‘realism’ which would measure everything by the vulgar yardstick of average experience, he opposes another kind of σοφία, the wisdom which, being itself a part of the order of things, knows that order and man’s place in it”.¹⁰ So while eager mortals expect understanding and indulgence from the gods, fearing their ability to feed on wrath and a thirst for revenge in the same way as men, and knowing full well that they would destroy weak opponents, this kind of behaviour should not be attributed to the divine figures.¹¹ Some have thought that Euripides was on the lookout for specialised vocabulary that could express, with philosophical precision, certain abstract concepts that were fundamental to Greek thought.¹² In this case, the Bacchae would be part of his attempt to outline an ideal model of σοφία, wisdom, that even the gods cannot fully incarnate. The human realisation of wisdom, τὸ σοφόν, which is necessarily limited though it remains a source of arrogant pride among those who set their lay knowledge against religiosity and moderation, is also measured against this same model. Even so, this tragedy perhaps demonstrates how inadequate the poet considers the linguistic system to be for the task of capturing what men want to root firmly in a fixed value system: the polymorphic reality in which we come into contact with divine power cannot be consistently and unequivocally defined in language. What that means is that the gods can mock mortals’ efforts to bring order to the chaos, since terms connected with wisdom and folly can relate to such a broad range of effects and states of mind, varying in their precise meaning from speaker to speaker. When Dionysus points out to Pentheus, who has fallen prey to a frenzied delusion of his senses, “your previous mind was not healthy, but now you have the kind of mind that you should have” (947– 948), he reveals with tragic irony how well he is capable of exploiting the ambiguity that comes from this difference of perspectives. Pentheus was  Dodds , xliv.  See the closing lines of the prayer of Hippolytus’ servant to Aphrodite, in E. Hipp. . Cf. Dodds’ comment in Dodds , xliv-xlv. Dodds solves the problems with interpretation of this tragedy, emphasising that like the basic forces of nature, “in himself, Dionysus is beyond good and evil”. The distance between the two worlds cannot, however, be reduced to such a simplification: see Seaford ,  – , for a criticism of Dodds’ reading and of other interpretations of the late th century, all of which are indebted, in one way or another, to Nietzsche’s understanding of the meaning of the Dionysian: as a state of primordial unity between man and nature, characterised by obscure and irrational polar impulses, and confusion over basic distinctions (Die Geburt der Tragödie, ).  These conclusions are those reached by Origa  following careful lexical analysis: cf. especially  – .

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‘mad’ when he opposed him, but now he is ‘mad’ in the way Dionysus wishes: in leading him to believe he has regained his sanity, the god’s statement really alludes to a different ‘madness’, sent by the god in order to subjugate him with hallucinations that will prepare him for his violent death. One might, however, also observe that Dionysus is a god who dissolves the basic principles on which human perception of the world is founded, including personal identity and the distinctions between things, and that as such he represents an upheaval of human reason. Should we suppose, then, that the Dionysian experience, with all its instability and unpredictability, is an exception among the many other possible human-divine relationships described by Euripides? A look at a few other significant examples is sufficient to refute this hypothesis.

2 Aphrodite, erotic madness and the wisdom of virtue in the Hippolytus One of Pentheus’ misunderstandings, in rejecting Dionysus’ divinity, is a misunderstanding of the intimate connection between wisdom and moderation, and likewise between folly and lust, especially in women: the Bacchae celebrate night time rites which, in Pentheus’ eyes, are an opportunity for them to submit to Aphrodite’s power and to unbridled sensuality. The idea that the female brain interprets wisdom as cunning and deception, and willingly serves the goddess of pleasure, while only stupid women practise the chastity and temperance that male society demands of them, but which nature did not give to their gender, is a widespread and conventional prejudice. Hippolytus’ misogynistic tirade, in which he shows himself to be wary of ‘wise’ women because they might be inclined to evil and immoral actions, is a prime example of it:¹³ σοφὴν δὲ μισῶ· μὴ γὰρ ἔν γ᾽ ἐμοῖς δόμοις εἴη φρονοῦσα πλείον᾽ ἢ γυναῖκα χρή. τὸ γὰρ κακοῦργον μᾶλλον ἐντίκτει Κύπρις ἐν ταῖς σοφαῖσιν· ἡ δ᾽ ἀμήχανος γυνὴ γνώμῃ βραχείᾳ μωρίαν ἀφῃρέθη. But a clever woman—that I loathe! May there never be in my house a woman with more intelligence than befits a woman! For Aphrodite engenders more mischief

 Hipp.  –  (text and translation from the Hippolytus are cited from the edition by D. Kovacs).

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in the clever. The woman without ability is kept from indiscretion by the slenderness of her wit.

The danger that intelligence might be bent into transgression of customary norms is often cited in criticism of the Sophists and those who disregard civic discipline and law, believing themselves to be superior to normal people.¹⁴ In this passage, we can already see how divine action is closely associated not so much with virtue as with the worst vices, if human cunning is placed in the service of the evil. Aphrodite here, as so often, represents sexuality as a natural instinct, entirely free from regulation and from the taboos imposed by society; hence the goddess’s influence causes an “intelligent” woman to make the errors to which she is predisposed by her innate female propensity for sexual transgression. On the other hand, Phaedra’s nurse seems to suggest that the power of eros should not be simply attributed to the fact that the goddess presides over the sexual sphere, but to the fact that eros defies the rationality that humans need in order to make a moral choice. It would not otherwise be possible to understand how even those who are equipped with judgement and self-control are attracted to evil, despite being able to recognise it and distinguish it from good (358 – 361): οἱ σώφρονες γάρ, οὐχ ἑκόντες ἀλλ᾽ ὅμως, κακῶν ἐρῶσι. Κύπρις οὐκ ἄρ᾽ ἦν θεός, ἀλλ᾽ εἴ τι μεῖζον ἄλλο γίγνεται θεοῦ, ἣ τήνδε κἀμὲ καὶ δόμους ἀπώλεσεν. For the chaste—they do not will it but yet ’tis so— are in love with disaster! Aphrodite is not after all a goddess but something even more mighty. She has destroyed her, me, and the house.

The agent of this misfortune is identified as “something even more mighty than a god” as a result of the nurse’s inability to understand the logic governing painful

 Cf. the overview given by Dover ,  – , of the popular belief that intelligence and morals, wisdom and moderation interfere with and confuse one another, to such an extent that the two distinct virtues σοφία and σωφροσύνη are sometimes treated, or appear to be treated, as synonyms. In particular: “in tragedy, especially in Euripides, side by side with passages in which sophia is some kind of expertise or intellectual ability not possessed by most people […], it is also freely used of wise, sensitive and virtuous decisions and attitudes in the conduct of life” ( – ). Hence, since wisdom has important ethical implications, and the morality of Greek society is based on control of feminine sexuality, many reflections on the Euripidean texts that follow here refer to the most common meeting point, or point of confrontation, in mythical tradition, between the human and divine worlds: that of sexual pleasure.

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and unexpected events;¹⁵ nevertheless it appears that in using this expression, the nurse has taken care not to directly attribute a blindly destructive power to the goddess who embodies pleasure and amorous desire.¹⁶ The play illustrates how Hippolytus’ virtue is configured in terms of arrogant superiority, and so represents an affront to Aphrodite’s power; but his punishment – of which Artemis disapproves, judging Aphrodite’s excessive anger and fierce revenge against her protégé severely – is also a means of striking a blow to human ambition. A oneway piety like that of the chaste Hippolytus (who worships and respects only Artemis) is not suited to mortals, and reveals the traps hidden in σωφροσύνη, if it is privileged as the only criterion on which man’s imperfect life – in defiance of natural law and its divine incarnation – is to be judged. Hence Cypris/Aphrodite is in a constant state of equilibrium, being on the one hand the physical incarnation of a powerful anthropomorphic deity, who recites the play’s prologue and measures her sphere of influence in competition with other gods, and on the other hand a representation of natural necessity. If worshipping Artemis means spurning Aphrodite, if the σωφροσύνη of which Hippolytus is so proud¹⁷ is not in fact based on moderation but involves something that might resemble ὕβρις, then Euripides is pointing out the true difficulty of reconciling human morality and justice not only with theological concepts and traditional values, but also with the rationalist positions evoked in the nurse’s speeches (433 – 476). Not even these positions, interpreting the Olympic pantheon allegorically and aristocratic ethics in a relative sense, can resolve the incoherencies of religious tradition: adjusting absolute values to the human condition and considering the natural needs and sensitive pleasures in a pragmatic way does

 Versnel , , , interprets this expression as a hyperbole, which transcends logic in order to demonstrate the inadequacy of the generic term theos. See also , for the alternation between concrete and abstract representations of Aphrodite, of which “Euripides’ Hippolytos provides a glaring instance”.  See also however ll.  – , in which the nurse admits the goddess’ hostility to anyone who resists her, while describing her action as a natural force, to which all creatures and even the other gods are subject. Even Phaedra, revealing to the women of Troezen the phenomenology of her passion, moves from a neutral description, “When love (ἔρως) wounded me” (), to an admission of her defeat in every attempt “to bear this madness (τὴν ἄνοιαν) nobly, overcoming it by means of self-control (τῷ σωφρονεῖν)” ( – ). Her decision to take her own life follows, driven by the pointlessness of her fight against the goddess who personifies love’s passion: “I was unable to master Aphrodite (Κύπριν κρατῆσαι)” ( – ). When Phaedra later announces her determination to kill herself, the reference to a divine ‘enemy’ is still an explicit reference to Aphrodite, and is certainly not only a metonymy for simple love and passion ( – ).  Cf. Hipp. ,  f., , , .

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not bring about that happiness which Socratic thought links to virtue and knowledge of the true good. Phaedra is upset by her awareness of having been led into illicit desire by irrational forces, through a mental disorder caused by a god, but whether she comes to her senses or remains in a state of madness, she cannot avoid incurable suffering (240 – 241, 247– 249). Moral responsibility, then, is mitigated by blurring reason, since in the domain of Eros mortals do not seem to have sufficient autonomy to manage their own ethical choices. Or perhaps we should conclude that human fragility is particularly evident on occasions when irrational forces obstruct virtue and dominate over knowledge of the good, as well as on the difficult path that leads to a less ephemeral happiness than that found in the pleasures of everyday life.¹⁸ In the Hippolytus it is difficult to define human wisdom and folly without taking into account the relationship with the gods, and it is not easy to define the limits and excesses of virtue either, if human morality has no model among the gods. It is clear that any attempt to choose an independent yardstick by which to measure virtue, whether on the basis of traditional wisdom or the dialectic and linguistic expertise of sophistic thought, is destined to fail. Furthermore, Euripides seems to reflect on the distortions caused by rhetoric, introducing the same mythical paradigm to serve conflicting arguments: Zeus’ love affair with the mortal Semele first appears in the nurse’s speech (451– 458) and later appears again in the first stasimon when the chorus illustrates Aphrodite’s destructive power (555 – 564). The nurse makes use of this example to persuade Phaedra to give into her passion, just as Zeus resigned himself to his love for a woman, and her speech glosses over the ruinous feminine experience of the story by focusing only on the subject of desire, the divine male. In the choral passage, on the other hand, the tale is supplemented with the woman’s horrific death as she is struck by lightning, when Aphrodite ‘gives her in marriage’ (561, νυμφευσαμένα) to Zeus, who appears in the majestic form of flaming thunder. The nurse’s censorship of the story was necessary to adapt it to fit her scandalous doctrine, and the two different formulations of the tale focus on two thor-

 For a balanced evaluation of the critical debate on Euripides’ presumed clash with Socratic ethical intellectualism, see Lombardi ,  – . Philosophical speculation, from Socratic-Platonic thought to Aristotle’s theories, is confident of the possibility of subduing passions with reason guided by knowledge of the good, but Euripides is most likely addressing an audience whose mentality remains set in traditional morality. In his plays questions are raised on the aetiology of evil, and a new ethical awareness is developed, which anticipates the outcomes of later philosophical speculation. The fallibility of virtue is once again attributed to the human heart and not to external supernatural forces, since knowing and desiring what is good is not sufficient to sustain the efforts and sacrifices virtue requires in order to keep passions under control.

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oughly opposed aspects of the same mythical affair, lending support to two opposed lines of reasoning: the god is a model of moral infringement, to be imitated, and provides the perfect means of avoiding the guilty arrogance of mortals who pursue virtue at all costs; but the death of the woman Zeus loved, a victim of Eros’ destructive force in this particular mésalliance, is an eloquent example of the risks involved in ‘marriage’ with a god.

3 The name Aphrodite: a meaningful invention Doubts as to human language’s capacity to correctly define the reality in which we live can also be traced back to sophistic doctrine. These doubts directly affect the names of the gods, in particular Aphrodite, who is given many names relative to various facets of her power and the areas in which she applies it. Yet in the religious mentality there was already some anxiety over not knowing how to choose the right name or appellation for the god one wanted to invoke. Plato attributes to Socrates the “precautionary formula”, as efficiently defined by Catherine Rowett, which enables men to address their prayers to the gods using the correct or most pleasing name:¹⁹ Socrates: But there’s a second kind of correctness, as in when we pray – our practice is to pray that “whoever they are and whatever they like to be called after, we too will call them those things, because we don’t know anything else.”

It is moreover interesting to note that Aphrodite’s name is only explained in the Cratylus through a reminder of the famous folk etymology that had been in use since Hesiod (406 c7-d1): “As for Aphrodite, we need not oppose Hesiod; we can accept his derivation of the name from her birth out of the foam (ἀφρός).” Socrates had, shortly before, associated the goddess’ name with that of Dionysus, because he wanted to suggest a ‘playful’ etymology for both, bearing in mind that “the gods also have a sense of humour”. But while this promise is maintained for Dionysus, who could be “the giver (διδούς) of wine (οἶνος), playfully called Διδοίνυσος”, the explanation of Aphrodite’s name that follows is, as we have seen, not so

 Pl. Cra.  e- a. Cf. Rowett ,  f. The paper identifies, in the expressions with which believers seek assurances as to the correctness of their invocations to the gods (for example “whether you want to be called [x] or [y]”, and “if this is the name by which you would like to be called”), a type of “precautionary formula” present in the literary evidence of prayer in the Archaic and Classical periods, which is reflected in Plato but also, before him, in a number of Presocratic texts.

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much playful as simply the traditional one.²⁰ Elsewhere, though, the Platonic Socrates expresses a desire to address the goddess using the name that is most dear to her, or one that represents her better (Philebus 12 b7-c4): her most true name might well be “pleasure” (τὸ δ’ ἀληθέστατον αὐτῆς ὄνομα Ἡδονὴν εἶναι), argues Philebus; yet Socrates’ concern that he might not meet with divine favour inspires in him a fear that is not κατ’ ἄνθρωπον (“My awe in respect to the names of the gods is always beyond the greatest human fear”), and so he suggests the “precautionary formula” which protects him from error: καὶ νῦν τὴν μὲν A ᾿ φροδίτην, ὅπῃ ἐκείνῃ φίλον, ταύτῃ προσαγορεύω· (“And now I call Aphrodite by that name which is agreeable to her”).²¹ Socrates’ behaviour in the Platonic account, when it comes to choosing a name for Aphrodite or to interpreting one, is a useful element of comparison and contrast and also enables us to see Hecuba’s unusual attitude in the Trojan Women in a new light. Euripides assigns the old queen, now reduced to slavery, the task of expressing her remaining hopes for divine assistance, together with her despair because her prayers had not been heard. Hecuba states her faith in original ways, which amaze her Greek interlocutor: Menelaus’ announcement that Helen, once she arrives home, is to be dragged into court and condemned to death to repay the families of the victims of the war inspires her to pray an unusual prayer, rich in philosophical echoes, but also rooted in an archaic trust that Zeus is the ultimate guarantor of justice:²² ὦ γῆς ὄχημα κἀπὶ γῆς ἔχων ἕδραν, ὅστις ποτ’ εἶ σύ, δυστόπαστος εἰδέναι, Ζεύς, εἴτ’ ἀνάγκη φύσεος εἴτε νοῦς βροτῶν, προσηυξάμην σε· πάντα γὰρ δι’ ἀψόφου βαίνων κελεύθου κατὰ δίκην τὰ θνήτ’ ἄγεις. You that support the earth and have your seat upon it, whoever you may be, so hard for human conjecture to find out, Zeus, whether you are the necessity of nature or the mind of mortal men,

 Pl. Cra.  c  – . Cfr. Hes. Th.  – : alongside a series of other names, Hesiod explains how Aphrodite is the name by which the goddess is called both by men and by gods, because she is born from the foam that formed around Uranus’ genitals, cut off and thrown into the sea by his son Cronus. Aristotle adopts the same etymological derivation, taken from the Cratylus, but gives a ‘scientific’ explanation for this story, “observing that the choice of name reveals the ancients’ recognition that sperm is foamy in nature: GA a  – ”: cf. Sedley ,  n. .  Cf. Rowett ,  – .  E., Tr.  –  (the text and translation from the Trojan Women are cited from the edition by D. Kovacs).

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I address you in prayer! For proceeding on a silent path you direct all mortal affairs toward justice!

This invocation sounds ‘new’ to Menelaus’ ears (889: “What does this mean? How strange your prayer to the gods is!”), but the use of the “precautionary formula” which sees the god addressed by the most appropriate name, while also identified through an exposition of his characteristics, succeeds in merging into one both orthodox modes of prayer and certain features of Presocratic theories (Diogenes of Apollonia, Anaxagoras).²³ Is this an intentional paradox? Other examples of Euripidean characters who combine intellectualism, observance of religious tradition, speculations as to the allegorical interpretation of divine anthropomorphism, and even adherence to the ancestral cult (think of Tiresias in the Bacchae) are, actually, neither so few nor so far between.²⁴ For our discussion here it is important to note how rationalism and orthodoxy alternate without ever excluding one another, and both contribute to shaping divine figures which satisfy the human sense of justice and morality: gods who can be defined, according to human standards, as “wise” and not “mad”, in the same way that the mortals would be “wise” and not “mad” if they rejected the most puzzling parts of the gods’ mythical adventures. One cannot therefore consider Hecuba’s ‘new’ way of praying as expressing “a reductive view of Zeus: he might be the αἰθήρ, or the law of nature, or mortal νοῦς”.²⁵ Socrates’ caution in the Platonic dialogues, on the one hand, and a number of points made by the Presocratic philosophers, on the other hand, display a shared “sense that behind the name lies a partially hidden essence, which may or may not be truly captured in some name or set of names that we are trying to apply to it”.²⁶

 Cf. Lloyd ,  – ; Egli ,  – . The definition of Zeus as “support of the Earth” presupposes an understanding of αἰθήρ as a divine element which surrounds the earth and bears its weight. To the overview in Matthiessen ,  – , of the passages and Euripidean fragments in which αἰθήρ is, as here, considered a divine power often assimilated with Zeus, we might also add the commentator’s understanding of an orphic cosmogony in the Derveni Papyrus: Zeus is the air (ἀήρ) and divine intellect, who governs the universal order and is guide and originator of all things; cf. col. XIX,  – , Kouremenos, Parássoglou, Tsantsanoglou .  Cf. Mirto , in particular  – .  Lloyd , ; cf. also Lloyd ,  – ; Egli ,  – .  Rowett , . Cf. also Versnel ,  – , who appropriately observes, in relation to the comic parodies of this doubtful formula for addressing the gods: “However, this does not detract from its evidential value. Quite to the contrary, application in comedy or, more generally, in the sphere of ironic parody and pun furnishes decisive proof that formulas and expressions were current among large sections of the population, including less educated strata” ().

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Attributing divine nature to elements of the physical or transcendental world that condition human life and determine its events is therefore only one of many – not necessarily restrictive – ways of protecting oneself in the face of supernatural power, combining anxiety and fear to create an incorrect appellation with expectations of morality and justice. In the agon that follows between Helen and Hecuba, when the queen of Troy challenges Helen’s defence against the accusation that she was solely responsible for the war, her first argument is based precisely on a high opinion of the goddesses who had supposedly participated in the beauty contest on Mount Ida. Helen justifies her betrayal by claiming that Aphrodite accompanied the seducer, annihilating her victim’s capacity for resistance, and challenges Menelaus to prove himself stronger than Zeus in finding her guilty of a weakness that is common to both gods and men (948 – 950; 964– 965; this topos was already seen in Phaedra’s nurse’s exhortation). By contrast, Hecuba appears not so much to deny that the judgement of Paris took place, but that it took place in the way described by Helen: it is neither believable nor logical that such powerful goddesses should have callously offered extraordinary gifts in order to gain the referee’s favour. Hence she declares that she wishes to be “allied” with Hera, Athena and Aphrodite (969), as if to repay more generously those she had previously described as “bad allies”, all the gods who witnessed her misfortune but were invoked in vain (469). To throw off any suspicion of “foolishness” from the three deities (972), Hecuba ridicules the supposed reason for their frivolous dispute: it was not Menelaus who demonstrated foolishness (965, ἀμαθές), in refusing Aphrodite’s irresistible power, but rather those who believed the account of the competition which held that Paris awarded her the palm of beauty and was corrupted by the gift of Helen’s love (981– 982): […] μὴ ἀμαθεῖς ποίει θεὰς τὸ σὸν κακὸν κοσμοῦσα, μὴ πείσῃς σοφούς. […] Do not make the gods foolish in an attempt to gloss over your own evil nature: you will not persuade the wise.

We have already seen that denying divine wisdom, especially in the Bacchae, amounts to a display of foolishness and folly, while human wisdom is also qualified in relation to respect for and devotion to the gods. Hecuba, therefore, scornfully rejects the details of the gifts offered by the goddesses to Paris, and demonstrates the absurdity of calling Aphrodite into question with an interpretation of her name reminiscent of the playful etymologies in the Cratylus (987– 992):

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ἦν οὑμὸς υἱὸς κάλλος ἐκπρεπέστατος, ὁ σὸς δ᾽ ἰδών νιν νοῦς ἐποιήθη Κύπρις· τὰ μῶρα γὰρ πάντ᾽ ἐστὶν ᾿Aφροδίτη βροτοῖς, καὶ τοὔνομ᾽ ὀρθῶς ἀφροσύνης ἄρχει θεᾶς. ὃν εἰσιδοῦσα βαρβάροις ἐσθήμασιν χρυσῷ τε λαμπρὸν ἐξεμαργώθης φρένας. My son was very handsome, and when you saw him your mind was turned into Cypris. For mortals call all acts of foolishness Aphrodite, and it is proper that the goddess’ name begins with the word for folly [aphrosune]. You saw him resplendent in the golden raiment of the East, and your mind became utterly wanton.

Helen’s mind, not the goddess of desire, is solely responsible for her wrong. Yet that does not imply a reductive vision of Aphrodite, as if she were simply a personification of human lust. Some critics have misunderstood this as a result of looking at it in juxtaposition with the expression Hecuba uses in l. 886 when she defines Zeus as νοῦς βροτῶν, “men’s mind”.²⁷ On the contrary: projecting one’s own most shameful instincts onto a supernatural power is a habit typical of mortals. Gorgias, in the Encomium of Helen (15 – 19), absolves her of all responsibility, claiming that there is no autonomous will in the thoughts of one overcome with passion, even if it were only a physiological consequence of sight. Euripides overturns this line of argument, and visual perception here does not in the slightest result in any inability to counteract the influence of external forces when the perceived object transforms the mind. According to Hecuba’s sarcastic denunciation, Helen, having chosen the object of her desire independently and consciously, is in fact living proof that the Greek language has ‘correctly’ established in Aphrodite’s name the meaning of ‘amorous folly’, since the  Cf. Lloyd , ; Croally ,  – ,  – ,  – , ; Egli ,  – . The intelligence that pervades humanity is understood in Hecuba’s prayer to be the divine principle, the νοῦς which, according to Anaxagoras, enlivens the universe and gives shape to nature. This concept is also echoed in an aphorism that was very popular in antiquity, taken from an unknown Euripidean play (fr.  Kannicht): ὁ νοῦς γὰρ ἡμῶν ἐστιν ἐν ἑκάστῳ θεός, “Mind is the god in each one of us”; in this case we are referring to the divine nature of the intellect, but not as a transcendent principle governing all living things, so much as a faculty of the human species, as Cicero explains, Tusc. ., : ergo animus, ut ego dico, divinus est, ut Euripides dicere audet, deus est. Divinity cannot, however, be reduced to the emotions and content of the νοῦς in the particular sense of Tr.  (ὁ σός… νοῦς), where the term refers to the intelligence of a single individual, Helen, who uses it speciously to serve foolishness and intemperance. This move from the universal principle to one of its particular functions does, on the other hand, enable us to cast light on the relativity of concepts like “wisdom” and “folly”, in their various forms, across the divine and human worlds.

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first part of the name is shared with that of the word ‘insanity’ (aphrosune).²⁸ An alleged coherence in the unhappy queen’s theological ideas, then, might suggest that she denies the existence of an anthropomorphic deity called Aphrodite. Yet in relation to the gods, Hecuba instead moves through all the attitudes that we have seen to be characteristic of polytheistic religiosity: from the “precautionary formula” of her invocation to Zeus, to the humorous, etymological interpretation of Aphrodite’s name; this does not suggest the goddess’ true nature, which is unfathomable to us, but only the opinion that humans had in mind when they chose it (cf. Plato, Cratylus 401 a), holding her responsible for all madness (τὰ μῶρα) that arises from human lust and for which mortals seek an external explanation.²⁹ Helen is evidence that mortals are inclined to consider their desire to be due to the influence of a divine power, since they are willing neither to renounce pleasure nor to take responsibility for their perverse choices. The name Aphrodite perfectly captures the incongruity of moral law, in claiming to reflect values which we cannot know are shared by the gods: whoever violates these laws hopes to find justification for that violation in the behaviour of the ‘bad masters’, the deities, about whom many amoral tales are told, but whose true nature is ultimately inaccessible to human understanding.

4 Cognitive and emotive diversity: the gods’ moral distance In the Euripidean plays, then, we have the feeling over and over again that the two poles of mental activity – wisdom founded on lucidity and self-control, and folly, when reason is clouded and the individual loses mastery of himself – are pertinent to mortals but do not have a precise equivalent, in comparable circumstances, for divine beings. In Heracles 655 f., the chorus clearly expresses the conviction that the gods’ ξύνεσις and σοφία do not correspond to what humans mean by these

 The adverb ὀρθῶς, in l. , alludes to the correctness of names (ὀρθότης τῶν ὀνομάτων) which was of central interest to, and at the heart of many analysis by, thinkers of the Sophistic movement (especially Prodicus and Protagoras). Hecuba seems to be particularly sensitive to the homophone terms being associated in order to point out links between an individual’s name and character; she alludes twice to the etymology of Helen, derived from the root hel- of the verb meaning “to destroy” (A., Ag.  – ), in ll.  –  (a clear echo of Aeschylus’ lines) and . This is the only section of the tragedy in which the goddess, always referred to as Cypris (cf. ), is called Aphrodite, making the human interpretatio nominis as ‘loving madness’ possible.  Emphasised in l.  by the hapax legomenon ἐξεμαργώθης φρένας (“go raving mad”).

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two terms, since they do not reward virtue as it deserves and there is no certainty as to the existence of a theodicy (εἰ δὲ θεοῖς ἦν ξύνεσις καὶ σοφία κατ’ ἄνδρας […], “Had the gods shown discernment and wisdom by human standards […]”).³⁰ Heracles’ story illustrates Euripides’ strategy well: pious and devoted, the hero is a victim of the madness sent by his divine stepmother. Hera inflicts this loss of reason on him out of jealousy, transforming him into the unknowing assassin of his wife and children, despite the hero not being guilty of any wrongdoing. And the ironic rebuke voiced by the gods’ messenger Iris to Lussa, divine personification of raging madness, who was sent (though unwilling) to perform Hera’s cruel order against the innocent hero, is remarkable (857): “Zeus’s wife did not send you here to show good sense (σωφρονεῖν)”. This surprising invitation to Lussa, that she interpret her role without contradicting her own nature, points out the distinction between human morality, grounded in σωφρονεῖν, and the gods’ indifference to the way men understand wisdom. It is no coincidence that in l. 347, Heracles’ mortal father Amphitryon voiced a bitter accusation to the divine father, Zeus, for being distant and apparently unsympathetic to his relatives’ fate: ἀμαθής τις εἶ θεός, ἢ δίκαιος οὐκ ἔφυς (“Either you are a fool of a god or there is no justice in your nature”). If there is any ‘wisdom’ among the gods, it is a quality that does not obviously correspond with human measures. The divine incarnation of madness, Lussa, is paradoxical in that she would like to exercise reason according to human criteria; this may be compared with Tiresias in the Bacchae, when he forcefully refutes the sophismata of men which challenge religious traditions (200 ff.), but later justifies the significance and actions of Dionysus in human culture using typically sophistic arguments (266 – 301). Even in this case, it is not reason itself that is devalued, but rather its application to a subject who eludes rational understanding in order to challenge it. In response to the madness sent by the goddess, at the end of Heracles, the hero makes the painful decision to survive by calling on human resources and denying his divine descent from Zeus, who remains distant and incomprehensible.³¹ His mortal father is valued and preferred above his divine father, because

 Cf. Bond on Her.  f., p. : “ξύνεσις καὶ σοφία are essentially human qualities, displayed by the συνετοί and σοφοί. […] [W]hile the words could be used by a pious theist who maintains that the gods have wisdom transcending human wisdom, the obvious implication is that the gods are inferior to men in wisdom”. Expressions of doubt or defiance at the gods’ displays of wisdom, together with explicit accusations of injustice and foolishness, recur in many Euripidean tragedies: Andr.  – ; I.T.  – ,  – ; El.  – ,  – , ; Ion  – , ,  – ; Or.  – ; Ph.  – ; Polyidus fr.  Kannicht.  Euripides modifies the myth of Heracles’ dual fatherhood in an original way, which enables the hero to repudiate his blood tie to Zeus: cf. Mirto ,  – .

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wisdom, in the world of Euripidean tragic heroes, is the capacity to keep at a correct distance from the divine sphere: entering into too close contact results in the distinction between wisdom and madness being erased entirely. In fact, experiencing contact with the divine destroys the boundaries that keep the irrational at bay, upsetting the delicate balance that underpins civilization. Yet to fully come to terms with the gods, mortals in Euripides must also know how to give up on their utopia of independent wisdom and bow to the gods’ mysterious power, which is not at all in line with mortal ethics.

Ruth Scodel

Wisdom from Slaves

This paper will use politeness theory to consider a particular type of Euripidean scene, the episode in which a major character of high status is given unsolicited, good advice by a character of much lower status with whom the elite character does not have a close relationship. Because advising was a traditional narrative theme, the original audience knew that an elite character who was not willing to consider advice from a lower-status person was foolish, and that willingness to listen graciously was an admirable trait. In advice scenes, therefore, the spectator is often prompted to evaluate not only whether a character is wise or foolish in following or refusing advice, but also whether the character behaves appropriately towards the advisor. However, Euripides also presents scenes in which a socially distant slave advises an elite character, but there is no prompt in the text that invites the external audience to pay attention to the gap in power and status. These elite characters seem indifferent to the advisor’s status. They are, however, not gracious, but obsessed with their own views. They do not refuse to listen, but not because they value the possibility of good advice or self-presentation as friendly—they are, instead, self-absorbed. “Advice” includes any attempt to direct the other character’s course of action in a different direction for the other character’s benefit.¹ Sometimes advice concerns a character’s general conduct, while in other episodes it pertains to an immediate crisis. A speaker who tries to persuade while also intervening physically, like the slave at the end of Helen, is an advisor, and advice may be incorporated into an exchange that is not primarily an advice episode (so Jason advises Medea at Medea 610 – 15). Advice is inherently face-threatening. Since advice is a directive and the advisor seeks to control the interlocutor’s actions, it threatens negative face (personal freedom from constraint).² Also, and perhaps more significantly, advising threatens positive face, since giving advice in itself implies that the interlocutor is unable to find the best course of action without help.³ In the original politeness theory of Brown and Levinson, three variables control the face-threat of a speech act: Power (the differential between the interlocutors, (social) Distance, and Rank (how the culture evaluates the speech-act). More recent work has

 This is a rephrasing of the definition of Searle , , “telling you what is best for you.”  Brown and Levinson , .  Wilson et al. , ; Goldsmith ,  – .

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shown that there is much that we do not understand about these complex interactions. At least some studies indicate that among contemporary Americans, honoring positive face when providing support (including advice) is more important than honoring negative face.⁴ This is relevant for Greek literature, since the low status of an advisor does not influence the negative face-threat in advising (although it could perhaps affect the best strategies for redressing it), but it magnifies the positive threat. In Greek tragedy and Greek literature more generally, certain tendencies in advice-giving are clear. The old are expected to give advice, yet even Nestor in (Il. 1.259 – 74) feels the need to establish his credentials before he intervenes in the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles. Power and status matter. The agon of Andromache is in part a scene of advice, in which Andromache tries both to defend herself and to persuade Hermione to take a different attitude to her marriage. Andromache gives an especially clear statement of the slave’s difficulty: ἐγὼ δὲ ταρβῶ μὴ τὸ δουλεύειν μέ σοι λόγων ἀπώσηι πόλλ’ ἔχουσαν ἔνδικα, ἢν δ’ αὖ κρατήσω, μὴ ’πὶ τῶιδ’ ὄφλω βλάβην· οἱ γὰρ πνέοντες μεγάλα τοὺς κρείσσους λόγους πικρῶς φέρουσι τῶν ἐλασσόνων ὕπο.

(Andr. 186 – 90)

I am afraid that the fact that I am a slave to you will deprive my words of effect, even though I have many just points, and that if I win the argument, I may be punished for it. For the proud are irritated at better arguments from their inferiors.

The choral response to Andromache’s speech (the women have already said in the parodos that they fear Hermione, 141– 6) is hedged in its address towards Hermione, redressing both positive and negative face: {Χο.} δέσποιν’, ὅσον σοι ῥαιδίως παρίσταται, τοσόνδε πείθου τῆιδε συμβῆναι λόγοις.

(Andr. 232– 3)

Mistress, to the extent that you easily can, be persuaded to make an agreement with her.⁵

Tragedy often speaks in generalizations, but it is still remarkable that Andromache presents her problem as if it were about her status, although Hermione is profoundly prejudiced against her personally. On the other hand, intimacy, es-

 Goldsmith and MacGeorge ; Caplan and Samter .  Diggle daggers L’s προσίσταται; P’s παρίσταται comes from the scholium on , ὅσον σοὶ εὐκόλως καὶ δυνατῶς φαίνεται καὶ παρίσταται, ἀντὶ τοῦ· ὅσον ἐνδέχεται.

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pecially when a slave has been the interlocutor’s pedagogue or nurse, can more than compensate for the difference in power. Tragedy inherited from earlier Greek wisdom the assumption that following good advice is an important constituent of overall human excellence. Hesiod offers an explicit hierarchy: Οὗτος μὲν πανάριστος, ὃς αὐτῶι πάντα νοήσει φρασσάμενος τά κ’ ἔπειτα καὶ ἐς τέλος ᾖσιν ἀμείνω.⁶ ἐσθλὸς δ’ αὖ κἀκεῖνος ὃς εὖ εἰπόντι πίθηται· ὃς δέ κε μήτ’ αὐτῶι νοέηι μήτ’ ἄλλου ἀκούων ἐν θυμῶι βάλληται, ὃ δ’ αὖτ’ ἀχρήιος ἀνήρ.

(WD 293 – 7)

This one is the best all-around, who understands everything for himself, thinking about what will be better for the future and in the end. But that man is also good who goes along with someone who speaks well. But whoever neither understands for himself nor puts it in his mind when he hears from another—that is a useless man.

Precisely because it is face-threatening to listen to advice, Hesiod emphasizes that the man who accepts good advice is still ἐσθλός. This hierarchy was probably traditional before Hesiod (and the passage was often quoted later).⁷ This evaluation can easily be expressed in narrative, and the Homeric poems are already full of advice-episodes. Narratives are not typically organized around those who think of the best course of action for themselves, but nothing is more conventionally associated with tragedy than the failure to listen to good advice (it is also, of course, familiar especially from Herodotus).⁸ The folk-motif of wisdom from unlikely sources is also a theme of Greek literature, as in the famous anecdote of the child Gorgo’s advice to her father (Herod. 5.51). It is a general rule of Greek literature that becoming angry in response to well-meant advice is a sign of folly. It may indicate a permanent disposition or a bad state of mind. A character may be emotionally overcommitted to his own plan and is unable to make a rational evaluation of its risks, or may also be too sensitive to the face-threat and unable to compare the face-loss incurred by changing his or her mind with the possible face-loss if the rejected advice turns out to be best. Hector’s furious response to Polydamas’ interpretation of a bird-omen, which concludes with a threat (Il. 12.230 – 50), prepares for his  Some ancient quotations omit this line, but there is no real reason to reject it; see West  on .  Mostly notably by Aristotle at NE  b – , omitting WD . See West  on  – ; for a list of passages, Rzach  ad loc. pp.  –  (available online); see also Tosi , .  Bischoff  is the classic study.

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self-destructive response to Polydamas’ advice later (Il. 18.285 – 309). Xerxes similarly tells Artabanus that Artabanus will not be punished for advising against the attack of Greece only because Artabanus is his uncle (Herod. 7.11.1). Advice sequences are useful for examining the different elements that produce a particular audience response. First, an audience will always rely on a rule of significance to assume that advice is consequential, that the implied author has not introduced episodes in which one character seeks to persuade another to a course of action unless that action will be meaningful. While the advice scene may thereby provide hints about the direction of the plot, it often reveals much more about the character.⁹ The scene of advice dramatizes that the character can choose how to act, and invites the audience to evaluate the character’s choices, drawing the audience to consider whether the action is wise or ill-judged. This evaluation will have an internal component, as the spectator considers the wisdom or folly of the character based on the spectator’s estimate of the character’s knowledge of relevant information. The spectator, however, may also know or be able to guess how the plot will develop, either because the story is already known, or because the play has provided information, or at least hints, about its outcome, or because the play has evoked generic patterns that allow a spectator to predict the outcome. Typically, then, the spectator judges the wisdom of a character from a position of greater knowledge while knowing that he or she has greater knowledge than the character. A character, then, may accept or reject advice, and the audience, depending on the quality of the advice, will draw inferences about the character’s wisdom, moral qualities, and mental state. The tragedian can, however, have the character show a particular attitude to the advisor, which will lead the spectator to draw further inferences about the dispositions of the character. The spectator will assume that the behavior of the character either reveals the character’s dispositions, and will feel more or less respect or liking for the character, or that it deviates from the character’s disposition in a significant way. Here, again, a rule of signification operates. Inferences that in real life might well reflect correspondence bias (that is, the false assumption that a particular action indicates a dispositional trait) are entirely appropriate for the spectator of a tragedy.¹⁰ The playwright can also make the character show no interest at all in the advisor’s status, and this invites its own inferences.  “Characterization” here has a limited scope, referring to the spectator’s ability to ascribe traits to the characters by using social and literary categories (what Schneider  calls “top-down” modeling).  Rabinowitz ,  – , speaks of “Rules of Snap Moral Judgment.” For correspondence bias, see Kahneman, Slovic, and Tversky .

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Polydamas’ strategies in the Iliad are revealing about face-threats and power differences. At Il. 12.210 – 14, he begins by criticizing Hector precisely for his reluctance to look beyond face-threat: Ἕκτορ, ἀεὶ μέν πώς μοι ἐπιπλήσσεις ἀγορῇσιν ἐσθλὰ φραζομένῳ, ἐπεὶ οὐδὲ μὲν οὐδὲ ἔοικε δῆμον ἐόντα παρὲξ ἀγορευέμεν, οὔτ’ ἐνὶ βουλῇ οὔτέ ποτ’ ἐν πολέμῳ, σὸν δὲ κράτος αἰὲν ἀέξειν· Hector, you always find fault with me at assemblies when I propose good plans, since it is not at all appropriate for someone from the people to speak differently, not in the council and never in war, but always to increase your power.¹¹

Hector responds badly, especially since Polydamas has offered a discouraging interpretation of an omen and so implicitly advised retreat. Hector is very sensitive to the potential loss of face in avoiding battle (Il. 6. 441– 3). Polydamas, although he is a son of Panthous and hence from an elite Trojan family, in representing Hector’s thoughts in free indirect discourse, has Hector see him as one of the people. Justly or not, he sarcastically attributes Hector’s resistance to Polydamas’ advice to an imaginary status difference and to Hector’s face needs. When Polydamas seeks to advise Hector again at Il. 13.726, he uses a different approach: οὕνεκά τοι περὶ δῶκε θεὸς πολεμήϊα ἔργα τοὔνεκα καὶ βουλῇ ἐθέλεις περιίδμεναι ἄλλων· ἀλλ’ οὔ πως ἅμα πάντα δυνήσεαι αὐτὸς ἑλέσθαι. ἄλλῳ μὲν γὰρ ἔδωκε θεὸς πολεμήϊα ἔργα, ἄλλῳ δ’ ὀρχηστύν, ἑτέρῳ κίθαριν καὶ ἀοιδήν, ἄλλῳ δ’ ἐν στήθεσσι τιθεῖ νόον εὐρύοπα Ζεὺς ἐσθλόν, τοῦ δέ τε πολλοὶ ἐπαυρίσκοντ’ ἄνθρωποι, καί τε πολέας ἐσάωσε, μάλιστα δὲ καὐτὸς ἀνέγνω.

(Il. 13.727– 34).

Because a god has given you deeds of war, you want also to be wiser in counsel than others. But you will not be able yourself to choose everything simultaneously. To one man a god gives deeds of war, to another dance, to another the lyre and song, and in another wideseeing Zeus puts a good mind in his chest, from which many people benefit, and he saves many, but he recognizes it most himself.

 The translation is difficult and disputed. I have followed the scholia, φησὶ γοῦν ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν ἰσηγορία τοῖς δημόταις πρὸς τοὺς βασιλέας, bT  – ; ὅτι ἀντὶ τοῦ δημότην, ἰδιώτην. | οὕτως Ἡρωδιανός b. Hainsworth  on  seems to endorse Allen , , δήμον’ (δήμων from δαήμων); but I do not see how he can understand Polydamas here as “ingratiating” (that is, as unironic in saying that the speaker should increase Hector’s power).

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Polydamas here mitigates the face-threat by acknowledging Hector’s special standing in the hierarchy of warriors while implicitly defining himself as a man particularly gifted with counsel by Zeus instead of as someone of lower rank than Hector. Since Polydamas advises a discussion of tactics among the Trojan leaders rather than a retreat, the substance of Polydamas’ proposal is less threatening than his interpretation of the bird-omen. Hector accepts it (although the discussion does not take place, since the participants Hector seeks have been killed). In his last, unsuccessful intervention, while the narrator stresses his good sense (Il. 18.250, 252), Polydamas speaks to the Trojans at large, not addressing Hector directly at all or trying to establish his credentials. The public setting magnifies the face-threat to Hector, for whom the suggestion of a defensive strategy carries the implication that he is not able to defeat Achilles. Hector, although he does not directly threaten Polydamas, not only calls him νήπιε (“fool”) but in his response implicitly reminds him of their difference in power (μηκέτι ταῦτα νοήματα φαῖν’ ἐνὶ δήμῳ· / οὐ γάρ τις Τρώων ἐπιπείσεται· οὐ γὰρ ἐάσω, “No longer show forth these thoughts in the people’s assembly, for no Trojan will be persuaded—I will not permit it,” 18.295 – 6). The Trojans, deprived of good sense by Athena, cheer for Hector.¹² The dramatists typically mark where the spectator needs to recognize that the elite character’s willingness to accept advice from an inferior, not just the advice itself, is important. So the slave who advises Deianeira at the beginning of Trachiniae hedges (52– 3), and Deianeira herself generalizes from the slave’s “free” thought (61– 3).¹³ Creon in Antigone is angry at the chorus’ suggestion that the burial could be divinely inspired (280 – 81), and does not want to listen to Haemon because he is younger (726 – 7), even though Haemon has tried to counter precisely this response with a gnome claiming that it is not shameful for even a wise man to learn (710 – 11). Agamemnon in Sophocles’ Ajax announces that he will not understand Teucer’s barbarian speech (1259 – 63) and that Teucer lacks standing to speak at all. When Odysseus enters, he is able to persuade Agamemnon, after a fashion, because he is close to Agamemnon but also of equivalent status: Agamemnon does not quite accept his advice, but gives Odysseus the authority to do what he wants (1370 – 73). Agamemnon is not quite Hesiod’s “useless man”; because he is able to redefine his final decision as a favor to Odysseus, he can allow Ajax’ funeral without changing his mind.

 Mackie  –   Yoon ,  – , demonstrates that the slave is not a Nurse—she is not especially intimate with Deianeira.

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The basic variables that Euripides and the other tragedians can manipulate in scenes where an inferior (a slave, in my examples) gives advice to a superior are thus intimacy, the character’s graciousness or hostility, the quality of the advice, and the character’s reception of the advice itself. Sometimes there is real ambiguity about whether advice is good. In Sophocles’ Electra, the action flows from Orestes’ decision to follow the advice of the Old Man and go to Agamemnon’s tomb instead of listening to Electra’s lament (82– 5). This decision causes great suffering to Electra, but there is no way to know how an alternative plot would have developed. Not all possible combinations appear. Some are inherently improbable: a master who receives advice from a slave with hostility and in the absence of intimacy is hardly going to accept it. Some contradict the basic tendencies of the tragic plot, which require that in most situations (designing intrigues is an exception) good advice be rejected. It is not surprising that no socially distant inferior in Euripides gives bad advice—bad advisors in tragedy, like the Old Man in Ion, propose criminal acts. Some combinations are clearly possible in Greek literature, but do not appear in Euripides. The opening of Trachiniae is non-intimate, gracious, good advice, accepted, but this combination does not appear in Euripides, and it is unlikely to have been frequent in tragedy, simply because it will not generally lead to a tragic situation. Low intimacy/hostility/good advice/refused appears in the passage of Andromache cited above, and in Helen, when Theoclymenus is stopped by a slave as he heads for the palace to kill his sister.¹⁴ The slave’s address is not deferential, but the situation is so pressing that he cannot pause: οὗτος, ὦ, ποῖ σὸν πόδ’ αἴρεις, δέσποτ’, ἐς ποῖον φόνον; (“Hey, you, where are you going, master—to what murder?” 1627). When Theoclymenus brusquely orders him out of the way and he refuses, μεγάλα σπεύδεις κακά (“For you are rushing to great wrongs,”1629), Theoclymenus responds angrily, ἀλλὰ δεσποτῶν κρατήσεις δοῦλος ὤν; (“Are you, a slave, going to control your masters?” 1630). This is the emblematic low-graciousness response, and the slave responds φρονῶ γὰρ εὖ. Their exchange continues with an ἀντιλαβή in which the slave repeatedly corrects Theoclymenus’ false judgments:

 Scholars have debated who the slave is; Allan  follows Kannicht  in arguing that it is the coryphaeus, since no entry is announced and messengers always leave after delivering their speeches. Others have suggested a slave, perhaps a servant of Theonoe, comes from the palace to block Theoclymenus (Stanley-Porter ). Theoclymenus would have entered with attendants, however, and I suspect that this slave is one of those, whose sudden speaking role would be a dramatic surprise, and  (“I will not let go of your robes”) suggests that he is behind Theoclymenus, not blocking in front.

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Ruth Scodel

{Θε} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β} {Θε.} {Θε.β}

οὐκ ἔμοιγε, εἰ μὴ μ’ ἐάσεις… οὐ μὲν οὖν σ’ ἐάσομεν. σύγγονον κτανεῖν κακίστην … εὐσεβεστάτην μὲν οὖν. ἥ με προύδωκεν … καλήν γε προδοσίαν, δίκαια δρᾶν. τἀμὰ λέκτρ’ ἄλλωι διδοῦσα. τοῖς γε κυριωτέροις. κύριος δὲ τῶν ἐμῶν τίς; ὃς ἔλαβεν πατρὸς πάρα. ἀλλ’ ἔδωκεν ἡ τύχη μοι. τὸ δὲ χρεὼν ἀφείλετο. οὐ σὲ τἀμὰ χρὴ δικάζειν. ἤν γε βελτίω λέγω. ἀρχόμεσθ’ ἄρ’, οὐ κρατοῦμεν. ὅσια δρᾶν, τὰ δ’ ἔκδικ’ οὔ.

(Th.): (Ther): (Th.): (Ther): (Th.): (Ther): (Th): (Ther): (Th): (Ther): (Th): (Ther): (Th): (Ther): (Th): (Ther):

[You don’t have sense] according to me unless you let me I certainly will not let you kill my wicked sister no, most pious, who betrayed me a noble betrayal, to act justly, giving my marriage to another those with more right. Who has a right over what’s mine? The one who got her from her father. But chance gave her to me and fate took her away. You can’t be judge of what’s mine. Yes, if my speech is better. So we are servants, and don’t rule. You rule for acting piously, but not unjustly.

(Helen 1631– 8)

The slave is wiser than the master, and the master shows his lack of wisdom not only by failing to accept the slave’s moral arguments, but by refusing his standing. Theoclymenus reacts to the face-threat of the slave’s interference. He obeys the Dioscuri when Castor warns him, (1642), but only because he accepts the gods’ authority (1683). The richest exploitation of a gap between an elite character’s rejection of advice and his willingness to listen is the scene in Hippolytus in which the old Therapon attempts to persuade Hippolytus to show respect to Aphrodite. At the level of plot, the spectator knows that Aphrodite has already begun her revenge; it is not even clear that any changes in Hippolytus’ behavior would make a difference, but Aphrodite’s prologue has prepared the spectator to understand Hippo-

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lytus’ behavior as ruinously foolish and as a step on the path to his death. Substantively, Hippolytus’ rejection of the Therapon’s advice reveals that he has very poor judgment and does not appreciate the power of an angry god. At the same time, Hippolytus, though he is arrogant towards the goddess, is not hostile to the Therapon. The exchange begins with a deferential approach by the Therapon: ἄναξ, θεοὺς γὰρ δεσπότας καλεῖν χρεών, ἆρ’ ἄν τί μου δέξαιο βουλεύσαντος εὖ;

(88 – 9)

Lord—for we should call the gods “masters”—Would you accept some good advice from me?

The Therapon begins by addressing Hippolytus as ἄναξ. The parenthetical expression that follows the address is ambiguous, but must explain why the Therapon uses the word ἄναξ instead of δέσποτα: does he mean that slaves should address their masters as if they were gods (since outside poetry ἄναξ was used only to gods)¹⁵ or that [only] the gods should be called “masters”?¹⁶ The word ἄναξ is not a normal way for slaves to address their masters; it indicates someone who exerts actual political power (or, occasionally, someone to whom power is delegated or who will soon receive it, such as Creon at Oedipus Rex 85, or Amphion in Antiope, fr. 223.65 TrGF [supplement]); but δέσποτα in tragedy is also used mainly towards gods and kings, and Hippolytus himself has just addressed Artemis as δέσποινα (74 and 82). It seems likeliest that the Therapon means that he reserves δέσποτα for the gods, because they have complete power over mortals (this interpretation better fits his overall argument), but he simultaneously flatters Hippolytus by giving him a title to which he is only doubtfully entitled. Although Hippolytus is Theseus’ son and a member of the elite, he is not a ruler or even the heir. Giving Hippolytus a status even higher than the one Hippolytus actually has, he mitigates the face-threat in his advice. He then frames his request as a polite optative question. βουλεύσαντος εὖ marks the exchange explicitly as an advice scene, with characteristically Euripidean clarity. The slave’s deference also marks the exchange as potentially difficult. Although it is clear that the slave is elderly (he calls Hippolytus παῖ at 107, and refers to Hippolytus’ youth at 114, 118), his careful preface shows that he is not intimate enough with Hippolytus that his ability to speak freely could be taken for granted.

 West , , and  demonstrates that the parenthesis should explain the vocative, and argues that Euripides (not the Therapon) is pointing to the peculiar poetic use of ἄναξ. The interpretation here is close to that of Barrett  on  and Øesterud .  Diggle ,  – , takes the clause as anticipating the later argument, not as explicating the vocative.

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Ruth Scodel

The Therapon’s advice is conventional, and the spectator can probably guess that he is of no interest at all for himself, but that he has been introduced solely in order that his dialogue will reveal something about Hippolytus. However, although his advice is conventional in substance, the Therapon is rhetorically adroit, manipulating Hippolytus into agreeing with general principles that his conduct violates.¹⁷ Hippolytus’ initial answer is courteous: {Ιπ.} {Θε.} {Ιπ.} {Θε.} {Ιπ.} {Θε.} {Ιπ.}

καὶ κάρτα γ’· ἦ γὰρ οὐ σοφοὶ φαινοίμεθ’ ἄν. οἶσθ’ οὖν βροτοῖσιν ὃς καθέστηκεν νόμος; οὐκ οἶδα· τοῦ δὲ καί μ’ ἀνιστορεῖς πέρι; μισεῖν τὸ σεμνὸν καὶ τὸ μὴ πᾶσιν φίλον. ὀρθῶς γε· τίς δ’ οὐ σεμνὸς ἀχθεινὸς βροτῶν; ἐν δ’ εὐπροσηγόροισίν ἐστί τις χάρις; πλείστη γε, καὶ κέρδος γε σὺν μόχθωι βραχεῖ.

(Hipp) (Ther) (Hipp) (Ther) (Hipp) (Ther) (Hipp)

Very much so; otherwise we would not seem wise. So you know what rule is established for mortals? I don’t know—what are you actually asking me about? Hating the arrogant and not friendly to all. Rightly—who that is arrogant among mortals isn’t offensive? And is there appreciate for those who are affable? A great deal—there is profit with a quick effort.

(Hipp. 90 – 96)

Hippolytus does not just agree with the Therapon’s general opinions about social relations; he has performed a basic cost-benefit analysis—being friendly, εὐπροσήγορος, brings profit in return for a small effort. It is a good investment. A few lines later, when Hippolytus evidently suspects what the Therapon’s advice will be, he says τίν’; εὐλαβοῦ δὲ μή τί σου σφαλῆι στόμα (“Whom? Be careful your mouth doesn’t make a mistake,” 100).¹⁸ He does not, however, express anger or threaten the Therapon in any way. He does, however, rudely break off the conversation by turning to other attendants and issuing orders for the care of his horses. His final line, “I bid a long farewell to your Cypris,” 113) acknowledges the Therapon, but not warmly. It is particularly interesting, however, that the Therapon’s argument is precisely about the quality that I am calling “graciousness.” Hippolytus agrees with the general principle that the Therapon preaches, that of being socially accessible, having social relationships with a variety of others without seeking to

 Brandt ,  – , rightly argues that the Therapon is not a “simple soul” (Barrett  on ).  The warning could also indicate that Hippolytus fears that the Therapon means a goddess who should not be named.

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make salient one’s own superiority to them. Someone who willingly listens to advice from a social inferior is acting in accordance with this principle in an especially powerful way, since it requires that the social superior ignore a significant face-threat in order to be affable or to have the benefit of what the inferior will say. Listening to advice from inferiors implies that this advice may have real value, and is an emphatic display of positive politeness. Hippolytus is not just affable, since he says that he would not be wise if he did not allow the Therapon to advise him. He thereby indicates that he believes that it is possible that the Therapon might have wisdom that he himself lacks. In trying to be εὐπροσήγορος, Hippolytus follows a significant dictate of the Greek literature of social advice. Consider Isocrates’ advice to Demonicus: Τῷ μὲν τρόπῳ γίγνου φιλοπροσήγορος, τῷ δὲ λόγῳ εὐπροσήγορος. Ἔστι δὲ φιλοπροσηγορίας μὲν τὸ προσφωνεῖν τοὺς ἀπαντῶντας, εὐπροσηγορίας δὲ τὸ τοῖς λόγοις αὐτοῖς οἰκείως ἐντυγχάνειν. Ἡδέως μὲν ἔχε πρὸς ἅπαντας, χρῶ δὲ τοῖς βελτίστοις· οὕτω γὰρ τοῖς μὲν οὐκ ἀπεχθὴς ἔσει, τοῖς δὲ φίλος γενήσει. (Isoc. Dem. 20) In manner be approachable, and in speech affable. Greeting the people you meet belongs to approachability, and speaking to them in a friendly way belongs to affability. Be pleasant to everybody, but cultivate the finest, because in this way you will not be disliked by anyone, but you will be a friend with the best.

Isocrates does not want his pupil to be friends with everyone, but he strongly encourages friendly manners to everyone. Later in the same work, he echoes the Therapon’s warning not to be σεμνός. It is no accident that although Isocrates is speaking about how a member of the elite should behave with those with whom he associates as equals, he uses slaves as a point of reference: Γίγνου πρὸς τοὺς πλησιάζοντας ὁμιλητικὸς ἀλλὰ μὴ σεμνός· τὸν μὲν γὰρ τῶν ὑπεροπτικῶν ὄγκον μόλις ἂν οἱ δοῦλοι καρτερήσειαν,τὸν δὲ τῶν ὁμιλητικῶν τρόπον ἅπαντες ἡδέως ὑποφέρουσιν. Ὁμιλητικὸς δ’ ἔσει μὴ δύσερις ὢν μηδὲ δυσάρεστος μηδὲ πρὸς πάντας φιλόνικος, μηδὲ πρὸς τὰς τῶν πλησιαζόντων ὀργὰς τραχέως ἀπαντῶν, μηδ’ ἂν ἀδίκως ὀργιζόμενοι τυγχάνωσιν. (Isoc. Dem. 30.6 – 31.3) Be friendly with those who approach you, but not arrogant. For even slaves can hardly endure the pride of those who look superior, but all are happy to submit to the manners of the friendly. You will be friendly if you are not prone to arguing, or hard to please, or competitive towards everyone, and if you do not react harshly to anger from those who approach you, even if they are actually unjustly angry…

76

Ruth Scodel

Aristotle’s definition of the μεγαλόψυχος is slightly different, since he encourages something like arrogance in social relations with the elite, but emphasizes the importance of not being arrogant towards social inferiors: καὶ πρὸς μὲν τοὺς ἐν ἀξιώματι καὶ εὐτυχίαις μέγαν εἶναι, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς μέσους μέτριον· τῶν μὲν γὰρ ὑπερέχειν χαλεπὸν καὶ σεμνόν, τῶν δὲ ῥᾴδιον, καὶ ἐπ’ ἐκείνοις μὲν σεμνύνεσθαι οὐκ ἀγεννές, ἐν δὲ τοῖς ταπεινοῖς φορτικόν, ὥσπερ εἰς τοὺς ἀσθενεῖς ἰσχυρίζεσθαι (NE 1124b) To be arrogant towards those who have rank and good fortune, but moderate towards the middle class. For being superior to the first group is hard and proud, but to the others it’s easy, and it is not ignoble to display pride over them the first but it is vulgar against the lowly, like displaying strength towards the weak.

It is vulgar to parade one’s advantages before those who do not share them. Before his conversation with the Therapon, Hippolytus, in his description of the sacred meadow where he has gathered flowers for Artemis, has used exceptionally exclusionist language: ὅσοις διδακτὸν μηδὲν ἀλλ’ ἐν τῆι φύσει τὸ σωφρονεῖν εἴληχεν ἐς τὰ πάντ’ ἀεί, τούτοις δρέπεσθαι, τοῖς κακοῖσι δ’ οὐ θέμις.

(Hipp. 79 – 81)

To whom there is nothing taught, but in whose nature self-control in everything is allocated forever, for those it is for picking, but for the bad is forbidden.

Euripides here invites his audience to slip into a form of the conjunctive fallacy, to rely on a representativeness heuristic, assuming that because Hippolytus’ speech indicates that in this religious context, he is ethically arrogant, he is equally arrogant in all contexts. Hippolytus divides the world into two categories—those who have sophrosyne by nature, in every respect, and those who are simply κακοί, and presumably worthy of no respect. Particularly because Hippolytus’ prayer does not advance the dramatic action, the audience will not only apply the rule of relevance and assume that the prayer reveals Hippolytus’ disposition—and it does, but not entirely. The encounter with the Therapon complicates that assumption. Hippolytus is certainly arrogant towards Aphrodite and in sexual matters (as his abuse of Phaedra will confirm), but his willingness to listen to the Therapon shows a certain form of wisdom. The Therapon’s prayer to Aphrodite after Hippolytus’ exit strongly expresses his judgment that Hippolytus has spoken foolishly because of his youth (118 – 20), and it is a judgment with which the spectator must agree. Hippolytus is clearly aware of the status difference between himself and the Therapon, and ignores it. In other Euripidean passages, however, even though the elite character does not respond with hostility to advice from an inferior,

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the character seems so indifferent to the advisor’s status that all the attention goes to the advice itself, not to the advisor. So in Heraclidae the Therapon unsuccessfully tries to advise both Iolaus and Alcmene. Although he is a loyal servant of the family, he is close to neither of them. Neither suggests that it is inappropriate for him to try to tell them what to do, but nothing in the text signals that the spectator should recognize their social wisdom. Instead they seem disconnected from ordinary reality. These are both episodes of “crisis” advice. When the serf of Hyllus tries to persuade Iolaus that Iolaus’ plan to enter battle is absurd, his advice is good from any human perspective. Iolaus does not initially recognize the man, although he knows that they have met before: {Ιο.} {Θε.} {Ιο.}

τίς δ’ εἶ σύ; ποῦ σοι συντυχὼν ἀμνημονῶ; Ὕλλου πενέστης· οὔ με γιγνώσκεις ὁρῶν; ὦ φίλταθ’, ἥκεις ἆρα σωτὴρ νῶιν βλάβης;

{Io} {Ther} {Io}

Who are you? Where have I met you before—I don’t remember? Serf of Hyllus. You don’t recognize me by sight? Dearest friend, then do you come as our savior from harm?

(638 – 40)¹⁹

So even though Iolaus addresses him as φίλταθ’, they are not intimate. Perhaps Iolaus’ failure to recognize the Servant is a sign of senility; the sacrifice of the Maiden has brought him to complete collapse.²⁰ When Iolaus announces that he will enter battle (a moment before he claimed to be too old and weak to stand, 636), the Servant is incredulous. His response combines rebuke with an attempt at honoring Iolaus’ positive face: {Θε.} ἥκιστα πρὸς σοῦ μῶρον ἦν εἰπεῖν ἔπος (“It would not be typical of you to say something foolish,” 682). An extended debate in stichomythia ensues: {Ιο.} {Θε.} {Ιο.} {Θε.} {Ιο.} {Θε.} {Ιο.} {Θε.} {Ιο.}

καὶ μὴ μετασχεῖν γ’ ἀλκίμου μάχης φίλοις. οὐκ ἔστιν, ὦ τᾶν, ἥ ποτ’ ἦν ῥώμη σέθεν. (688)²¹ ἀλλ’ οὖν μαχοῦμαί γ’ ἀριθμὸν οὐκ ἐλάσσοσιν. σμικρὸν τὸ σὸν σήκωμα προστίθης φίλοις. (690) οὐδεὶς ἔμ’ ἐχθρῶν προσβλέπων ἀνέξεται. (687) οὐκ ἔστ’ ἐν ὄψει τραῦμα μὴ δρώσης χερός. (684) τί δ’; οὐ θένοιμι κἂν ἐγὼ δι’ ἀσπίδος; (685) θένοις ἄν, ἀλλὰ πρόσθεν αὐτὸς ἂν πέσοις. μή τοί μ’ ἔρυκε δρᾶν παρεσκευασμένον. (691)

 This line violates Porson’s Bridge, but νῶιν may perhaps be treated as if it were enclitic.  Mendelsohn ,  – , argues that he is feminized.  The tone of ὦ τᾶν is uncertain; see Dickey ,  – .

78

Ruth Scodel

{Θε.} {Ιο.}

δρᾶν μὲν σύ γ’ οὐχ οἷός τε, βούλεσθαι δ’ ἴσως. ὡς μὴ μενοῦντι τἄλλα σοι λέγειν πάρα.²²

(Io) (Ther) (Io) (Ther) (Io) (Ther) (Io) (Ther) (Io) (Ther) (Io)

But also not to share brave battle with my friends. You do not have the strength you had, my friend. Well, I will fight with just as many. It is a small addition that you put in your friends’ scales. No enemy will hold out when he looks at me. Not much of a wound in seeing if the arm can’t act! What? Could not I, too, strike through their shields? You could strike, but you’d fall down first yourself. Do not hold me back when I am ready to act. You cannot act, though maybe you can want to. You can say more words, but I will not wait for them.

(Heracl. 683 – 93)

The argument ends because Iolaus simply refuses to participate further, and the Therapon does not have the status to resist. Alcmene and the coryphaeus also argue against Iolaus, but without success (702– 719). The Therapon himself wants to fight (678 – 9), so the scene does not contrast heroism with cowardice, but human reason with heroic excess. Although his miraculous rejuvenation means that he could be considered to be right in refusing the Therapon’s advice, it is notable that Iolaus does not mention any possibility of divine intervention during the argument; he is not expecting divine help, or challenging the gods. Although his success in battle is a divine response to the prayer that he speaks when he sees Eurystheus (850 – 53), nothing he says in the debate prepares for this outcome (it is foreshadowed by his exiting speech at 740 – 47), and the Therapon’s attempt to convince him is seconded by the chorus (702– 8) and by Alcmene (709 – 19), who says that he is out of his mind (σῶν φρενῶν οὐκ ἔνδον ὤν, 709). So it is fair to call the Therapon a wise advisor, even though Iolaus is vindicated by the outcome. Iolaus does not at any point invoke his higher status. He is not rude, but stubborn and insistent. Nothing in the scene, however, makes his willingness to argue with the Therapon on equal terms salient as evidence of social wisdom. He is simply impervious to reason, and the Therapon has to carry the armor that Iolaus has borrowed from the temple walls as he goes, using his spear as a cane and with the Therapon supporting his other arm, excruciatingly slowly, to battle (720 – 47). The Therapon, as scholars have noted, sounds like a comic slave.²³

 The transmitted order of the lines here is certainly wrong. The arrangement here is that of Zuntz ,  – , followed by Diggle, Kovacs, and Wilkins.  Burian ,  – .

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It is probably the same Therapon who, again unsuccessfully, tries to persuade Alcmene not to kill Eurystheus.²⁴ Alcmene does not object to be being advised by an inferior, but nothing makes her seem gracious. Instead, the Therapon conveys the will of the Athenians, to which Alcmene refuses to acquiesce. Only a messenger low in the social order could serve the function of the Therapon, since he must be able to show why Alcmene’s insistence on killing Eurystheus is outrageous, while being unable to interfere. When he enters with Eurystheus, he addresses Alcmene as δέσποινα and explains why he has been sent (928 – 40). Alcmene does not answer him at all, but delivers a speech of abuse to Eurystheus (941– 60). Once she announces that Eurystheus will be killed, the Therapon intervenes, with no hedging and with no attempt at displaying deference: {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} {Αλ.} {Θε.} (Ther) (Al) (Ther) (Al) (Ther) (Al) (Ther) (Al) (Ther) (Al) (Ther)

οὐκ ἔστ’ ἀνυστὸν τόνδε σοι κατακτανεῖν. ἄλλως ἄρ’ αὐτὸν αἰχμάλωτον εἵλομεν. εἴργει δὲ δὴ τίς τόνδε μὴ θνήισκειν νόμος; τοῖς τῆσδε χώρας προστάταισιν οὐ δοκεῖ. τί δὴ τόδ’; ἐχθροὺς τοισίδ’ οὐ καλὸν κτανεῖν; (965) οὐχ ὅντιν’ ἄν γε ζῶνθ’ ἕλωσιν ἐν μάχηι. καὶ ταῦτα δόξανθ’ Ὕλλος ἐξηνέσχετο; χρῆν αὐτόν, οἶμαι, τῆιδ’ ἀπιστῆσαι χθονί. χρῆν τόνδε μὴ ζῆν μηδ’ †ὁρᾶν φάος ἔτι†. τότ’ ἠδικήθη πρῶτον οὐ θανὼν ὅδε. (970) οὔκουν ἔτ’ ἐστὶν ἐν καλῶι δοῦναι δίκην; οὐκ ἔστι τοῦτον ὅστις ἂν κατακτάνοι. ἔγωγε· καίτοι φημὶ κἄμ’ εἶναί τινα. πολλὴν ἄρ’ ἕξεις μέμψιν, εἰ δράσεις τόδε.

(Herac. 961– 74)

It is not practicable that you kill this man. In vain, then, we took him captive. But what law keeps him from being executed? That is not the decision of the land’s rulers. Whyever not? Do these find it not noble to kill enemies? Not whom they take alive in battle. And Hyllus put up with this decision? He should have disobeyed this land, I suppose. This man should not live or see the light. He did not get justice before when he was not killed. So it is no longer noble that he pay the penalty? There is nobody who would kill this man.

 L assigns the lines to the Chorus and Therapon, which makes no sense. Alcmene is clearly one of the speakers, she can hardly use τοισίδ’ () in arguing with an Athenian chorus, and the chorus offers a vaguely sympathetic comment at  –  that cannot belong to the speaker in the preceding stichomythia. See especially Mastronarde ,  – .

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Ruth Scodel

(Al) (Ther)

I would, and yet I claim that I am somebody. Well, you will be heavily criticized if you do this.

Although the Therapon reports the will of the Athenians, he argues as an independent moral agent, and he resorts to sarcasm at 968. He does not threaten Alcmene with consequences from the Athenians, but with blame from an unspecified wider community. She fully acknowledges that she is violating norms: πρὸς ταῦτα τὴν θρασεῖαν ὅστις ἂν θέληι καὶ τὴν φρονοῦσαν μεῖζον ἢ γυναῖκα χρὴ λέξει.

(Heracl. 978 – 80)

Whoever wants will call me bold for this, more arrogant than a women should be.

Anyone will be able to speak these negative judgments of her; she simply does not place a very high value on them. The chorus expresses sympathy for Alcmene’s position without endorsing it (981– 2). After Eurystheus’ speeches, the coryphaeus makes a feeble attempt at persuading her: {Χο.}

παραινέσαι σοι σμικρόν, ᾿Aλκμήνη, θέλω, τὸν ἄνδρ’ ἀφεῖναι τόνδ’, ἐπεὶ δοκεῖ πόλει.

(Herac. 1018 – 19)

I wish to give you a little advice, Alcmene, to release this man, since that is the city’s decision.

That he calls this recommendation minor shows his desperation. Nobody would call this a small bit of advice, but he hopes to make the face-threat as weak as possible. By using the word ἀφεῖναι (“release”) he allows Alcmene to offer what she sees as a way to avoid disobeying the city while doing what she wants, by killing Eurystheus but giving his body back for burial (1022– 5). After Eurystheus then predicts that his burial before the shrine of Athena will give the Athenians victory over the Heraclids (1026– 44), Alcmene speaks of throwing his body to the dogs (1050 – 51), even though she also refers to the future safety of the Athenians (1045 – 6): either she has missed the point, or she hopes that the members of the chorus have missed it, and wants to deprive them of a victory over her descendants, or she cares only for the immediate satisfaction of her wish for vengeance.²⁵ In any case, while the Therapon cannot persuade her, nobody else can either.

 The incoherence of the conclusion is severe. Kovacs obelizes κυσίν in ; editors since

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In both these scenes, the elite character is so determined on a particular action that the attempt to dissuade is not even treated as a face-threat, but only as a practical obstacle; before the character can proceed to act, the blocker has to be dismissed. Since the face-threat is irrelevant, the status of the interlocutor is too. While Iolaus at 691 and 693 directly addresses the Therapon, Alcmene, even as she engages in stichomythia, never acknowledges her interlocutor at all.²⁶ So the introduction of the slave as advisor in these scenes is not a device for revealing how the elite character is wise or foolish in the treatment of social inferiors. Instead, it probably points to the advice as a wisdom shared by all humanity. The elite character rejects this wisdom, but the outcome shows how remote all human wisdom can be from divine knowledge. Iolaus is sympathetic, though ridiculous, while Alcmene’s defiance of the Athenians is not sympathetic at all. Yet how the audience feels about the character’s decisions is not relevant to the outcome. Far beyond human wisdom or folly, the decisions of mortals contribute to plans of the gods of which the mortals have no knowledge. It is surely not irrelevant that Alcmene’s insistence on vengeance will later enable the Athenians to defeat her own descendants. So the gap in status between the elite character and the slave, although it is unimportant to the characters, may still have meaning for the audience. These slaves speak the best wisdom available to mortals. In both cases, this wisdom requires recognition of one’s limits—Iolaus needs to accept that old men cannot fight, and Alcmene that those who have risked themselves for her benefit are entitled to deference. Slaves, at the bottom of the social scale, are especially wellsuited to express this wisdom. Those who reject that wisdom are tools of an understanding to which no mortals have access. Scenes of good advice from slaves thus cannot be represented on a single line. Listening indicates one kind of wisdom, even if the character is not wise in other ways, and refusing to listen, typically with an expression of contempt for the advisor’s status, magnifies the advisee’s folly. Heraclidae demonstrates, however, that sometimes a character rejects wise advice without any concern whatever for the advisor, because he or she is so intent on his own course of action, and in such scenes, the slave advisor is the voice of human understanding in contrast to the gods.

Hermann have often posited a lacuna, for which Wilkins  on  convincingly argues. The chorus and Alcmene must have reached some compromise allowing for the body’s burial.  Mendelsohn ,  – , notes how self-centered her language is, and calls her “a symbol of self-interest.”

II Individual Plays

Laura McClure

Hearth and Home in Euripides’ Alcestis Despite the staggering amounts of scholarship generated by Euripides’ Alcestis over the past century, few critics have made more than passing reference to the fact that Alcestis’ first reported words take the form of a prayer to Hestia.¹ Those who have commented observe that as the guardian of the household the goddess reinforces Alcestis’ domestic role as wife and mother and points to the threat her death poses to the family.² This chapter seeks to provide a more nuanced understanding of the meaning of Hestia in Euripides’ Alcestis, focusing in particular on her function in the formation of the individual oikos through marriage, children and guest-friendship. As the deity involved in the reception of outsiders into the home, Hestia incarnates the principle of domestic affiliation further embodied in the play by Alcestis as a wife and mother and by Admetus as a host and friend. As such, she reconciles two concepts frequently considered at odds within the world of the play, that of philia and xenia. ³ This dual function of Hestia further explains the reintegration of Alcestis in the guise of a bride to Admetus’ hearth and home at the end of the play. Alcestis’ invocation of Hestia occurs in the larger context of the play’s repeated emphasis on domestic space, especially the interior of the house, beginning with Apollo’s apostrophe in the first line of the play (Ὦ δώματ᾽ ᾿Aδμήτεια, 1).⁴ The dense pattern of terms such as δῶμα, δόμος, ἑστία, μέλαθρον, οἶκος, στέγη and στέγος, which occur 94 times in the course of the play, or once every 12.4 lines, gives the palace a palpable dramatic presence.⁵ Moreover, the speeches of the female and male servants (152– 98 and 747– 72) and those of Admetus’ before the empty house (861– 961) afford an unprecedented glimpse into its innermost

 See Golden  – , ; Nielsen : ; and Syropoulos , . For a general overview of the play’s critical reception since the th century, see Parker , xxxvi – lvi.  See most recently Parker , ; brief discussions of Hestia are found in Rivier  – , ; Scully , ; Dyson , ; Segal b,  and n. ; Luschnig .  –  n. ; and Rabinowitz , .  On the ‘radical tension’ between philia and xenia in the play, see Goldfarb ; on the concepts generally, see Scodel ; Bell ; Smith ; Scully ; Schein ; Stanton ; and Padilla . Chalkia ,  –  similarly identifies the conflict between the acceptance and rejection of outsiders as key to the play’s interpretation.  On domestic space in the play, see in particular Luschnig ; also Smith a, ; Chalkia ,  – ; Segal b; and Buxton ,  – .  Thorburn ,  – ; see also Burnett , ; Smith a,  – ; Luschnig ,  – ; Buxton ,  – .

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space (Luschnig 1992, 20 and 1990, 18). Indeed, the word ἑστία and cognates occur nine times in Alcestis, more than in any other Euripidean play, beginning with the personified form in Alcestis’ prayer.⁶ In archaic Greek thought, Hestia marks the center of domestic space and in this capacity serves as the guardian of marriage, children and temporal permanence; through her the male family line is ‘perpetuated and remains constant’ (Vernant 1969, 136).⁷ So Creusa exclaims upon reuniting with her long lost son, ‘no longer are we childless—the house has its hearth’ (ἄπαιδες οὐκέτ᾽ ἐσμὲν οὐδ᾽ ἄτεκνοι· δῶμ᾽ ἑστιοῦται, E. Ion, 1464).⁸ A key aspect of Hestia in myth is her resolute virginity: after rejecting the courtship of Poseidon and Apollo, she vows to remain chaste forever. In return, Zeus grants her a seat ‘in the middle of the oikos’ (καί τε μέσῳ οἴκῳ κατ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἕζετο, Hymn. Hom. 5.29 – 32).⁹ She represents both the purity of the daughter and the procreative power of the bride through whom the patriline is respectively protected and perpetuated (Vernant 1969, 148). As the symbolic center of the house, the hearth is also the point at which outsiders or those of liminal status, such as brides, infants and newly bought slaves, are introduced and incorporated into the oikos. ¹⁰ Although not associated with the wedding in her mythology, there is some evidence that Hestia or the hearth may have been involved in certain nuptial rituals.¹¹ According to Pythagorean thought, the bride is led by the right hand to the hearth

 Of the forty references in extant Euripidean tragedy to ἑστία and related terms, nine or almost one-fourth occur in Alcestis; cf. , , , , , , ; ἑστιῶ, ; ξυνέστιος, .  Hestia is surprisingly unattested in Greek literature and art and not extensively discussed in scholarship; see Farnell ,  – ; Vernant ; Burkert ,  – ; Chalkia ,  – ; and Parker ,  – . Despite the literary emphasis on fixity, the hearth in the classical household appears to have been portable, for which see Oakley and Sinos ,  n. ; Parker , ; and Foxhall , .  For other instances of ἑστία in tragedy, cf. A. Cho. , ; S. Ai. , ; E. Med. ; Hec. .  For her place in the middle of the house, cf. Hes. Th.  – ; Hymn. Hom. ; cf. ; see also Parker , .  For slaves, cf. ἑστίας μεσομφάλου, A. Ag. ;  – ; see also Scully ,  and n. ; Parker , ; cf. Xen. Oec. ., .; E. Ion ; for suppliants, cf. A. Ag. ; E. HF ; Hcld. .  On Hestia and marriage, see Vernant , ; Redfield ,  and n. ; and Oakley and Sinos , , ,  n. . The arrival of a woman at a man’s hearth constitutes marriage, cf. ὅτου δῶμ᾽ ἑστίαν τ᾽ ἀφίξομαι, E. Hec. ; cf. E. HF ; while adultery is connected with the betrayal of the hearth, cf. ἕως ἂν αἴθῃ πῦρ ἐφ᾽ ἑστίας ἐμῆς/Αἴγισθος, A. Ag.  – ; Cho. ; E. Hel. .

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of her husband and there placed under his protection.¹² The torches carried by the mothers of the bride and groom in the wedding procession borrowed their fire from the hearths of each family, resulting in the uniting of two hearths (ταῖς τε συνιούσαις ἑστίαις, Pl. Leg. 773a; Oakley and Sinos 1993, 34). The katachysmata—a ceremony that involved showering the newlyweds with fruit and nuts, as well as newly acquired slaves—probably took place at the hearth.¹³ The bride’s arrival at the hearth of her husband marked the culmination of the wedding journey as the final moment before the pair entered the thalamos, where the virginity of the daughter and bride yielded to the procreative power of the wife.¹⁴ In this regard, we can understand Hestia as a goddess connected with female adolescence and the transformation from parthenos to nymphe. A white-ground Attic pyxis by the Splanchnopt Painter c. 470 – 460 BCE (Figure 1) provides visual support for Hestia’s role in the Greek wedding. The vase shows the bridegroom escorting his bride with his hand on her wrist in the symbolic gesture of marriage (χεὶρ ἐπὶ καρπῷ) to a flaming hearth, led in front by the mother of bride and the mother of groom carrying torches.¹⁵ It is conjectured that Hestia stands behind the hearth bearing a scepter and holding in her outstretched hand a fig, a reference either to the katachysmata or to the fruit consumed by the bride before entering the thalamos. ¹⁶ The reception of the bride by Hestia represents the formation of a new oikos brought about by marriage and the promise of future children. Her special role in assimilating outsiders to the oikos extends to the Amphidromia, a ceremony in

 On the bride as suppliant, cf. Iamb. VP . –  and . – ; cf. also Arist. [Oec.] a= [C] DK. See also Photius on the transfer of the bride from hearth to hearth, παραλαβόντες … αὐτὴν (νύμφην) ἐκ τῆς πατρῴας Ἑστίας ἐπὶ τὴν ἅμαξαν ἄγουσιν εἰς Ἑστίαν τοῦ γαμοῦντος ἑσπέρας ἱκανῆς, Photius Lex I . See further Brueckner , ; Oakley and Sinos , , n.  – .  Cf. schol. Ar. Plut. ; see further Brueckner ,  – ; Sutton , ; Oakley and Sinos , ; Parker , .  Oakley and Sinos ,  and n.  – . Sabetai ,  and n.  identifies an altar in a wedding procession depicted on a red figure pyxis from Kanapitsa, inv. no.  Thebes Museum, but notes that representations of altars in such scenes are rare.  Oakley and Sinos ,  – , figs.  – ; on the gesture and its connection with bride capture, see Brueckner ,  – ; Jenkins ,  and n. ,  and n. ,  and n. ; Sutton ,  and n. ; Oakley and Sinos ,  and  n. ; Sabetai , . n. .  On the identity of the figure, see Oakley and Sinos ,  –  and n. ; as Hestia, see Brueckner ,  – ; Jenkins , ; Sarian, s.v. ‘Hestia,’ LIMC V, , no. ; cf. also E. Phaeth. fr. .. Although Sutton ,  agrees with the identification of Hestia he does not believe the fig represents the katachysmata but rather the quince eaten by the bride before the consummation of the wedding; cf. Plut. Sol. .=C, Mor. D and F; Hymn. Hom. . – ,  – . On the connection of this ritual with Hestia, see Vernant , .

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Figure 1: Attic white ground pyxis by the Splanchnopt Painter, c. 470 – 60 BCE, London D 11. © The Trustees of the British Museum splanchnopt.pyxis.british.museum.jpg

which the newborn infant was carried around the hearth five days after birth, marking his or her official entry into the family.¹⁷ In tragedy, the hearth is further associated with rituals of return as a means of renewing the connection of family members to the household.¹⁸ Hestia thus embodies the temporal permanence of the oikos and its perpetuation through time as a continual process of affiliation and exchange: the child of the mother presented to the hearth is in turn introduced, while the son leads his bride from the paternal hearth to his own and the daughter goes out to another hearth (Parker 2005, 14). In Alcestis’ view, however, Hestia represents not the paternal hearth of Pheres, but the oikos formed through marriage and carried on by her children. Her characterization as a bride both in the female servant’s speech and in her veiled return at the end of the play further reinforces this new definition.¹⁹ Before praying to Hestia, the queen washes herself in water drawn from a river (ὕδασι ποταμίοις λευκὸν χρόα/ ἐλούσατ(ο), 159 – 60), as if performing the nuptial bath.²⁰ She then adorns herself with special clothing, probably white in color, and jewelry (ἐσθῆτα κόσμον τ᾽

 Vernant ,  – ; Garland , , ,  – ; Golden , , .  Cf. A. Ag. ,; E. HF , , ; Tro. ; Or. .  O’ Higgins ,  argues that Alcestis appears as a bride; most critics emphasize a funerary context; see Scully ,  and n. ; Luschnig , ; Wohl ,  and n. ; Slater , ; Buxton , ; Parker , . For the similarity between wedding and death ritual, see in particular Alexiou , ; Redfield ,  – ; Jenkins ,  – ; Reilly  (vase painting); Seaford ,  – .  Fluvial water was thought to promote fertility; see Oakley and Sinos , ; cf. E. IT  – ; schol. E. Pho. .

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εὐπρεπῶς ἠσκήσατο, 162).²¹ The verb ἀσκέω may suggest a wedding rather than a funeral as it is typically used of female grooming in Euripides.²² Consider also that the suicidal wife Evadne—the closest parallel to Alcestis in Euripides’ extant plays—similarly dons nuptial attire before joining her husband in death (E. Supp. 1054– 57).²³ While the term κόσμος frequently applies to grave gifts—indeed it is the term used of the items Pheres later brings for Alcestis’ corpse—it often indicates feminine clothing and jewelry, especially in the context of female vanity.²⁴ For instance, κόσμος comprises part of the equipment that renders Pentheus feminine in appearance (Ba. 832, 857), as well as occurs several times in connection with the peplos and diadem Medea sends her rival (Med. 787, 951, 954, 972, 981, 1156). Even though these latter items ultimately kill the princess, they are in the first instance bridal presents suggestive of the epaulia, the gifts given to the bride the day after the wedding, rather than funerary offerings (δέξεται νύμφα, Med. 979). When Alcestis reappears at the end of the play, the same terms are used of her clothing and jewelry, indicating her status as young and marriageable, as discussed more fully at the end of this chapter. Just as Alcestis’ nuptial bath and clothing evoke the day when she first entered Admetus’ house and joined his hearth, her prayer to Hestia similarly focuses on marriage: καὶ στᾶσα πρόσθεν Ἑστίας κατηύξατο· Δέσποιν᾽, ἐγὼ γὰρ ἔρχομαι κατὰ χθονός, πανύστατόν σε προσπίτνουσ᾽ αἰτήσομαι, τέκν᾽ ὀρφανεῦσαι τἀμά· καὶ τῷ μὲν φίλην σύζευξον ἄλοχον, τῇ δὲ γενναῖον πόσιν.

(E. Alc. 158 – 66)

And standing before the altar of Hestia she prayed: ‘Mistress, since I am going under the earth, I supplicate and beseech you for the last time

 On white as the color of wedding garments, cf. ; see also Foley ,  – ; Slater , ; Buxton ,  – .  It can denote an excessive feminine concern with appearance conducive to adultery, cf. ἐς κάλλος ἀσκεῖ, El. ; ξανθὸν κατόπτρῳ πλόκαμον ἐξήσκεις κόμης, E. El. ; ἐξῆλθες ἀσκήσασα κἄβλεψας πόσει, Tro. .  Wedding attire could be distinguished from that of mourning, cf. E. Supp. ; see also Collard , . and .; Seaford , . On the burial of unmarried girls in wedding clothes, see Alexiou ,  n. ; Seaford ,  and n. . Bennett and Tyrell  on much sketchier evidence argue that Antigone dies wearing a wedding dress.  On the association of κόσμος with female vanity, cf. E. Hipp. ; An. ; as female adornment, cf. Hec. ; as funerary ornament in the play, cf. , , , ; elsewhere in Euripides, cf. HF, , ; Hec. ; Tro. , ; Hel. , , ; IT .

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to take care of my orphaned children: yoke a dear wife To my son and a noble husband to my daughter.”

Alcestis calls upon the goddess not only to care for her children in her absence, but also to attend to their weddings when they come of age.²⁵ Her death threatens to disrupt the generational process of domestic affiliation since she will not be able to carry out the ritual duties incumbent upon mothers. She will neither prepare the nuptial bath for her daughter and bear the wedding torches in her procession to her husband’s house, nor receive her son’s bride into her own house.²⁶ In directing the transfer of the bride from one house to another, the mother in a sense exerts control over a male process, effecting the social transformation of both parties.²⁷ This agency aligns Alcestis with the power of Hestia in creating both temporal and physical links among the members of the domestic group. Alcestis’ prayer to Hestia thus radically redefines the oikos as a domestic unit constituted through marriage rather than as that inherited through paternal ancestry.²⁸ As such, she privileges ties of philia, defined by the play as the love of a husband for his wife in marriage, over those of blood. Indeed, of the fortyseven instances of the term and its cognates in the play, twenty-two apply to a wife, and most of these refer directly to Alcestis.²⁹ For this reason, in asking that the goddess secure good marriages for her children, she articulates an emotional tie, ‘yoke my son to a dear wife’ (τῷ μὲν φίλην/ σύζευξον ἄλοχον, 165 – 66). As if to reinforce this idea, she moves from the hearth to the thalamos, the innermost recess of the house, retracing the progression of her wedding day. There in passionate language she addresses the marriage bed, where she ‘unloosed virgin

 According to Stieber , , Alcestis addresses an image of Hestia; I follow Dale ,  and Parker ,  in assuming she addresses not a statue but an altar.  Mothers may have even selected their sons’ wives, for which see Parker , ; cf. E. HF . For the nuptial bath and torches as the duties of mothers, see Oakley and Sinos , ; cf. E. Pho.  –  and scholion; IA ; IT  – ; Med.  – ; schol. A. R. . .  Oakley and Sinos , ; Redfield , .  On Alcestis’ redefinition of the oikos through marriage, see Luschnig , ; Parker , xiv and ; on the brief lifespan of the individual household in classical Athens, which lasted only until divorce or death, see Roy ; cf. [Dem.] ..  As applied to the wife, cf. , , ,  (twice); φίλια, , , , , , , , , ,  ( –  del. Wilamowitz), ; φιλέω, , , , , ; ; see Most ,  and n. . Schein ,  –  argues that the unprecedented use of the word by Euripides reflects a new emphasis on personal ties and sentiment in the third quarter of the fifth century. For a similar privileging of the marital bond by a female character, cf. E. Supp. , ,  – .

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maidenhood to this man’ (Ὦ λέκτρον, ἔνθα παρθένει᾽ ἔλυσ᾽ ἐγὼ/ κορεύματ᾽ ἐκ τοῦδ᾽ ἀνδρός, 177– 78).³⁰ The oddly redundant phrase, παρθένεια κορεύματα, puts special emphasis on the virginity protected by Hestia as the precondition of marriage while echoing her concern for her children’s transition to adulthood, a point to which she will later return in her speech to Admetus. The vivid image of the queen embracing her tearful children as they cling to her robes underscores her role as a mother in fostering affiliations within the oikos, a function later exemplified by their presence onstage (189 – 91).³¹ Her final gesture, that of extending her right hand in farewell to each servant (ἡ δὲ δεξιὰν/προύτειν᾽ ἑκάστῳ, 193 – 4), further aligns Alcestis with Hestia as a principle of domestic incorporation, since they address her as δέσποινα just as she did the goddess.³² In each of these interior scenes, the queen is at the center of domestic relationships, whether that of husband and wife, mother and child or mistress and servants, as the physical embodiment of philia, the affective tie that binds the oikos together.³³ After making her farewells inside, Alcestis leaves the house, accompanied by her husband and children, for one last look at the outer world (244– 279). The scene is noteworthy for two remarkable features: the portrayal of a death onstage, one of only two such examples in extant Greek tragedy (Ajax being the other), and the presence of children, one of whom has a singing part.³⁴ These innovative techniques create a visual tableau analogous to the family scenes of farewell carved on funerary stelae just coming into vogue at Athens around the time of the play’s production (Osborne 1997). Alcestis’ farewell similarly puts the focus on the domestic group as the central social unit while giving ex-

 Parker ,  comments on the ‘remarkable’ phrase ἔλυσ᾽ ἐγώ with which Alcestis ‘emphatically claims an active role in the matter’; κορεύματα occurs only here; cf. κορευθήσῃ at , which is almost as rare.  For children grasping at their mother’s robes, cf. E. Alc.  – ; Hcld.  – ; Tro. ; compared to chicks, cf. E. Alc.  – ; Hcld. ; An. ; HF  – ; Tro.  – . See also Sifakis , .  The term δέσποιναν occurs at , , , , all in the same enjambed position at the beginning of the line. On the term as a cult title in tragedy, see Henrichs ,  – ; Scully ,  n. ; cf. S. Ai. , ; E. Hipp. .  On Alcestis as the embodiment of philia, see in particular Burnett ,  n. ; Bell , ; contra Beye , .  On the death scene, see the schol. E. Alc. ; see also Drew , ; Beye , ; Bradley , ; Slater , . On children as a feature of Euripidean tragedy, see Dyson . For the presence of mute children in other plays, cf. S. Ai.  – ; OT  – , and as suppliants at the beginning of the play. On children with singing parts, cf. the subsidiary chorus of boys at E. Supp.  – ; An.  – ; on children in tragedy, see also Sifakis .

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pression to heightened emotional intensity through lyric utterance, particularly the child’s lament that concludes the scene. But her departure from the house symbolically reverses her original procession to the hearth as a bride, separating her from her husband’s house. Once outside, she calls not upon Admetus’ dwelling but upon her ancestral palace, ‘Earth and roofs and halls of the bridal bedchambers of my native Iolcus’ (γαῖά τε καὶ μελάθρων στέγαι/νυμφίδιοί τε κοῖται πατρίας Ἰωλκοῦ, 248 – 9).³⁵ She is now to be joined not to a mortal man but to Hades whom she envisions as a kind of groom leading her away to a new house (ἄγει μέ τις, 259; οἵαν ὁδόν, 263).³⁶ Just as Alcestis had asked Hestia to help her children, who are now both physically present onstage, make a successful transition to marriage, she now requests in her formal rhesis that Admetus not take on another wife.³⁷ She begins by reminding her husband that her death is a choice, like her marriage, ‘I could have decided not to die for you, but instead I could have married the Thessalian man of my choice and lived in wealth in a royal house’ (παρόν μοι μὴ θανεῖν ὑπὲρ σέθεν,/ἀλλ᾽ ἄνδρα τε σχεῖν Θεσσαλῶν ὃν ἤθελον/καὶ δῶμα ναίειν ὄλβιον τυραννίδι, 284– 6). The extraordinary claim that she could have selected for herself a second husband, underscored by the active verbs σχεῖν, ἤθελον and ἠθέλησα (287), articulates a form of agency that links her decision to die with the idea of marriage as a voluntary affiliation made all the more meaningful because freely chosen.³⁸ In this respect, her choice overturns the traditional view of the family as constituted through the patriline; indeed, Admetus’ parents in refusing to die cannot be recognized as family, but rather deserve censure for their betrayal (καίτοι σ᾽ ὁ

 Burnett ,  in contrast views Alcestis’ lyric invocation as an affirmation of her marriage as ‘a pure element to be named with Sun, Air, and Earth’; for a parallel, cf. E. Supp.  – .  For the popularity of representations of Charon and Hermes on Attic white ground lekythoi, see Reilly , . Sourvinou-Inwood ,  –  argues these figures provided reassurance, conveying the idea that the dead did not transition alone; in connection with the play, see Chalkia , .  Critics have traditionally viewed this speech as cold and selfish, ‘no endearing words, no expression of future happiness, only mistrust, and coldness,’ Beye , ; Michelini ,  – ; Bassi , ; Padilla , . Scully ,  views the request as a ‘red herring.’ For positive assessments of Alcestis, see Burnett ,  – ; Bell  and Luschnig  view her as the embodiment of the house and its nexus of relationships; see also Syropoulos , ; cf. Pl. Sym. b-d.  A Greek woman typically had no say over her marriage partner; for exceptions, cf. Hdt. .; Dem. .; Plut. Cim. .; Mor. C. On Alcestis’ choice as freely made, see Burnett , .

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φύσας χἠ τεκοῦσα προύδοσαν, 290), whereas she merits praise (γυναῖκα ἀρίστην … μητρός, 324– 5). Her voluntary death in service of marital philia effectively severs ties between Admetus and his parents, reconfiguring the true bond of kinship as that freely chosen rather than an accident of birth. In his quarrel with his father, Admetus later redefines kinship in the same terms, rejecting his affiliation with his parents as spurious and displacing it onto Alcestis (ἣν ἐγὼ καὶ μητέρα/ καὶ πατέρα, 646 – 7).³⁹ Thrust outside the kin group, Pheres is debarred from participating in Alcestis’ burial (629 – 31), nor will he receive proper funerary rituals from his son upon his death (664 – 5). The ‘paternal hearth’ (πατρῴαν ἑστίαν, 738) has been supplanted by the one formed in marriage, blood has yielded to philia, as Admetus states in acknowledging Alcestis’ sacrifice, ‘for I revere our love’ (σὴν γὰρ φιλίαν σεβόμεσθα, 279; cf. 1081).⁴⁰ This new hearth is embodied by the children silently standing onstage, a testament to the oikos formed by the philia of husband and wife, ‘for you love these children here as much as I do,’ says Alcestis (τούσδε γὰρ φιλεῖς/οὐχ ἧσσον ἤ ᾽γὼ παῖδας, 302– 3). She asks that they remain ‘masters of my house’ (δεσπότας ἐμῶν δόμων, 304), enjoining Admetus not to remarry ‘to the detriment of these children here’ (καὶ μὴ ᾽πιγήμῃς τοῖσδε μητρυιὰν τέκνοις, 305). The unusual phrase ἐμῶν δόμων represents a remarkable reversal of Greek norms; by referring to the house as her domain, Alcestis again underscores her authority within the domestic sphere through her alignment with Hestia.⁴¹ Her main concern is for her daughter, whom she views as especially vulnerable, because she will have no mother to secure an appropriate husband, oversee her wedding or tend to her in childbirth: σὺ δ᾽, ὦ τέκνον μοι, πῶς κορευθήσῃ καλῶς; ποίας τυχοῦσα συζύγου τῷ σῷ πατρί; μή σοί τιν᾽ αἰσχρὰν προσβαλοῦσα κληδόνα ἥβης ἐν ἀκμῇ σοὺς διαφθείρῃ γάμους. οὐ γάρ σε μήτηρ οὔτε νυμφεύσει ποτὲ οὔτ᾽ ἐν τόκοισι σοῖσι θαρσυνεῖ, τέκνον, παροῦσ᾽, ἵν᾽ οὐδὲν μητρὸς εὐμενέστερον.

(313 – 19)

 For the motif, cf. Hom. Il. . –  and earlier at . On the verbal parallels between Admetus’ words in this scene and Alcestis’ farewell, see Jones .  Goldfarb ,  notes that although the tie between father and son should be the strongest, it is here the weakest; on the phrase, see Dale ,  – ; Schein , ; Parker , .  I follow Dale ,  –  in keeping ἐμῶν of the received texts; contra Parker ,  – , who argues for Wecklein’s τρέφων.

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You, my child, how will you reach maidenhood well, having met with what kind of mate for your father? Only let her not spread vicious rumors and spoil your chance of marriage in the prime of your youth. Never will your mother help prepare your wedding, Nor will she stand by and encourage you in childbirth, where nothing is better than a mother’s compassion, child.

The rare word κορευθήσῃ recalls Alcestis’ own wedding day as the culmination of her transition from parthenos to nymphe (κορεύματα, 178) and a moment of particular danger for a girl, one requiring the careful oversight of a mother.⁴² The verb νυμφεύω further suggests an active role in accomplishing her daughter’s wedding, either through arranging the betrothal or facilitating the transition through the wedding ceremony. Hestia oversees this movement of the girl from her natal hearth to that of her husband, thereby forging links between households and ensuring the perpetuation of the new oikos through the birth of legitimate children. Alcestis’ last request attempts to preserve the oikos formed by her marriage to Admetus even after her death by ensuring that no other bride will be incorporated into its hearth: ἐπεὶ σ᾽ ἐγώ καὶ ζῶσαν εἶχον, καὶ θανοῦσ᾽ ἐμὴ γυνή μόνη κεκλήσῃ, κοὔτις ἀντὶ σοῦ ποτε τόνδ᾽ ἄνδρα νύμφη Θεσσαλὶς προσφθέγξεται.

(328 – 31)

While you lived I had you as my wife and in death you alone will be called my wife; no Thessalian bride will ever call me husband in your place.

The king further promises to remain in perpetual mourning, to prohibit all festivities inside the house and to permanently shun his parents as outside of the kin group (οὐκ ἔργῳ φίλοι, 339). Moreover, he will keep a simulacrum of his wife in his bed so that he might imagine that he holds ‘my dear wife in my arms, a cold pleasure, to be sure’ (τὴν φίλην ἐν ἀγκάλαις/δόξω γυναῖκα … ψυχρὰν μέν, οἶμαι, τέρψιν, 351– 3).⁴³ He will then join his wife in death, buried

 For a parallel, cf. S. OT  – .  The statue has been much debated; see in particular Burnett ,  –  and n. ; O’Higgins ,  – ; Stieber ,  – ; Parker ,  – , who calls the project ‘extravagant and bizarre.’ For a parallel phrase, cf. ψυχρὸν παραγκάλισμα, S. An. .

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by her side, ‘For in dying never may I be parted from you’ (μηδὲ γὰρ θανών ποτε, 367– 8). The oikos constituted by their marriage will even extend to the underworld, where Admetus instructs wife to prepare their home (καὶ δῶμ᾽ ἑτοίμαζ᾽, ὡς συνοικήσουσά μοι, 364).⁴⁴ In the underworld she will be received as if at a new hearth, to sit beside the bride of Hades (σε χθόνιός θ᾽ Ἑρμῆς/ Ἅιδης τε δέχοιτε, 743 – 4). Heracles later juxtaposes ‘the sunless domain of Kore and her lord’ (Κόρης Ἄνακτός τ᾽ εἰς ἀνηλίους δόμους, 852), where he will go to rescue Alcestis, with the house of Admetus, which has received him as a guest (ὅς μ᾽ ἐς δόμους ἐδέξατο, 855). Admetus’ promise never to remarry is formally accomplished through the participation of the children, who represent the fulfillment of marital philia and the continuation of the oikos that Hestia preserves.⁴⁵ The boy, in particular, is reminiscent of the pais amphithales of wedding ritual, the male child with two living parents who, as the sign of their successful union, is auspicious for the newly married couple.⁴⁶ Alcestis first calls upon the children to serve as witnesses to her husband’s pledge and then physically transfers them to his care: Ἄδμητος Ἄλκηστις Ἄδμητος Ἄλκηστις

καὶ νῦν γέ φημι καὶ τελευτήσω τάδε. ἐπὶ τοῖσδε παῖδας χειρὸς ἐξ ἐμῆς δέχου. δέχομαι, φίλον γε δῶρον ἐκ φίλης χερός. σύ νυν γενοῦ τοῖσδ᾽ ἀντ᾽ ἐμοῦ μήτηρ τέκνοις.

Admetus Alcestis Admetus Alcestis

I promise and I will accomplish it. On this condition, receive the children from my hand. I receive them, a dear gift from a dear hand. Now you become a mother to them in my place.

(374– 7)

As the only physical contact between husband and wife in this scene, the gesture expresses the emotional bond of philia between family members as that which distinguishes them from outsiders.⁴⁷ The verb δέχομαι, together with χείρ, further suggests a formal gesture of incorporation of the sort associated with the hearth, since it

 On the symmetry between the two places, see Chalkia ,  – ; Bell , . Note the linguistic and metrical parallels between the house of Admetus (, , ) and that of Hades (, , , , ).  For children as the goal of legitimate marriage, cf. Men. Pk. – ; for their dramatic significance, see Dyson , ; Slater ,  proposes that they recall the parade of war orphans in the theater.  On the pais amphithales, cf. Poll. .; see further Redfield , ; Golden , ; Oakley and Sinos ,  and  n. .  On the contractual aspects of philia, see Schein , ; for the handshake in legal transactions, see Flory , ; as an expression of physical intimacy, cf. Med.  – .

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is later used of guest-friendship (598, 750, 753, 775, 778, 817, 855) and the return of Alcestis to the house (1097, 1110). Since the parallel gesture of χεὶρ ἐπὶ καρπῷ marks the ceremonial transfer of legal guardianship of the bride from her father to the groom culminating at the hearth, the delivery of the children similarly signals an act of incorporation perhaps suggestive of the Amphidromia.⁴⁸ This rite of affiliation foreshadows the return of Alcestis at the end of the play and her reintegration into the hearth when Heracles physically places her in Admetus’ hands. Although physically present onstage, the children remain silent until Alcestis expires, whereupon the little boy steps forward and delivers an emotional lyric lament over his mother’s lifeless body (393 – 416).⁴⁹ The remarkable inclusion of a speaking child in this scene —the first time in extant tragedy and possibly a Euripidean innovation—accomplishes two things. First, it graphically illustrates the vulnerability of the children in the face of their mother’s death, the source of Alcestis’ earlier anxieties as expressed in her prayer to Hestia and in her final speech to Admetus. The boy child is a ‘little bird’ (νεοσσός, 403) barely able to hold himself up (πίτνων, 402), piteously calling upon his dead mother (ὦ μᾶτερ, 400, 401, 415). Moreover, his presence represents the oikos and the effect her death will have on it, ‘With you gone, mother, the house is destroyed’ (οἰχομένας δὲ σοῦ,/ μᾶτερ, ὄλωλεν οἶκος, 415). While the notion that the death of the mother will obliterate the house goes against Greek social norms (Parker 2007, 137), the child’s unorthodox statement demonstrates the extent to which Alcestis has managed to completely reframe the definition of the family as an affiliation forged through marriage rather than blood, beginning with her prayer to Hestia. But Hestia not only governs ties within the household, she is also connected with the banquet and relationships of guest friendship, as attested by her early mythology: οὐ γὰρ ἄτερ σοῦ εἰλαπίναι θνητοῖσιν, ἵν᾽ οὐ πρώτῃ πυμάτῃ τε Ἑστίῃ ἀρχόμενος σπένδει μελιηδέα οἶνον

(Hymn. Hom. 29.5 – 7)

For without you mortals do not feast, where one does not duly pour sweet wine to Hestia both first and last.

 For this idea, see Chalkia ,  and n. ; others view the gesture as an adoption ceremony, for which see Luschnig : ; Slater , .  The boy’s song is the largest vocal role of a child in extant Euripidean tragedy, cf. An.  – ,  – ,  – ; Supp.  – ; see further Sifakis  and Dyson .

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Whereas the hearth strengthens the ties between the domestic group and asserts its permanence, the feast opens the home to those not in the family network, facilitating alliances between households.⁵⁰ Noteworthy in this regard is that all of the other references to the hearth in the play occur after Alcestis’ death, almost all in reference to guest-friendship between men (ἑστίαν, 538, 545, 750, 1007; cf. ἑστιῶ, 765; ξυνέστιος, 1151). Although Alcestis had earlier addressed Hestia as a deity concerned with the perpetuation of kin ties through marriage, for the other characters the hearth represents ‘the house into which the king will invite a guest from the outside’ (Segal 1992b, 17). Alcestis and Admetus thus represent two complementary aspects of the same principle of incorporation, those fostered through women in their capacity as wives and mothers and those formed by men through guest-friendship. With the arrival of Heracles, however, the play puts these two forms of Hestia into direct conflict with one another, confronting Admetus with the dilemma of whether or not to admit an outsider into his house when he has expressly prohibited all forms of entertainment.⁵¹ Detecting signs of mourning, Heracles questions Admetus as to whether the woman who has recently died is ‘an alien or closely related to the family’ (ὀθνεῖος ἢ σοὶ συγγενὴς γεγῶσά τις, 532).⁵² To which he replies, ‘An alien, but in another sense closely related to the house’ (ὀθνεῖος, ἄλλως δ᾽ ἦν ἀναγκαία δόμοις, 533). Alcestis’ ambiguous status as a wife belonging to two hearths, in this case that of Hades and Admetus, allows him to equivocate because she is indeed in some sense always an outsider. To avoid impropriety, Heracles volunteers to visit the hearth of another guest-friend (ξένων πρὸς ἄλλων ἑστίαν πορεύσομαι, 538). But Admetus staunchly refuses to let him (ἄλλου σ᾽ ἀνδρὸς ἑστίαν, 545) out of respect for the institution of xenia, ‘For my house does not know how to reject or dishonor guests’ (τἀμὰ δ᾽ οὐκ ἐπίσταται/ μέλαθρ᾽ ἀπωθεῖν οὐδ᾽ ἀτιμάζειν ξένους, 566 – 7). In praising him for this decision, the chorus recall his former hospitality toward Apollo, which in turn enriched his hearth (τοιγὰρ πολυμηλοτάταν/ἑστίαν οἰκεῖ, 588 – 89). All of these in On ἑστία in connection with guest-friendship, see Vernant , ; cf. E. Hec. ; El. ; in the play, see Segal b, . Offerings of food and libations were first made to Hestia at the start of the meal, see Scully ,  and n. ; cf. E. HF ; ; Or.  – ; schol. Ar. Vesp. ; E. Phaeth. fr. ..  Admetus’ willingness to entertain Heracles despite his earlier promises has led to a negative assessment of his character; see Smith a; Nielsen , ; Lloyd . For a positive view, see Jones ; Burnett ; Golden ,  – ; Thury ; Dyson , .  On the term ὀθνεῖος (, , , , ), see Parker , , who notes it does not appear elsewhere in extant tragedy and is uncommon before the Alexandrian period; cf. Pl. Rep. b; Prot. c; Arist. NE a, a. On the similar term θυραῖος (of Alcestis, cf. , ), see Buxton , ; cf. E. An. ; El. ; Ion ; Hipp. .

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stances of ἑστία call attention to Admetus’ generosity as a host, beginning with his exemplary treatment of the enslaved Apollo, who has set in motion this chain of events. The competing claims of philia and xenia, respectively embodied by Alcestis’ sacrifice and Admetus’ hospitality, are evident in the male servant’s speech about Heracles’ unruly behavior at the hearth where he has been enjoying a symposium of one, ‘Never yet have I received a worse guest at the hearth!’ (ἀλλὰ τοῦδ᾽ οὔπω ξένον/ κακίον᾽ ἐς τήνδ᾽ ἑστίαν ἐδεξάμην, 750). And yet under orders from Admetus, he reluctantly acknowledges the necessity of entertaining him, ‘and now I will entertain the guest in the house’ (καὶ νῦν ἐγὼ μὲν ἐν δόμοισιν ἑστιῶ/ξένον, 765– 6). The verb ἑστιῶ used here literally means ‘to receive at the hearth’ and suggests that the incorporation of the hero as a guest is structurally parallel to that of Alcestis as a wife (Segal 1992b, 17). By convincing the hero to remain in his house and compelling the servants to entertain him while mourning the death of the queen, the king embodies the masculine aspect of the hearth as the site of incorporation of guest-friends, for he is φιλόξενος (809, 830, 858). Once Heracles learns the truth about Alcestis, he seeks to restore and reincorporate the queen back into the hearth of his host: δεῖ γάρ με σῶσαι τὴν θανοῦσαν ἀρτίως γυναῖκα κἀς τόνδ᾽ αὖθις ἱδρῦσαι δόμον Ἄλκηστιν ᾿Aδμήτῳ θ᾽ ὑπουργῆσαι χάριν.

(840 – 42)

I must save this woman who has recently died and install Alcestis once more in this house and do a favor for Admetus.

The verb ἱδρῦσαι is distinctive, since it means to occupy physical space or even to set up a statue; Alcestis will resume the fixed place away from which she was moved, the feminine area of the oikos governed by Hestia (Chalkia 1986, 245). By repaying the debt of gratitude incurred by Admetus’ hospitality, the return of Alcestis will reconcile the two competing claims of xenia and philia governed by the hearth. Admetus meanwhile learns the full meaning of his loss, as the female servant had earlier predicted (οὔπω τόδ᾽ οἶδε δεσπότης, πρὶν ἂν πάθῃ, 145), when he confronts his empty house, hesitant to enter (861– 961).⁵³ The scene parallels the

 Segal a,  argues that Admetus comes to recognize ‘how essential Alcestis had been for his basic identity, his view of himself, and his life.’ Bell ,  thinks her death results in a ‘radical redefinition’ of relationships within the oikos, forcing him to see the importance of filial

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pattern of Alcestis’ farewell, beginning with a lyric expression of grief followed by a formal rhesis (Parker 2007, 222). Whereas Alcestis’ departure from the house signals a reversal of the nuptial procession, here the sight of the palace door reminds Admetus of his wedding day, when dressed in white and accompanied by torches and songs, he entered as a groom, ‘holding the hand of his dear wife’ (φιλίας ἀλόχου χέρα βαστάζων, 915 – 17). The depiction of Admetus as a groom answers to the earlier image of Alcestis as a bride, expressing the mutual and reciprocal nature of their pact of philia (Schein 1988, 200). The phrase χέρα βαστάζων suggests the gesture of χεὶρ ἐπὶ καρπῷ, frequently found in wedding scenes and signaling the transfer of the bride from the hearth of her father to that of her husband, as discussed above.⁵⁴ It also recalls the formal transfer of the children from Alcestis to her husband as the final expression of marital philia and symbol of her final separation from his house. Verbal echoes between Admetus’ speech at 935 – 961 and that of the female servant vividly illustrate the effect of her absence on the house and all its members. Now no one will welcome him upon his return home nor will be greeted by him in turn (τίν᾽ ἂν προσειπών, 943), just as Alcestis had done with the servants (193 – 5). The nuptial bed upon which she had lost her maidenhood and bid a tearful farewell now stands empty (εὐνάς … κενάς, 945; cf. 177– 88). Whereas Alcestis had arranged everything carefully inside the house before her death, wreathing the altars with myrtle (170 – 2), now its floors remain unswept (947). The children now weep and cling to their father instead of their mother, proving that he has indeed taken her place in the house as she had earlier requested (τέκνα δ᾽ ἀμφὶ γούνασι/πίπτοντα κλαίῃ μητέρα, 947– 8; cf. 189 – 90). The servants also keep up their laments for their departed mistress (οἱ δὲ δεσπότιν/στένωσιν, 948 – 9; cf. 192– 3). Without Alcestis at its center, the interior of the house has become an empty shell, a ‘tissue of obligations remembered, affections missed, emotions confused, and roles and values misplaced’ (Bell 1980, 62). Turned inward with grief, Admetus wishes to avoid the external world, where ‘the weddings of Thessalians and the gatherings crowded with women’ (ἔξωθεν δέ με/ γάμοι τ᾽ ἐλῶσι Θεσσαλῶν καὶ ξύλλογοι/γυναικοπληθεῖς, 951– 2) will drive him back indoors, reminding him of his dead wife. Alcestis’ sacrifice has taught Admetus the full meaning of his loss, ‘for you yoked to your bed the most noble of all women’ (γενναιοτάταν δὲ πασᾶν/ἐζεύξω κλισίαις ἄκοιτιν, 993 – 4). bonds’; see also Beye , ; Bell , ; Luschnig , ; , ; Padilla , ; Most ,  and n. .  On the gesture, see Flory ,  – ; Jenkins ,  – ; Halleran ,  – ; Sourvinou-Inwood ,  – ; Oakley and Sinos ,  and  n.; Sutton / ,  and n. ; Buxton , ; cf. E. Med.  – .

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The return of Alcestis from the underworld in the guise of a bride not only represents the culmination of the play’s nuptial imagery, it instantiates the process of domestic affiliation governed by Hestia by reenacting the wedding day Admetus has just lamented.⁵⁵ Acting as kyrios, Heracles returns to the hearth of his host (πρὸς σὴν ἑστίαν, 1007) leading a veiled ‘stranger’ (ξένης, 1117) to be admitted into his house. Her clothing, described in the same terms as those donned by the queen before her death, identifies her as young and of marriageable age (νέα γάρ, ὡς ἐσθῆτι καὶ κόσμῳ πρέπει, 1050), while her head-covering suggests her status as a bride.⁵⁶ Just as the king had to coax the hero into accepting his offer of guest friendship, so Heracles must overcome Admetus’ resistance to welcoming the veiled stranger into his house. He shrinks from introducing a new woman into the chamber and bed previously occupied by his wife (1056 – 9; cf. 183, 186) and reaffirms his pledge that no other woman will ever lie by his side (οὐκ ἔστιν ἥτις τῷδε συγκλιθήσεται, 1090). Nonetheless, he immediately notes that she shares the same proportion and body as his wife (μορφῆς μέτρα … προσήϊξαι δέμας, 1063). The term δέμας recalls the portrait statue Admetus would have crafted of his wife even as it points forward to the form revealed after she is unveiled. With the formal language of incorporation expressed by the verb δέχομαι which had been earlier used in Alcestis’ transfer of the children to Admetus, Heracles exhorts his host to receive the woman before him and take her into his house (δέχου νυν εἴσω τήνδε, 1097). The king relents, commanding the servants to escort her inside, ‘if I must receive her into my house’ (εἰ χρὴ τήνδε δέξασθαι δόμοις, 1110). But the hero insists on physically placing the woman in Admetus’ hands, as he had originally intended (ἐς σὰς μὲν οὖν ἔγωγε θήσομαι χέρας, 1113; cf. 854, 1020). In refusing to touch her, the king maintains her status as an outsider not incorporated into his hearth or his bed (οὐκ ἂν θίγοιμι, 1114).⁵⁷ Heracles, however, will only deliver her into his right hand (χειρὶ δεξιᾷ, 1115). The

 For the scene as a reenactment of a wedding, see in particular Halleran ; Luschnig , ; Segal b, ; O’Higgins , ; Slater , ; Buxton ,  – ; Iakov , ; for an artistic parallel, see Jenkins , . The happy ending and fourth position has led to the interpretation of the play as prosatyric, for which see Drew 1931; Dale 1954, xviii – xxii; Burnett 1965; Castellani 1979; Garner 1988, 58 – 59; Marshall 2000. Most recent scholars, however, do not see any connection with satyr drama, for which see Parker 2007, xx – xxiii; Most 2010.  Although not explicitly mentioned, the veil is implied at , where Heracles reveals Alcestis; see further Parker ,  – .  On the impropriety of physical contact between unrelated men and women, cf. E. IA  – , where the offering of the right hand represents kinship through marriage (δεξιάν τ᾽ ἐμῇ χερὶ σύναψον, ἀρχὴν μακαρίαν νυμφευμάτων).

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term δεξιά suggests a formal transaction in which the kyrios transfers his authority over the woman to the groom, just like the gesture of χεὶρ ἐπὶ καρπῷ in wedding ritual.⁵⁸ Indeed, he had previously led his bride into the palace clasping her by the hand (φιλίας ἀλόχου χέρα βαστάζων, 917) and had received his children from Alcestis’ own hands before her death. By touching the veiled stranger with his hand (καὶ δὴ προτείνω, 1118), Admetus symbolically links the woman to his house and formally accepts her as a member of his oikos. Alcestis’ full restoration to the house can only come about through her recognition, which, as others have argued, takes the form of the anakalypteria, the unveiling of the bride during the wedding ceremony.⁵⁹ Throwing back her veil, Heracles compels Admetus to look at the woman and judge whether she resembles his wife (1121– 2). Only then does he recognize Alcestis, ‘Face and form of my dearest wife, I have you against all expectation!’ (ὦ φιλτάτης γυναικὸς ὄμμα καὶ δέμας,/ ἔχω σ᾽ ἀέλπτως, 1133 – 34). The hero’s final exhortation to ‘lead this woman here inside’ (ἀλλ᾽ εἴσαγ᾽ εἴσω τήνδε, 1147) symbolically reenacts the original wedding day when Admetus first brought Alcestis to his hearth. Indeed, his invitation to Heracles to ‘stay with us and share our hearth’ (μεῖνον παρ᾽ ἡμῖν καὶ ξυνέστιος γενοῦ, 1151) reconciles the obligation of philia incurred by his wife’s death with the claims of guest-friendship as the site of integration of outsiders, whether a bride, infant, slave or guest. In this regard, the suggestion that the queen comes back ‘in the guise of Hestia herself’ may not be too far-fetched (Burnett 1965: 251). The highly idealized portrait of Alcestis as a wife and mother in Euripides’ play fits with a symbolic discourse that privileged women and marriage as the foundation of the household and the classical polis in the second half of the fifth century BCE. This new emphasis has been traced to Pericles’ reform of 451/50 BCE, which required citizens to be born both of an Athenian father and an Athenian mother, ‘by making descent from the mother as important as descent from the father for a child’s inherited status, the law may well also have given the wife a greater importance in the household.’⁶⁰ In vase painting, idealized representations of maidens and mothers at home, engaging in textile production and nuptial preparations, usually in the company of other women, pre-

 For the right hand in the physical transfer of the bride, cf. διὸ καὶ ἀφ’ ἑστίας ἀγόμεθα, καὶ λῆψις διὰ δεξιᾶς, Iamb. VP . – .  On the unveiling as an imitation of the anakalypteria, see Halleran , ; Buxton ,  – .  Roy ,  and n. ; on the prominence of women in funerary stelae, see Osborne ; on the play as a celebration of women’s role in marriage, see Bell , ; Luschnig , ; Segal a, .

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dominate in the decades after Pericles’ reform. Visual depictions of the wedding from the same period similarly romanticize the erotic and emotional attachment of husband and wife as a positive component of marriage and central to the formation of the household (Sutton 1997/8, 27; Sabetai 1997, 319).

Figure 2: Attic red figure epinetron, Eretria Painter, c. 425 BCE, Athens, National Museum.

A celebrated image of Alcestis on an Attic red figure epinetron by the Eretria Painter (Figure 2) produced around 425 BCE, a little over a decade after the play, puts into dialogue visual and dramatic aspects of this domestic discourse. Its three panels show the various stages of the Greek wedding in three myths, the bridal preparations of Harmonia before her marriage to Cadmus, the groom taking possession of the bride in the myth of Peleus and Thetis, and the epaulia or wedding feast of Alcestis.⁶¹ In the latter scene, young women gather in an imaginary interior space of the oikos where they present gifts to the newly married queen, who leans on the nuptial bed before the thalamos door. This posture in On the vase, see most recently Kousser ; Oakley and Sinos ,  – ; in connection with the play, see Luschnig ,  and n. .

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dicates her sexual maturation as a new wife while her distance from her female companions points to her separation from her age group through her transformation from parthenos to nymphe. ⁶² With its focus on the private interior of the house, the bride and the nuptial bed, the vase shares with our play a similar impulse towards the idealization of marriage and the role of the women within the house. To this world belongs Hestia, whom Euripides in Alcestis has recast from a lesser known and relatively colorless archaic deity into the symbol of a new domestic discourse concerned with family ties, emotional expression and individual experience.

 For this interpretation, see Oakley and Sinos , ; Kousser , .

John Gibert

The Wisdom of Jason In Euripides’ Medea, there is an extensive discourse of σοφία, in which almost all the characters participate.¹ As usual, words from the σοφ- root cover a wide range, embracing cleverness, skill, rationality, and wisdom. Such topics play a role in every Euripidean play, but in Medea perhaps more than most. Some of the ways in which this happens are unsurprising. For example, “skill” includes rhetorical skill, and it is hardly unusual to find tragic characters commenting on their own and others’ speaking ability, especially when engaged in the kind of contest scene Euripides favors. Likewise, when mortal plans are frustrated, it is typical of Euripidean characters and choruses to contrast them with true σοφία “wisdom.”² Other developments of this discourse were not necessarily to be expected. For example, after the Athenian king Aegeus has come and gone, the chorus first celebrate Athens and then ask how the city will receive the child-murderer Medea (846 – 50). Σοφία is prominent among the Athenian excellences praised by the Corinthian women in the first two stanzas of their song (824– 45), even though Aegeus’ inability to interpret the Delphic oracle he has received does not make this particular Athenian seem very σοφός. Against the background of praise, the chorus’ question is all the more provocative, and it may or may not make Athenian spectators uncomfortable about their city’s tradition of providing asylum. These effects seem clear enough, but it is not clear that Euripides had to foreground cleverness and wisdom in order to achieve them. Likewise, the Nurse says, in anapaests recited during the chorus’ entrance song, “You wouldn’t go wrong, you’d be right on the mark, | if you called them all half-wits (σκαιοὺς δὲ λέγων κοὐδέν τι σοφούς), the people of old,” for making music at banquets and festivals instead of finding a way to heal grief with song (190 – 204). Her words have points of contact with the chorus’ prediction that the reputation of women will soon improve (410 – 23), and their claim that women would already have sung songs to answer men’s if only Apollo

 The closest the Tutor comes is his lament that Medea is μῶρος “a fool” for not knowing the latest outrage committed against her ( – ). Everyone else, including the chorus, reflects on σοφία in some way or other. Unless otherwise noted, the Greek text of Medea is cited from Diggle , English translation from Arnson Svarlien , occasionally modified.  Unsurprising, but not therefore uninteresting: on rhetorical skill and frustrated plans, see further below. Another specialized application of σοφός “skilled” is given by tradition in Medea’s case: her knowledge of drugs and magic (, ,  – ; cf.  – ,  – , ,  – , , , ).

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had granted them musical ability (424– 30). Among other things, these passages prepare for the anapaestic interlude after Medea’s great monologue, when the chorus share what they have learned from long reflection and debate (1081– 1115), a passage to which I shall return. Here my point is again just that the themes of gender rivalry and the uses of song did not have to be formulated so markedly in terms of σοφία. Among less obvious developments we may count the wisdom of Jason. It is true that tradition provided a context for considering him σοφός. As a pupil of Cheiron, he might have been skilled or wise in any number of ways, including Medea’s specialty, medicine and drugs.³ The potential was even present in his name: though it probably does not come from the same root as ἰάομαι “heal,” some ancient readers, if not the poets themselves, were tempted to make the connection.⁴ Pindar, it has been argued, presented Jason as a hero of μῆτις “cunning intelligence” in his fourth Pythian ode and invited comparison of his μῆτις and σοφία with those of Medea.⁵ Note especially Pyth. 4.217– 19, where we learn that Aphrodite (Κυπρογένεια)

 For Cheiron’s rearing and teaching of Jason, cf. [Hes.] fr. ; Pind. Pyth. . – , , ; at Hes. Theog.  – , Cheiron rears Jason and Medea’s son Medeios. He also taught Achilles, Asclepius, Aristaeus, Actaeon, and Heracles (West on Hes. Th. ). Healing is one type of manual skill implied by Cheiron’s name, derived from χείρ; in the Iliad, he is the ultimate source of the drugs Asclepius taught his son Machaon to use (. – ), and Achilles taught Patroclus (. – ). In Medea, the language of healing occurs infrequently, e. g.  –  (it would profit mortals to learn to heal grief with song),  –  (reviling Jason will bring relief to Medea), and  (see next note).  Usener ,  –  accepts a common origin, as does B. Mader in LfgrE s.v. Ἰήσων, but the etymological dictionaries of Frisk, Chantraine, and Beekes are silent or express doubt. The trouble is the quantity of the initial iota (short in Ἰάσων, long in ἰάομαι). Braswell , who doubts that ἰατήρ is meant to evoke Ἰάσων at Pind. Pyth. . (see next note), notes that the scholia on a (cf. Σ Ap. Rhod. .) do connect Jason with ἴασις “healing” and that the differing vowel quantity is not enough to rule out a “pun.” He suggests that it does, however, raise the threshold, so that the case would be much stronger if the name Jason occurred near ἰατήρ or whatever word is supposed to trigger the association. For similar reasons, Braswell doubts that δυσίατος at Eur. Med.  plays on the name Jason, but here it could be countered that  –  are in effect a speaker introduction, as the regular couplet from the chorus-leader marks the transition from Medea’s rhesis to Jason’s. Jason may be represented as a healer of Phineus’ blindness by “laying on of hands” on a sixth-century BCE Corinthian column-crater (so the first publisher of the vase, Vojatzi , followed by Mackie ,  and Ustinova , ; but Gantz ,  –  urges caution).  Segal ,  – . In both Pindar and Euripides, Jason is a clever speaker. For Pindar, cf. Pyth. . –  (Jason lays a foundation of clever words); for Euripides, further below. Segal and many others (cf. Segal ,  n. ) believe that ἰατήρ at Pyth. . contains a punning

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taught the son of Aison [Jason] to be skillful (ἐκδιδάσκησεν σοφόν) in prayers and charms, so that he might take away Medea’s respect for her parents, and so that desire for Hellas might set her mind afire and drive her with the whip of Persuasion.⁶

Euripides’ Jason recalls this theme and perhaps this very passage when he gives the credit for saving the Argonautic expedition to Cypris alone (526 – 8), but it must be admitted that it is difficult, if not impossible, to find other convincing links between Pindar and Euripides when it comes to the wisdom of Jason. In some ways, Euripides seems to go out of his way to render his Jason hapless and helpless. Thus Medea even claims to have killed the serpent that guarded the Golden Fleece herself (Med. 480 – 2), in contrast to Pindar’s version, where Jason kills it τέχναις “by craft” (Pyth. 4.249).⁷ If he had suppressed Jason’s traditional potential for σοφία entirely, we might well have judged Euripides wise. After all, it is hard to resist asking how Jason could be so stupid as not to anticipate that Medea would take fierce revenge for his betrayal, and how, within the play, he could be so stupid as to believe her reconciled to him in the Fourth Episode (866 – 975). He knew better than anyone what she was capable of. Medea herself comes close to impugning Jason’s intelligence when she says (492– 5), What puzzles me is whether you believe those gods (the ones who heard you swear) no longer are in power, or that the old commandments have been changed? You realize full well you broke your oath.

But by keeping the focus on Jason’s oath-breaking, she encourages us (here and elsewhere) to see Jason’s miscalculation as a failure of morals more than intellect. Jason himself, however, will not let us see it this way. One of the most noticeable things about him is his pride in his reasonable, wise planning. On one level, this is a convenient and effective piece of characterization. A man as smug as Jason might well fall for Medea’s pretended reconciliation. He might give in to her insistence on sending gifts to his new bride and suspect nothing even when she instructs allusion to Jason’s name and background as a healer; so also Mackie ,  and Ustinova , ; but for skepticism, see Braswell  ad loc., quoted in the previous note.  Translation by Race , .  “The ‘craft’ will presumably have consisted in Medea’s charming the serpent to sleep,” writes Braswell  on (d), but Gantz ,  regards the inference as uncertain. As for Euripides’ Medea, we are not obligated to believe her. Her claim to have killed the serpent could be a trace of an otherwise unknown variant or ad hoc rhetorical amplification of her role (Mastronarde , ).

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the children to give the gifts directly into the princess’ hands (972– 3). At this point, he has already agreed to ask his new wife to ask Creon to allow the children to remain in Corinth, and he trusts that he will persuade her “if she’s a woman like all others” (945; cf. 962– 3). On another level, Jason’s self-consciously clever rhetoric is good for the kind of contest scene Euripides favors. As he says, it requires no mean feat of oratory to weather the blasts of Medea’s fury (522– 5). Euripides likes to be provocative, and Jason’s dispassionate calculations give good value in this regard, as Medea’s inability to keep quiet during his preview of his rhetorical program shows (547– 50). On a deeper level, the contest scene does more than provoke; it stages contrasting world-views, and Jason’s is a variation of a familiar type that ultimately points to the limits of individual autonomy, a theme to which I return at the end of this essay.⁸ Despite all this, representing Jason as convinced of his own wisdom and prudence still entails risks. One approaches a dramatic conflict, and a contest scene, with an expectation that there will be something to be said for both sides, and many feel that Medea defeats or nearly defeats this expectation. Does Euripides go too far in making Jason’s rationalizations sub-heroic and even shabby? If so, does the play’s central conflict lose some of its interest? One way of answering these questions is to admit that Jason is unworthy of the strong, proud Medea and that she makes light work of him in an uneven contest. The reason for this becomes clear later, when it turns out that the only character who can offer meaningful resistance to Medea is Medea herself. Allowing Medea to dominate not only Jason, but Creon before and Aegeus after him thus sets up an interesting variation on the theme of the “Sophoclean” hero. This approach is undoubtedly very promising. One question it leaves unanswered (How could Medea ever have loved such a man?) probably does not matter, since it mostly lies outside the play, and can anyway be deflected by invoking the will of the gods, as Jason does in the lines already cited (526– 31). A more serious question may be how we can sympathize with such a Jason, as the end of the play seems to invite us to do, though some would be content to reply that in the finale, a focus on Medea and the murdered children renders such questions about Jason relatively unimportant. Another approach aims to rehabilitate Jason, at least in part. There is no doubt that we are meant to regard Jason and Medea as “married,” however irregular their union was. At the same time, the tragic medium and the setting in the heroic age allow Euripides to avoid making the precise legal and social status of the children clear. By interpreting these matters in a particular way, one can improve Jason’s position. Adopt a male citizen perspective, make certain assump-

 Cf. Mastronarde ,  – .

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tions about heroic-age Corinth and fifth-century Athens, bring in Pericles’ Citizenship Law, and so on, and Jason’s desire for a legitimate wife and offspring becomes more understandable.⁹ This approach is not completely without merit, but the consistent condemnation of Jason by other characters in the play, including the Athenian Aegeus, renders it less promising than the one just considered, and less convincing than analogous efforts undertaken on behalf of, for example, Creon in Sophocles’ Antigone. Either of the approaches to Jason’s (un)worthiness just considered would be strengthened by a more sympathetic portrayal of him. This is obviously true of the attempt to justify his desire for legitimate children, but also of the approach to him as an unworthy antagonist, if he is thought to deserve our sympathy at the end. To some extent, the problem is mitigated by the familiar schema of “late realization.” At 1329, Jason says, “I have more sense now than I had then” (ἐγὼ δὲ νῦν φρονῶ, τότ’ οὐ φρονῶν). Also in the exodos, we finally learn that he does care about his children, whose welfare preoccupies him beginning at 1301. Until now, a spectator could wonder about Jason’s feelings, an issue made relevant not only by the Nurse’s outraged question at 74– 5 and Medea’s accusations in the contest scene, but by the devotion of Creon and the hopes of Aegeus. But now their loss destroys him (1310, cf. 1349 – 50), he wants to bury and mourn them (1377, cf. 1409, 1412), embrace and kiss them (1399 – 1400), and touch their soft skin (1402– 3, cf. 1412).¹⁰ It is open for us to believe either that Jason has only just realized what his children mean to him or that he had tender feelings all along, but Euripides held the expression of them in reserve for emotional and literary effect, much as he allows a sympathetic view of Pentheus to emerge only towards the end of Bacchae. Either way, we have reached a point where it may be helpful to consider a puzzle that has long exercised a small minority of critics. It concerns the motives of both Medea and Jason. After Medea announces her plan to kill the children and the chorus-leader tries to dissuade her, Medea replies that she must kill them, “For thus my husband would be wounded most deeply” (817 οὕτω γὰρ ἂν μάλιστα δηχθείη πόσις). In light of Jason’s plan to benefit his children by Medea and ensure dynastic success by producing more children with the princess (559 – 65), Medea’s plan, which also includes killing the princess, is well motivated. The problem is that Jason and Medea both know that Creon has banished the children along with Medea. Since Jason does not seem to be opposing their exile, Euripides puts Medea in the unconvincing po-

 Palmer .  The embracing, kissing, and soft skin recall themes of Medea’s monody:  – ,  – , . Jason’s late realization also echoes lines of Medea’s (,  – ).

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sition of claiming that she will wound her husband most deeply by taking away something he has already given up willingly. The critic who has recently voiced dissatisfaction with this state of affairs most forcefully is Jan-Wilhelm Beck.¹¹ The obvious alternative, according to Beck, was to have Jason demonstrate a proper paternal affection from the beginning, and he notes that Seneca’s Medea adopts this solution—and not only the Senecan play, but every single one of thirty-three later versions Beck surveys. In some, the sentence of exile is passed on Medea alone, so the complication that Jason might lose the children in this way is removed; in others, Jason actively opposes their exile. Beck concludes that Euripides’ conception is flawed at its core. In answer to Beck, Bernd Manuwald makes two main points.¹² First, later versions cannot be regarded as so many independent and unmediated acts of receiving Euripides alone; all those later than Seneca constitute reception of him as well, and often Senecan precedent may count for more than Euripidean. Second, Manuwald thinks that Beck’s critique of Euripides is unfair. From Jason’s acceptance of the children’s exile, Beck concludes that his claim to be benefitting them and planning well for his and their dynastic success is not deluded, but insincere. Manuwald disputes this, arguing that even though the mechanism by which Jason hopes to achieve success despite the children’s exile remains unclear, Medea’s calculation that she can pain him most by destroying that hope is shown to be correct. The choice to motivate Jason by cool calculation of social advantage is certainly less obvious than allowing him to express a “natural” love of his children, but as long as he is sincere, it works just as well as a driver of the plot.¹³ As an answer to Beck, this seems adequate.¹⁴ It remains to ask whether the revival of this old controversy can point the way to an even better understanding of the play, for there is more at stake than the mechanisms of a well-wrought plot, important though these are. Medea builds towards the heroine’s murder of her children, a climax surrounded by many layers of meaning. These include the efficacy of the revenge in destroying Jason, the pain Medea inflicts on herself, the stages by which she brings herself to do the deed, and the shock it delivers to the spectators. They also include a set of resemblances and parallels between Medea and Jason, some of which involve σοφία in its various meanings. These

 Beck . At  n. , Beck lists a half-dozen predecessors stretching over more than a century.  Manuwald .  Beck is not the first to doubt Jason’s sincerity, but this position has found little favor since it was attacked by Fritz ,  – .  For other, more cursory responses to Beck, see Allan ,  n. ; Matthiessen ,  n. ; Schwinge ,  n. .

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only come into play because of the paradoxical and “risky” depiction of Jason as clever and rational, and they deserve more attention than they have received.¹⁵ In the contest scene, Jason tells Medea that in marrying the princess, he was σοφός, σώφρων, and φίλος towards both her and the children (548– 50). His plan was to acquire wealth, raise the children in a manner worthy of his house, produce brothers for his children by Medea, join the families, and be prosperous (559 – 65). In key words near the end of his speech, he says that it profits him (566 ἐμοί τε λύει) to benefit (ὀνῆσαι) his living children by means of future ones, and asks, “surely I haven’t planned badly?” (567 μῶν βεβούλευμαι κακῶς;). He had used the language of profit already in his entrance speech (454), and he uses it again shortly before his exit (615). Likewise, he had spoken of the benefit he received from Medea at 533. He claims that Medea herself received more than she gave (534– 5), but he also says, using the language of accounting, that he does not intend to reckon the benefits they have exchanged too precisely (532). He is prepared to provide money as a benefit (προσωφέλημα) to Medea and the children (611). The value Jason places on planning, too, had emerged early in the scene (e. g. 460 τὸ σὸν δὲ προσκοπούμενος “looking out for your best interests”). Medea later manipulates his confidence in his good planning by pretending to agree (874, 884, 886, cf. 776 – 9). She renounces her earlier thinking as ἀβουλία “bad planning” (882, cf. 892– 3), claiming “but now my plans are much improved” (893 ἀλλ’ ἄμεινον νῦν βεβούλευμαι τάδε).¹⁶ Jason, of course, takes the bait. Now that Medea’s heart has changed for the better (911 ἐς τὸ λῶιον σὸν μεθέστηκεν κέαρ), she has recognized the superior plan (912 – 13 ἔγνως δὲ τὴν νικῶσαν … | βουλήν), and her actions befit a prudent woman or wife (913 γυναικὸς ἔργα ταῦτα σώφρονος). Jason goes on to tell the children that he has arranged for their safety “not without care” (914– 15 οὐκ ἀφροντίστως). When sincere, Medea mostly speaks in language informed by very different values, especially the traditional aristocratic values of χάρις and φιλία. In emphasizing this, however, scholars do not always fairly acknowledge that she too uses the language of profit and benefit. Not much weight, perhaps, attaches to her early offstage

 Jason and Medea also resemble each other in ways having nothing to do with σοφία. These are conveniently summarized by Mastronarde ,  – , who writes, “In revenge-plays there are often additional details that emphasize reenactment, mirroring, and the similarity of opposites,” and “In displaying the similarity of the opponents [Jason and Medea], the motifs of supplication, oath, and betrayal are prominent.” He then adds to this Medea’s espousal of “masculine” values and a brief but insightful discussion of the topic I am pursuing, “shared intellectual qualities.”  In Euripides, the form βεβούλευμαι occurs only here and at  (quoted in the previous paragraph); the second person βεβούλευσαι appears at Supp. . Medea’s repetition of the rare form draws attention to the thematic importance of planning (cf. Mastronarde on ).

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cry “What do I gain by being alive?” (145 τί δέ μοι ζῆν ἔτι κέρδος;), but 368– 9 provides an unambiguous example: “Do you think I ever could have fawned | on him like that without some gain in mind, | some ruse?” (δοκεῖς γὰρ ἄν με τόνδε θωπεῦσαί ποτε | εἰ μή τι κερδαίνουσαν ἢ τεχνωμένην;). Likewise, her remark that the gifts of a bad man bring no benefit (618 ὄνησιν) can be interpreted within the framework of a traditional, “embedded” economy, but things look a little different when she dwells in her monologue on the benefits she will not reap from her children if she kills them. She begins by saying that she will not see them happy or take part in their weddings (1025– 7). This interest in their happiness is laudably otherdirected, but note that it follows not long after Jason’s similar wish to see the children grown up and successful (916– 21). Among the doomed hopes Medea had concerning her children was that they would take care of her in her old age and bury her when she died (1032– 5). Again, these are traditional hopes providing a traditional and acceptable answer to Jason’s crass question, “What do you need children for?” (565 σοί τε γὰρ παίδων τί δεῖ;), but in lamenting that her hopes will go unfulfilled, Medea does rather emphasize her wasted labor in bearing and raising the children (1029 – 31). My point is not that Medea sounds like Jason throughout the play; she does not. Passages like these, however, prepare for later occurrences of these significant words that do support the idea that she comes to resemble (or in the end openly resembles) her opponent. Thus the language of profit occurs in two important passages after Medea’s monologue. The first comes at the end of the chorus’s revelation of their insight that it is better not to have children than to have them (1081– 93). Providing for children wears parents out, and even if the children reach maturity and turn out to be good, they can be carried away by death (1098 – 1111). How is it profitable (πῶς οὖν λύει), the chorus ask, for the gods so to arrange things (1112– 15)? The sight of their children carried off by death will afflict both Jason and Medea. Medea, however, provides the final cost-benefit analysis at 1362. Yes, she says to Jason, I suffer pain and share in the evil, but “the pain is good [literally “profitable”], as long as you’re not laughing” (λύει δ’ ἄλγος, ἢν σὺ μὴ ’γγελᾶις).¹⁷ Medea has achieved this profit by using her children as an instrument of revenge. In this, she resembles Jason, who wanted to benefit his existing children by means of future ones (566 – 7 τοῖσι μέλλουσιν τέκνοις | τὰ ζῶντ’ ὀνῆσαι). But also like Jason, Medea must endure pain, even though she earlier disavowed success (an εὐδαίμων βίος) that was painful (λυπρός) and prosperity (ὄλβος) that irritated her mind (598 – 9), and later calculated the cost of causing Jason pain not worth the misery

 For an important ambivalence in this line, see text to n.  below.

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it would bring her (1046 – 7). Shortly after declaring the pain profitable after all (1362), Medea recalls the theme of benefit from the children. When Jason laments their loss, she replies, “Do you think that you’re mourning them now? | Just wait till you’re old” (1396), that is, until he has reached the time of life for the benefits whose loss Medea herself mourned at 1032– 5. This is a pointed reminder of the parallelism of their situations in this respect.¹⁸ That Medea engages in and uses the language of planning and calculating needs no demonstration.¹⁹ It is worth noting, however, that Euripides teases the spectators with a possible motivation for her crime that needed no planning, a burst of furious hatred.²⁰ Whether or not he deliberately varies an earlier version in which the murder was actually motivated this way,²¹ his introduction of the motif and then discarding of it in favor of Medea’s calculation that killing the children will cause Jason the most pain only draws heightened attention to her planning, an activity she shares with Jason. It remains important to recognize the distinctive character of her thinking, which has been the subject of intense scholarly scrutiny, much of it focused on her famous monologue. This is not the place for another detailed study, nor do I have much to add to the excellent accounts already on offer. It is worth noting, however, that two of the best provide somewhat less than satisfying explanations for the points of resemblance I am emphasizing here. Two of the central claims of Helene Foley²² are that Medea engages in ethical reasoning that acknowledges passion and reason on both sides of her conflict, and that she rejects “the control or devaluation of emotions by rational deliberation” as “an ethical mode that she associates with the despised Jason.”²³ Foley is drawing attention to a very real difference in the way Jason

 Cf. McDermott ,  – .  One subset, the language of contriving (words related to μηχανή, τέχνη, and πόρος), is virtually confined to Medea: ,  – , ,  – , ,  – ,  – . The chorus indirectly accuse Jason, as a man, of deceitful plans ( ἀνδράσι μὲν δόλιαι βουλαί). Jason himself talks of a harsh temper as an ἀμήχανον κακόν () and of the συμφορὰς ἀμηχάνους exile brings (). According to Medea at  – , Jason does not care to contrive anything (μηχανήσασθαι) for the children.  Cf. ,  – ,  – ,  – ; McDermott ,  – .  Manuwald .  In an influential article published in , cited from the revised version in Foley ,  – .  Foley , . Cf.  where, in arguing cogently against reading the monologue as a victory of passion over reason, Foley writes that such a reading “would be anomalous, producing a Medea who resembles Jason … more than herself.” The last words (emphasis added) acknowledge that Medea does resemble Jason to some extent. Similarly, after the sentence quoted in the text, Foley cites  –  (which I have already quoted) for their rejection of happiness

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and Medea conduct themselves in the contest scene, and which continues to be felt in the monologue, but I would suggest that her talk of Jason’s “control” and “devaluation” or (in another place) “preference for plans that purportedly subordinate emotion to reason”²⁴ somewhat overstates the case. It may suit Jason’s language better to say that he advocates simply not feeling disadvantageous feelings. Medea should bear lightly the plans of those in power (449), let go the great wrath of her heart (590), pray that what is good never seem painful (601), leave off anger (615).²⁵ Also, as Foley acknowledges, Medea both recognizes “that emotion can lead her to make critical errors”²⁶ and controls her emotions when it suits her (as when she manipulates the chorus and Aegeus through careful rhetoric, fawns on Creon for the sake of profit though she despises him, and pretends to be reconciled with Jason). It is fair to ask, then, whether her ethical reasoning is ultimately so different from Jason’s, given the situation in which they both find themselves at the end.²⁷ Similarly, Christopher Gill writes convincingly about the way Medea initially differs from Jason in insisting that their lives are interlocked, both because of pledges and favors exchanged, and especially because of the birth of children.²⁸ Jason believes that the accounts can be closed on his past transactions with Medea and even the children she bore him. Gill shows very well that “connectedness” continues to play a part in Medea’s ethical stance and deliberations at least through the monologue. He offers his reading of Medea’s “exemplary gesture” as an alternative to the view that her motivation is “based on a stance of

won with pain, but adds in a footnote that “In deciding to kill the children, however, she does deliberately choose to inflict pain on herself” ( n. ). She returns to this at  in a brief discussion of similarities and symmetries in the representations of Jason and Medea (see further n.  below).  Foley ,  – .  In the scene of pretended reconciliation, Medea reproduces this language exactly ( – , , ), and, as noted above, Jason approves her change of heart ().  Foley , , continuing “she complains that she was more eager (prothumos) than wise when she allowed her love for Jason to lead her to commit crimes against her family” (referring to  πρόθυμος μᾶλλον ἢ σοφωτέρα and  – ).  Even about the monologue, Foley writes, “her self-debate aims finally not at persuading herself to save the children (a plan in any case abandoned after ) but at making the crime seem inevitable to herself” (, ). This is ethical reasoning aimed at self-deception, and “making … seem” is not so different from what Jason recommends at . At , Foley acknowledges that Medea “ends up like Jason” and “ends by imitating even her despised immediate oppressors.”  Gill ,  – ;  – .

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self-realizing individualism.”²⁹ But when Gill reads the final confrontation of Jason and Medea in a similar way, he is less persuasive. He does note that “in protesting against Jason’s one-sided planning (bouleumata), [Medea] becomes herself the author of one-sided plans,” but in merely calling this “one of the ironies of the situation,” he rather underplays it.³⁰ He maintains that “the great difference between Jason and Medea … (and one that is increasingly underlined) inheres in the extent to which they are sensitive to this conflict between their respective plans and the ties of philia.”³¹ Gill does a thorough job of pointing out details in the final scene that draw attention to symmetry between Jason and Medea.³² He seems to have two main reasons for doing so. One is explicit, to avoid overemphasizing the idea that Medea, while addressing Jason from the chariot of the Sun, “becomes virtually a god, an embodiment of vengeful passion (thumos).”³³ His counter-suggestion is that “Medea speaks, for the most part, as a reactively engaged human being.”³⁴ He wants to stress that “Medea, in ‘reach[ing Jason’s] heart’ (1360), has also re-engaged him in the interlocking of their lives, the significance of which he denied earlier,” and that “their lives are … permanently interlocked. In this appalling way, their marriage continues.”³⁵ But because Gill does not want a Jason and Medea who look too much alike, I infer that his second reason for scrupulously noting symmetries in the exodos must be to suggest that they allow differences to stand out all the more clearly, as against a foil. The impression left by Medea’s monologue is certainly strong enough to make the idea that she remains “sensitive to” the conflict between her plans and the ties of philia plausible. But is this difference between Medea and Jason “increasingly underlined”? After Jason’s long speech of denunciation (1323 – 50), Medea declines to answer in kind. The scene will not unfold, then, as a reprise of the contest, with its balanced rheseis laying out contrasting world-views. Instead, the stichomythia

 Gill ,  n. . Gill has in mind views like that of McDermott , : like the Cyclops Polyphemus in Hom. Od. , Medea is “a rampant individualist, ruthlessly declining to set aside one whit of self-interest to subscribe to the familial and civic codes which are the fabric of social living” and : “it is obvious in the end that neither [Jason nor Medea] places the value of ‘family’ above a narrow self-interest.”  Gill , . Similarly : “That Medea should see it as necessary to kill her philoi to assert the importance of not severing the bonds of philia (as Jason proposes to do) is, certainly, a terrible irony.”  Gill , .  Gill ,  – .  Gill , , citing Knox ,  –  and Pucci ,  – .  Gill , .  Gill , .

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that begins after Medea says, “I’ve done what I had to do. I’ve jabbed your heart” (1360) uses the familiar technique of bitter echoes and distortions of the opponent’s words, starting with Jason’s “You feel the pain yourself. This hurts you too” (1361). Such exchanges do not obviously underline difference. Medea next speaks the line we have already noted for its use of the language of profit (1362), an echo of Jason. This is the place to observe that the words λύει δ’ ἄλγος, which we have translated “the pain is good” (literally “profitable”), can also mean “it does away with, removes the pain.”³⁶ To the extent that this meaning is felt, it undermines the idea that Medea remains sensitive to the conflict between her plans and the ties of philia she felt so strongly during the monologue. A similar argument can be made about each of the mirroring exchanges 1363 – 4, 1365 – 6, 1370 – 1, 1372– 3, and 1374– 5. In 1375, Jason proposes ἀπαλλαγαί that he says will be easy. The word means “terms of parting,” but it recalls 236 where, in Medea’s speech to the Corinthian women, it alludes more particularly to divorce. Medea rejects Jason’s terms, but the two of them have certainly arrived at a parting of the ways. The staging, with Medea speaking from a position of unassailable power, makes this clear, as does her choice to depart alone. The Aegeus scene has made it not just possible, but necessary for us to think of her future in a separate place, with no connection to Jason, and soon enough with a new marriage or marriage-like tie to Aegeus, and perhaps new children.³⁷ The murder of her children by Jason causes shared grief, but it also means that, as Donald Mastronarde writes, “By the end, … Medea has utterly erased her marriage with [Jason].”³⁸ The dissolution of such ties is the very thing she punishes Jason for attempting. Furthermore, by attending to a different set of clues found throughout the play and not just (or primarily) to the contest and monologue, it is possible to argue that the spectators were expecting Medea to sever the bonds of philia, as she did before and will do again.³⁹ I next turn to representations of both Jason and Medea as clever speakers. This may seem unremarkable for a pair of Euripidean protagonists, but some of the similarities receive unusual emphasis. Thus Medea, in her scene with Creon, says things Jason echoes in the contest. She reacts to Creon’s opening statement of his edict with a nautical metaphor at 277– 9, as Jason reacts to

 This is the interpretation of Page  ad loc., while Mastronarde opts for “the pain is worthwhile.” Pucci ,  insists that “Nothing can eliminate from this text the ambivalence whereby Medea is made to say simultaneously that her revenge is an illusory, paradoxical gain and that her revenge is an absolute gain.”  Cf.  Αἰγεῖ συνοικήσουσα “to live together with Aegeus.”  Mastronarde , .  For a reading along these lines, see McDermott , especially  –  and  – .

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her speech at 522– 5. When Creon admits that he is afraid of her skill (282– 6), Medea replies that reputation has harmed her “not now for the first time, but often” (292), words clearly echoed by Jason at 446. At 303 – 5, Medea admits that she is σοφή, but calls herself “not all that wise” (οὐκ ἄγαν σοφή). In another unmistakable echo, she responds to Jason’s contest rhesis with a denunciation at 580 – 3 of the unjust man who is σοφὸς λέγειν “clever at speaking,” concluding that in reality he is “not all that wise” (οὐκ ἄγαν σοφός). Within the contest scene, both Jason and Medea end their long speeches with utopian wishes of a familiar Euripidean type. Medea wishes for an outward sign of a man’s character (516 – 19), Jason for a way for mortals to get children without women (573 – 5), both passages with wider implications to which I shall return. Both Jason and Medea are recognized as clever speakers by others. Creon says to Medea, “Your words are soothing” (316 λέγεις ἀκοῦσαι μαλθάκ’), the chorus to Jason “You’ve composed a lovely speech” (576 εὖ μὲν τούσδ’ ἐκόσμησας λόγους).⁴⁰ Much later, the Messenger closes his speech in typical fashion with a generalization. He reflects on “those who seem so wise, who deal in subtleties” (1225 – 6 τοὺς σοφοὺς βροτῶν | δοκοῦντας εἶναι καὶ μεριμνητὰς λόγων), who, he says, are in fact guilty of the greatest stupidity, for no mortal is εὐδαίμων. Wealthy, perhaps, but not truly prosperous or happy (1224– 30). By this time the spectators, having seen how the “wise” Jason and Medea are both shaping their own destinies, will not hesitate to apply the Messenger’s wisdom to both of them.⁴¹ When it comes to the efficacy of all this clever speech, it may well seem that the differences between Jason and Medea are more important than the similarities. After all, one way of looking at the first half of the play is to say that it shows Medea dominating three men (Creon, Jason, and Aegeus) in succession. In sophisticated variations in the second half, she dominates one of them (Jason) again by pretending to see everything as he does (see above), and then conducts a long debate with herself.⁴² But the contest with Jason can also be seen as a dramatization of attempted persuasion that fails on both sides. In fact, for all Medea’s success at manipulation, honest persuasion fails consistently in the play. Thus Medea wins Creon over only by lying about her in-

 Jason also acknowledges Medea’s σοφία (,  – ), but he does not seem to mean rhetorical skill in particular.  Like Jason and Medea, and as if to call the earlier passages to mind, the Messenger says that he too has arrived at his insight “not now for the first time” ( οὐ νῦν πρῶτον).  In at least one sense, Medea’s monologue is inconclusive. She does not proceed immediately to kill her children, and the way was open for a further change of direction. Exactly how Euripides manages this potential depends on how much of the monologue is genuine and how one reads its conclusion. Happily, I need not enter into these controversial matters here.

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tentions, her manipulation of Aegeus veers close to deception, and she lies to Jason about having come around to his opinions. In all of these cases, she would be undone if her own wish for an outward sign of bad character (516 – 19) were granted.⁴³ Significantly, she is honest only with Jason, first in the contest, which allows us to see how the two differ, then in the exodos, by which time we should be rather more aware of their similarities. In addition, there are glimpses of two offstage attempts at persuasion by Jason, both failures. At 455 – 6, he reports that he kept trying to soothe Creon’s anger (βασιλέων θυμουμένων | ὀργὰς ἀφήιρουν) and secure Medea reprieve from exile. At 1150 – 7, the Messenger reports that Jason kept trying to soothe the princess’ anger (ὀργάς τ’ ἀφήιρει καὶ χόλον νεάνιδος) with a speech somewhat resembling his argument to Medea in the contest (don’t be angry at your φίλοι, leave off your anger, consider your husband’s φίλοι your own), and aimed at winning the children reprieve from exile. The narrative makes it clear that his words fail, and only Medea’ gifts prevail with Creon’s daughter (1156 – 7), who then “complied with her husband in everything (ἤινεσ’ ἀνδρὶ πάντα).⁴⁴ When the chorus-leader, reacting to Medea’s announcement of her plan to kill the children, tries to dissuade her, Medea says, “Let it go. All words in the interim are superfluous” (819 ἴτω· περισσοὶ πάντες οὑν μέσωι λόγοι), and indeed one way of looking at the monologue, despite the evidence it provides of Medea’s distinctive ethical stance and mode of reasoning, is as a bout of superfluous language filling the time before the inevitable deed.⁴⁵ Finally, an aspect of the similarity of Jason and Medea in the exodos is that each one again fails to persuade the other of anything, as the technique of bitter stichomythic echoes already discussed seems designed to show. A final aspect of wisdom-related similarity between Jason and Medea is the tendency each has to overrate the self in isolation. From the outlines of the plot

 Similarly, she is liable to the chorus’ curse against one “who has it in his heart not to open up the doors of a pure mind and show honour to his friends” ( – , as translated by Mastronarde on ). Taking this line, McDermott ,  –  goes so far as to maintain that Medea is subject to her own censure of Jason as “breaker of oaths, deceiver of guests” ( τοῦ ψευδόρκου καὶ ξειναπάτου).  Mastronarde notes that “the bride’s compliance matches Jason’s expectation () and also recalls the happier former days of Medea’s marriage ( αὐτῶι τε πάντα ξυμφέρουσ’).” It also matches Medea’s pretended attitude in the Fourth Episode ( νῦν οὖν ἐπαινῶ…).  Medea’s monologue bears an interesting resemblance to the conversation she pretends to Jason to have had with herself (especially  ἐγὼ δ’ ἐμαυτῆι διὰ λόγων ἀφικόμην, with the direct speech that follows in  – ), where the feminine aspect supposedly prevails. Again, the only persuasion represented as succeeding is dishonest. For the gendering of Medea’s “divided self,” see Foley .

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alone, a kind of selfishness is evident in both protagonists. I suggest that in addition to this, the text again provides thematic words (and not only in the mouths of Jason and Medea) to emphasize the parallel and link notions of the selfish individual with larger philosophical questions. The Tutor sets the tone with a programmatic generalization at 85 – 6: “Who isn’t? Are you just now learning this, | that each man loves himself more than his neighbor?” (τίς δ’ οὐχὶ θνητῶν; ἄρτι γιγνώσκεις τόδε, | ὡς πᾶς τις αὑτὸν τοῦ πέλας μᾶλλον φιλεῖ;). “Who isn’t?” is a response to the Nurse’s “it’s obvious | [Jason is] harming those whom he should love. He’s guilty” (84 ἀτὰρ κακός γ’ ὢν ἐς φίλους ἁλίσκεται). So the Tutor’s comment is prompted by Jason’s selfishness, but we soon learn from the Nurse that Medea has a willful mind (104 φρενὸς αὐθάδους), and Medea herself picks up the key adjective in her disapproval of a citizen who is harsh towards fellow townsmen out of willfulness (223 αὐθάδης γεγώς). Then Jason faults her for pushing away her friends because of this very quality (621). She does so, he says, because what is good does not please her (621 σοὶ δ’ οὐκ ἀρέσκει τἀγάθ’). This formulation reminds us that the root meaning of αὐθάδης is “self-pleasing,” and the discourse of αὐθαδία is thus linked with the play’s reflections on pleasure and pain. Much later, Medea recognizes and laments her own αὐθαδία (1028), but this awareness does not lead her to reject pain (cf. 1046 – 7) or choose “what is good” over the “evil” (κακά) she is intending (or working up her nerve) to do.⁴⁶ What connects all this with σοφία is the placement of two other generalizations balancing and complementing the Tutor’s. At the end of his contest rhesis, Jason expresses the wish already referred to (573 – 5): χρῆν γὰρ ἄλλοθέν ποθεν βροτοὺς παῖδας τεκνοῦσθαι, θῆλυ δ’ οὐκ εἶναι γένος· χοὔτως ἂν οὐκ ἦν οὐδὲν ἀνθρώποις κακόν. men should really have some other method for getting children. The whole female race should not exist. It’s nothing but a nuisance.

The last words mean literally “And in this way there would not be any trouble (or evil) for human beings,” a generalization relevant to philosophical reflection about the good life and how to attain it. Jason offers it, in other words, as a

  οἷα δρᾶν μέλλω (or τολμήσω) κακά. For the disputed text, see Mastronarde ad loc. and in his Appendix.

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piece of wisdom, though he does not say so explicitly.⁴⁷ The second generalization is overtly characterized as a product of subtle debate, investigation, and σοφία. In the anapaestic interlude separating Medea’s monologue from the Messenger scene (1081– 1115), the chorus maintain that those who have no children have an advantage in respect of good fortune (1092 προφέρειν εἰς εὐτυχίαν) over those who have them.⁴⁸ We saw earlier that Medea laments the loss of the support she had hoped her children would provide in old age, and that this topic is resumed in the exodos: both she and Jason will feel the lack of this support. The chorus do not explain how the advantages of childlessness compensate for this disadvantage, but Jason in effect endorses their conclusion in his very last words, a wish never to have fathered children only to see them murdered by their mother (1413 – 14).⁴⁹ The willful, self-pleasing Medea finally ranked the interests of her individual self above those of an extended self including the children; whether or not she was right to characterize Jason’s earlier actions as similarly selfish, he now proclaims the same ideal of self-sufficiency. Looming over the plot as a whole is the tradition according to which Medea cut the ties linking her to various other members of her families by both birth and marriage. Both she and Jason go forward alone. The end of Medea is deeply disturbing, and reflections on the wisdom of childlessness are in keeping with the overall effect. Like other strands in the discourse of σοφία, they also point to similarities between Jason and Medea, despite the obvious differences between them. We can perhaps understand the wisdom of Jason best in the light of the ultimate destructiveness of the plans and actions undertaken by both protagonists.

 Cf.  – , where Jason says that women let a misfortune regarding λέχος (bed, sex, partnership) cloud their judgment about what is best and finest (τὰ λῶιστα καὶ κάλλιστα).  The chorus also offer a gendered perspective on their wisdom. The debates that have led them to it are “greater than the female kind ought to pursue” ( –  μείζους ἢ χρὴ γενεὰν | θῆλυν ἐρευνᾶν), but women too have their muse σοφίας ἕνεκεν “on account of wisdom,” and some small number of their “race” are οὐκ ἀπόμουσον “not apart from the Muses.” These words link the anapaestic interlude with the First Stasimon’s themes of gender rivalry and song.  It is often pointed out that the form of these words echoes the Nurse’s opening wish in the prologue that the Argo had never sailed. The Nurse’s impossible wish is to erase a whole series of events; Jason’s focuses on children and thus builds on the “wisdom” of the chorus heard near the end of the play.

Justina Gregory

The Education of Hippolytus Aphrodite defines the arc of Hippolytus by announcing in the prologue that in the course of the day—that is, in the course of the play¹—she will punish Hippolytus for his ἁμαρτία. She insists that she is not envious of Hippolytus’ special relationship with Artemis, but will make him pay for “his mistakes with regard to me” (ἃ δ’ εἰς ἔμ’ ἡμάρτηκε, 21). What are those mistakes?² If scholarly opinion remains divided on this fundamental question, it is because Hippolytus is so idiosyncratic in his attitudes and preferences. Comparison with other protagonists would simplify critical assessment, but Hippolytus’ character is, as Mills remarks, “like no other in Greek literature.”³ One school of thought condemns Hippolytus for his “puritanism” in sexual matters—an attitude enshrined in Barrett’s commentary on the play.⁴ Another insists, in defiance of Aphrodite’s judgment, that the young man exhibits no faults whatsoever.⁵ A third position departs from Aphrodite’s statement that she destroys “those who think grand thoughts about me” (6) and convicts Hippolytus of arrogance, moral superiority, or pride.⁶ To the fourth and largest group of scholars, Hippolytus’ ἁμαρτία consists of a failure to mature. Invoking VidalNacquet’s influential model of the Athenian ephebe,⁷ these scholars argue that Hippolytus never evolves from the ephebic condition of an adolescent (homosocial, isolated from the community, devoted to hunting) to the status of a mature male (heterosexual, politically engaged, devoted to warfare).⁸ Zeitlin maintains that “the true objective of the play (and Aphrodite) might be called the education of Hippolytus. This is the moment for the young man to complete the initiatory

 As Lloyd ,  points out, every extant Greek tragedy except for Aeschylus’ Eumenides takes place over a single day. However, the opening of Hippolytus is unusually emphatic in directing attention to this fact.  Dimock ,  poses the same question.  Mills , .  Barrett ,  and passim. For additional bibliography on this critical stance see Davies ,  – .  So Festugière ,  – ; Dimock ,  – ; Kovacs ,  – ; Davies .  So Winnington-Ingram , ; Parker , ; Mills , .  A series of discussions in both French and English asserted the initiatory character of the Athenian ephebeia and applied this finding to Sophocles’ Philoctetes. Representative are Vidal-Nacquet  and .  So Zeitlin ; Mitchell-Boyask ,  – ; Kokkini ,; Cairns , .

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scenario that would make him pass from the yoking of horses to the yoking of maidens, from the hunting of game to the hunting of a wife.”⁹

Initiatory education or heroic education? As I have noted elsewhere,¹⁰ the “initiatory scenario” has been challenged on terminological, chronological, and contextual grounds. “Ephebe” denotes both an adolescent and a soldier in training, a member of the Athenian military organization known as the ephebeia who spent his military service in the frontier forts guarding the Athenian periphery.¹¹ Vidal-Nacquet applies the term in the latter sense to the youthful characters of fifth-century tragedy, but his usage is problematic, for the ephebeia as a polis institution is first attested in the fourth century. Sommerstein observes that not only was there no organized military service for adolescents in fifth-century Athens, there is also “little if any evidence for the existence of traditional rituals associated with the ephebic age-range.”¹² Polinskaya argues that Vidal-Nacquet’s interpretation is “best understood as a metaphoric model where the ephebes are like tricksters…and like solitary hunters…the Athenian frontiers are like liminal spaces, and the ephebeia is like…a rite of passage.”¹³ This metaphorical application, she observes, can more easily be reconciled with the actual geography of the Athenian frontier forts, which were not in fact located in desolate places.¹⁴ It is also closer to the original, metaphorical model of liminality developed by van Gennep in the early twentieth century.¹⁵ These objections put in doubt the relevance of the initiatory scenario to tragedy. Nevertheless, Zeitlin’s identification of education as a through-line in Hippolytus has much to recommend it. In what follows I argue that the play’s emphasis on the protagonist’s youth and its references to teaching and learning direct attention to this very motif—not, however, with reference to an initiatory sequence, but to the intellectual and emotional turning points associated with heroic maturation. The educational motif brings the drama’s chronological context into sharper focus. Hippolytus begins to seem less unusual if we compare him to other youthful tragic protagonists of the last third of the fifth century, for his

 Zeitlin , .  Gregory , .  Vidal-Nacquet ,  – .  Sommerstein , . See also Sommerstein ,  – .  Polinskaya , .  Polinskaya ,  – .  Polinskaya , .

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name play fits squarely into the phase of Attic tragedy described by Sommerstein as displaying an “acute interest…in the adolescent male, his education, and his socialization.”¹⁶ Furthermore, the motif directs attention to an unnoticed intertextual aspect: underlying the education of Hippolytus is the education of Achilles as recounted by Homer and, secondarily, Pindar. These contexts facilitate diagnosis of Hippolytus’ ἁμαρτία.

Hippolytus’ youthfulness Throughout the play Euripides is at pains to emphasize the protagonist’s youth as a factor that explains if it does not excuse his conduct. Other characters regularly address or refer to him in terms that evoke his age.¹⁷ The exchange between Hippolytus and his old slave reflects the topos of the wise advisor who attempts to check “headstrong action”¹⁸ in his youthful master. After cautioning Hippolytus in vain against offending the gods, the slave addresses a prayer to Aphrodite, suggesting that Hippolytus’ intensity is a function of his youth and hence should be forgiven and ignored: “Ιf someone on account of his youth is vehement in his emotions and speaks empty words about you, seem not to hear him” (118– 19). Hippolytus’ repeated assertion of his σωφροσύνη (80, 995, 1007, 1100, 1365, cf. 731, 949) points in the same direction, since this quality, with its connotations of chastity, virtue, self-control, and good sense,¹⁹ is “the characteristic virtue of a male [at the stage] which precedes the transition to manhood.”²⁰ Hippolytus invokes his youthful inexperience in an attempt to defend himself against the charge of rape: he knows nothing of sexual intercourse, he tells Theseus, “except for hearing about it and seeing it in pictures” (1004– 5). The play’s insistence on the protagonist’s youthfulness reinforces the motif of education.

 Sommerstein , .  Mitchell-Boyask ,  n.  lists the multiple occurrences of παῖς, τόκος, τέκνον, and νεανίας with reference to Hippolytus. For Hippolytus’ youth as a mitigating factor see Davies ,  – .  Lattimore , .  For these four senses of the term see Gill , .  Cairns , .

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The language of teaching and learning References to teaching and learning in the play also draw attention to the challenges of maturation. These references tend to cluster around the question, central to fifth-century debates on education, of whether virtue can be taught. Are qualities such as σωφροσύνη innate—a position associated with an aristocratic and conservative outlook—or can they be imparted through instruction—a position associated with a democratic and progressive outlook, and in particular with the sophists?²¹ Both Hippolytus and his father hold strong views on this subject, views that are informative about their own education. Hippolytus resists the notion of change for himself and doubts that it is possible for others. After describing his unique relationship with Artemis, he prays for its continuation; prays, indeed, to “end the race of life just as I began it” (τέλος δὲ κάμψαιμ’ ὥσπερ ἠρξάμην βίου, 87). As he describes the protected meadow where he has gathered a garland for Artemis, Hippolytus notes that this locale is open only to those who possess σωφροσύνη not as something taught (διδακτόν, 79), but as intrinsic to their natures (ἐν τῇ φύσει). It is clear that he includes himself among this select group since he enjoys access to the meadow, but this belief seems to reflect a conviction inculcated through upbringing more than “spiritual pride.”²² Following the same line of thought, Hippolytus ends his denunciation of women with the challenge that either someone should teach women σωφροσύνη, or he should be granted license to continue attacking them “perpetually.”²³ The spectators can infer that Hippolytus’ skepticism about the efficacy of instruction reflects views inculcated by his own teachers. Furthermore, they can detect resemblances between his education and Achilles’ upbringing as depicted by Homer and Pindar. A paradoxical element of aristocratic pedagogy, it appears, was the instructors’ downplaying of the efficacy of instruction. So much is evident from Pindar’s account of the boyhood of Achilles. The poet introduces his vignette of the young Achilles in Nemean 3 with a gnomic saying that weighs natural against acquired skills and finds the latter lacking: “a man with innate distinction exercises great  Still fundamental is Guthrie ,  – . For φύσις and νόμος in the play see WinningtonIngram ,  and  – .  Winnington-Ingram , .   – . Barrett, ,  – , following Valckenaer, leans toward deleting  – . In the interest of creating a more sympathetic Hippolytus, Davies ,  also argues for deletion. Diggle , however, retains the lines. Indeed, both the sentiment and its vehemence are characteristic of Hippolytus. The echo of  strengthens the lines’ claims to authenticity, since Hippolytus is implying that teaching σωφροσύνη to women is an impossibility.

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weight, but one who possesses [only] learned skills is a shadowy man, blowing this way and that” (Nem. 3.40 – 41). Pindar then introduces the child Achilles as his exemplum (Nem. 3.43 – 52): But golden haired Achilles, during his time in Philyra’s home, while still a child played at great deeds. In his hands he would frequently spin a short, iron-tipped javelin and, quick as the wind, bring about the death of fierce lions in fight, and dispatch boars. Their bodies, still breathing, he brought to the centaur, Cronos’ son; he was six when he began, and [he continued] for all the subsequent time. Artemis and mighty Athene were amazed when they saw him kill deer without dogs or deceitful nets, for he prevailed on foot.

As Pindar describes the young Achilles’ prowess at hunting, he emphasizes that the boy relies on natural talent rather than acquired techniques: instead of using dogs or nets to capture his prey, he overcomes deer by outrunning them. In this instance the role of the teacher does not entail practical instruction, but is limited to recognizing and exploiting his pupil’s innate capacities. That is precisely what Cheiron does when he encourages his young charge to hunt the abundant wildlife on Mount Pelion—an occupation that is in fact propaedeutic, since it serves as a rehearsal for Achilles’ career as a warrior.²⁴ While Hippolytus too is a hunter, he is not in Achilles’ class, since he depends on dogs to bring down his prey.²⁵ Still, he espouses as Pindar’s Achilles epitomizes the aristocratic conviction that inherited φύσις is superior to acquired learning.²⁶ Hippolytus has something else in common with Achilles. Both were removed from their natal home to be educated by foster-fathers renowned for their moral character: Achilles by Cheiron, the “most righteous of the Centaurs” (δικαιότατος Κενταύρων, Hom. Il. 11.832) and Hippolytus by Pittheus. When Aphrodite calls Hippolytus “the pupil of pure Pittheus” (11), she does more than evoke the young man’s family tree. The father of Theseus’ mother Aethra, Pittheus was Hippolytus’ paternal great-grandfather. If Hippolytus was raised by a man whose designated epithet is “pure” (ἁγνός), instruction in σωφροσύνη was presumably a major component of his education.²⁷ The audi-

 See Barringer ,  –  for the connections between hunting and warfare in archaic vase painting and in Homer.  For Hippolytus’ hunting dogs see E. Hipp. ,  –  (where Phaedra in her delirium imagines his activities), and  – .  For additional Pindaric references to the superiority of φύσις see P. Ol. . –  and P. Nem. . – .  Barrett ,  terms the epithet “pointless” as it applies to Pittheus, but with reference to Hippolytus’ education it becomes charged with meaning. Although Lloyd-Jones ,  calls ἁγνός a “standard epithet,” it is standard only for divinities (and, in Aeschylus, for the

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ence can readily imagine Pittheus, on the model of Achilles’ father Peleus, exhorting his great-grandson ἀεὶ σωφρονεῖν (“always practice σωφροσύνη;” cf. αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν, Hom. Il. 11.784). Hippolytus is the very pattern of his grandfather in this respect, but has he come by his self-control through nature or nurture? When he boasts of “greet[ing Aphrodite] from a distance, since I am chaste” (πρόσωθεν αὐτὴν ἁγνὸς ὢν ἀσπάζομαι, 102), there is good reason to suppose that the young man’s self-control is at least in part a product of his education. Such inferences do not exhaust the implications of Aphrodite’s statement. Her description of Hippolytus as Pittheus’ pupil evokes a pattern of mythical fosterage (first described by Gernet²⁸) whereby an elite male child is handed over to a male relative (often the maternal grandfather), and raised by him, returning to his parental home only as a young adult. Building on Gernet’s findings, Bremmer explored examples from both myth and history and speculated that the grandparental bond facilitated an emotional intimacy that did not necessarily obtain between biological fathers and their sons.²⁹ The lack of sympathy in Hippolytus between Theseus and his son lends credence to this hypothesis. After reading Phaedra’s letter Theseus accuses his son of being a charlatan as well as a rapist, a man of unbridled appetites masquerading, like the Orphics, as a learned mystic (952– 55). Theseus’ denunciation of his son is completely off the mark; it shows that he does not know him well and that what he does know he dislikes. While the two men’s temperaments are fundamentally incompatible,³⁰ unfamiliarity plays an additional disastrous role in Theseus’ impetuous condemnation of his son. Despite their temperamental differences, Theseus and Hippolytus share the same educational philosophy. After too hastily concluding that Hippolytus has raped his wife, and availing himself of the prerogatives granted by his father Poseidon to lay a curse upon his son, Theseus is outraged when Hippolytus, far from avoiding his presence, seeks him out to ask what is troubling him. Instead of answering, Theseus chastises his son for his presumed shamelessness: he denounces those who “teach no end of skills” (τέχνας…μυρίας διδάσκετε, 917), but “do not know one thing… to teach understanding to those who do not possess judgment” (ἓν δ’ οὐκ ἐπίστασθ’…/ φρονεῖν διδάσκειν οἷσιν οὐκ ἔνεστι νοῦς, 919 – 20). In a transparent anachronism the Bronze Age king here makes reference to the fifth-century sophists, who claimed to teach values as well as skills.³¹ Within

river Strymon: A. Supp. , Pers. ). At E. Med.  Pittheus is described as “very pious” (εὐσεβέστατος); the adjective Euripides chooses here is more marked.  Gernet ,  – .  Bremmer ,  – .  Winnington-Ingram ,  – .  See Barrett ,  – .

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the dramatic world of the play, the king’s denunciation informs the audience about his own upbringing. Theseus (who according to mythology was raised, like Achilles, by Cheiron the centaur³²) sides with the traditionalists—and with his son—in maintaining that ethical qualities are innate rather than learned.³³ Hippolytus’ response reinforces the fifth-century ambiance; the young man agrees with his father (and harks back to his own earlier position as expressed at 667– 68) that it would take an “awesome sophist” to “compel those who have no inborn sense to think properly” (921– 22). Father and son share the same aristocratic faith in nature as opposed to nurture. Their attitude reflects the upbringing both have presumably received, with its paradoxical downplaying of the efficacy of instruction, and encourages the audience to measure Hippolytus’ development against the benchmarks of heroic education.

The acquired wisdom of the νήπιος Phaedra too has recourse to the language of teaching and learning, but she employs it for a different purpose than her stepson and husband. The last words Phaedra speaks before exiting to commit suicide command especial force. She announces that with her death she will become a bane (κακόν γε… γενήσομαι/θανοῦσ’, 728– 29) to Hippolytus, such that “by sharing in this sickness of mine, he will learn to exercise moderation” (τῆς νόσου δὲ τῆσδέ μοι/ κοινῇ μετασχὼν σωφρονεῖν μαθήσεται, 730 – 31). The first part of Phaedra’s prediction suggests the futility of ignoring the perspective of others, as Hippolytus has been wont to do. The second part mockingly echoes the young man’s own words about the impossibility of teaching selfcontrol to women (667– 68),³⁴ but converts it into a menace that directly targets Hippolytus. Implicit in Phaedra’s prediction that her stepson has not yet acquired σωφροσύνη but will do so in the future is the painful process of belated learning that is made explicit in the Hesiodic proverb παθὼν δέ τε νήπιος ἔγνω,”through suffering a νήπιος comes to understanding.”³⁵

 X. Cyn. .. Xenophon lists Hippolytus too as Cheiron’s pupil, but if there was a mythological tradition to this effect, Euripides does not adopt it.  As Barrett ,  points out, “φρονεῖν and νοῦς include the moral faculties of the mind.”  See Parker , , who notes that the echo is another reason not to delete the lines.  Hes. Op. . For a variation on this gnome see Hom. Il. . and .; for πάθει μάθος, a briefer and more enigmatic formulation, see A. A. .

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The connotations of νήπιος are crucial to Hesiod’s meaning. While its denotation is “child,” νήπιος can also be applied metaphorically to a feckless adult.³⁶ As Edmunds explains, “adults who are called nêpioi … are disconnected from the past and, especially, the future … [T]his disconnection is both mental (they do not have foresight) and social (their lack of foresight almost always has fatal consequences).”³⁷ Because the adult νήπιος fails to assess the probable results of his actions, insight comes only through painful experience. This insight is not only retrospective but also circular: what the νήπιος learns in time is that he did not, in fact, learn in time. The only hope is that others can benefit from his experience and learn to avoid his mistakes.³⁸ Although Euripides does not call Hippolytus a νήπιος,³⁹ Phaedra suggests as much when she predicts that Hippolytus will learn in the future to exercise selfcontrol. What he will actually learn, she implies, is not so much to exercise σωφροσύνη in the future as to repent his failure to exercise it in the past. Elsewhere in tragedy predictions of learning yet to come are associated with a choleric, threatening disposition.⁴⁰ Phaedra’s words mark the depth of her anger and intimate that it is not Hippolytus’ rejection that has enraged her (after all, she herself has from the outset condemned her desire for her stepson as aberrant), but rather the cruel, abusive tirade that accompanied it. The references to teaching and learning discussed to this point reflect a single aristocratic perspective. The lone representative of a different educational philosophy is Phaedra’s nurse, who declares that for her, experience has proved the best teacher. “My long life has taught me many things,” she declares (πολλὰ διδάσκει μ’ ὁ πολὺς βίοτος, 252). Among these is the importance of moderating one’s empathy for another human being so as to not to suffer grief for two—a directive that she has been unable to take to heart. I will return to the notion of empathy to which the nurse here alludes, for it is central to the education of Hippolytus.

 For discussion of selected Homeric instances see Briand ,  – .  Edmunds , .  As Sommerstein ,  explains with reference to the Aeschylean πάθει μάθος (A. A. ), “the phrase…might in principle refer either to one who learns, too late, from his own suffering or to one who takes warning by the suffering of others.”  When Euripides uses νήπιος, it is with the denotation “child” (Heracl. , Ion  and , Andr. , ΙΑ , , ).  Cf. A. A. : γνώσῃ διδαχθεὶς ὀψὲ γοῦν τὸ σωφρονεῖν, Clytemnestra here threatens the old men of the chorus with the same menacing outcome as does Phaedra and (with ὀψέ) makes explicit reference to belated learning.

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The precedent of the Iliadic Achilles: crises of disillusionment and of empathy To this point I have discussed textual elements that direct attention to the motif of Hippolytus’ education. I now suggest that the educational trajectory of Achilles in the Iliad serves as a model for Hippolytus as for other tragic protagonists, enabling the audience to understand the ways in which he fails to complete his education. Kullmann has demonstrated that the Iliad ranges far and wide chronologically in order to “stress the relations between the concrete past and future events beyond the poem and the present events treated within it.”⁴¹ While scholarly attention has largely focused on Homeric foreshadowings of Achilles’ death,⁴² the Iliad also incorporates events belonging to his youth. Building on Kullmann’s insight, I suggest that even as the Achilles of the poem is represented as a seasoned soldier, his development from Book 1 to Book 24 simultaneously illustrates three stages of youthful aristocratic education. In the first stage the hero-to-be is exposed to the wisdom encoded in traditional gnomic advice, such as Peleus’ adjuration to Achilles to “always excel” (αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν, Hom. Il. 11.784). But while such guidance is important, indeed essential, it does not on its own constitute a complete education. The aristocratic youth must negotiate two further passages that require him to engage in independent thinking rather than simply heed an elder’s wise advice. The first passage entails questioning or even rejecting what he has been taught; I call this a crisis of disillusionment. The second passage entails transcending what he has been taught; I call this a crisis of empathy. The crisis of disillusionment is triggered by a young person’s abrupt realization of inconsistencies and flaws in the social system he has been trained to accept. Having been encouraged to anticipate that certain outcomes will follow upon certain actions, he learns to his bafflement, chagrin, and anger that these are not guaranteed. Thus Achilles, having been enjoined to “always excel,” and given to understand that outstanding performance in battle will reap commensurate rewards, discovers in Iliad 1 that his achievements have earned him punishment rather than commendation. The fury resulting from this recognition keeps him out of battle for the next nineteen books. After Patro-

 Kullmann  [], ; for further discussion se Burgess ,  – .  For example, Burgess  devotes one chapter to Achilles’ early life and seven to his death and afterlife.

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clus is killed, the issue that sparked Achilles’ crisis of disillusionment is not resolved so much as abandoned; Achilles’ anger over the insulting treatment he has received from Agamemnon falls away, to be replaced by his even greater anger against the Trojans. Even though it does not depict its resolution, the Iliad establishes the crisis of disillusionment as a crucial event in the passage to adulthood. While empathy—“changing places in fancy with the sufferer,” as Adam Smith defined it in 1789 ⁴³—has become a ubiquitous contemporary measure of emotional maturity, it also has obvious applications to ancient literature.⁴⁴ Achilles sets the pattern for empathy with his response to Priam’s supplication in Iliad 24.⁴⁵ Under the old king’s guidance, Achilles is led to identify Priam with his own father Peleus. He then goes beyond what Priam had asked or expected, linking himself with Peleus and Priam in terms of their common lot. Achilles has come to recognize that not only are all mortals subject to death (whose inexorable sway he had acknowledged as early as Iliad 9), they are also all vulnerable to suffering in life. This condition is what distinguishes mortals from gods: “Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, / that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows” (Hom. Il. 24.525 – 26). Achilles’ empathy for Priam is all the more astonishing because the old king is his adversary. It manifests itself not only theoretically but in minute particulars: Achilles tells his servants to wash Hector’s battered corpse out of Priam’s sight to avoid upsetting the bereaved father (Hom. Il. 24.582– 83). Achilles’ comprehensive empathy marks his attainment of maturity.

Reflections of the two crises in tragedy Given the extent to which “the fifth-century theatre [was] held in the grip of Homer’s imagination,”⁴⁶ it comes as no surprise that variations on Achilles’ educational trajectory recur in tragedy. Both Sophocles’ Neoptolemus and Euripides’ Ion experience both a crisis of disillusionment and a crisis of empathy. Comparing their responses to Hippolytus’ will shed light on what he does and does not learn.

 A. Smith  [] .  See Konstan , Steinberg , and Munteanu . All focus on pity rather than empathy, but as Konstan ,  points out, pity and empathy are “cognate sentiments.”  See Crotty ,  –  and passim.  Gould , .

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Sophocles begins Philoctetes with Neoptolemus’ crisis of disillusionment. The youth reacts with shock when Odysseus instructs him to deprive Philoctetes of his bow by means of deception, a method he regards as shameful.⁴⁷ Odysseus manages to override Neoptolemus’ resistance in the short term, but the youth continues to be tormented with doubts and regret. Ultimately, disavowing Odysseus’ influence and methods, he reaffirms the straightforward code of conduct that has been transmitted to him as a legacy from his father Achilles.⁴⁸ Neoptolemus also experiences a crisis of empathy in the course of the play. After he witnesses Philoctetes suffering paroxysms of pain from his infected foot, the young man identifies with his designated adversary and victim to the point of replicating his anguished cries.⁴⁹ Neoptolemus translates his empathy into (limited) action. He reveals his deceptive intentions to Philoctetes, although his confession is incomplete and his change of mind at first only partial. Neoptolemus’ crisis of empathy is more hesitant and convoluted than Achilles’ in the Iliad, but it follows the same fundamental pattern. Euripides’ Ion presents another variation on the Iliadic pattern: it intermingles the two crises instead of representing them in sequence. When Ion first hears from Creusa that an unnamed friend of hers bore a child to Apollo, his initial response is disbelief (E. Ion 339): he considers it impossible (οὐκ ἔστιν, E. Ion 341) that the god could be guilty of such a transgression. As Creusa continues her tale, explaining that the mother exposed her infant and does not know what became of him, Ion tempers his initial denial with empathy. He recognizes both the god’s responsibility and the significance to the bereaved mother of her loss: “The god has done wrong, and the mother is wretched” (ἀδικεῖ νυν ὁ θεός· ἡ τεκοῦσα δ’ ἀθλία, E. Ion 355). Still, as the god’s servitor Ion protects Apollo’s interest, urging Creusa not to question the god (E. Ion 367, 370 – 72). Creusa, however, continues to emphasize the unhappiness experienced by the infant’s mother (E. Ion 368, 384– 85), and once left alone Ion continues to brood over her story. Despite his loyalty to Delphi, his thoughts revert to Creusa: he wonders about Creusa’s motives (though he tells himself not to, E. Ion 433 – 34); and chastises Apollo for his outrageous behavior. Disillusioned indignation at the god and empathetic pity for the god’s victim pull at Ion simultaneously.

 S. Phil.  – . Neoptolemus’ uprightness should not be overstated. Although he objects to using deception on Philoctetes, he is perfectly ready to defeat the crippled man by force (S. Phil.  – ).  See Gregory , .  Cf. S. Phil.  and . Schein ,  comments that Neoptolemus’ exclamation of παπαῖ “indicates he is suffering an ‘attack’ of his own corrosive illness.”

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The crises in Hippolytus How does Hippolytus fit into this pattern? Indubitably he too suffers a crisis of disillusionment. When Hippolytus realizes (correctly) that his stepmother has fallen in love with him and concludes (incorrectly) that the nurse is propositioning him on her mistress’s behalf, he responds with shock and disgust. The previous action has established that Hippolytus is immune to the erotic emotions personified and symbolized by Aphrodite, but the horror that drives his denunciation of women is sparked not by a general indifference to sexuality but by the awfulness of the present situation. Everything is appalling to Hippolytus: the two women’s readiness to betray his father (661– 62), the unspeakable words he has heard the nurse utter (602), and his exposure to the pollution of her touch (606). Since nothing in Hippolytus’ previous experience has led him to expect such transgressive words and actions from a member of his father’s household, his initial response is understandable; not so, however, the violent and protracted denunciation of womankind that follows. At this juncture Hippolytus fails disastrously to achieve the empathetic understanding of an adversary that in Iliad 24 marks the climax of Achilles’ education. But how else, a defender of Hippolytus will counter, was the young man supposed to respond? Certainly no one could expect him to be “supportive” of his stepmother when (as he believes) she has just dispatched an intermediary to propose an incestuous and adulterous assignation.⁵⁰ What could be expected is that after the initial shock he would experience second thoughts. After all, delayed reaction is another motif of the play. “Among mortals second thoughts are somehow wiser” (435 – 36), the nurse declares, as she revisits and amends her initial horror at Phaedra’s confession. The chorus-leader begs Theseus to take back his curse on his son (891– 92). Theseus changes his mind about his son’s culpability after Artemis has revealed the truth. Even Hippolytus rethinks an initial response: after implying that he intends to betray the nurse to Theseus (612), he affirms his pledge of silence (656 – 60). The audience might wonder why, after his initial shock, Hippolytus does not experience second thoughts prompting the following sequence of responses. He could have made further investigations (as he urges his father to undertake in his own case, 1022– 24, 1051– 52, and as Artemis reproaches Theseus for omitting,

 So Davies , : “Critics who complain [about the vehemence of Hippolytus’ denunciation of women] should surely be expected to give us an idea…of how Hippolytus ought to have reacted instead…” He goes on to attribute the notion that Hippolytus should be “supportive” of Phaedra to a fantasied American critic of his own invention.

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1320 – 24) to determine what role Phaedra played in the nurse’s approach to him and to what extent the nurse acted on her own. Having done so, he could then have recognized the similarities between himself and his stepmother, since “they are both powerfully motivated by (versions of) the ideal of sôphrosune.”⁵¹ These considerations could have led him to mitigate his anger. In expecting this much of Hippolytus the audience is not asking the impossible. Empathetic understanding for an adversary is what other heroes—Achilles, Neoptolemus, Ion— all achieve. Empathy for a friend hardly ranks as an accomplishment. Euripides depicts Hippolytus’ crisis of disillusionment and the missed opportunity for his crisis of empathy as two distinct stages, marking them off spatially as well as temporally. The confrontation between Hippolytus and the nurse unfolds inside the skênê, out of sight of Phaedra and the audience. In an exciting piece of stage-business,⁵² Phaedra eavesdrops at the skênê door; she does not hear what the nurse says to Hippolytus, but his shouts of abuse tell her what has transpired. The next stage plays out in the orchêstra. As Hippolytus bursts out the door of the skênê Phaedra presumably draws back, but she remains on stage.⁵³ Since Hippolytus’ arrival brings the two together in the same space, it presents an opportunity for each to attain a clearer understanding of the situation: for Phaedra to explain to Hippolytus that the nurse approached him of her own accord, and for Hippolytus to recognize that his stepmother is as appalled by the catastrophe as he is. While the scene could be staged in various ways, there is a gain in emotional intensity if Hippolytus sees his stepmother but does not acknowledge her.⁵⁴ The contempt with which he speaks of her in the third person (662), coming on top of the casuistic “my tongue swore, but my mind is unsworn” (612)⁵⁵ and the abusive generalities he directs against the entire female sex—all this transforms Phaedra’s shame and despair into vindictive rage. Hippolytus displays a lack of empathic understanding toward Theseus as well as toward Phaedra. He opens his speech of self-defence with the rhetorical commonplace that he is unversed in public speaking. The real obstacle to successful per Gill , .  Parker ,  terms it “a brilliant stroke of dramatic audacity.”  For refutation of the proposal of Smith ,  – , adopted by Kovacs , , that Phaedra exits at  and re-enters at , see Parker ,  –  and Willink ,  – .  Willink ,  suggests that she conceals herself among the women who make up the chorus. Segal , , however, believes that “there is vision, but they never speak directly to one another.”  This statement leads Phaedra to believe that Hippolytus intends to betray her to Theseus. There is no need to get her off stage before Hippolytus reaffirms his promise of silence at  – ; not only has his prior statement made an indelible impression, she also puts no credence in Hippolytus’ good faith.

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suasion, however, is not his inexperience but the tenor of his arguments. Since Theseus already takes his son to be a hypocrite, Hippolytus’ insistence on his own rectitude (994– 1006) can only exasperate him further. Since Theseus is mourning his wife, Hippolytus’ aspersions on her beauty (1009 – 10) are at the very least ill timed. Since Theseus is the king of Athens, he is not likely to take in good part Hippolytus’ disdain for royal power (1016– 20). As in his previous confrontation with Phaedra, the young man’s obliviousness to his listener’s point of view results in a speech that adds insult to injury.

A belated education At the start of the play the audience heard Hippolytus assert that σωφροσύνη is possessed by the fortunate few, not acquired; imply that he himself belongs to that group; and pray to end his life without any change (72– 86). This sequence of thought suggests a reluctance to look beyond himself that bespeaks not so much pride as self-absorption. Further proof of Hippolytus’ solipsistic perspective comes as he defends himself before his father. After first wishing that the palace possessed speech so that it could testify on his behalf (1074– 75), the young man voices a second and even more curious wish: that he could stand opposite himself and weep for his own evils (εἴθ’ ἦν ἐμαυτὸν προσβλέπειν ἐναντίον/ στάνθ’, ὡς ἑδάκρυσ’ οἷα πάσχομεν κακά, 1078 – 79). Hippolytus here conjures up a second self or double⁵⁶ whom he regards as the only human being able to empathize with him. Theseus responds by accusing his son of preferring self-worship to a just filial respect (1080 – 81). Although he speaks in ignorance of the actual state of affairs, Theseus intuits that his son’s self-regard impedes the attentiveness that should ideally obtain between child and parent. As it turns out, however, Hippolytus does not end his life as he began it. The audience learns that he is less inflexible than he himself believed: before he dies he achieves an approximation of empathy. The first sign of change comes as he winds up his speech of self-defence to Theseus. Hippolytus closes by drawing a contrast between Phaedra and himself, noting that she exercised σωφροσύνη although she did not possess it, whereas he, who did possess it, did not use it well (ἐσωφρόνησε δ’ οὐκ ἔχουσα σωφρονεῖν,/ ἡμεῖς δ’ ἔχοντες οὐ καλῶς ἐχρώμεθα, 1034– 35). In part these words reflect Hippolytus’ determination to honor his oath of silence,⁵⁷ and in part they reflect Euripides’ well-attested pleasure in paradox

 Thévenet , .  Barrett , ,

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and oxymoron.⁵⁸ Hermetic though they are, they indicate that Hippolytus is experiencing second thoughts. With a perceptiveness that had earlier seemed beyond his capabilities, he acknowledges both Phaedra’s achievement and his own missteps. Nor does that insight mark the end of Hippolytus’ development. Just before his own death, the “pupil of pure Pittheus” (ἁγνοῦ Πιτθέως παιδεύματα, 11), declines to die “leaving [his father’s] hands impure” (ἄναγνον ἐκλιπὼν χέρα, 1448); he frees Theseus of ritual responsibility for his death (1449). To be sure, Hippolytus reconciles with Theseus at the urging of Artemis (1435). But even before she intervenes he has moved toward his father of his own accord, lamenting Theseus’ misfortune (1405, 1407) and adding that he grieves for his father’s mistake (ἁμαρτία, 1409) more than he grieves for himself. Unfortunately, these recognitions arrive too late to benefit either Hippolytus or his other φίλοι.⁵⁹ Although they express genuine recognition,⁶⁰ they do not constitute a crisis of empathy. Rather, what Hippolytus experiences in the final moments of his life is the belated revelation that comes to the νήπιος when he learns from disastrous experience that he did not learn in time.

Hippolytus’ ἁμαρτία It is time to return to Hippolytus’ ἁμαρτία. In the course of the play it turns out that his rejection of sexuality—what some critics have termed his puritanism—is irrelevant to his punishment. Aphrodite should be believed when she says it is not Hippolytus’ special relationship with Artemis that irks her, but rather the mistakes he has made in regard to her. That he does make mistakes is incontrovertible; the position that Hippolytus is without fault does not garner textual support. Even though (as Hippolytus recognizes and Artemis confirms, 1403 – 4) it is Aphrodite who has destroyed Theseus, himself, and Phaedra, the youth cannot be reckoned innocent. Most obviously, his denunciation of women in general and of his stepmother in particular precipitates a major shift in Phaedra’s intentions. She moves from a theoretical preference for death as the solution to her troubles (248 – 49, 401, 599 – 600) to an implacable determination both to kill herself (723; the chorus leader foresees this

 See Ar. Ra.  –  and Synodinou .  Phaedra is also his φίλος, as the nurse reminds Hippolytus at . For the “terrible cost” of late learning see Kyriakou ,  (with reference to Sophocles’ Trachiniae).  So Luschnig , : “[h]ere finally there is real fellow-feeling.”

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outcome and describes as an ἀνήκεστον κακόν or irreparable misfortune, 722)— and to ruin Hippolytus along with her (728 – 31). A sense of superiority is one component, but only one, of Hippolytus’ ἁμαρτία. For the most part he is more oblivious than disdainful; and as Luschnig demonstrates, his self-confidence is not a constant but ebbs and flows over the course of the play.⁶¹ Lawrence puts his finger on the attitude that provokes Aphrodite when he indicts Hippolytus for “the vice of intolerance, or, in ancient terms, failing to show pity.”⁶² Hippolytus’ sense of superiority contributes to his ruin, but it is subsidiary to his failure of empathy. The audience is invited to infer that “chaste Pittheus” taught Hippolytus by exhortation and example to value σωφροσύνη above all else—an upbringing that led him to concentrate on self-mastery to the point of ignoring the emotional requirements and intellectual perspective of others. The play also makes it clear that the young man’s own tendencies contributed to this outcome; as the sophists understood, nature and education operate in tandem.⁶³ In Hippolytus Euripides puts on stage a young man who, in a fatal variation on the Achillean educational pattern, finds himself buffeted by a crisis of disillusionment but does not achieve empathy until it is too late. The play ends with an aetiology that moves the motif of education from inside to outside Theseus’ family circle. As Artemis bids the dying Hippolytus farewell, she announces that he will become the object of cult:⁶⁴ the young women of Trozen will dedicate locks of hair to him before marriage and will celebrate his story in song (1423– 30). These rituals are didactic in purpose; they are designed to “help girls submit to marriage.”⁶⁵ It is the girls and not Hippolytus who will benefit from his suffering and learning.

    

See Luschnig ,  –  on the alternations of knowledge and ignorance in the play. Lawrence , . Johnson and Clapp ,  describe the play as “a pitiless drama.” See Gregory , . For the historical cults of Hippolytus in Athens and Trozen see Halleran ,  – . Dimock , .

Poulheria Kyriakou

Wisdom, Nobility, and Families in Andromache Andromache dramatizes the ugly domestic quarrel in Neoptolemus’ family some years after the end of the Trojan war. The juxtaposition of public and private domains in the play, not least in connection with Helen’s role in the war, shows both in a stark light. Andromache is savage, the provisions for the eponymous character, her child and Peleus at the end notwithstanding. Interestingly, the play’s somberness results not so much from the juxtaposition just mentioned as from the probing of the major positive themes of wisdom/cleverness (σοφία), prudence (σωφροσύνη), and nobility, which characters evoke and (ab) use throughout for their purposes. As per the heroic/aristocratic code of values, wisdom and prudence are commonly associated with nobility, primarily with noble descent but also with gender-specific virtues such as fighting prowess for males and chastity for females. Wisdom is also viewed as the prerogative of mature age, although this association is often fraught with ambiguities. No character emerges morally unscathed or blameless in Andromache except for minor figures such as the boy and the Trojan slave-woman. This is certainly not unparalleled in Greek tragedy, in which most, if not all, principals and choruses are subject to varying degrees of moral/intellectual limitations. What gives particular poignancy to the handling of moral issues in Andromache is not its questioning of the links between nobility, wisdom and moral probity, or the related multiple reversals of fortune.¹ Instead, it is the placing of this questioning in the framework of family relationships and the largely unexpected, disturbing outcome of this choice. The portrayal of individuals evolves along with their reversals of fortune and so does the portrayal of their families. Hermione and Orestes, and by implication even the wretch Menelaus, emerge as members of a strong and competent family, able to punish enemies and help

 For surveys of the much-debated issue of the play’s structure and unity see Stevens , – , Burnett ,  – , Allan ,  –  and Papadimitropoulos ,  – . Scholars have tried to locate unity mainly in a character (Kamerbeek  and Erbse  Andromache, Garzya  and Norwood  Hermione, Mossman  Neoptolemus), or a theme (Aldrich  and Stevens  the Trojan war, Boulter  sophia and sophrosyne, Lee  nomos-physis, Vellacott  war and women). Several others suggest that it is unproductive to search for, and correlate the aesthetic or dramatic value of the play with, such unity, mostly traceable back to Aristotelian precepts of plot cohesion; see e. g. Heath ,  – , Phillippo ,  – , Kyriakou ,  – , Allan, and Papadimitropoulos.

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friends, with divine assistance and collaboration to boot. Moreover, already before the appearance of Orestes, Euripides burdens the noble elder Peleus with the weight of a murky family past, which includes a terrible internecine crime. Before tackling these quite radical reversals, it is illuminating to observe how the chorus of Phthian women react to the last of the play’s three bruising debates and its aftermath at a crucial moment. Unrelated to the principals, the women are not emotionally caught up in their traumas and quarrels or biased in any pursuit of personal advantage. Their stance may thus be easier to assess than the fraught pronouncements of the principals and may throw stronger light on the issues under discussion. Like most Greek choruses, the women are cautious, and studiously avoid offending humans and gods. Morally upright, they are also sympathetic to the predicament of the Trojans in general and Andromache in particular. Nevertheless, their failure to take proper stock of both past and present reflects the graver defects of the protagonists. In an encompassing framework of moral/intellectual uncertainty, wisdom and folly become progressively blurred. In the wake of Peleus’ rescue of innocent victims of mean aggression, the women extol his nobility and prowess in the third stasimon (766 – 801), celebrating his old glories as examples that demonstrate the truth of their initial gnomic reflections. The thematic and mythical choices, including the silences, of this song make it unique in several respects. It is the only one that does not mention Troy, does not lament losses and troubles, and celebrates glory. For all the fulsome praise motivated by Peleus’ gallant rescue of mother and child following his debate with Menelaus, I will argue below that Peleus had performed rather incompetently in the debate. In other words, nobility is not coupled with wisdom or prudence, at least on the level of rhetoric. Peleus’ accusations betrayed rashness, poor choice of arguments, and distortion of facts. He prevailed largely because of Menelaus’ shortcomings, his depravity and encroachment upon Neoptolemus’ rights. Euripidean debates often end up with no clear winner, bringing out the moral weaknesses of the opponents rather than the strength of their cases.² Rather paradoxically, Menelaus’ portrayal as a particularly inept opponent highlights Peleus’ limitations. Even so, Menelaus managed to strike a blow at the end by bringing up a nasty event, Peleus’ killing of his half-brother Phocus (687). Naturally, the chorus, who sing of noble prowess and not wisdom or restraint, say nothing about this fratricide or the debate but they are also quite selective in the subjects they praise and the manner of their presentation. These choices betray prudence and apparent sensitivity to the feelings of the old hero. For all

 For Euripidean debates see Lloyd  and Dubischar ; cf. Mastronarde ,  f.

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these virtues, the next reversal and past events cast doubt on the validity of the chorus’ pronouncements. The women’s failure to consider anything that might undermine their case ends up undermining their thoughtfulness and credibility. As already suggested, the third stasimon is the only part of the play that celebrates glory, and indeed any virtue and advantage. This elision of glory brings out perhaps most clearly the pessimism that imbues the play. A group of women of the victorious side in the Trojan war and subjects of the family of its greatest hero fall back on the heroic exploits of Peleus’ youth (790 – 801) and identify only this remote part of the past, indeed the remotest mentioned in the play, as a period of glorious and laudable achievements. Tellingly, the lavish praise of Peleus in a triad and dactylo-epitrites is cast in terms reminiscent of epic and of choral lyric, in particular epinician odes. The song begins by exalting the advantage of the members of noble and affluent families, who can rely on their relatives for support. It also expresses confidence in the prowess of such excellent, noble people, who win honor by competing honorably in the private and public domain and thus ensure the posthumous survival of their kleos (766 – 89).³ Three references to this precious, imperishable prize grace the catalogue of Peleus’ youthful exploits (793, 796, 800; cf. 799). This creates an impression of especial, almost grateful, insistence: it is as if the women finally hit upon a source rich enough to satisfy their apparent thirst for noble prowess and glory, and wish to hammer home their point beyond any doubt. In his youth Peleus took part with great distinction in renowned heroic enterprises, including the first sack of Troy under Heracles (797– 801). In the only reference to it in the play the women draw or imply no parallel with the second sack. Undoubtedly, Menelaus, one of the generals of the last campaign, has just disgraced himself despicably, and his opponents, Peleus and earlier Andromache, have excoriated his performance at Troy (616– 18 and 456– 57). Nevertheless, the valor of the descendants of the noble Peleus, the great champions Achilles and Neoptolemus, has quite naturally not been compromised or doubted, not even by Andromache. A song that exalts the advantages of noble descent at the very beginning might plausibly end with a reference to the descendants of the noble laudandus,

 At the beginning of the antistrophe ( – ) the chorus do not suggest that an honorable victory is preferable to a dishonorable one, as Kovacs  for instance translates the passage, but that honorable defeat is preferable to dishonorable victory. Cf. Aldrich , , and Lloyd , . It is trivial to state the superiority of honorable victory, as no Greek would be inclined to doubt it, at least publicly.

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given that the representatives of different generations of the family excelled in the very same arena and captured the very same famed city.⁴ The association is unquestionably obvious and easy to draw, but this makes the song’s failure to mention or allude to it even more striking. Equally remarkable, the women say nothing about the gods, their favor toward the noble and just, hostility toward fraudsters, or even role in the glorious expeditions of old. This complete and quite unusual reticence is unlikely to be coincidental, especially in the context of an encomium couched in traditional terms reminiscent of epinician odes. It brings this confident and celebratory song closer to its darker companions in the play: even in cases of noble families, heroes praised as morally impeccable, and exploits of old bathed in the light of imperishable kleos, disturbing associations and unpleasant complications are conceivably bound to surface if one probes a little deeper, investigating the role of the gods and their relationships to humans, for instance, or the relevance of the past to present and future. The handling of the background of the Trojan war, about which precious little is said in the play, sheds some light on the chorus’ choices in the third stasimon. In her lament in the prologue (103 – 16) Andromache says nothing about the role of the gods in Helen’s union with Paris, or even in the war, the destruction of Troy, and her own woes.⁵ In the first stasimon the proximate cause of the war is traced to the Judgment of Paris (274– 92) and the ultimate to Paris’ survival as a baby (293 – 308). Neither cause is provided with any background or narrated with any completeness. The women also gloss over the grown Paris’ trip to Greece, the elopement of Helen, and the entire war, lamenting only its terrible consequences for Greeks and Trojans alike, especially the civilian population. The past is not probed for the sake of discovering its causal connections with the present and future but just as a backdrop to them. What happened

 Andromache ignores the tradition of the fated captures of Troy by two successive generations of Aeacus’ descendants, recounted in Pindar’s Olympian  ( – ). Interestingly, the second set of Troy’s sackers included not one but two of Aeacus’ great-grandsons, Neoptolemus and Epeius, the builder of the Trojan horse. Epeius was the son of Panopeus and grandson of Phocus, Aeacus’ son by the Nereid Psamathe. For Phocus see below.  Andromache never invokes or prays to any god to save her and her child. Although she is sitting as a suppliant at Thetis’ altar ( – ) and threatens Hermione with the wrath of the goddess (; cf. ), she never actually addresses any prayer to her or expresses any hope that she will intervene. Andromache apparently considers the goddess’ protection as only a possibility. Perhaps her reluctance to invoke Thetis may be meant to be attributed to disillusionment with the divine and/or to the goddess’ relationship to Hermione. Andromache does not express doubts or skepticism about the gods and their willingness to punish wrongdoers, at least eventually. Still, she barely mentions the gods and does not plead for their help; she longs for the assistance of human allies, mainly Hector but also Neoptolemus and Peleus.

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in the past, before the dramatic present, but not why or how the former led to the latter, is the chorus’ concern. The behavior and motives of the gods are opaque, and their loyalties shifting, as is obvious from the lament over the abandonment of Troy by the gods who had built her walls in the fourth stasimon (1009 – 27). Sung after the revelation of Orestes’ plot against Neoptolemus and his departure with Hermione, this stasimon is commonly viewed as expressing criticism of the gods, especially Apollo, who not only abandoned Troy but also gave the matricide oracle to Orestes. However, this is a song that contains no allusion to the plot against Neoptolemus under way and much less to the god’s role in it. The end of the second strophe (ὦ δαῖμον, ὦ Φοῖβε, πῶς πείθομαι; 1036) may imply horrified disbelief in Apollo’s capacity as provider of the matricide oracle and function as an implicit link with the horror the current plot has presumably caused to the chorus. On the other hand, it should not be disregarded that the song certainly and primarily expresses horrified difficulty in believing that a son could kill his mother, and that Agamemnon died by the hand of his wife. The reluctance of the women to say anything that might offend a divinity becomes most clearly apparent from their response to Peleus’ inquiry about Orestes’ plot (1064). The women, who have heard Orestes’ confident assertion that Apollo is his accomplice (1005 – 8), say that Orestes plots against Neoptolemus “in the pure sanctuary of Loxias with the Delphians” (1065). There is no word about or hint at the god’s complicity, on the contrary the qualification of the temple suggests the holiness of the shrine. Naturally, the external audience may be meant to take a different view of the god and his dealings, but the chorus’ response implies nothing against Apollo. The women stress the impiety of the plotters, who conspire in a holy place, and Peleus does not suspect anything. Even in his lament Peleus only once states factually that Apollo deprived him of two children (1212). The gods compete and quarrel with each other, deceive mortals in order to best their rivals, and abandon their protégés without compunction. Even for the victors of the Trojan war, apart from the recovery of Helen, the only other “advantage” is the repute of the Greek generals, in the eyes of their adversaries completely unjustified (319 – 20, 693 – 705, 724– 26). In this light, it is not as surprising as it might seem at first sight that in their only encomiastic song in the play the chorus do not provide any, even minimally detailed, account of the exploits they praise, especially concerning the role of the gods in them. Although they do not articulate any contrast with the latest Panhellenic enterprise, the Trojan war, their other pronouncements leave little doubt that they consider it as morally compromised, unlike the old glories. Still, the chorus’ distress over the wretched impact of the Trojan war may be thought not only to motivate their suppression of its glory but also to influence their narrative of the old ex-

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ploits: the women limit their pronouncements to the factual achievements and the glory they guaranteed but they suppress the background of the lauded exploits, including, crucially, divine involvement in them. In any case, cautious restraint in word and action is always a priority for these women (142– 46, 691– 92; cf. 364– 65, 423– 24). One can hardly fall into contradictions, give offense, and go wrong by keeping silent about sensitive issues and aspects thereof or even by disguising unpleasant matters (954– 56; cf. 869 – 70). Moreover, the women assert that wise mortals carefully guard against causing quarrels with their friends (642– 44).⁶ This appreciation for caution in general and prudent avoidance of delving into divine dealings in particular is apparently the reason why the chorus also avoid mentioning Peleus’ marriage to the goddess Thetis, another very telling suppression, arguably the most telling of all, as according to a common version of the tradition, the gods chose the hero to be the husband of Thetis because of his piety and nobility (P. I. 8.26– 48). In a eulogy of the glories of old in a play set in Thetideion, the chorus make no allusion to the exquisite reward the hero received from the gods. Indeed, the chorus nowhere mention the union of Peleus and Thetis except at the end, in the kommos over Neoptolemus’ body (1218), when Peleus seems to have lost everything. The chorus’ choice may be attributed to their caution, or sensitivity, or both, if one considers that the match was particularly disagreeable to Thetis– she literally fought tooth and nail to avoid it. The marriage turned sour, and the only offspring perished in a war not mentioned in the third song and never called glorious in the play. Peleus and his heroic colleagues of old achieved famous success in their enterprises, not least through divine assistance, which is glossed over in the song, and noble collaboration, which is exalted and praised. The latter may be thought to contrast implicitly with the dealings of the Greek champions who fought at Troy: they went to war for selfish, unworthy reasons, and struck ignoble deals.⁷ The outcome of such an enterprise and the fruits of the tarnished victory can only be woes for all those involved, especially given the opacity of divine involvement in it. The trust of the chorus in the rewards noble families reap because of their excellence will be sorely tested primarily by the events that will take place in

 As usual, “friends” covers both friends and family. This comment, seemingly innocuous and even platitudinous (cf. e. g. Allan ,  and Lloyd , ), will soon appear to be pregnant–it is perhaps not coincidental that it extends to three lines and occurs almost exactly halfway through the play.  Menelaus reneged on his promise of Hermione’s hand to Orestes and betrothed her to Neoptolemus in exchange for his participation in the war ( – ), a deal that reflects badly on both men, as I will argue below.

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the following episodes. Still, the women apparently fail to realize, or to admit, that the past, whether remote or recent, is not a repository of examples that might unqualifyingly support their beliefs even at the moment they sing the third stasimon. They take their cue from the assistance that Peleus, the glorious patriarch of a noble, affluent house, provided to his great-grandson and the boy’s mother. By birth and marriage, Andromache belonged to equally noble and much more affluent families, which failed to be of assistance to her and her first child. Certainly, the Trojan misery was due to troublingly opaque divine designs, as the chorus themselves suggest in their first and last songs, and thus Andromache’s relatives are nowhere presented as immorally delinquent in their obligations toward her.⁸ On the other hand, it appears that noble and rich families may succeed in assisting their members only with divine consent. The gods have their own agendas, which are glossed over in the third song anyway and nowhere probed sufficiently for the reasons discussed above. If so, then lack of divine consent may, occasionally at least, entail the failure of nobility in the clash with immorality. The gods may reward the worthy but may also inflict great misfortunes on them, as they see fit, for their own reasons, which neither the chorus nor any other character examines, and thus remain inscrutable. In this light, the chorus’ confidence in the success of noble houses and communities is severely undermined and turns out to rest on partial(ly examined) evidence and shallow foundations. It is the case of Hermione that has the potential of putting the validity of the chorus’ pronouncements in the most serious doubt. Hermione is the living proof of incompatibilities that undermine the women’s ideal of family resources. To be sure, the women cannot know what will happen next. The failure of the wretched plot against Andromache and the boy, which brought disgrace on the house of Menelaus (cf. 779 – 84), confirmed their beliefs. However, their failure to consider Andromache’s predicament, in combination with the reversal that Orestes’ appearance will generate, renders their pronouncements ironically naïve and inadequate. By birth Hermione belongs to a quite rich family. Although depicted in the play as morally much less noble than her husband’s, her natal city and family are wealthier than his. The young woman is actually very proud of this superiority and not averse to boasting of it in her arguments with Andromache (147– 53) and reported conjugal fights with Neoptolemus (209 – 12).

 Thetis attributes the fall of Troy to the wishes of Athena (), without elaborating. No Trojan immorality, mainly Paris’ breach of hospitality, is involved in the disastrous war. On the contrary, several Greek characters are presented as impious, devious, or both.

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Still, Hermione’s rich father Menelaus, who came all the way from Sparta and was ready to go to all lengths to assist her, failed miserably to achieve his goal, and even abandoned his daughter to fend for herself, following the intervention of the aged and poorer Peleus. By the lights of the chorus, this outcome is to be attributed to the nobility of the aged hero and his family: they are also certainly not destitute, and are in a position to provide assistance to those relatives who need and deserve it most. Hermione is a member of Peleus’ family, but her attachment to her family of birth and her immoral parentage and conduct, not to mention her infertility, have alienated her from Peleus. It appears then that her rich natal family cannot help her, apparently because of its immorality, and her husband’s poorer one does not wish to, apparently because of its nobility. She is in such a tight spot that, immediately following the song, she appears onstage mad with anxiety and eager to commit suicide. The plot of the ruthless and ignoble father-daughter pair has fallen apart, but Hermione will escape unscathed, to her beloved Sparta and her father’s house. Another member of her rich family, notorious for its murderous plots, her cousin Orestes, will appear and provide the resources necessary for her rescue.⁹ Although Orestes’ primary goal is to harm Neoptolemus rather than help Hermione, he will handily achieve both, inflict grievous harm on the Thessalian ruling family and provide succor to his foolish relative. This will come at the presumed price of his personal and familial reputation, although nothing about the future of his family is mentioned in the play, apart from the ignominy of the plot against Neoptolemus. Still, Orestes and his family survive and succeed. Ultimately, then, noble families cannot always guarantee protection to their members, nor do immoral families always fail to assist them. Thus the chorus’ wish to belong to a noble affluent family (766 – 69) remains hanging in the air, supported neither by past nor by imminent events.¹⁰ This blurring of distinctions, which are falsely believed to be sharp and clear, and the concomitant inability to show wisdom and reach considered conclusions,

 Cf.  –  and  – , the respective references to the rescue of the suppliants Andromache by Peleus and Hermione by Orestes. Cf. also the urgency of the two women ( –  and  – ) and the confident reassurance of the men ( –  and  – ).  The case of Neoptolemus is also relevant in this respect. As will be argued below, despite his prowess and nobility, he behaved brutally toward Orestes and insulted Apollo. He also fails to deal with his domestic problems and especially to help any member of his family. His trip to Delphi and death there cannot be considered a moral failure, not least given his pious motive and the plot against him, but the background of his absence contributes to his mixed portrayal. He should not have insulted Apollo in the first place, and he should not have tried to make amends, although he could not necessarily know that for certain in advance.

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at least about the past, if not the future as well, had already become quite apparent in the agon of Peleus and Menelaus, and, to a lesser extent, that of Andromache and Menelaus. Peleus, in the words of Menelaus himself esteemed by the Greeks for his prudence (646), and likely to be wise because of his advanced age (645), immediately falls back on the past but ultimately manages little beyond bringing out his distorting biases. Andromache invokes almost exclusively the capture of Troy, the loss of Hector and her own woes of slavery. By contrast, Peleus turns to the excoriation of Helen, the immoral woman par excellence: the unmanly Menelaus had a disgraceful attachment to her; ready to do anything to recover her, he convinced his (unworthy) brother to sacrifice his daughter and wasted the lives of scores of worthy Greek men such as Achilles (592– 615).¹¹ What is more, Menelaus’ performance on the battlefield was dishonorable (616 – 31). Irrespective of this performance and his dealings at Troy, Menelaus’ current behavior is repugnantly immoral and impious. Such a man would hardly have been a paragon of virtuous prowess a few years previously. However, the accusations of cowardice and ineptitude in battle seem to be exaggerated and are certainly not corroborated by any testimony in the tradition or unbiased claim in the play. In Iliad Menelaus is not a fighter of the very first rank, as his own brother reminds him (7.109 – 14; cf. 104– 5). He outperforms his rival Paris (3.346 – 381) but is certainly inferior to Hector, and of course to Achilles. Hector himself becomes the target of a jibe because of his alleged retreat before the soft fighter (17.586 – 88; cf. 17.26 – 27). Still, Menelaus performs quite adequately in 13 and especially 17 and shows good sense and generosity in the funeral games for Patroclus (23.566 – 612). The epic tradition does not dictate or shape the presentation of tragic characters, but it is hard to believe that it was not a very special factor in the shaping of the audience’s reception. Peleus’ denigration of his opponent’s prowess (616 – 18) is given the lie in the tradition, is implausible in itself, couched in hyperbole, and unlikely for a non-participant in the war to make with any degree of believability. Probably most important, it appears to be undermined by one of the claims of Andromache, the other opponent of Menelaus. With the last jibe she flings at him, she sketches a different picture, certainly not flattering to

 Andromache also touches briefly on the same issues. Menelaus destroyed Troy because of the strife over a woman (διὰ γυναικείαν ἔριν, ). This is a brilliantly ambiguous phrase, which does not point only to the past conflict and the present quarrel but also to Menelaus’ effeminacy, or at least despicable similarity to women and worthlessness as fighter and foe. See esp.  – , Blaiklock ,  and Sorum , ; cf. also  – ,  – ,  – ,  – ,  – ,  – ,  – , Tr.  – , Or.  – ,  – , ,  – , ,  – .

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her target but just as certainly not congruent with Peleus’ insults. She claims that her glorious late husband often forced the cowardly Menelaus to take refuge to the ships (456 – 57), which suggests that the latter at least fought, even if with little distinction.¹² Be that as it may, Peleus attacks his opponent mainly by arguing that Menelaus’ present actions are just another manifestation of the moral shortcomings he exhibited in the past: the uxorious coward is now boosting his pathetic record by undertaking devious and disgraceful action for the sake of another worthless female relative (632 – 41). The rhetorical maneuver is unobjectionable, but its effectiveness depends on the speaker’s ability to equate past and present, especially by pointing up his opponent’s shortcomings as manifested in his past dealings. This is where Peleus fails to drive home his point beyond reasonable doubt. The background of Helen’s elopement is arguably the greatest conundrum facing Greek tragic characters. Ironically, they are very confident about the clarity of their insights and harbor no doubt about their allocation of moral responsibility in connection with the fateful event. I will return to this thorny issue (and the allegation about Iphigeneia’s sacrifice) in a moment. For now, Peleus’ neglect of factual precision and his failure to keep a cool head are also apparent in his complaints about unjust allocation of credit for military successes: all the glamor goes to the generals, while their comrades receive no similar recognition despite their equal or greater contributions and sacrifices (693 – 98). Peleus even reaches such a pitch of contemptuous exaggeration as to claim that Menelaus and Agamemnon are puffed up with the importance of their office at Troy (703 – 5). This claim verges on the grotesque, if not the impious, as Agamemnon perished miserably very soon after Troy’s capture and never had much of an opportunity to gloat in his success.¹³ Even more problematic rhetorically is the relevance of such allegations of undeserved credit to Peleus’

 Ironically, her claim also seems to be exaggerated, at least in connection with the epic tradition: nothing in extant epic corroborates it, although this does not automatically make it false.  Menelaus makes a similar, although arguably less outrageous, blunder by suggesting that Andromache’s boy came from enemy Troy like his mother and should be killed so as to eliminate a threat to the house ( – ). This apparently conflates Andromache’s two sons. Menelaus’ claim that it is foolish to spare the offspring of enemies (ἐχθροὺς ἐχθρῶν, ) places Neoptolemus in the class of enemies and is ambiguously formulated. Alternatively, the genitive may be interpreted as objective (“the enemies of enemies”, who are usually viewed as one’s friends), perhaps an intentional ambiguity. If so, Menelaus is made to say that it is foolish to spare friends and not kill them to ensure the safety of one’s house. The boy could not be considered a friend of Menelaus or Hermione, despite his pathetic attempt to mollify Menelaus by addressing him as “friend” (ὦ φίλος φίλος,  – ), but the gnome about the safety of the house, which can only be Neoptolemus’ house, renders Menelaus’ claim foolish and self-refuting.

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(and Andromache’s) case, especially since Menelaus undertakes no action and makes no suggestion that may be considered motivated by arrogant pride in his generalship. On the contrary, he justifies his collaboration with his daughter exclusively through appeals to paternal obligation and familial solidarity. Once, he mentions his kingship (366 – 67) and once, his labors at Troy (540 – 42), including Andromache’s capture (cf. 583). It is unclear whether the last claim is literally true–Andromache says nothing about the identity of her captor–but at least nobody disputes it, and Menelaus does not boast about it. The only advantage he expresses pride in is his cleverness, which allowed him to outfox Andromache (309 – 13, 427– 29). This is ugly and does him no credit, but it has nothing to do with his opponents’ denigration of the reputation he enjoys undeservedly because of his office. Andromache and Peleus call this δόξα (319) and δόκησις (696) respectively, repute based on (unjustified) belief, thus differentiating it from true and deserved εὔκλεια (mentioned at 800; cf. 321, probably spurious), but the claims remain hanging in the air. Beside Menelaus’ failure to base anything on his reputation, it is not his fault or a result of any trick that the Greeks consider him important, and his present shenanigans do not annul his previous success, whether he fully deserves the credit he enjoys for it or not.¹⁴ Irrespective of Helen’s role in the war and Menelaus’ emotions or motives, he was one of the generals whose army captured the famous city of Troy (and Andromache). From Homer onwards, the glory of the participants in the Trojan war is never doubted or undermined, even when the reason for it is considered morally dubious. Glory is the standard reward for any Greek heroic achievement, and is (to be) taken for granted, even in tragic plays that focus rather on its darker underbelly. In Andromache, which suppresses glory, neither Peleus nor Andromache can reasonably afford to question it.¹⁵ Such a stance would automatically belittle the achievement of

 The accusations against Spartans in the play ( – ,  – ), perhaps motivated in part by propagandistic purposes in the context of the Peloponnesian war, also point in the same direction. If the Spartans are devious and ruthless, they are also successful at war, and there is no way or reason to disregard the Greeks’ failure of judgment or attribute it to Spartan treachery. For readings of anti-Spartan propaganda in the play see e. g. Wilamowitz , , Kitto ,  f., Lucas , ; contra Stevens ,  f., Kovacs ,  f.; cf. Croally ,  f.  It is indicative that in the kommos Peleus wishes that his grandson had fallen at Troy ( – ), and the chorus agree that such a death would have conferred honor upon him and would have been less distressing to Peleus ( – ). A wish for a different kind of death is a standard lament trope, but in the mouth of Peleus and the chorus, who had bitterly and consistently deplored the Trojan war, it is probably (meant to be) more significant and revealing than a conventional claim. For such wishes see Garvie , , and Kyriakou , .

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their cherished and esteemed relatives, Achilles, Neoptolemus, and Hector, and thus undermine their own case against the allegedly unworthy Menelaus, whose credit and glory they attempt to denigrate in order, among other things, to exalt their relatives. The strategy is rhetorically dubious. Things are relatively less complicated for Andromache, the widow of the glorious Trojan champion, who fell defending his country. Peleus’ focus on the achievement of Achilles, and presumably, by extension, Neoptolemus, does not render his case impregnable. It is not clear why excellent men such as his relatives agreed, or yearned, to participate in a campaign that he condemns as morally unacceptable, and the losses of which everybody deems devastating. Peleus only says that Menelaus gathered a huge host for the sake of Helen, destroyed many brave men and their families, and is, in his eyes, the polluted killer of Achilles (614– 15). Irrespective of the hyperbole of the last claim, on Peleus’ view, the brave champions’ participation in the war can only point at best to thoughtlessness, if not stupidity, and at worst to unrestrained ambition. Since no obligation on their part such as Tyndareus’ oath is mentioned or alluded to, and Menelaus had not deceived them in any way, they can only have joined him out of solidarity, or in order to seek glory and profit, or both. If the first, they shared in his foolishness and even exceeded it. If the second, they were not much different from participants in other wars, including Menelaus, and certainly achieved their goals, so there is nothing to blame Menelaus or anybody else for. If the third, they also struck a fairly good deal because they gained valuable prizes, for all their foolishness. The fact that several of them died in the campaign, which incurred heavy losses on both sides, cannot be attributed to the generals, who did not deceive or mislead anybody, and suffered their share of the troubles associated with the war, especially Agamemnon. As already suggested, neither Peleus nor any other character stresses the glory or any other prize the Greeks won in the war, but this highlights rather than eliminates the contradictions in Peleus’ rationale. Neoptolemus’ motives and dealings may be considered fairly typical, at least for men of similar prowess and ambition such as his father. According to the epic tradition, the Trojan seer Helenus prophesied that Neoptolemus was destined to capture Troy with Philoctetes (Ilias Parva, 74 Bernabé). Andromache does not mention this destiny, or Neoptolemus’ glory for that matter, although his fighting prowess is recognized by both Andromache (341– 43) and the messenger (1121– 46). Even if glory may be safely considered to be his motive, the play indicates that Hermione’s hand had been offered to him by Menelaus, possibly as a further, or the decisive, enticement that secured his collaboration in the capture of Troy (968 – 70). This reading is supported by the suggestions that, on his return home, Neoptolemus would not be dissuaded from marrying the girl, either by the discouragement of his own grandfather (619 – 22) or by the pleas of

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Orestes, who could claim precedence as suitor (968 – 69) and had no other marriage prospects (972– 75). Since emotional attachment to the bride does not come into question, Neoptolemus’ persistence could conceivably be motivated by arrogance, greed, or both. It is hard to imagine any other motive, and there is no indication in the play that he had any other, but a wish to amass as many prizes as possible for his war service. Marriage to Hermione, a Greek virgin princess from a rich and powerful family and city was apparently too attractive to forsake.¹⁶ In this light, Peleus and Menelaus as opponents in the debate display a rhetorically ruinous indifference toward constructing a properly considered review and thus a convincing narrative of the past. Alternatively, they may be presented as ill-equipped to do so because of their skewed perspective–this is not mutually exclusive with the previous possibility, as each may be thought to reinforce the other in a vicious circle, and is equally damaging rhetorically. These limitations, already apparent in the wild claims about those ritually polluted by Achilles’ death (614– 15, 654– 59), are most conspicuously illustrated by the opponents’ handling of another crucial past event, the elopement of Helen, as already indicated. Peleus believes that Helen is immoral as an individual (594– 95) and member of the detrimentally permissive Spartan community (595 – 601). Helen’s elopement with the Phrygian guest, facilitated by her husband’s foolish trust in her, is irrefutable proof of her promiscuity (592– 93, 602– 4). This sexist and racist narrative is shaped as, and suitable for, an attack on female and male Spartan morality. Peleus does not acknowledge or imply any divine involvement in Helen’s affair, not even in order to deny it or mock its proponents. Equally remarkable is Peleus’ passing reference to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, for which he attributes responsibility to his impious opponent, who allegedly did not refrain from insulting even his brother by persuading him to blithely slay the girl (624– 25). Again, there is no word about, or allusion to, Artemis, or at least to the sailing problem at Aulis. Naturally, and in contrast to the narrative about Helen’s elopement, this or a similar background to the sacrifice is to be

 This is also implied by Peleus in his second tirade against Menelaus. Although the speaker denigrates mainly the morality of the addressee and his family, their wealth is mentioned in connection with Neoptolemus’ marriage ( – ). This is also the case in the exodus ( – ), but the lines are problematic, and deleted as interpolated by most editors. Cf.  – , the suggestion of Hermione’s servant that Neoptolemus will not divorce his wife, the richly dowered daughter of a nobleman from a prosperous city, on the worthless testimony of a barbarian war-captive. Cf. Rabinowitz , , and Torrance ,  – . The servant’s view is not confirmed, as Neoptolemus’ reaction to the plot of Hermione and Menelaus remains unknowable, but collectively, all suggestions and indications about his match with Hermione sketch a less than flattering picture.

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taken for granted. Otherwise, Peleus’ accusation and indeed the very fact and mention of the sacrifice becomes gibberish. Still, his persistent failure to consider divine involvement in these crucial events points up his limitations, which may be plausibly viewed as exemplifying all characters’ difficulties in handling the past. Peleus is old, noble, and universally esteemed as thoughtful (cf. 645 – 50). He fought valiantly in his youth and has suffered his share of misfortunes. Moreover, and most important with respect to the issue at hand, he married a goddess. Nevertheless, he fails, or at the very least neglects, to give any consideration to all things divine. Myopically, he attributes all responsibility for past and present predicaments to human agents, individuals and communities, whom he despises and loathes as immoral nobodies. One might plausibly expect Menelaus to argue differently, by exploiting the serious gap in his opponent’s case and invoking the cardinal role of the gods in the war. But Menelaus turns out to be just as unmindful of them as Peleus. He tries to deflect the scathing accusation that he is responsible for the heavy losses in the war he undertook to recover the adulteress by laying the blame at the door of the Asian foes (652– 53), as if they had acted of their own free will and killed many Greeks unprovoked. He says nothing about Apollo’s role in the killing of Achilles, or, more surprisingly, about Artemis and the Aulis sacrifice. Menelaus does answer the claims about Helen’s promiscuity by briefly invoking the standard excuse that she acted unwillingly and only under divine compulsion, suffering much in the process (680). However, his failure to provide any background blunts the thrust of this potentially weighty argument, making it appear baseless and pro forma, especially in the context of the particular debate. The speaker survived the war without (serious physical) injury and recovered his trophy wife; his passionate opponent is a father who lost his only son in the campaign undertaken for her sake, whether she acted willingly or unwillingly, and irrespective of the deceased’s motives for participating in the war. Much greater detail and conviction would be necessary to convince Peleus, or at least effectively demolish his accusations, than Menelaus offers here. What is worse, his next claim in defense of Helen (681– 84), his only indirect answer to Peleus’ complaints over the heavy losses in the war and his own bereavement, is outrageously inept in its callous inaccuracy. Remarkably, it appears to be the speaker’s main argument, on the basis of its size and thus the emphasis placed on it. He attempts to refute his opponent’s claims about the devastating impact of the war by claiming that Helen’s elopement offered Greece the greatest benefit. In a question-and-answer game, the first three answers about that benefit would almost certainly be immortal glory, rich spoils, and subjugation of the despicable barbarians. Instead, Menelaus offers that Helen’s troubles provided the Greeks with the opportunity to acquire the military experience they lacked.

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Even if one accepts that Helen was a chaste, loyal wife and an innocent pawn in a game of ruthless divine rivalry, her husband’s claim is not only provocative but also simply false. There is no indication, and it is incredible, that before the Trojan war men such as Peleus and his fellow fighters in arduous campaigns, including the first capture of Troy under Heracles, had no prowess or military experience. Equally implausible, and insulting to Peleus and his family, is the implication that the mighty hero Achilles and his son needed the campaign commanded by the general Menelaus for their training and would wallow in ignorant incompetence without it. Besides, Menelaus’ rhetorical artifice does not include any benefit to the bereft civilian population such as honor or spoils, and he does not so much as deign to include himself in the number of the alleged beneficiaries of the campaign. By using the third instead of the expected in the context (and even metrically equivalent) first person plural, he apparently implies that he, the general, needed no military training.¹⁷ Tellingly, the benefit the Greeks allegedly secured is not mentioned in any other surviving play, unlike glory, spoils, just retaliation for the barbarian outrage against Greek women, and freedom from barbarian domination. The claim is most conspicuously absent from Helen’s speech in her own defense in Troades, which takes up and develops all the arguments for and against her in Andromache. Not even Helen, the bone of contention, as it were, claims that the Greeks acquired military experience at Troy, only that Greece secured her freedom because of Paris’ choice of prize (Tr. 924– 34). Menelaus’ claim is all the more remarkable in view of the first part of his speech, in which he attempts to defend his murderous plot by presenting it as a judicious protective measure against Peleus’ thoughtless association with the barbarian Andromache and her offspring: if Hermione bears no children, and Peleus persists in his alleged folly, the half-castes will become rulers of Phthia, an abominable reversal of order, barbarians ruling over Greeks (657– 67). Nevertheless, when he comes to the Trojan campaign and Helen’s benefaction to Greece, he does not even allude to Greece’s freedom, or her contribution to the subjugation of the abominable barbarians. So far a muddled, emotionally charged, unconsidered, and thus distorting and conceivably distorted, view of the past, and by implication the present and future, emerges from the debate. Menelaus’ last shaft (685 – 87), his passing but biting reference to Peleus’ murder of his half-brother Phocus, promotes this  It cannot be ruled out that he excludes himself out of modesty, although this is quite improbable. As already suggested, Menelaus does not boast of his military record, but he is not unassuming or humble. At any rate, even if he ascribes deeds of valor only to his comrades, the insulting implications of his claim remain virtually unchanged.

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view but, paradoxically, also offers a small glimpse of a different one. As is the case with the rest of the stories mentioned in the debate, Menelaus provides no background or detail, and Peleus does not react to the accusation in his response. To modern audiences, this is more frustrating than the characters’ failure to expand on the Aulis sacrifice or Helen’s elopement because there are few, quite late accounts of the fratricide, and none that may be considered authoritative or standard. In the majority of the sources, Telamon, Peleus’ full brother, plotted with him and drew the lot to commit the murder. Two versions about their motive have been preserved. Endeis, the mother of Peleus and Telamon, hated her husband Aeacus’ son by the Nereid Psamathe, and her children killed him in a pentathlon contest to please their mother (Paus. 2.29.9 – 10; Peleus struck the killing blow). Other sources claim that Peleus and Telamon killed Phocus because they were jealous of his athletic prowess (Σ 687, Apollod. 3.160) or resented their father’s love for him (Ant. Lib. 38.1– 2).¹⁸ Menelaus suggests only that Peleus should have shown restraint and spared Phocus, as Menelaus himself prudently spared Helen when he met her at Troy. The murder of Phocus is thus presented as an impulsive act committed by Peleus, apparently in a fit of resentment or anger. This contrasts with all other known accounts, which mention a premeditated plot. Nevertheless, Menelaus’ suggestion does not sound implausible and is not even irreconcilably incompatible with them: whether premeditated or spontaneous, the murder may be thought to have been an act conceived and/or committed in a state of emotional upheaval. Even so, the suppression of all background dooms Menelaus’ point to indeterminacy. The audience are not furnished with the information that might allow them to share the speaker’s view, or consider it plausible, and thus reach the conclusion he desires about the issue at hand. On the other hand, even if Peleus committed fratricide because he had been unable to control his murderous impulse, this must have been triggered by some prior event(s) or (resulting) emotion (s). Still, it is virtually impossible that any conceivable scenario would alleviate the perpetrator’s guilt: according to Greek beliefs, fratricide is an impious crime that cannot be justified, even if the victim had wronged the killer. In any case, it is quite improbable, although it cannot be ruled out completely, that the tradition included a version according to which Peleus (and Telamon) killed Phocus in order to punish him for some injustice or insult. On the contrary, in all versions of the tra-

 Plutarch Mor. E reports that Telamon hated Phocus for this reason and killed him in a hunt. Σ on Pi. O. . says that Peleus and Telamon killed him in order to avoid sharing their father’s estate with him. According to Diodorus Siculus (..), Peleus killed Phocus by accident.

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dition that have survived Phocus was the innocent victim of spiteful sibling rivalry and unprovoked aggression.¹⁹ Moreover, in one version of the story, this sordid internecine crime was committed on a background of female sexual jealousy, aggression and conspiracy not much different from Hermione’s hysterical reactions and deeds. Endeis enlisted, or at the very least received as a favor, her male relatives’ help in order to eliminate the hated son of Psamathe, just as Hermione did–unlike Andromache, the Nereid Psamathe did not live in the house and was of course immortal. In this light, Peleus’ personal record and the history of his family do not come across as much nobler than Menelaus’.²⁰ To be sure, no female rivalry is mentioned, but Phocus’ name would be likely to remind the audience of his stepmother. Even if not, the heroic and noble Peleus, the savior of the weak, the comrade of great heroes in his youth, and the castigator of uxorious weaklings and immoral brothers (and women) in his old age, had once murdered his own halfbrother, whether he did it to assist and please a jealous female relative or out of personal, impulsive rivalry.²¹ He was not one of the wise men who took care not to create quarrels among friends (cf. 643 – 44). Famously, the messenger that brings the news of Neoptolemus’ death ends his speech accusing Apollo of vindictiveness unworthy of a god: “Like a bad man, he remembered old quarrels. How then can he be wise?” (1164 – 65). The complaint of the bereaved retainer is not an unfair or inaccurate description of Apollo’s behavior, although it is partial, in both senses of the term, as repentance does not guarantee forgiveness in Greek religion, and Greek gods are far from magnanimous.²² What is most important and problematizes the messenger’s admiration for his master is the inevitable objection that the great Neoptolemus had also been an example of the bad, unwise men his servant disparages. He also had “remembered” old quarrels, his own with Orestes, Apollo’s with his father Achilles, and Orestes’ with his mother Clytaemestra. The esteemed Peleus, who in his youth had “remembered” his own share of nasty quarrels, naturally  Cf. Pi. N. . – . This version, and likely no other, was also current in the second half of the fifth century.  For the importance of families in the play cf. Conacher ,  – , Kovacs ,  – , Storey , Phillippo , Kyriakou , and Papadimitropoulos .  Interestingly, the unions of Peleus and Thetis and Aeacus and Psamathe have several parallels. Both Nereid sisters tried to avoid the union by changing shapes on the seashore, bore a son that died young, and abandoned their spouses. In Andromache Peleus did not rape Thetis (cf. Lloyd ,  f.), and Achilles was not killed treacherously by relatives, but the Aeacid family history in general and Peleus’ personal history in particular, including his similarities to his father, are darker than the characters (care to) let on.  Cf. Kovacs ,  – , and Mikalson ,  – .

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wishes that his grandson had never challenged Phoebus and married Hermione (1189 – 96), but Neoptolemus had to pay for his past folly, as Peleus himself, Agamemnon, Orestes, and presumably all (bad) men do. The past sheds no comforting light on the present and functions as no cautionary blueprint for the future. Every mortal errs, suffers, and dies, and even gods suffer (cf. 1232– 36). They reward noble mortals, even when these show no wisdom or prudence, and do not (always) punish the base. Life goes on, in some cases forever. Families are cardinal in this process, and even corrupt families survive. In a play featuring unhappy or dysfunctional unions, old and new, Thetis rewards Peleus with immortality “for the sake of our former marriage” (1231). As the matricide Orestes had said, “in misfortunes there is nothing better than support from a family member” (985 – 86).²³

 I would like to thank Mark Huggins for checking the English in this chapter.

Katerina Synodinou

Wisdom through Experience: Theseus and Adrastus in Euripides’ Suppliant Women In this paper, I intend to argue that in the course of the dramatic action Theseus’ war experience transforms his notion of “wisdom” in regard to his attitude towards the Seven heroes slain at Thebes, and, by extension, in regard to his general outlook on life. Likewise, I will argue that Adrastus’ experience acquired both outside the drama and in the course of the dramatic action affected his stance on the war that he had undertaken against Thebes and on war in general. In this way some vexing contradictions and discrepancies in both Theseus’ and Adrastus’ actions and behavior, which have caused much discussion, will be addressed and will be perhaps better understood. Let us start with Theseus. Before we proceed, we should bear in mind that in his treatment of the myth, Euripides opted for war for the recovery of the bodies of the Seven, while in earlier versions of the myth the bodies were restored peacefully following negotiations.¹ Such a treatment of the myth by Euripides indicates that he attached special significance to the issue of war, amidst, of course, the Peloponnesian war². Strikingly, Theseus’ notion of wisdom is not consistent throughout the play. His wisdom in the first section of the play up to the battle for the retrieval of the bodies of the Seven (1—597) is poles apart from his subsequent notion of it. It is noteworthy that Theseus uses more cognitive terms than the other characters of the play, and most of them in his encounter with Adrastus (151—248).³ From the beginning, he conducts himself as a rationalist⁴ who assesses accordingly Adrastus’ acts which

 See, for example, Collard , I,  – , for the myth pertaining to the recovery of the Argive dead. See also McDermott ,  and Toher ,  – , who maintain that the recovery of the bodies seems to be an innovation of the myth by Euripides.  For a discussion of the play’s date in  see Morwood ,  – . Previous scholars had dated the play from  to  – ; see Collard , I,  – ; Id. , ; (updated Collard ,  – .)  See vv. , , , , ,  – , , , , , , , , . For an investigation on the cognitive terms see Snell , .  See Burian , , who maintains that there are two contrasting kosmoi in the play; one of emotion represented by the Suppliant Women, the mothers of the Seven, and one of intellect represented by Theseus.

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led to the disastrous war and to his present status as a suppliant⁵ of Theseus and Athens. Seemingly unaffected⁶ by the plight of the Suppliants, he cross-questions Adrastus relentlessly as to the cause of his expedition against Thebes. To his amazement, Theseus hears that Adrastus deluded by enigmatic riddles of Apollo married off his daughters to foreigners on behalf of whom he undertook his ill-fated expedition against Thebes (131—54).⁷ Even worse, in planning the expedition, he disregarded the gods’ will by not consulting the prophets and indeed by going against the seer Amphiaraus’ advice, struck as he was from his right mind by the clamor of young men (155—60).⁸ In response to Adrastus’ options, Theseus reproaches him for preferring courage instead of sound thinking: εὐψυχίαν ἔσπευσας ἀντ’ εὐβουλίας.⁹ You followed strength of spirit instead of strength of counsel.¹⁰

(161) (transl. Morwood)¹¹

Theseus bases his criticism of Adrastus on his social, political and especially on his religious failings as exemplified in the exchange between the two of them. The marriage of Adrastus’ daughters to foreigners and his disregard of the gods’ will constitute sufficient evidence for Theseus to accuse him of being devoid of sound thinking. The wisdom by means of which Theseus judges Adrastus seems to be a wisdom based on nationalism, separation and a preoccupation with the gods’ will. At this stage of Theseus’ way of thinking, it is out of the question to get involved in the Suppliants’ plight, let alone to be compassionate with the wretched mothers.  For supplication in general see, for example, Kopperschmidt ,  – ; Gould ,  – ; Naiden .  Later he discloses to his mother that something pierced his heart as well upon hearing the laments of the mothers ().  See Collard , II, , ad : “Such marriages (with foreigners) were forbidden by law, and sanctions attached, in C.  Athens, after the Periclean degree of .” Morwood , , argues that Theseus at this stage of the play is presented as an embodiment of Athenocentrism.  See also vv.  – , where Theseus recapitulates the same charge against Adrastus, that he was led astray by unscrupulous young men who care only to fulfill their ambitions at the expense of their country. See Collard , II, , ad : “The dangers of youthful rashness form a topos.” See also Dover ,  – , for the qualities that are attributed stereotypically to young men.  I quote from Diggle, Euripidis Fabulae , II, Oxonii .  See Collard , II,  – , ad , who points out that the antithesis “reflects a preoccupation of contemporary thought, the achievement of balance between the two impulses”. Cf. E. Ph.  – , where both εὐψυχία (bravery) and εὐβουλία (right deliberation) are necessary for a military success.  I quote from Morwood’s translation of the play throughout this paper.

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In his “philosophical speech” (195—249)¹² in which he rejects Adrastus’ plea to retrieve the bodies of the Seven, Theseus attributes all human progress¹³ to divine wisdom. As he argues, some god separated human life from chaos and the bestial, first of all endowing mankind with reason (σύνεσιν, 203), then bestowing language, food, water, means of protection against cold and heat, the skill of seafaring (201—10); and what is uncertain and man does not clearly understand, the gods’ prophets foretell by means of their art, based on fire, sacrificial entrails and on the flight of birds (211—13). Theseus goes on to ascertain that in this benevolent world, it takes but self-indulgent people to consider the gods’ provisions insufficient (214– 15). In his opinion, the source of such an attitude is to be attributed to human wisdom: ἀλλ’ ἡ φρόνησις τοῦ θεοῦ μεῖζον σθένειν ζητεῖ, τὸ γαῦρον δ’ ἐν φρεσὶν κεκτημένοι δοκοῦμεν εἶναι δαιμόνων σοφώτεροι.

(216—18)

But arrogance seeks to have more power than the divine, and filling our hearts with vainglory, we think that we are wiser than the gods.

Within its context, the word φρόνησις (wisdom) is colored by the connotation of “arrogance”. So, in criticizing those who are not content with the gods’ provisions, Theseus equates human wisdom with insolence.¹⁴ He puts Adrastus in this category as well, for not being wise by nature (οὐ σοφὸς γεγώς, 219) for a number of reasons. In enumerating these reasons he repeats and expands on the issues he brought up when cross-questioning Adrastus. He refers again to his marrying his daughters to foreigners thus polluting his bright family (220 – 23). According to Theseus χρὴ γὰρ οὔτε σώματα ἄδικα δικαίοις τὸν σοφὸν συμμειγνύναι εὐδαιμονοῦντάς τ’ ἐς δόμους κτᾶσθαι φίλους.

(223—25)

 See Michelini ,  – , who studies vv.  –  (Adrastus’ supplication,  – , and Theseus’ answer,  – ) against the background of the Hellenic intellectual and cultural tradition. See Mastronarde 1986, 202– 3, who names Theseus (along with Jocasta at E. Ph. 528 – 85, and Teiresias at E. Ba. 266 – 327) an “optimistic rationalist”, because in the speech Theseus combines, in his opinion, traditional respect for the gods with a modern view of human progress.  On human progress see, for example, Collard , II, , ad  – , with bibliography.  See Walker ,, who analyzes the meaning of φρονεῖν, “to think”, within its context in the play (, , ). Collard , II, , ad  – . See also Abbott ,  – .

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The wise man should not mingle healthy bodies with unhealthy ones and he should acquire prosperous friends for his house.

In his opinion, god does not distinguish between their fortunes and with the calamities of the “sick” man (τοῦ νοσοῦντος) he destroys the man who is not “sick” (τὸν οὐ νοσοῦντα, 226—28).¹⁵ It is clear that Theseus does not wish to be infected with Adrastus’ ill fortune by getting involved in his plight. This extreme isolationism comes out again later in the play, when he has already rejected Adrastus’ supplication, and, in response to his mother’s groaning, Theseus points out that there is nothing in common between his mother and the Chorus of the bereft mothers of the Seven (291). “You are not one of them” (292), he remarks to his mother. And when he is persuaded by Aethra, the Queen Mother of Athens, to endorse the cause of the dead, he takes care to assert that he was right in his criticism of Adrastus’ disastrous plans (βουλεύματα) (334– 36). While departing for the battlefield, Theseus once again insists on the danger of infection and commands Adrastus to stay behind (589—92). He confidently declares that “I shall lead my army with my fortune, starting afresh on a fresh expedition”—καινὸς ἐν καινῷ δορί (592– 93).¹⁶ The wisdom that Theseus champions relies on distinctions and isolationism,¹⁷ a philosophy that rings anachronistic, to say the least, in the enlightened, sophistic last third of the 5th century.¹⁸ In addition, Theseus reiterates his charge of impiety against Adrastus for ignoring the gods’ will thus destroying his city, led astray by young men who care only for their own interests at the expense of the citizens (229—37). On the basis of the above argumentation, Theseus contemptuously rejects Adrastus’ supplication to recover the bodies for burial: χαίρων ἴθ(ι)¹⁹; “on your way and good luck to you” (248). His ultimate excuse for his cold dismissal is

 Sick not biologically, but broadly morally and politically. See Parker ,  – , who shows the close connection between disease and moral failing. See also Johansen , : “The free use of νοσεῖν, νόσος as ‘metaphors’ in describing a political or moral disturbance has its exact complement in the use of the pair ἄδικος- δίκαιος in medical and veterinary language, where they denote the absence or presence of the right harmony which conditions the satisfactory function of the part or organ in question.”  See McDermott ,  – , for a discussion of the meaning of καινός in this passage.  Gamble ,  – , emphasizes Theseus’ complete detachment and conversely lack of involvement in the plight of the Suppliants, until Aethra convinces him, among several arguments, that his own honor (τιμή, ) depends on his treatment of the Suppliants.  Michelini , , asserts that Theseus’ view of the gods is not just a more traditional view of them, but a “view already deeply disturbing to th cent. thinkers”.  See Morwood , , ad : “The colloquial nature of this Greek idiom gives the dismissal a contemptuous ring.”

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based on Adrastus’ failure to have thought out his affairs well; consequently his fortune should not oppress Theseus and the Athenians (248—49),²⁰ who, we assume, have thought out their own affairs wisely. Generally, in his “philosophical” speech²¹ Theseus reproaches Adrastus for his political failings which he ascribes to a deficiency of such a wisdom that advocates on the one hand the principle of distinction and avoidance of infection by the ill-fortuned, and on the other the observance of piety towards the gods by complying with their warnings through their prophets and oracles. But Theseus’ confident theorizing in regard to what constitutes wisdom in his opinion is irrelevant to the issue at hand, which is the recovery and the proper burial of the corpses of the Seven, prohibited so far by the Thebans.²² He will be alerted to this issue by the supplication of the Chorus (263—85) and especially by his mother’s unconventional intervention²³ on behalf of the mothers and the dead. Aethra invokes the right of the dead to be properly buried in accordance with the common divine (19)²⁴ and pan-Hellenic law (311), regardless of whether Adrastus was right or wrong in initially undertaking the expedition against Thebes. Her appeal to Theseus is elaborate as it takes into consideration the gods, the laws which preserve the city, the honor to fight against those who are confounding the divine, pan-Hellenic laws, Theseus’ own honor and civic duty, Athens’ dynamic politics, the justice of the cause at hand, pity for the mothers and finally the mutability of human fortune (301—31).²⁵ In other

 For the textual problems of v.  see Diggle ,  – .  Theseus’ “philosophical” speech has often been criticized; see, for example, Vellacott , , who discerns irony in the speech, as Theseus is presented “pompous, irrelevant, insensitive”, while the speech as a whole is, in his opinion, a caricature of what, of whom, we do not know. But an ironic interpretation of the speech does not seem to fit, once we take into consideration that this speech demonstrates Theseus’ point of view at this stage of the dramatic action. As Scully , , remarks: “There is something boyish about Theseus… whose theories about government are still more abstract than tempered by experience.”  Cf. Mills , : “In denying his help, he is in fact behaving like an inflexible Theban.”  Mastronarde , , labels Aethra’s intervention as “ perhaps the most interesting example of the action of a female character impinging on public affairs”, which runs counter to the conventional attitude that women should be silent and should not play a role in public affairs. For the position of women in classical Athens see, for example, Gould ,  – ; Mossé ; Gallo ,  – . Theseus concedes that “…much wisdom (πολλὰ σοφά) comes from women too” ().  See Collard , II, ad  – , who remarks that νόμιμα θεῶν (laws of the gods, ) as well as νόμος παλαιὸς δαιμόνων (old law of the gods, ) refer specifically to the obligation to grant the dead their right to burial. This law is one of the unwritten laws which have divine sanction. For the evolution of the concept of unwritten law see Romilly ,  – .  For an analysis of Aethra’s speech see, for example, Lloyd , ; Storey ,  – .

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words, Aethra shows Theseus a multidimensional “wisdom” which combines religious, political, social, civic, personal and humanitarian matters. Under the impact of Aethra’s challenge, Theseus is converted to the cause of the dead.²⁶ Ironically, the Theban herald who issues an ultimatum to Theseus not to allow Adrastus to remain at Eleusis and not to bury the dead employs similar arguments to those that Theseus had formerly employed against Adrastus.²⁷ The wisdom grounded on separation is now leveled against Theseus. In the Theban’s words, Theseus should not retrieve the bodies for burial by force since he has no connection with the Argives’ city (471—72). Moreover, he hurls the same charge against Theseus that Theseus had leveled against Adrastus concerning the insolence of human wisdom in relation to the divine one: ἤ νυν φρονεῖν²⁸ ἄμεινον ἐξαύχει Διὸς ἢ θεοὺς δικαίως τοὺς κακοὺς ἀπολλύναι.

(504—5)

So either be confident that you know better than Zeus or that the gods are right to destroy the wicked.

Ironically, the oligarchic Herald echoes the arguments of the democratic king. Like Theseus before his conversion, he ignores the pan-Hellenic (526) divine law (563) which demands burial of the dead. The Herald concludes his speech with a piece of conventional wisdom to which no one would object as a matter of principle, but which, under the circumstances, seems to reinforce the separation wisdom championed by both Theseus and the Herald. According to him, wise men should love their children above all and then their parents and their country (506—7).²⁹ Wise is the man who keeps quiet at the right time and this is bravery, prudence (509—10). The Herald makes it clear “that, in comparison with the prosperity of home and country, duty to the gods’ suppliants or any other principle should be disregarded”.³⁰ In his reply to the Herald, Theseus has taken a step beyond his initial confidence in the wisdom of gods who have allegedly provided so abundantly for the well-being of humans. Presumably affected by the Chorus’ commonplace on the brevity of human good fortune (269 – 70, cf. 463—64), and by his mother’s maxim on the reversal of happiness (331) he came to recognize the mutability of

 Scully , : “Aithra redefines Theseus’ sense of what it means to be a hero, a king, a citizen of Athens, and a member of the whole Panhellenic community.”  See, for example, Mills, ,  – ; Mendelsohn ,  – .  Walker , ; see n. .  One could disagree with the priorities of the Herald.  Abbott , .

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the mortal condition. As a consequence, he admonishes the Herald and indeed “deluded” mankind in general to understand both the ills of human existence ὦ μάταιοι, γνῶτε τἀνθρώπων κακά,

(549)

You deluded men, recognize the ills of human existence,

and the indulgence of the spoiled god who is flattered by the lucky and unlucky alike (552—55).³¹ In recognition of this, Theseus concludes his admonition by saying that moderation should govern man’s conduct (555—57).³² The precariousness of human life is common to all and the awareness of it constitutes a step past clearcut distinctions which Theseus had so fervently endorsed previously in the play. The agon between Theseus and the Herald degenerates into enraged stichomythia and in mutually hurled threats and ironies (566—80). The Theban challenges Theseus to fight so that the army of the sown men will throw him to the dust (578) and Theseus retorts ironically “what raging warrior could be descended from a serpent?” (579). The last words of the Herald, after the breaking off of the stichomythia, will prove of paramount importance for the further expansion of Theseus’ notion of wisdom: γνώσῃ σὺ πάσχων∙ νῦν δ’ ἔτι εἶ νεανίας.

(580)

You will learn the hard way. You are still a (headstrong) young man.

Ironically, the Herald blames Theseus for the youthful arrogance for which he himself had previously blamed Adrastus’ friends (232—37). At any rate, Theseus will have to learn by suffering.³³ His wisdom will be redefined by experience. It is the experience of the crucial battle between the Athenians and the Thebans after the final silent rejection by the Thebans of Theseus’ proposal to settle the matter peacefully thus maintaining the pan-Hellenic law (668—74). The bloody combat was in balance, but the Athenians were at last victorious thanks to Theseus’ unrivalled heroism (674—718). In this battle, Theseus implements his mother’s admonition

 See Collard , II, , ad  – , for the commonplace “man is born to suffering”; and , ad b-, for the mutability of fortune.  Lloyd , , commenting on Theseus’ reflections on the mutability of life, points out that “He (Theseus) is unique in Euripides in that the attitudes which he expresses in the agon are shown developing in the earlier part of the play”. On the theme of moderation in relation to Theseus see Mills 1997, 118 – 19, and passim.  The maxim “learning through suffering” goes back to Homer; Il. . : ῥεχθὲν δέ τε νήπιος ἔγνω, “once he has suffered, even the fool learns”; see also Hes. Op. ; A. A.; Hdt. . .

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not to incur the accusation of being a coward by avoiding a pitched battle, while he had confronted the wild boar in a trivial labor (314—19). In fact, the description of the position of the two armies before the battle (653—67), Theseus’ proclamation to the Thebans to surrender the dead peacefully, silently rejected by Creon (668—74), the beginning of the conflict (674—83), the chaotic charge of the two armies, the streams of blood, the human casualties in the wreckage of their chariots (689— 93)³⁴, the oscillating fortune of the two armies (683, 694—706), as the army that sprung from the dragon’s teeth proved a formidable fighter (704), all culminate in Theseus’ exploits (aristeia), which started with his encouragement to the troops and ended with his own devastating fighting (707—18). No doubt, Theseus’ decisive engagement in such a battle cannot help but bring about a new, momentous experience for this “new” general in a “new” expedition (593). To begin with, the fight with the Thebans constitutes Theseus’ initiation into the realities of politics and the price one has to pay defending even a just cause. Prior to this war conflict, it could be said that he was a politician in theory untested by experience, his conversion by his mother notwithstanding. More importantly, the experience and danger of war have a transformative effect on Theseus.³⁵ It transforms his notion of “wisdom” which, we remember, was grounded on clear-cut distinctions and discriminations among men. Now, his attitude towards the Seven, as becomes clear from the messenger’s answers to Adrastus’ questions about the dead Argives (754), has nothing to do with such a concept of wisdom. So we hear that it was Theseus who buried all the dead, except for the Seven, at Eleutherae (759).³⁶ Adrastus takes it for granted that it would have been distressing to the servants to carry the bodies of the Seven from the battlefield, only to hear, to his amazement, that no slave participated in this labor:

 For the description of the battle see Toher , : “Euripides’ combination of chariot fighting and hoplite tactics was historically impossible, but dramatically effective.”  Scully , , recognizes the transformative effect of the war experience on Theseus; Vinh , .  Theseus fulfills the duty of a hoplite commander and buries the majority of the dead on the battlefield, as was the universal practice of Greek hoplites before the institution of Athenian public funeral in early th cent.; see Toher , ; Pritchett ,  – .

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Αδ. ἦ που πικρῶς νιν θέραπες ἦγον ἐκ φόνου; Αγ. οὐδεὶς ἐπέστη τῷδε δοῦλος ὢν πόνῳ.³⁷

163

(762—63)

Ad. It was very distressing to the servants to bring the bodies from the (field of) blood, of course? Me. No-one who was a slave attended to this task.

It was Theseus himself who tended the dead: ἠγάπα νεκρούς.

(764)

he was tending the corpses.

The verb ἀγαπάω, “found only in Euripides among the tragic poets and only in the context of loved ones caring for the corpses of nearest kin …testifies to the bond of kinship Theseus feels for the dead”.³⁸ Indeed, he performed the rituals related to the preparation of the bodies for cremation himself. So he washed their battle wounds, laid out the beds and covered their bodies (765—66).³⁹ These rituals, when not performed by the family, especially by women⁴⁰ were assigned to slaves,⁴¹ and, as Adrastus comments, “a bitter labor” even for them (762). Such extraordinary conduct on Theseus’ part cannot help but draw Adrastus’ comment: δεινὸν μὲν ἦν βάσταγμα κἀισχύνην ἔχον.

(767)

What a terrible burden to handle them – and brought shame.

The Messenger, who speaks for Theseus, retorts: τί δ’ αἰσχρὸν ἀνθρώποισι τἀλλήλων κακά;

(768)

Why should men feel shame over one another’s misfortunes?

 After v.  a line is missing, which allegedly showed Adrastus’ amazement at the extraordinary treatment of the bodies by Theseus. In Wilamowitz’s suggestion, Adrastus asks: “Wie? So viel Rücksicht gönnte Theseus ihnen?” Collard , II, , ad .  Scully , . See also Collard , II, , ad .  Washing and dressing the dead before the laying out were funeral rituals for every deceased person; see Collard , II, , ad , .  For women’s role in funeral rituals see, for example, Kurtz and Boardam ,  – ; Alexiou ,  – ; Loraux ,  – ; Rehm ,  – , .  See, for example, Scully , .

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As is well known, the adjective αἰσχρόν (and cognate words) is the most powerful word to denigrate a man’s actions.⁴² For Adrastus who follows, it seems, a timehonored tradition of discrimination, to tend the bodies, typically the task of a slave—when not performed by family members, particularly women, as mentioned above—incurs shame on Theseus.⁴³ In Adrastus’opinion, shame would presumably result from the identification of the king with a slave. But Theseus has moved beyond his previous philosophy of separation, beyond his view that ill fortune is contagious, that the gods punish the just and unjust alike indiscriminately (223—28, 591—92).⁴⁴ Due to his ultimate war experience he not only transcends his previous limited world outlook, but he obliterates, we may say, any distinction among men, slaves included. He acquires new insight into the precariousness of the human condition, common to all (ἀλλήλων κακά, 768). From such a perspective, there is no room for disgrace in human calamities.⁴⁵ He is the same person who, in accordance with traditional views, affirmed earlier that the defeat of the Seven brought disgrace on them (530).⁴⁶ From now on, Theseus’ newfound wisdom conditions his attitude regarding the characters and issues of the play. He is no more the same person we saw before. Such a discrepancy between his previous world view and his newly found insight have triggered, as we will see, some ironic interpretations of Theseus. Be that as it may, he has, above all, changed his stance regarding the Seven. They

 Adkins , .  In Rehm’s ,  view, in performing the funeral ritual for the Seven, Theseus assumes a woman’s role taking care of her kin. More emphatically, Mendelsohn ,  – , asserts that “Theseus’ enactment of ritual prothesis is…presented as a conscious appropriation, and theatrical acting-out, of a woman’s role, a willing experience of the feminine that jeopardizes his status by bringing aiskhyne”. But the main pointer in Theseus’ act is, I believe, that he, the king, assumes the role of a slave, charged as this concept is with denotations of biological, social, political, moral and intellectual inferiority. So, in Adrastus’ opinion, the shame presumably would result from the identification of the king with a slave. If this is so, Theseus’ enlightenment does not seem to derive so much from his appropriation of some feminine duty, as Mendelsohn maintains, rather it is the by-product of his war experience.  See also Morwood , , ad ; in E. HF  – , Theseus rejects as well the danger of pollution by contact with the polluted one.  Gamble ,  – , points out that Theseus’ task and the Messenger’s reply are connected with the theme of involvement and obligation: human misery transcends the “grouping-system” of isolation and detachment and requires a concern for humanity as a whole. See also Scully , ; Storey , , who asserts that the scene of the preparation of the bodies for burial “has shown a quite different Theseus from the voluble and impatient young ruler, who reacted too quickly and too dogmatically to supplication of Adrastus and the mothers”.  Walker , . See also Adkins , , for the traditional view that it is καλόν (noble) for the victors to have won and αἰσχρόν (shameful) for the vanquished to have been defeated.

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are not merely the “insolent young men” anymore, who undertook a disastrous war. His previous criticism of them is not denounced, but he eventually came to acknowledge that there are more aspects to consider about them. Reality is by no means one-dimensional. More than one perspective challenges us to look at it. Affected by his experience of battle with its risks and deeds of valor, at long last Theseus recognizes the Seven’s pre-eminence in courage and asks Adrastus, πόθεν ποθ’οἵδε διαπρεπεῖς εὐψυχίᾳ θνητῶν ἔφυσαν;

(841—42)

How ever did these men come to be pre-eminent among mortals in courage?

Some critics see irony or satire in the use of the word εὐψυχία (bravery) here, since Theseus had employed it pejoratively for the same persons in 161.⁴⁷ But Theseus seems to employ the word εὐψυχία positively in differing circumstances to the ones prevailing when he criticized Adrastus of following εὐψυχία instead of εὐβουλία (161).⁴⁸ At that time he was denouncing a reckless insolence, while now he appreciates the εὐψυχία of the Seven exemplified in their valiant deeds in the thick of battle.⁴⁹ The catalyst for such an appreciation seems to be nothing but his own war experience, his risks and his own bravery by which he carried the day. He learnt the hard way what it means to get involved in a bloody battle, and consequently he can recognize in others similar conditions: εἶδον γὰρ αὐτῶν κρείσσον’ ἢ λέξαι λόγῳ τολμήμαθ’οἷς ἤλπιζον αἱρήσειν πόλιν.

(844—45)

For I saw their bold deeds, too great to tell in words, through which they hoped to take the city.

There is discussion about the subject of εἶδον, as it can be either first person singular (I, Theseus) or third person plural (they, the sons).⁵⁰ The problem with the first person singular is that Theseus is not an eyewitness of the Seven’s brave deeds, only

 See, for example, Smith , ; Mendelsohn ,  – .  See above n. , for a discussion of the words εὐψυχία and εὐβουλία. Hesk ,  – , argues for the difficulty to understand the nature of εὐβουλία and for the limitations to human deliberation, especially in relation to the “other-regarding” processes and emotions.  Morwood , ,  points out that “then he was condemning headstrong bravado; at  he appears to be commending reasoned courage learned by training and experience…” See also Storey , ,  – , .  Collard , II, , ad  – , opts for the third person plural.

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Adrastus can claim such knowledge.⁵¹ Despite the difficulties, I would agree with Zuntz that the subject of the verb is Theseus who had seen the corpses and “had inferred their deeds from the places where their bodies were found and from the wounds by which they were marked”.⁵² In this way, the spectacle of the dead warriors becomes part and parcel of Theseus’ war experience and is conducive to some extent to his appreciation of the bravery of the Seven. Motivated by such an appreciation, Theseus considers the dead warriors worthy of a funeral oration, as exemplary of courage to the young sons of the citizens (842— 43).⁵³ It is as though their brave death has exonerated them from their former insolence so that Theseus can set them up as exemplars for the youth. In doing so, Theseus seems to recognize some bond of companionship with the Seven based on their common bravery. Otherwise, it would have been somewhat unfounded to instruct Adrastus to deliver the funeral oration presumably with the excuse that he plainly intended to “shift emotion from mourning to admiration”.⁵⁴ The basis of this shift relies, without doubt, on Theseus’ appreciation of the bravery of the Seven; so it seems probable that he would wish to hear of the warriors’ bravery which could at the same time constitute a lesson for young citizens. As J. Morwood rightly observes, “whatever the flaws of character that the five warriors may have had, no fault can be found with them as exemplars of this virtue”.⁵⁵ In this way, the shift from dirge to eulogy follows as a matter of course. Theseus does not wish to know the specifics of the conflict which led to the death of the Seven. He recognizes from his own experience that something like that is impossible in the thick of conflict (846—56).⁵⁶ He is exclusively interested in the manner by which they attained their pre-eminence in courage (841—42).

 To solve the problem Morwood , , ad , emends to εἶδες; Kovacs , , following Camper, transposes  –  to follow , thus making Adrastus the speaker; on these issues see Storey ,  – .  Zuntz , ; see also Morwood , , ad .  Who are the young sons ἀστῶν τῶνδ(ε), “of these citizens”()? The sons of the Seven or the young men in the audience, especially the Athenian war orphans, or both of them? Or the sons of Theseus’ men? On these questions see Collard , II, , ad b-; Morwood , , ad  – , , ad  – ; Storey , .  Loraux , ; Scully , ; Id. , .  Morwood , , .  In these verses there is not ridicule of the conventions of simulated realism in messenger speeches, aimed at Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes and/or at Euripides’ own messenger speech earlier in the play. His messenger narrated the events as an eyewitness, not as a participant in the battle; on these see Collard , II, , ad  – ; Morwood , , ad .

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Presumably, he expects to hear the manner of their upbringing and their ways of life, which led them to their heroic death.⁵⁷ Within the framework of his newly acquired wisdom, Theseus invites Adrastus to deliver the funeral oration for his comrades: εἰπὲ δ’ ὡς σοφώτερος νέοισιν ἀστῶν τῶνδ’∙ ἐπιστήμων γὰρ εἶ.

(842—43)

Tell the young (sons) of these citizens here since you have greater wisdom. Yes, you have the knowledge.

In context, the adjective σοφώτερος does not seem so much to refer to Adrastus’ proverbial eloquence,⁵⁸ as to his acquaintance with the Seven and to his experience of the fated battle. In fact, he is the one who has witnessed their valiant deeds under the walls of Thebes. Ironically, Adrastus is not only the unwise man (οὐ σοφός, 219), in Theseus’ words, who brought about the disaster of the expedition, but also the wise man of cumulated experience.⁵⁹ If this is so, then it seems that Mendelsohn is not quite right in asserting that σοφώτερος here “withers”, when one recalls Theseus’ reproach of Adrastus as one of those who consider themselves wiser than the gods.⁶⁰ But, as we have seen, Theseus has moved beyond his former stance. Pertinent to his present insight is the tribute Theseus pays to Amphiaraus and Polyneices, the two of the Seven who were not included in Adrastus’ funeral oration, presumably because their bodies were not present (925—31). Both the noble Amphiaraus (925) and the bestial Polyneices (144—46) are rehabilitated by Theseus. His praise of Amphiaraus revises the Theban’s contemptible view of him (500— 1), while he exonerates Polyneices by mentioning their guest relationship, before he left Thebes (930—31). Such a relationship, apparently invented by Euripides,⁶¹ looks back to Theseus’ xenophobia manifested by his abhorrence of Adrastus marrying off his daughters to foreigners (135, 220—21). Now it seems as though Theseus

 Collard , II, , ad  – a; Loraux , .  For this point of view see Collard , II, , ad b-; Loraux , ; Mendelsohn , .  See Zuntz , : “His experiences made him a knowing man ().” Abbot , ; Morwood , , ad  – : “…experience can bring its own wisdom… and Adrastus has had plenty of that.” Cf. E. Ph.  – : …ἀλλ’ ἡμπειρία/ ἔχει τι λέξαι τῶν νέων σοφώτερον “but experience can say something wiser than the young men.”  Mendelsohn , .  Collard , II, , ad  – , maintains that Euripides invented the guest friendship between Theseus and Polyneices in order “to accommodate him, even if perfunctorily, in praise of all the Seven”.

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came to understand the merits of xenia (guest friendship), which was one of the unwritten, god-given laws, highly revered by the Greeks.⁶² Finally, Theseus takes care to accomplish the mission for which he went to war, the cremation and burial of the Seven. He will cremate and bury Capaneus separately as a sacred corpse (935)⁶³ and he will cremate the others on a single pyre (936), having declared once again his concern for the dead (940). The reversal of Theseus’ attitude towards the Seven is brought out summarily in his final characterization of them as “the best of fathers” (πατέρων ἀρίστων, 1167). The adjective ἀρίστων in Theseus’ mouth, far from being ornamental, is forceful enough to convey Theseus’ new appreciation of the Seven.⁶⁴ Theseus’ insight into human plight, common to all, makes him object to Adrastus’ invitation to the bereft mothers to approach their children, before the cremation of the bodies (941—42). He wishes to spare the mothers more grief by their contact with the disfigured bodies of their sons (944). Adrastus approves of Theseus’ handling of the matter, conceding that it would indeed be a “bitter” experience for the mothers to touch the mutilated corpses of their sons (945—48).⁶⁵ But H. Foley and other scholars are of the opinion that Theseus really “seems to be at pains to take control of the funerary rites in a striking fashion” in order to suppress the excessive laments of the mothers, thus echoing Athenian concern in restraining public lamentation by women.⁶⁶ All things considered, the question of how Theseus managed to suppress the mothers’ dirges by denying them contact with the deceased remains. The opposite seems true. Otherwise how could we account for the Chorus’ laments in the fourth stasimon (955—79), when they are left entirely on their own and they “resume their grief, monotonous in its theme of old age empty of children… and full

 Morwood , , ad .  Collard , II, , ad , points out: “Special superstition attached to those killed by lightning, requiring their separate burial, often at the place of death, and subsequently tabooing.”  See also Collard , II, , ad  – , for a comment on this adjective.  Morwood , , ad , defends the humanitarian reasons for denying the mothers contact with the bodies of their sons. Mills , , contends that Theseus is superior to Adrastus in humanity and wisdom for his tending the bodies and not letting the mothers touch the disfigured corpses of their sons. On this issue Collard , II, , ad , writes that “the close sight would be intolerably painful to them …or so E. convincingly accommodates motive and action to the convention by which the chorus may not leave the theatre during a play”; Id. , . Cf. also Toher , , who maintains that “because of its gruesome nature the treatment of the war dead was the responsibility of men (cf.  –  and  – )”.  Foley , ,  – ; cf. Scully , ; Id. /, ; Mendelsohn , , who speaks of appropriation, but for a different reason, namely for the transformative effect on Theseus of this appropriation.

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only of weeping…”?⁶⁷ All in all, this point of view is at odds with Theseus’ acquired wisdom of involvement in others’ misfortunes, as it is manifested by the dramatic action. At any rate, Theseus’ concern for the mothers is in striking contrast to his attitude towards them prior to his experience of war. It is the same person, we remember, who stood aloof from their plight and their supplication, who said to his mother “these women’s woes are not for you to groan about” (291), and “you are not one of them” (292). Summing up, we may assert that Theseus’ notion of wisdom is transformed by the dramatic action. His war experience constitutes the main transformative force which alerted Theseus to the precariousness and mutability of human life, common to all. The self-confident young king, who argued superciliously, advocating the absolute discrimination and isolationism among men, becomes aware of the common lot of humanity and of the multifaceted, even contradictory, aspects of human actions and behavior. Let us turn to Adrastus. As with Theseus, the transformative experience that alters his wisdom⁶⁸ comes from war, from his fated expedition against Thebes. Unlike Theseus, however, Adrastus has already gone through the war experience outside the drama with the consequence that his attitude on stage is affected from the outset by such an experience.⁶⁹ In addition, as the plot unfolds, his war experience is expanded by the defeat of the victorious Thebans by Theseus and the Athenians. As we have seen, there is no doubt concerning Adrastus’ folly in undertaking the expedition in defiance of any kind of prudence. The question is how and to what extent his devastating experience brought about a revision of his foolish acts and behavior, and moreover, to what extent it redefined his general outlook on life. At the beginning of the play, Adrastus, lying prostrate at the doors of Demeter’s temple, covered (111) and lamenting “that most ill-fated expedition” (22—23), appears utterly devastated by his defeat. Some indications of the overwhelming impact on him of such a defeat can be discerned in his assessment of the expedition which he labels “deadly” (ὀλεθρίαν, 116); in his concession that he lost the best men of the Argives (118), and that after their defeat all is over for Argos (128); and in his admis-

 Collard , II, ; cf. Morwood , , ad  – .  He is second only to Theseus in using cognitive terms; cf. vv. , , , , , ,  – .  Michelini , , remarks: “Adrastus from the beginning resembles a tragic protagonist whose own drama has been already closed.”

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sion that his greatest blunder was his disregard of the divine in general (155—59),⁷⁰ perturbed as he was by the clamor of young men (160). It is noteworthy that, although there was some right on Polyneices’ part (152—54), Adrastus does not press this point in order to justify the expedition. It seems as though he has taken a step beyond his former folly as he is tormented by remorse⁷¹ and at the same time he assumes full responsibility for the disaster.⁷² Adrastus’ awareness of his liability seems to trigger off his passionate plea to Theseus to recover the bodies and to pity both his affliction and the mothers of the dead (168—69). And although he holds it shameful, he will not hesitate to assume the humiliating position of a suppliant, compelled as he is to yield to his misfortunes (164—67). The reversal in Adrastus’ position seems to bring about his awareness that there are no clear-cut distinctions between rich and poor, lucky and unlucky people. So, after his emotional appeal to Theseus (168—75), he adduces a general principle to guide human conduct, which should wishfully guide Theseus’ response to him as well: σοφὸν δὲ πενίαν τ’ εἰσορᾶν τὸν ὄλβιον πένητά τ’ ἐς τοὺς πλουσίους ἀποβλέπειν.

(176—77)

It is wise both for the rich man to look upon poverty and for the poor man to turn his gaze on the rich.

According to this suggestion, it is wise for the rich and the poor to consider each other’s situation for mutual benefit.⁷³ The wisdom of interdependence of the poor and the rich which Adrastus evokes, no doubt presupposes the mutability and unpredictability of human fortune.⁷⁴ Success and good fortune do not last forever, as has become clear in his own case: previously a happy king, now a helpless grey-haired man (166). Adrastus’ insight into the human condition is poles apart, as we have seen, from Theseus’ in regard to the separation of human beings. It took his experience of war for him to come to terms with Adras-

 Collard , II, , ad , points out that the conventional “view that war undertaken against the will of gods is doomed to failure” matches “Th.’s orthodox praise of the gods as the benefactors of mankind”.  Morwood , , ad .  Cf. Collard , II, , ad , who writes of Adrastus’ “maxima culpa”.  In this case the poor may desire money (); the missing lines after  should have referred in all probability to some benefit the fortunate may derive through contemplating the lot of the unfortunate. For the roots of the theme of interdependence of rich and poor in gnomic tradition see Michelini ,  – . See also Collard , II, , ad  – ; Morwood , , ad  – .  Abbot , .

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tus’ view and to adopt it himself, as his treatment of the dead Seven and his general conduct indicate. Furthermore, Adrastus attains further insight into human folly and conversely human wisdom by the cumulative effect on him of both, not only his own but the Thebans’ defeat as well. It is noteworthy that, after Theseus rejected Adrastus’ supplication (219—49), he remains silent on stage for a long time, from v. 263 until v. 734, apart from his two words (ὦ παγκάκιστε, meanest of men, 513) to the Theban herald, whereupon he was abruptly interrupted by Theseus. Nonetheless, Adrastus “is highly eloquent simply through his presence”⁷⁵ and when he breaks his long silence, his words attain additional charge due precisely to this silence. Adrastus breaks his silence at a crucial stage of the dramatic action, after listening to the Messenger’s report of Theseus’ victory over the Thebans. His speech (734—49) brings to light clearly the impact his own and the Thebans’ defeat exerted on him. Recalling in retrospect the Argives’ and the Thebans’ attitude before they opted for war, he questions the ability of mortals to possess the faculty of thinking at all: ὦ Ζεῦ, τί δῆτα τοὺς ταλαιπώρους βροτοὺς φρονεῖν⁷⁶ λέγουσι;⁷⁷

(734—35)

Why then, O Zeus, do they say that we suffering mortals have the power of thought?

From the perspective of the Argives’ defeat he can assess not only their fatal foolishness, but his own too. First, they overestimated their strength. Argos was omnipotent, or so they thought, and they themselves numerous and strong young men (737—38). Their folly, manifested in their blind confidence in their strength, is further magnified by their refusal to accept a conciliatory offer by Eteocles, which would have forestalled the disastrous war (739—41). This moderate Eteo-

 Morwood , , ad . See also Collard , II, , who maintains that the experience of listening for such a long time “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 others’ suffering”.  On this verb see Walker , ; see nn. , .  The subsequent lines …σοῦ γὰρ ἐξηρτήμεθα/ δρῶμέν τε τοιαῦθ’ ἃν σὺ τυγχάνῃς θέλων ( – ), “For we are dependent on you and we do such ever things as you happen to want”, seem to lay on Zeus the responsibility for the foolishness of man. But as Johansen ,  points out these verses are only of secondary importance for the thought: “Both the paradigmatic section and the concluding reflection (of the speech) are formulated with no regard to the γὰρ – clause in lines  f.”

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cles “is not certainly attested elsewhere and must be E.’s invention for this context, in order to stress Adr.’s recognition of his folly and just punishment”.⁷⁸ Adrastus perceives the folly of the Thebans as well, which brought about their defeat. As he states, the foolish (κακόφρων, 744) people of Kadmus behaved with insolence like newly rich poor men, and in their insolence they were in turn destroyed (741—44). Apparently, the Thebans’ insolence comprises their rejection of Theseus’ proposal to surrender the bodies peacefully and their choice of the destructive war, which caused the reversal of their fortune. Motivated by the defeat of the Argives and the Thebans, Adrastus deplores all “hollow” men who do not rely upon one another as friends, and all (hollow) cities which go to war, even though disputes could be settled by words as well (744 —49). It is the same Adrastus who had rejected Eteocles’ conciliatory offer, which, if accepted, would have spared him the defeat. But now Adrastus’ perspective on things has been reversed, and the speech reflects this change, as it implies his new insight into the folly of war. So, the speech seems appropriate to Adrastus’ character, ruling out the possibility that the poet is speaking for himself at this point.⁷⁹ Nor does it seem to indicate Adrastus’ “abject nihilism” to which he is reduced by what he hears and experiences.⁸⁰ To say the least, he suggests alternative action to war, which is negotiations. He came to fully realize the “importance of spoken communication in international diplomacy”.⁸¹ But more importantly, this speech constitutes the voice of wisdom of someone who through his experience has fully grasped “the folly of men’s resort to war where words would serve as well to settle differences”.⁸² No doubt Adrastus’ speech is an instance of ἄρτι μανθάνω (I have learned too late).⁸³ Indeed, it is highly significant that Adrastus’ response to the Messenger’s report does not convey any sense of triumph for the victory, nor relief for the prospective burial of the dead, but it is a reflection on questionable human wisdom.⁸⁴

 Collard , II, , ad  – a; see also Morwood , , ad  – .  As has been maintained by Greenwood , .  Morwood, , , ad ; cf. .  Ibid. , ad  – .  Collard , II, , ad  – ; Id. , I,  – ; Id. , : “Pathetic reflection (of Adrastus’ speech) marks Adrastus’ rehabilitation. If he has made no actual recompense, as the Seven have done with their lives, he admits error and the possibility of reform.” See also Grube , , who maintains that Adrastus’ “reflections arise directly out of his own experience…”.  E. Αlc. ; Storey , . In Burian’s opinion, , , “Adrastus’ pessimism (in this speech) negates one great truth action seemed to have established, that men can order their lives in accordance with reason”.  Storey ,  – .

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For the remainder of the play his conduct is qualified by his new understanding of the folly of war. In general, such wisdom accentuates his grief and lamentations over the bodies of the Seven whom he led to their death. In his bereavement and desolation, he regrets the loss of human life, “for this is the only expenditure that it is not possible for mortals to recover once it has been made, the life of a man” (775—77). There is nothing to compensate for the loss of human life, let alone a foolish war. His excessive lamentations in the kommos (794—836) —it is Adrastus who invites the kommos (798—801)—and particularly his wish to share Amphiaraus’ and Capaneus’ fate (828—31), even though they sound somewhat stereotyped, they are perhaps better understood as consequent upon his futile war. Moreover, his appeal to the city of Argos to see his fate (808) implies his recognition that his calamities as the king of Argos affect equally the city. Once again, he takes full responsibility for the consequences of his foolish war for Argos.⁸⁵ From this perspective, some contradictory remarks of Adrastus concerning the Seven, in relation to what was said of them previously in the play, could be somewhat better understood. So, when Adrastus in the kommos says, “bring forward, the bloodstained bodies of the ill-fated men, unworthily slaughtered and by the unworthy” (811—13), this seems to counter everything that was said before, even by Adrastus himself, of their insolence and their just punishment.⁸⁶ The reversal in the point of view as soon as the Messenger, an Argive, reports to Argives is of course not to be dismissed.⁸⁷ However, I believe, that reversal in a point of view has to be justified to some extent in order to be cogent. In that particular case, another perspective to judge the fate of the Seven seems to emerge, one related to the folly of war. Presumably, they were unworthily slaughtered in the framework of their foolish war and they were slaughtered by the unworthy in the framework of the Thebans’ insolence, who chose war over a peaceful settlement. As to Adrastus’ funeral oration (857—917), which is the most debated section of the play,⁸⁸ suffice it here to point out that the funeral oration is a specific answer to Theseus’ specific question asking how the Seven came to be pre-eminent

 Collard , II, , ad , maintains: “Adr.’s appeal indicates the sincerity of his moral reform.” Id. , .  Morwood , , ad , contends: “Adrastos is surely wrong in his view that the Seven did not deserve their deaths. They should never have attacked Thebes ( – ,  – ,  – ).”  Smith ,  – .  For summaries of the various interpretations of the oration see Morwood ,  – ; Storey ,  – ; cf.  – .

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in courage (841—42). It is significant to notice that Theseus dissociates the eulogy from the war, its exploits and its motives.⁸⁹ He goes back to the past, civil life of the Seven, before the war.⁹⁰ So Adrastus’ portraits of the valor of five of the Seven “describe through individual examples the various facets of a civic virtue which finds its ultimate proof in a brave death…”.⁹¹ The essential point of the oration does not seem to be ironic or satirical towards the stereotypes in the speeches in honor of the war dead delivered annually in Athens, as quite a few critics have maintained. These critics take into consideration essentially the contradiction between the traditional negative portrait of the heroes in the myth and their portrait as civic examples in the play.⁹² But, as is well known, the tragedians feel free to adopt myth to dramatic purposes. So “there is nothing surprising… in a Capaneus made temperate and uncompromisingly loyal for the oration…”.⁹³ To this I would add that all dramatic characters are self-sufficient within the play to which they belong; outside of which they cease to exist. If this is so, there is no question of adducing the Capaneus, let us say, of the mythic tradition in order to interpret the Capaneus of the play. At any rate, what emerges from the oration is the tragic fact that these exemplary citizens died for a bad cause, which cannot help but emphasize once again the folly of war.⁹⁴ Be that as it may, it is significant that Adrastus affirms his conversion to the cause of peace once again. Affected by the disfigured bodies of the Seven and Theseus’ averting their mothers from touching them, Adrastus makes a desperate plea to “unhappy mortals” to stop making war, and ceasing from their labors to protect their city and live in peace with one another (949—54). His appeal for avoidance of war and conversely for endorsement of peace restates to a great extent his reflections on the folly of war (734—49), as we saw above.

 Lesky , .  Zuntz , .  Collard , ; Id. , II, , ad  – : “His speech … is a series of charactersketches, which have a unifying theme in the heroes’ conception of their duty to the πόλις …”. For a similar point of view see also Zuntz ,  – ; Morwood , , .  For ironic /satirical interpretations of the speech see, for example, Greenwood ,  – ; Fitton ,  – ; Smith ,  – , Conacher , ; Gamble ,  – ; Scully , ; Mendelsohn ,  – .  Collard , . Cf. Morwood, , , ad , who contends that everything that Adrastus says about the five warriors is plausible, however incomplete.  Storey , . See also Mastronarde , : “…the gist of Adrastus’ speech is that these men were not, after all, simply bloodthirsty men of sin and violence, but also men of moderation, bravery and public spiritedness.” Mastronarde , . Morwood , , writes for the pan-Hellenic character of the oration: “Whatever the tone of the oration, it serves as an emblem of Hellenic integration.”

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Adrastus’ consistent repudiation of war and his call for peace could not help but draw several critical responses. It has been maintained that “the play’s two examples of uncivilized ambition (of Adrastus) and of ambition for civilization (of Theseus), are made nonsense by the effacement of all distinctions”.⁹⁵ But Adrastus, in my opinion, speaks from a vantage point, beyond the particular examples of the play. His newly gained wisdom comes from his own experience of the war and its consequences. Driven by this experience, he appeals for the renunciation of war in general, regardless of who was initially right or wrong to engage in war. He is fully aware, as we have seen, that he was the wrong party in the war against Thebes. His plea for peace implies his self-criticism for his former folly and at the same time it constitutes a voice of wisdom addressed to mankind to renounce warfare. Thus, it seems, the distinction, whatever distinction there is between the war of Theseus and the war of Adrastus, is maintained. A second critical approach discerns irony in Adrastus’ pacifist verses (949— 54). According to this point of view, Adrastus “forgets the optimistic sentiments of his own (funeral) oration, contradicts the implications of its lesson in courage, and returns to deploring the folly that leads men to war”.⁹⁶ As far as this point of view is concerned, suffice it to point out that the context in which the funeral oration is delivered differs from the context in which the pacifist appeal of Adrastus is articulated. As we have seen, the funeral oration is Adrastus’ response to a specific request by Theseus, while the disputed verses were triggered by the spectacle of the disfigured bodies of the Seven. That is, in the oration Adrastus narrates “true and just” (859) things about the Seven, whereas in the verses under discussion (949—54), he gives voice to his own wisdom installed in him by his war experience. So, no correlation may possibly be established between the oration and his desperate calls for peace.⁹⁷ At any rate, these verses are the last words of Adrastus, except for his acknowledgement of gratitude to Theseus and Athens (1176—79) and his farewell

 Smith , .  Burian , . See also Mendelsohn , .  In Michelini’s opinion, , , Adrastus seeing what had become of his friends, “may well feel a sense of waste and futility in all human striving”. But, in their contexts, these verses point to the futility of war, not to the futility of all human striving. He only wishes men to desist from war activity. Morwood ,  maintains that “at  – … he (Adrastus) appears crassly unappreciative of all Theseus and the Athenians have done for him”. Cf. Ibid. , ad . But Adrastus’ plea for peace has nothing to do with the gratitude owed to Theseus and to the Athenians. As Morwood himself points out “he comes round to an appreciation of what they have done at  – , ”, that is when he takes his leave of Theseus. Adrastus’ experience of war dictates his wish for peace, which by itself does not annul what has previously taken place.

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to the Athenian king (1181). Adrastus maintains a telling silence after Athena’s unexpected intervention, who as dea ex machina commands Theseus to strike a formal alliance with Argos and foretells the victorious expedition of the Sons (Epigonoi) against Thebes (1183—226). A response to Athena’s speech may be expected of him, the more so as both Athena and Theseus pointed to him with deictic pronouns (τόνδε, this man here, 1188,⁹⁸ οὗτος, this man, 1189, τόνδ(ε), this man here, 1229). So his silence cannot go unnoticed, especially after Theseus’ acknowledgement of Athena’s commands (1227).⁹⁹ In the military ambience of Athena’s speech, a mute Adrastus appears to be consistent with his wisdom on the folly of war acquired by trial and error. In conclusion, we may maintain that both Theseus’ and Adrastus’ notion of wisdom is transformed by their respective war experiences. While, at the outset, Theseus champions a philosophy of discriminations and isolationism, his war experience in the course of the play makes him aware of the uncertainty and mutability of life, common to all. Henceforward his recognition of the common bond of humanity makes up the decisive constituent of his new wisdom. Adrastus’ war experience, outside the drama and in the course of the play, brings about not only his devastation and remorse for his disastrous expedition, but also his insight into the folly of war and conversely into the potency of negotiations to settle differences. As a result, he constantly repudiates war, his own war included, in favor of peace.

 See Collard , II, , ad b-, for the emphasis placed on the deictic pronoun τόνδε.  Kavoulaki , .

Andrea Rodighiero

‘Sail with your fortune’: Wisdom and Defeat in Euripides’ Trojan Women* 1 Cultural memory and its dissolution The Trojan Women (415 BCE) is a war tragedy, but the war is over. In the prologue of what is the trilogy’s third drama – after Alexandros and Palamedes – Poseidon explains to the audience that Troy does not exist anymore: the night before this ‘tragic day’, the solid walls fell down, the altars were desecrated, and Priam died.¹ The cultural memory of an entire civilisation has been annihilated, together with Troy’s collective spaces: the space of power and the holy places, the temples and the graves. Therefore, as the gods abandon the city – so Poseidon at v. 25 – the sense of place disappears, and with it the entire cultural heritage, so instrumental to the creation of identity, constituted by the concrete representation of monuments, symbols, tombs, and sacred places. We can read the Trojan Women as a kind of catalogue in absentia of the founding values of social identity: the women are the only survivors, and in their impending slavery they will lose ‘the memory of things’. Places, but also objects and rooms associated with daily activities, violated by the Greek army (vv. 562– 567), and the wealth of a comfortable lifestyle, will cease to be part of their new life in new lands abroad. Their own cultural memory has also been obstructed by the impossibility, at this point, of ensuring the fulfilment of customary ritual practices, and most of all the rituals for the dead: Astyanax’s burial is entrusted to Talthybius and his attendants (vv. 1147 f.), and Andromache is able to take care of Polyxena’s corpse – slaughtered on Achilles’ tomb – only in haste (vv. 626 f.). At this point, it will be clear that I am partly (and antiphrastically) following the classical scheme constructed by Jan Assmann:² the Trojans’ collective cultural memory no longer subsists, and their ‘communicative memory’ – that is, fol-

* I would like to thank Alexandre Johnston for his help with improving the English version of this paper.  The position of the Trojan Women as the last play of the trilogy could partly explain the complete lack of peripeteia after two plays raising expectations fulfilled in the third: ‘Alexandros leads us to expect that Troy will fall, and Palamedes that the Greek fleet will be wrecked’ (Kovacs , ). On the trilogy see Scodel ; on the fragments of the two lost dramas: Di Giuseppe , Falcetto , Romero Mariscal .  Assmann ,  – .

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lowing Assmann’s argument, the possibility of sharing the same memory of the past through the mutual interaction between peoples – cannot remain alive. The Trojan women have been assigned to different Greek regions, and are destined to give birth to Greek children. This implies that they will be unable to recreate a social (i. e. not individual) cultural memory: the life they led in Troy, continually remembered in the course of the play, is finished. The communal mentality in a destroyed society cannot endure if it is not collectively experienced, and the situation depicted on stage constitutes the last opportunity to partake of it before the diaspora scatters them. As Hecuba says, this shared memory will become the subject for poets’ songs, the one-and-only repositories of this vanishing tradition (vv. 1240 – 1245).³ Therefore Hecuba decrees that her (royal) cultural memory shall pass from the Trojans to the Greeks, who are in the position of keeping this memory alive for posterity. We are now better able to understand the paradox constructed by Euripides: the Trojan community – as a sum of institutions, places, people, rituals, songs, and customs – is described immediately after its extinction. And the voices who narrate this destruction are the Trojan women’s voices, while the general perspective is essentially Greek. The medium (a tragedy) is Greek; the oriental victims speak in Greek; the gods abandoning this wasteland are Greek, just as is the lament which recurs throughout as a soundtrack to the play. Finally, both the performance context (the theatre of Dionysus), and perhaps also the moral aim implicitly expounded by the text, are Hellenic (or rather Athenian; it is well known that many critics see Euripides’ pacifism hovering about the Trojan Women on the eve of the Sicilian Expedition).⁴ Starting with the dialogue between Poseidon and Athena, the two Athenian gods par excellence, in the prologue, this intradiegetic cultural memory is completely ‘Hellenised’, and one may claim that the oriental frame of reference lies exclusively in the geographical location of the drama, namely the prisoner-of-war camp where the captives are waiting for departure. We all know that in Euripides’ drama we are not dealing with a completely new process of assimilation: our oldest poem, the Iliad, opposes two civilisations speaking the same language and sharing the same pantheon.⁵

 Cf. also Homer, Il. . f., and Od. . f. The chorus are afraid that the name of Troy might disappear forever: see vv.  and  – , but ‘they are singing for an audience for whom Troy’s name has survived’: Easterling , .  On Euripides’ supposed pacifism, see Lee , xix-xx, Erbse ,  f., Croally ,  – ; on the Trojan Women and contemporary Athenian policy, see among others, and with further bibliography, Kovacs , Byl , Goff ,  – .  On the ‘invention of the barbarian’ see Hall .

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In the following pages, we will see that the destruction of Troy and of its world of affections and relationships is associated with the choice of a gnomic phraseology (on the living and the dead) that is partly known and widely exploited in Greek tragedy. This phraseology originates in the realisation of a reversal of events and a drastic alteration in life.⁶ We will show in particular that Hecuba’s use of gnomai involves a peculiar deletion of the gods’ role, along with a choice of vocabulary linked to the specific semantic field of τύχη. Finally, we will see that surrendering to the power of necessity implies the acknowledgment of a fate in which the gods are perceived as absent more than non-existent. Euripides fictionally places the Trojan Women at the time immediately following the main event, the fall of Troy; this theatrical time is filled up by recent memories which nonetheless appear to emerge from a remote past. In the first stasimon, when the captive women begin to sing using traditional and easily identifiable forms of epic-lyric narrative, this gap is made very clear. The incipit imitates the pattern of kitharodic compositions (vv. 511– 521):⁷ ἀμφί μοι Ἴλιον, ὦ Μοῦσα, καινῶν ὕμνων⁸ ᾆσον σὺν δακρύοις ᾠδὰν ἐπικήδειον· νῦν γὰρ μέλος ἐς Τροίαν ἰαχήσω, τετραβάμονος ὡς ὑπ’ ἀπήνας ᾿Aργείων ὀλόμαν τάλαινα δοριάλωτος, ὅτ’ ἔλιπον ἵππον οὐράνια βρέμοντα χρυσεοφάλαρον ἔνοπλον ἐν πύλαις ᾿Aχαιοί·

515

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Chorus: Sing for me concerning Ilium, O Muse, a new-made ode of mourning accompanied by tears. For now I shall sing a song of Troy, how that Argive conveyance with four feet

 See Suter , .  Transl., here and elsewhere, Kovacs . On the models of this epic, lyric and kitharodic incipit, see Lee , , Biehl , , Battezzato ,  and n. , Wach ,  – . A more detailed discussion of the narrative implications of this stasimon in Rodighiero (forthcoming-b); Munteanu  –  considers the song as an ‘anti-epic’ commemoration of the victims more than a celebration of glorious feats; for the tragic treatment of this epic subject matter in the form of a funeral lament in the stasimon, see Sansone .  On the possible meaning of these ‘new hymns’ – a stasimon with a peculiarly new (no longer Phrygian, but Greek) voice, music and tone –, see Battezzato  (with Torrance ,  –  on the use of καινός in Euripides). On the concept of novelty in music see D’Angour ,  – .

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wrought my destruction and wretched enslavement, when the horse, reaching high heaven with its clatter, decked with gold cheekpieces, arms within, was left at the gates by the Achaeans.

If this passage were preserved as an isolated fragment, we could hardly suppose that the episode of the wooden horse happened the night before the song. ‘No moral comment intrudes upon the narrative’,⁹ and the lyric tale proceeds under the sign of an eminently Greek-sounding form. Should one isolate the first verses of the stasimon and compare them with other songs of war and enslavement, they could be likened in subject and in tone to a psalm from the Babylonian captivity, preserving and handing down an ancient memory of lost freedom. Yet the fictional lapse of time in the Trojan Women only amounts to a handful of hours. Euripides brilliantly invents an epic and ‘metamythological’¹⁰ song about Troy (v. 511: ἀμφὶ Ἴλιον), but this stasimon, sung by the Trojan captive women, becomes a socio-cultural absurd, since the mythical matter describes the breaking up of the singers’ identity. In this sense, the very recent (and Trojan) ‘social memory’ meets the very old (and Hellenic) ‘cultural memory’ about the action against Troy.¹¹ The Euripidean chorus can only make use of the formal features known by their poet, but they also express plain awareness that there is a strong link between the myth of the fallen city and their personal identity. And later on this recent myth will be followed by older stories related to different episodes of the Iliadic cultural memory: in the course of the second stasimon (vv. 799 – 859), the women remember the first attack against Troy, launched by Heracles and Telamon, and associated with the positive remembrance of a tradition (Zeus’ and Eos’ love for Ganymedes and Tithonos).¹²

 Barlow , . On the collective memory (mainly focused on virginity, marriage, and motherhood) of this recent past in the course of the drama, see also Liviabella Furiani .  ‘By taking the Trojan war into the bedroom [vv.  – ], Euripides is being consistent in his theme of a sacked city as women see it’: Barlow , . At the same time, the audience are listening to a type of discourse/song conceived by a group of mythical characters (the chorus) who ‘are made to talk about themselves and their own myths […] in a deliberate and self-conscious manner’ (this is the concept of ‘metamythology’ as defined by Wright , : see in general pp.  – ).  For a first approach to the ‘stratigraphy’ of cultural memory in the Trojan saga, see Minchin ,  – .  ‘Myth and identity are linked by the fact that they both answer questions about who we are, where we come from, and what our place in the cosmos is’: Assmann , .

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2 ‘Sail with your fortune’ Within this framework, it is easier to investigate the ways in which the defeated party emotionally asserts its intention to take up its own destiny, in a (certainly inadequate) attempt at self-consolation, but also with the firm intention to move on. Gnomic sentences and proverbial utterances, adjusted to their context,¹³ seem to express an attitude of wise acceptance, and the first words pronounced by Hecuba confirm this impression (vv. 101– 105): μεταβαλλομένου δαίμονος ἄνσχου. πλεῖ κατὰ πορθμόν, πλεῖ κατὰ δαίμονα, μηδὲ προσίστη πρῷραν βιότου πρὸς κῦμα πλέουσα τύχαισιν. αἰαῖ αἰαῖ·

105

Hecuba: As your fortune changes, endure the change! Sail with the current in the strait, sail with your fortune, and do not turn the prow of your life to face disasters, sailing toward their oncoming wave! Ah me, ah me!

Hecuba, a Trojan queen, thinks and speaks figuratively as any Greek woman could do. In her opening, she reveals a form of wisdom harmonised with the laws of nature and uttered in very general statements, while focusing on who and what she is now (that is, an old woman, and a slave, v. 140).¹⁴ The metaphor is conventional:¹⁵ the poet makes use of the popular image of the ‘ship of life’, during which the πρῷρα βιότου should be steered in accordance with the strength and direction of the stream. But do Cassandra, Andromache, and the women of the chorus manifest the same acceptance and the same kind of wisdom? They certainly share a similar personal situation, and their despairing lament is indeed constantly infused with normative wisdom prescribing certain rules of behaviour to all the captives. All but one: Cassandra.

 On the topoi of consolation in Greek tragedy, see Chong-Gossard  and Ciani . On the centrality of the context for the study of wisdom motifs, see Lardinois , van Emde Boas ,  – ; on general statements (‘the wisdom of tragedy’) see Rutherford ,  –  – with further bibliography at n. , p.  –, Cuny  (Sophocles). On A. E. Housman’s tragic gnome () in his fake fragment, which ironically imitates some standardised expressions of wisdom (‘life is uncertain’!), see Rutherford , , with Marcellino , .  For the ‘desire felt by many readers to find’ in Hecuba ‘a decisive illumination’, a sort of clarity in her suffering, see Poole , .  On the widespread metaphor of life as a journey (on the sea cf. e. g. Pindar, P. . – , Plato, Phd. d, Lg. b, Palladas, AP .), see Budelmann ,  –  (see also Lesky , , Bonner ; Péron  is a good introduction to the subject).

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Cassandra’s arrival is announced by an anxious Talthybius, who notices a flash in the tent and supposes that the Trojan women are killing themselves ‘setting fire to their own bodies from a desire to die’ (θανεῖν θέλουσαι: v. 302). For the ‘wise’ Talthybius,¹⁶ this death wish is an understandable feeling which he explains as the inability of free people to stand misfortune and to endure a status of captivity (κάρτα τοι τοὐλεύθερον / ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις δυσλόφως φέρει κακά, ‘In circumstances like these free spirits bridle at misfortune’, vv. 302 f.). Nevertheless, Talthybius’ apprehension contrasts with the women’s conduct throughout the drama, and it contradicts Hecuba’s determination to follow and accept her own fate (vv. 101– 105). The fire and the smoke do not actually derive from an attempt at collective suicide; they are caused by Cassandra, who is running out of the tent in a frenzy. In the following monody, she expresses a false joy which is in striking contrast with the gloomy atmosphere, and Hecuba invites the chorus to reply with tears to the wedding songs struck up by her daughter (δάκρυά τ’ ἀνταλλάσσετε / τοῖς τῆσδε μέλεσι, Τρῳάδες, γαμηλίοις: vv. 351 f.). But Cassandra’s language is mostly restricted to a warrior’s vocabulary and Homeric expressions, with the result that her gnomic values clearly diverge from the other women’s. When the young girl depicts the collective fate of the Trojan people, she stresses the fact that they fought and died ‘on behalf of their country’. This, for Cassandra, constitutes ‘their greatest glory’ (vv. 386 f.); τὸ κάλλιστον κλέος (v. 386) – the strongest hint of an epically coloured vocabulary – is combined with δόρυ (v. 387), ἐν μάχῃ (v. 391), ἄριστος, and χρηστός (employed at v. 395 and v. 397 as epithets of Hector). Cassandra’s words ambiguously hang between pacifism and an emphasis on heroic values and deeds; she also uses a stylistic device recurring in many Greek gnomai (the ‘χρή + infinitive’ pattern),¹⁷ followed again by an epic celebration of the warrior’s belle mort (vv. 400 – 402): φεύγειν μὲν οὖν χρὴ πόλεμον ὅστις εὖ φρονεῖ· εἰ δ’ ἐς τόδ’ ἔλθοι, στέφανος οὐκ αἰσχρὸς πόλει καλῶς ὀλέσθαι, μὴ καλῶς δὲ δυσκλεές. Cassandra: Now any man of sense ought to shun war. But if it comes to this, it is no shameful garland for a city to die a noble death, though dying ignobly is a disgrace.

 Yet Talthybius does not ever refuse to carry out brutal orders: he remains an instrument of the Greek will, and shows all the disruptive strength of what Hannah Arendt would have defined as ‘the banality of evil’ (for a partly positive judgement of the herald’s role in this drama, see Dyson/Lee , with further bibliography).  See some Iliadic examples in Lardinois ,  and n. : ‘such patterns help the speaker to create a saying on the spot and, at the same time, the listener to identify a statement as gnomic’ (p. ).

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As prophetess, Cassandra can foresee her heroic future, and she can legitimately apply the maxim to herself: since she is to become Agamemnon’s slave and bride, she is destined to fight and to avenge Troy’s destruction, and to die καλῶς (v. 402: ironically, in the name of a country which does not exist anymore).¹⁸ And it is precisely this epically coloured gnome which provokes the chorus’ reaction: to their ears, Cassandra’s words sound like a mockery of their personal misfortunes (v. 406: ὡς ἡδέως κακοῖσιν οἰκείοις γελᾷς), because they are completely unaware not only of her fate, but also of the gods’ plan against the Greek fleet (vv. 77– 94). Hecuba, Andromache, and the chorus are of course unable to interpret their present condition or to foretell the future within the larger framework of the gods’ will, a situation which is confirmed by the choice of a distinctive vocabulary. We will see that their point of view retains a consistently earthly perspective. Hecuba anticipates her well-known quasi-agnosticism (Zeus is ‘so hard to find out’, whether he is ἀνάγκη φύσεος, or νοῦς: vv. 884– 886)¹⁹ by expressing her lack of trust in the gods, accused at v. 469 of being ‘bad allies’ and faithless. Yet despite this scepticism she does not challenge the communis opinio, because in spite of her pessimism, she maintains that ‘it is proper to invoke the gods when we suffer misfortune’ (vv. 470 f.: ὅμως δ’ ἔχει τι σχῆμα κικλήσκειν θεούς, / ὅταν τις ἡμῶν δυστυχῆ λάβῃ τύχην). As K. H. Lee notes,²⁰ ‘Hecuba’s words are very natural for a person engulfed with tribulation’. At that point in the plot, the old woman appears to express a contradictory feeling towards the gods, but shortly after her distrust will increase, finally revealing that she is not reliant on any plan of divine justice.²¹

 See Vernant . Cassandra’s last words have ‘a heroic posture’ too (Munteanu  – , ): the farewell to her mother, the exhortation not to weep, the farewell to her homeland all come before the prophecy of Cassandra’s triumph (v. : νικηφόρος) and the destruction (v. : πέρσασ’) of the house of Atreus’ sons (vv.  – : ‘Farewell, mother! Do not weep. Dear fatherland, my brothers beneath the earth, and the father who begot us, you will receive me soon! I shall come to the land of the dead victorious, having sacked the house of the Atridae at whose hands we perished’).  On the passage see Egli ,  – . On Euripides’ connections with contemporary philosophical thought, see also Lee ,  f., Biehl ,  – ; on the unknowability of the divine, see Allan , . Rutherford ,  f., is right when he writes that in these verses ‘Euripides should not be regarded as declaring his allegiance to any particular school or thinker’.  Lee , .  See Kovacs , , and . Hecuba represents a ‘messa in crisi della teodicea, della fiducia che nelle cose umane trovi realizzazione un disegno di giustizia voluto dagli dèi’: Di Benedetto , (‐), with vv.  f.,  – , and  f.

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For the moment, the new captive, once the queen of Troy, resorts once again to a time-tested and traditional gnomic statement. Much space is given to the motif of alternation and unpredictability as the part of the human fate which makes it impossible to assess the quality of a man’s life before he dies. And the audience can easily make the shift from the general meaning of a wellknown gnome to Hecuba’s specific condition, which seals her rhesis (vv. 509 f.): τῶν δ’ εὐδαιμόνων μηδένα νομίζετ’ εὐτυχεῖν, πρὶν ἂν θάνῃ. Hecuba: Consider no prosperous man blessed until he dies.

Even if the socio-linguistic context and the persona loquens are non-Hellenic, the proverbial expression – which shifts from the particular situation on stage to a broader reflection – is uttered in inevitably perfect Greek tragic style, and the condition suggested by contrast by the verb εὐτυχεῖν should be taken as self-referential.²²

3 The language of τύχη: Hecuba and Andromache A closer reading of other passages where ‘good fortune’ is evoked will allow us to delimit a precise semantic field in order better to clarify Hecuba’s Weltanschauung (and partly that of Andromache). The Queen mentions her τύχη as early as vv. 101– 105, and if one goes through the tragedy in search of a detailed phraseology marking her language, it emerges that the use of τύχη and τυγχάνω, although not completely absent from other characters’ speeches, is indeed typical of Hecuba’s modus loquendi. Euripides has created for his character a ‘vocabulary of compliance’ where the theme of fate (to be interpreted in Hecuba’s mind as ‘what happens’, and not as ‘what the gods want to happen’) becomes central. The audience and the reader are constantly under the impression that Hecuba, although she is engaged in a never-ending lament, is aware of the fact that her destiny has altered its course, and that this change of direction must be welcomed and accepted, chiefly because of the impossibility for humans to revolt against the change, but also as a strategy for dealing with loss and sor-

 The first occurrence of the motif is in Solon’s famous speech to Croesus (Herodotus, . – ); the maxim is frequently employed in tragedy: cf. e. g. Aeschylus, Ag.  f., Sophocles, Trach.  – , OT  – , Euripides, Andr.  – .

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row. Hecuba’s argument – and more generally the reasoning of the play’s defeated female characters –²³ appears to be coherent and homogeneous, and it is confirmed by specific and repeated verbal choices. Some of the Trojan women, she says, have perhaps attained a πότμος εὐτυχής, a propitious fate, following the allotment fixed by the Greeks (v. 244); yet nobody can be considered fortunate until they die (v. 510: εὐτυχεῖν), and nobody is successful forever (v. 1206: εὐτυχεῖ). Hecuba assesses the behaviour of the other characters on the strength of the same principles, and she is thus able to accuse Helen for having changed her position according to the war’s progress and keeping an eye on τύχη (vv. 1007 f.: εἰ δ’ εὐτυχοῖεν Τρῶες, οὐδὲν ἦν ὅδε. / ἐς τὴν τύχην δ’ ὁρῶσα κτλ., ‘But if the Trojans were successful, Menelaus was nothing. Keeping your eye on Fortune…’). However, the audience knows that the Trojans were not successful (v. 1007: εὐτυχοῖεν), and were slaughtered even when Hector himself seemed to be ‘successful on the field of battle’ (Hecuba again at v. 1162: ὅθ’ Ἕκτορος μὲν εὐτυχοῦντος ἐς δόρυ). We will come back to the Queen in a short time, after a detour on Andromache. What kind of common sense does she appeal to? At first, and although her son Astyanax is still alive and with her, Andromache is so shocked and upset that she can hardly bear such distress: to her, death is a better condition than life, and Polyxena – killed on the tomb of Achilles – has obtained the best and most desirable destiny (εὐτυχεστέρῳ πότμῳ, ‘a happier lot than hers’, v. 631). In the following verses, this main proposition triggers a reflection that is more personal and better structured (vv. 636 – 644): τὸ μὴ γενέσθαι τῷ θανεῖν ἴσον λέγω, τοῦ ζῆν δὲ λυπρῶς κρεῖσσόν ἐστι κατθανεῖν. † ἀλγεῖ γὰρ οὐδὲν τῶν κακῶν ᾐσθημένος· † ὁ δ’ εὐτυχήσας ἐς τὸ δυστυχὲς πεσὼν ψυχὴν ἀλᾶται τῆς πάροιθ’ εὐπραξίας. κείνη δ’, ὁμοίως ὥσπερ οὐκ ἰδοῦσα φῶς, τέθνηκε κοὐδὲν οἶδε τῶν αὑτῆς κακῶν.

640

 See for instance (but this is not a complete list of τύχη and its derivatives in the tragedy) vv.  f., where Hecuba affirms that she has suffered ‘the unluckiest of lots’ (δυστυχεστάτῳ… κλήρῳ), while the chorus immediately ask her what lot awaits them: τὰς δ’ ἐμὰς τύχας / τίς ἆρ’ ᾿Aχαιῶν ἢ τίς Ἑλλήνων ἔχει; (vv.  f.). Andromache calls both the marriage bed and the wedding/marriage δυστυχῆ, ‘unfortunate’, at v.  (cf. also Talthybius’ speech at vv.  – ; the herald considers Hecuba an ‘old woman most unfortunate’ at v. : σὺ δ’, ὦ γεραιὰ δυστυχεστάτη γύναι). The Queen asks Talthybius about Andromache’s τύχη at v. , laments Cassandra’s at v. , and her own at vv.  f. (accusing Helen) and ; at vv.  –  Astyanax’s death is δυστυχής for his grandmother, because the child did not enjoy (τυχών) youth, marriage, or power.

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ἐγὼ δὲ τοξεύσασα τῆς εὐδοξίας λαχοῦσα πλεῖστον τῆς τύχης ἡμάρτανον. Andromache: Not to be born is the same, I say, as to die, and to die is better than to live in pain. † For one who is dead feels no pain since he has no sense of his troubles †. But the man who enjoys good fortune and then falls into misery is distraught in mind because of his previous prosperity. Polyxena, just as if she had never seen the light of day, has perished and knows nothing of her own misfortune. But I, though I aimed at a good name and hit that mark well, failed to hit good fortune.

At v. 636 Andromache is apparently about to re-use and develop the familiar motif that ‘it would have been better not to be born’ (τὸ μὴ γενέσϑαι κτλ: in Aeschylus, fr. 466.2– 3 Radt, and Euripides, fr. 908.1 Kannicht, and cf. also Sophocles, OC 1224 f.; μὴ φῡναι τὸν ἅπαντα νικᾷ λόγον);²⁴ yet in the following verses this proverbial remark is interrupted and redirected, as it were, in order immediately to create space for more complex, intertwined oppositions: first of all, between death and life, since in death there is no pain (the theme was already present in Hecuba’s words at vv. 606 f., cf. also 632 f.); then between the old prosperity and the current misery, and finally between Andromache’s doomed fate and that of Polyxena (κείνη, v. 641, vs. ἐγώ, v. 643). Again, too, we can observe the emergence on a Trojan captive’s lips of vocabulary related to good and bad τύχη (εὐτυχήσας/δυστυχές, εὐπραξίας, vv. 639 f.), until Andromache’s sombre conclusion that she has ‘missed’ good fortune (τῆς τύχης, v. 644) like an archer aiming at a target or a prey. The conceptual frame is underlined by sound effects (εὐ- vs. δυς‐), while the variatio εὐπραξίας echoes εὐδοξίας at v. 643 in a perfect rhyme. Only on one specific argument does Andromache diverge from the common opinion, as she challenges what could be felt as the expression of a general consensus (‘they say’, λέγουσιν, v. 665) that is not applicable to her specific case. The argument is consequently devoid of any prescriptive value (vv. 665 – 668): καίτοι λέγουσιν ὡς μί’ εὐφρόνη χαλᾷ τὸ δυσμενὲς γυναικὸς εἰς ἀνδρὸς λέχος· ἀπέπτυσ’ αὐτὴν ἥτις ἄνδρα τὸν πάρος καινοῖσι λέκτροις ἀποβαλοῦσ’ ἄλλον φιλεῖ.

665

 Examples in Guidorizzi , . On the way the gnomai (as part of a living tradition) were re-created and ‘coined’ from traditional themes and formulae for specific performance occasions, see Lardinois .

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Andromache: Yet they say that a single night dispels the hatred a woman feels for her bedmate. I reject with contempt a woman who casts her former husband aside because of a new connection and loves another.

Like a filly separated from its stablemate,²⁵ Andromache will not be able to bear the yoke of a new wedding (vv. 669 f.), yet she recognises her dissimilarity from animals, since ‘a brute beast lacks speech and reason and is inferior to us in nature’ (vv. 671 f.). The comparison is striking, especially when we note that τὸ θηριῶδες is considered inferior to the human species for being ἄφθογγον (v. 671); some verses later it is Hecuba herself who ends up being ἄφθογγος, ‘mute’ in the face of disaster, as if she were reduced to a state of animality (v. 695, see infra). To conclude, the language of τύχη is shared by both Hecuba and her daughter-in-law, but the difference lies in the fact that in the end, Andromache rejects any form of connection between life and hope. Unreceptive to any (self‐)consolation, she denies herself the possibility of being happy again in the future, and of having hope (ἐλπίς: v. 682), even though delusions are pleasant, as she acknowledges at vv. 681– 683. On the contrary, Hecuba sees in the plain fact of being alive (βλέπειν) the chance of ἐλπίδες (vv. 632 f.). We can better understand the Queen’s point of view (‘while there’s life there’s hope’, as we would say) when we observe that in her mind and her words the condition of the dead is never associated with a state of peace and wellbeing in another world. Death is simply ‘absence of life’ (and, as usual, absence of sight), while τὸ κατθανεῖν is equivalent to nothing: οὐδέν. At vv. 632 f., Hecuba makes use of popular topoi to philosophise in a way that suggests a simplistic Epicureanism ante litteram.²⁶ In this tragedy, the dead are simply ‘freed from life’, and regarded as more fortunate (yet as she mourns Astyanax, the old woman cannot deny the social role played by the cult of the dead, vv. 1182– 1186; here we have a vivid example of the way in which cultural memory is able to connect the younger with the older generation in a natural succession).

 The reference is to an animal of the same sex, but it should be interpreted as the symbol of a long life spent together by husband and wife (cf. Di Benedetto , ).  Cf. Epicurus, ad Menoec. : ‘Accustom yourself to believe that death is nothing to us, for good and evil imply awareness, and death is the privation of all awareness’ (transl. Hicks): συνέθιζε δὲ ἐν τῷ νομίζειν μηδὲν πρὸς ἡμᾶς εἶναι τὸν θάνατον· ἐπεὶ πᾶν ἀγαθὸν καὶ κακὸν ἐν αἰσθήσει· στέρησις δέ ἐστιν αἰσθήσεως ὁ θάνατος. The theme of the insensitivity of the dead is stressed again by Hecuba at vv.  f.: ‘I think it makes little difference to the dead whether they get a lavish funeral’ (and Achilles is a mere ‘lifeless corpse’ – so Andromache at v. : ἀψύχῳ νεκρῷ). Cassandra, still surrounded by a Homeric aura (cf. supra) and speaking like an epic warrior, foresees for herself a journey towards the land of the dead (vv.  – ).

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In her reply after Andromache’s long intervention, Hecuba once again employs the metaphor of life as a sea voyage (vv. 686 – 698): αὐτὴ μὲν οὔπω ναὸς εἰσέβην σκάφος, γραφῇ δ’ ἰδοῦσα καὶ κλύουσ’ ἐπίσταμαι. ναύταις γὰρ ἢν μὲν μέτριος ᾖ χειμὼν φέρειν, προθυμίαν ἔχουσι σωθῆναι πόνων, ὁ μὲν παρ’ οἴαχ’, ὁ δ’ ἐπὶ λαίφεσιν βεβώς, ὁ δ’ ἄντλον εἴργων ναός· ἢν δ’ ὑπερβάλῃ πολὺς ταραχθεὶς πόντος, ἐνδόντες τύχῃ παρεῖσαν αὑτοὺς κυμάτων δραμήμασιν. οὕτω δὲ κἀγὼ πόλλ’ ἔχουσα πήματα ἄφθογγός εἰμι καὶ παρεῖσ’ ἔχω στόμα· νικᾷ γὰρ οὑκ θεῶν με δύστηνος κλύδων. ἀλλ’, ὦ φίλη παῖ, τὰς μὲν Ἕκτορος τύχας ἔασον· οὐ μὴ δάκρυά νιν σώσῃ τὰ σά.

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Hecuba: I myself have never gone on board a ship, but from seeing them in pictures and hearing reports of them I know about them. When sailors encounter a storm that is not too violent to bear, they show an eagerness to win their way out of their troubles to safety, one man standing by the steering oar, another by the sails, while a third keeps the bilge out of the ship. But if a heavy and agitated sea overwhelms them, they surrender to luck and yield themselves to the running of the waves. So too I, suffering so many misfortunes, am mute, letting my troubles go and holding my tongue. For the wave of misery sent by the gods overwhelms me. But, dear daughter, think no longer of Hector’s fate. Your tears cannot bring him back safe.²⁷

The Queen’s reaction seems natural: when confronted to the ‘wave… sent by the gods’, the only acceptable attitude, in her opinion, would be submission. If overcome, the mariners surrender to the might of the storm, and Hecuba will therefore act in the same way. But we should note that v. 694 only provides a partial connection to the comparandum, and does not follow as a consequence of what comes first. In fact, οὕτω δὲ κἀγώ (‘so too I…’) is the expected outcome of the comparison,²⁸ whereas the image of a complete or partial aphasia (v. 695: ἄφθογγός εἰμι καὶ παρεῖσ’ ἔχω στόμα) is not validated by that of the seamen yielding to their tragic fate (v. 692: ἐνδόντες τύχῃ), that is, to the sea’s winds and waters.²⁹

 On useless tears as a common motif in tragic consolatio see Ciani , .  For comparable passages in Greek tragedy, with the ‘formulaic’ ὡς or οὕτως, see Battezzato , .  See also Haimon’s speech to his father Creon in Sophocles, Ant.  – . The two vivid images of nature (trees in a storm along the river and sailors on the sea) ‘exemplify the need to be “flexible”, even to “yield”’ (Griffith , ): the two metaphors are an invitation to Creon to surrender, and change his mind (v. : ἀλλ’ εἶκε θυμῷ καὶ μετάστασιν δίδου). On the metaphor

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Hecuba is overwhelmed with grief (v. 694: πόλλ’ ἔχουσα πήματα),³⁰ but her silence is justified only if we read the metaphor in its non-metaphorical fulfilment, and the lack of speech (a mouth full of water) is forcefully imposed by the ‘victory’ of the wave (v. 696: νικᾷ). Perhaps Euripides is referring in highly allusive fashion to the next (and final) episode of Hecuba’s myth: carried away by the waves, she will metamorphose into a bitch before dying,³¹ thus becoming ἄφθογγος, mute – just as the animal evoked by Andromache at v. 671. In the passage quoted above, and in the following speech of Talthybius, too, the reference to an evil destiny occurs again and again. Hecuba remembers Hector’s fate (τὰς μὲν Ἕκτορος τύχας), and Andromache would be showing herself ‘wiser’ (as Talthybius tells her at v. 726, σοφωτέρα φανῇ) if she recognised her powerlessness against the Greeks while Astyanax is brought away; only by remaining silent and ‘bearing well’ her misfortunes (τὰς τύχας) could she guarantee the child’s burial (vv. 737 f., σιγῶσα δ’ εὖ τε τὰς τύχας κεκτημένη / τὸν τοῦδε νεκρὸν οὐκ ἄθαπτον ἂν λίποις). We should note that in this passage too, the τύχαι are conceived as something imposed to mortals by mortal behaviour. Although it emerges intermittently in the course of the tragedy, this perspective is clarified and strengthened when Hecuba draws a firm boundary between the human world and divine purpose. Her outlook takes the form of – and is shaped by – a partial internal quotation (vv. 1201– 1206): οὐ γὰρ ἐς κάλλος τύχας δαίμων δίδωσιν· ὧν δ’ ἔχω, λήψῃ τάδε. θνητῶν δὲ μῶρος ὅστις εὖ πράσσειν δοκῶν βέβαια χαίρει· τοῖς τρόποις γὰρ αἱ τύχαι, ἔμπληκτος ὡς ἄνθρωπος, ἄλλοτ’ ἄλλοσε πηδῶσι, † κοὐδεὶς αὐτὸς εὐτυχεῖ ποτε †.

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Hecuba: Our fate does not allow us to be lavish. But from my store, this is what you shall receive. That man is fool who imagines he is firmly prosperous and is glad. For in its very nature fortune, like a crazed man, leaps now in one direction, now in another, and the same man is never fortunate forever.

of the κλύδων, see e. g. Aeschylus, Pers.  f., Sophocles, OT , Euripides, Med.  f.; see also Palomar .  ‘La mise en captivité et la traversée maritime qui s’ensuit, s’avèrent des facteurs de remaniement de la fonction de l’espace marin: […] la mer a changé de visage au travers d’un discours féminin qui repose sur le double registre de l’esclave et de l’étranger’: Serghidou , .  Euripides, Hec.  – .

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Again, the semantic field is emphasised: τύχας, τύχαι, εὐτυχεῖ are the basic vocabulary of a more complex interpretation of reality which still restricts itself to the human level. One immediately notices that the gnome opens at v. 1203 with the very words which had been used by Poseidon at v. 95 (μῶρος δὲ θνητῶν ὅστις ~ θνητῶν δὲ μῶρος ὅστις). Secondly, Hecuba speaks of the unpredictability of fortune, which ἔμπληκτος ὡς ἄνθρωπος, ‘like a crazed man’, leaps here and there. In Hecuba’s thought, these volatile τύχαι represent the only constant in a human’s life, and her general statement is meant to situate the traumatic inexplicability of events within a comprehensible framework. Thus we may note – as the Athenian audience could have done – that her speech contains a double echo that is full of tragic irony:³² the gnomic phraseology borrowed by Poseidon in his wise consideration at the end of the prologue is combined with the reproach addressed by the same god to Athena (vv. 67 f.): τί δ’ ὧδε πηδᾷς ἄλλοτ’ εἰς ἄλλους τρόπους μισεῖς τε λίαν καὶ φιλεῖς ὃν ἂν τύχῃς; Poseidon: but why do you leap about so, now with one character, now with another? Why hate and love whomever you chance to so excessively?

Hecuba carries her ‘gnomic authority’ through the drama, and she finally explicitly reveals that in her mind, and as far as she can see, the τύχαι have taken the place of the gods.³³ When grief is devastating, disbelief comes more easily, but behind life’s ups and downs Euripides conceals a divine presence: it is Athena’s fickle nature which actually ‘leaps about’.

4 The powerful wisdom of mourning How can we reconcile the frequent maxims of universal value with the atrocious experience of the prisoners? Although the war is over, the Trojan Women is full of

 On the polysemous nature of proverbial expressions in tragedy (in this case, the Athenian audience is well aware of the gods’ plan against the fleet) see Lardinois ,  f.  The same antithesis (fortune vs. gods) is drawn more explicitly by Euripides in fr. b. f. Kannicht: ‘if there is tyche, we do not need the gods, but if the gods have power, tyche is nothing’ (εἰ μὲν γὰρ ἡ τύχη ’στίν, οὐδὲν δεῖ θεῶν, / εἰ δ’ οἱ θεοὶ σθένουσιν, οὐδὲν ἡ τύχη. Cf. also fr. . Kannicht: ‘… either tyche or a god rules human destiny’, … εἴτε τύχα εἴτε δαίμων τὰ βρότεια κραίνει); on these verses see Diano  (he links the Euripidean idea of τύχη as ‘puro evento’, devoid of any finality, to an Anaxagorean influence). On tyche and tragedy see further bibliography in Rutherford , , n. . On the opposition men/gods in Trojan Women, see also Rodighiero (forthcoming-a).

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violence. The city has been destroyed, Priam has been killed, the captives are waiting anxiously to find out to whom they will be assigned (vv. 176 – 229); and ‘the chorus’ voicing of its preferences is as natural as the hope of a modern prisoner-of-war that he be sent to one of the less inhuman camps’.³⁴ Hecuba has seen her children die and her husband slain (vv. 474– 484). Polyxena and Astyanax are slaughtered for different reasons, but a girl and a boy are the most vulnerable thing we moderns can imagine; in contrast, the Greek world does not know the concept of ‘collateral damage’, and there exists a firm belief (not only in antiquity) that the deliberate killing of innocent non-combatants in war – women, children, and the elderly – is allowed if it brings an advantage.³⁵ Within this environment of devastation and gratuitous violence, it is not difficult to understand why the unifying element at work here is the continuous lament (both in dialogues and in lyricis, in monodies and in choral songs), to the point that ‘virtually every scene in the Trojan Women shows the characteristics of lament’.³⁶ The women brought to the stage by Euripides are wisely aware of their vulnerability, which is constantly manifested through tears, and unlike other tragic heroines (Antigone, Medea) they are willing – indeed forced – to give up without reacting.³⁷ The inevitability of their fate trains them to this form of wisdom as an expression of the ability to bear their humiliating burden. Euripides does not make them commit any act of disobedience or opposition to the Greek power. On the contrary, in this extraordinary flow of suffering (expressed, sung, and also displayed in gestures), everything – with the sole exception of Cassandra’s scene – is done with military order, in accordance with the official instructions imposed by the Greek leaders and conveyed by Talthybius. In a drama with no action, gnomic maxims and lamentation are the expected verbal result of endurance, and they function as a balm that soothes the excru-

 Lee , . The same anxiety is displayed by Hecuba at vv.  f.: ‘Then who has been assigned to whom? Who of the women of Troy has blessedness awaiting her?’ (τίν’ ἄρα τίς ἔλαχε; τίνα πότμος εὐτυχὴς / Ἰλιάδων μένει;).  It is only at the Geneva Convention in  that the killing of civilian populations was forbidden. The philosopher Adriana Cavarero observes: ‘il bambino è il vulnerabile per antonomasia e costituisce il paradigma primario di ogni discorso sulla vulnerabilità’ (Cavarero , ).  Suter , ; ‘in the majority of the passages which do not show lament elements, it is Greeks who are speaking’ (p. ). See in general the section La douleur est une fête (pp.  – ) in Calame et alii , with De Martino  (on Euripides see Battezzato ,  – ). On the captive woman’s lament in Greek tragedy and in our drama more specifically, see Suter , Dué  (chapter  on the Trojan Women).  On yielding as a leitmotif, particularly in Sophoclean tragedy, see Knox ,  – .

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ciating experience of war and deportation. The meaning of this ‘self-defence’ through tears is made explicit by the chorus immediately after the lyrical duet between Hecuba and Andromache (vv. 608 f.):³⁸ ὡς ἡδὺ δάκρυα τοῖς κακῶς πεπραγόσιν θρήνων τ’ ὀδυρμοὶ μοῦσά θ’ ἣ λύπας ἔχει. Chorus leader: How sweet for those in misfortune are tears, the keening of lamentations, and the song that has sorrow for its theme!

Once again, the gnomic utterance can be understood by reference to the personal situation of the speaker.³⁹ As Hecuba says, tears will not resurrect the dead, and Hector will not come back to life, in spite of Andromache’s grief (vv. 697 f.); yet this μοῦσα seems to embody and represent the general tone of the tragedy. A form of poetry ‘that has sorrow’ is the only means to stage the extent of the present human suffering. Mourning and gnomic-proverbial sentences belonging to a shared wisdom on life and death are the poetic instruments through which Euripides activates a sort of ‘humanisation’ (and at the same time, a ‘Hellenisation’) of the Trojan women: ‘grieving for woes past and present is essential for human survival’.⁴⁰ The stylistic process used in the tema con variazione on the word τύχη has the same purpose, and contributes to sever the universe of mortals from that of gods. Euripides thus endows his drama with an effective degree of realism. The wasteland of Troy is crowded with desperate people, but this vulnerable community, about to be deported, does not fully reject war: in Euripides’ verses we find neither unequivocal condemnation nor complete trivialisation of the war as an ‘action without purpose’. None of the victims is completely free from a powerful spirit of revenge, despite being unable to kill and choosing total obedience.⁴¹

 Euripides ‘occasionally attributes to his chorus extended moral disquisitions, but these are often trite – “pieces of pavement-philosophy” as Kitto puts it’: Barlow ,  (with Kitto , ).  On the muse du chagrin in our tragedy see Loraux ,  – .  Torrance , . A similar procedure has been detected in the Persae by Calame : ‘the Persian choreutai evaluate the dramatic action in classical Greek ethic terms’, namely the ‘Delphic’ theological and ethic wisdom: ‘the Persians who narrate the disaster, and react to it, speak and sing in Greek’ (pp.  and ).  Cf. vv.  –  against Menelaus, but there is no revenge for the women of Troy. The violent action committed by Hecuba, with the chorus’ complicity, against Polymestor and his sons in Hecuba is a good example of the kind of initiative that could be taken by the same group of captive women.

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We have seen that the process of change imposed by necessity (so Hecuba at v. 616: τὸ τῆς ἀνάγκης δεινόν) is accepted and assimilated through shared formulae and a common vocabulary. Again, Andromache conceives her passage from nobility to enslavement simply as the realisation of great μεταβολαί,⁴² echoing Hecuba’s changing fortune, μεταβαλλομένου δαίμονος (v. 101), and anticipating the μεταβάλλουσαι… συντυχίαι of the choral anapaests at vv. 1118 f. (‘Our land’s fortunes undergo one woeful change after another’). The ‘Trojan tragedy’ confronts the audience to the vision of a cultural memory annihilated by these changes, but it does this using Greek thought and language: the verbal models must be within the Athenian citizens’ reach. The heart-broken reactions of Andromache and the chorus, and especially the forms of reflection and interpretation proposed by the ‘wise’ Hecuba as she is confronted to her people’s disastrous defeat, reveal a sagesse barbare that is nothing more than exceedingly rationalised Greek proverbial wisdom. I think that the most important emotional aspect of the drama is this sort of radical ‘atheisation’. The term should not be understood as a denial of the (Greek) gods’ existence, but as a statement of their absence and of the impossibility of understanding them.⁴³ This Greek wisdom uttered on barbarian lips seems devoid of any divine presence, concerned as it is with the drifting and the effects of an unpredictable τύχη. And the sharp reversal of fortune represented in the drama (along with the feeling of the gods’ total absence) is confirmed by the fact – certified by the chorus – that Zeus betrayed his temple and his altar in the city, and that ‘the gods’ love for Troy is fled and gone’.⁴⁴ By now, for the Trojan women, sailing with their own fortune implies navigating through the rest of their lives without gods.⁴⁵

 Vv.  f.: τὸ δ’ εὐγενὲς / ἐς δοῦλον ἥκει, μεταβολὰς τοσάσδ’ ἔχον: ‘reversal […] (metabolē, as at l. , rather than peripeteia), also provides the most vital image of consciousness that the play dramatizes’ (Poole , ; he perhaps exaggerates in claiming that the poet’s aim is to awaken his audience to the same lucidity).  Zeus is δυστόπαστος εἰδέναι, ‘hard for human conjecture to find out’: vv.  f. On the unfounded atheism of Euripides see Lefkowitz  and , and Sourvinou-Inwood ,  –  (further bibliography in Kyriakou , , n. ).  Vv.  – , and  f.: τὰ θεῶν δὲ / φίλτρα φροῦδα Τροίᾳ.  At the end of the tragedy, no conventional gnomic conclusion is offered: ‘Con l’avviarsi di Ecuba e del Coro la scena si svuotava: con la sensazione che tutto era finito senza il conforto del rito, senza conclusioni gnomiche, senza anticipazioni di nuovi esiti. Solo morte e desolazione’ (Di Benedetto , ). On the abrupt end of the Trojan Women see Dunn ,  – .

Matthew Wright

The Significance of Numbers in Trojan Women An unusual (and hitherto overlooked) feature of Trojan Women is its focus on numbers. In the midst of their sufferings, the women of the conquered city show a marked tendency to count and measure things, including children, Furies, hands, feet, cheeks, troubles, storms, the sea-routes through the Corinthian Gulf, the wheels on the Trojan Horse, and so on. It cannot be claimed that every one of these enumerations is of equal interest in itself, but the cumulative effect is striking. It seems to me that a particular emphasis is being placed on numbering, counting, and measuring as a recurrent theme or motif. In this article I suggest that numbers have a significant function within Trojan Women on several different levels. They enrich the play’s language, imagery, and thought, they add nuance to the characters’ expression of their thoughts and emotions, and in particular, at certain key points in the action, they seem to provide a way of concentrating our attention on the scale of the human suffering at Troy. But in addition, I suggest that the use of this motif in Trojan Women is relevant to a broader issue of Euripidean dramaturgy – the perennially contested question of whether Euripides wrote connected trilogies and tetralogies. In the latter part of what follows, I propose that the theme of counting and measuring connects Trojan Women very closely with Palamedes, one of the other tragedies in Euripides’ tetralogy of 415 BC. This connection seems to support the view that Euripides conceived of this group of plays as an artistic unity – not in the sense of a sequential narrative (such as the Oresteia), but in the sense of an intricate nexus of images, themes, and ideas. *** Let us begin by citing a representative selection of passages from the play which involve counting or measuring in some way. For example, the aged Hecuba describes herself as being ‘three-footed’ (275 – 6, a reference to her walking-stick);¹ Cassandra stresses the fact that Odysseus’ wanderings will number ten years (431); Andromache ironically mentions the saying that just one night in bed with a new man is enough to make a woman forget her former husband (665), in order to make an implicit contrast with numerous nights of happy marriage  Lee (, ad loc.) detects a reference to the riddle of the Sphinx; the phrasing is also similar to Aesch. Ag.  – .

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to Hector; Hecuba contrasts the sort of sea-storm that is ‘measurable’ or ‘manageable’ (μέτριος, 688) with the immeasurable ‘wave of troubles’ which assails and overwhelms her; the women of the chorus sing that Troy was sacked ‘twice, in two attacks’ (δὶς δὲ δυοῖν πιτύλοιν, 817), giving special emphasis to this fact by the repetition and their use of the dual form; Helen meticulously numbers the separate points in her argument during the agon with Hecuba (919 – 65); and the play ends with Hecuba striking the earth with her two hands (1306 – 7)… One could supply plenty of other examples. There is (seemingly) nothing very odd or remarkable about any of the passages just mentioned, but collectively these and other references add up to a significant preoccupation with numbers. What is striking is not so much the frequency of number words, which after all are extremely common in all of Euripides’ plays and in everyday language (though Trojan Women does employ such words more than average),² but rather the manner in which they are deployed and the emphasis which is given to such words by specific usage and context. Numbers often seem to intrude into the play at places where one would not naturally expect them to be. Because the immediate dramatic context does not supply an obvious reason for their inclusion, such details seem to stand out, either because of their incongruity or because of their prima facie inexplicability. Why, for instance, does Euripides specify the number of the Furies – normally vague but potentially enormous – as precisely three? The distraught Cassandra is made to refer to herself as μίαν τριῶν Ἐρινὺν (‘a Fury, one of the three,’ 457), a description which has struck commentators as odd.³ Even if this enumer Analysis of data from TLG and Allen and Italie’s Concordance (s.vv. ἀριθμός, εἷς, δύο, τρεῖς etc.) shows that Tro. contains more number words than most Euripidean plays (though it is overtaken by the somewhat longer plays Hel., Pho. and Suppl.): there are too many references to supply here. Nevertheless, number words are so frequent here and elsewhere that cumulative statistical analysis of this sort does not in itself suggest any particular patterns or conclusions; it is the specific manner in which such words are deployed that is significant rather than the rate of occurrence.  Lee (, ad loc.) comments: ‘It is interesting that Euripides specifies that there were three Furies. In Aeschylus and even in the IT (cf. ), they appear to be unlimited in number.’ Diggle (,  – ) thinks that it would be ‘pointless’ for Euripides to have specified the number of the Furies, unless Tro.  –  is not a general description of the Furies but rather a specific (metaphorical) reference to Cassandra, Clytemnestra and Aegisthus (cf. Soph. El. ). Diggle also cites Eur. Or.  as a parallel reference to three Furies, implying that Tro.  –  would not have seemed surprising or remarkable; cf. Biehl ,  (though I think Biehl is wrong to call the detail ‘kanonisch’ on this slender basis). But we need to bear in mind that Or. was produced later than Tro., which means that the earlier reference may well have struck its audience as novel; I also note that there is a special significance to the detail in Orestes, since the number of Furies there is made to correspond to the number of conspirators (Orestes, Pylades and Elec-

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ation is to be seen as an example of Euripides’ well-known penchant for inventing or playing around with the details of myths,⁴ it is noticeable that the poet does not dwell on the detail or develop it in any way. It is merely mentioned, in the briefest of parentheses. But precisely for this reason, and because it seems to have no particular relevance within the context of Cassandra’s speech, the detail sticks in the mind; it is a puzzling little incongruity which quietly calls attention to itself. Various other numerical details stand out from their context in a similar manner. Why, for example, does Helen go out of her way to stress that there were three goddesses involved in the fatal beauty-contest on Mount Ida? After all, the names of Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite are all mentioned in her speech, and the myth was a particularly well-known one anyway; but nevertheless Helen places a curious emphasis on the fact that the contest involved ‘a threefold group of three goddesses’ (τρισσὸν ζεῦγος…τριῶν θεῶν, 924): this seems to be a gratuitously repetitive form of words.⁵ But (once again) we notice the detail in passing, even if we do not quite understand it; and the play moves on; and we encounter more of the same. Why is it so important that we should be told that there are two sea-routes across the peak of the Corinthian Isthmus (1097), in a choral ode that is not really concerned with giving geographical description or advice to travellers? What does the herald Talthybius mean when he says that he is going to issue one set of instructions with two shapes (ἵν’ αὑτὸς λόγος ἔχηι μορφὰς δύο, 1265)? As before, the form of wording seems to give unusual prominence to the number, but the exact meaning of the words is hard to comprehend: in fact Talthybius appears to be giving only one order (that the Trojan women should embark on the ships at the sound of the trumpet).⁶ And why is it that tra), who are referred to repeatedly as τρισσοὶ φίλοι (e. g. Or. , ): see West ,  on the significance of these descriptions.  Especially good treatments of Euripidean myth and innovation include Burian ; Michelini ,  – ; Allan ,  – .  Diggle’s Oxford Classical Text (used here) adopts Wunder’s τριῶν θεῶν (for the manuscripts’ τρισσῶν θεῶν). This emendation gets rid of what looks like a clumsy duplication, but τριῶν θεῶν does not altogether remove the sense of unnecessary repetition; and this textual difficulty may suggest that the wording of Euripides’ line was sufficiently peculiar to throw some scribe off balance for a crucial moment. Cf. also Tro.  (cited above) for a similarly pleonastic numerical expression.  Barlow ad loc. remarks on the oddity of the language: she translates the phrase ‘so that my order has double effect’, and interprets μορφή as ‘something given tangible reality’. Lee (, ad loc.), following the scholiast, prefers ‘two phases’, but he admits that it is not easy to identify these phases: is Talthybius commanding that () the guards burn the city and () the women move to the ships? Or that () the women (en masse) depart and () Hecuba (alone) leave

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the very first detail we are told about the wooden horse is the number of its wheels? When the women of the chorus, in the play’s first stasimon, identify the infamous Trojan horse as the instrument of their destruction, they at first shrink from naming it directly, instead describing it as ‘a vehicle with four feet’ – that is to say, four wheels (τετραβάμονος… ὑπ’ ἀπήνας, 516).⁷ This strange, circumlocutory phrase is extraordinary, and it makes us wonder why it was chosen in preference to some other more obvious epithet. There is no very clear answer to that question, but what is clear is that a suggestive connection is being made between numbers and the suffering of the Trojans (a connection which recurs throughout the play). Certain numbers might sometimes be seen as possessing an inherently ambivalent or problematic meaning. This is true of the number two, or the quality of doubleness, in an important scene between Hecuba and Talthybius early in the play. Here Hecuba, informed that she is to become the slave of Odysseus, lets out a terrible scream and talks about tearing the skin off her face with her own fingernails. The stilted description of her face as, literally, a ‘double cheek’ (δίπτυχον παρειάν, 280) is particularly striking because Hecuba reuses the same adjective shortly afterwards to describe Odysseus’ lying, deceitful tongue (διπτύχωι γλώσσαι, 286). In the latter case, the word δίπτυχος acquires (as occasionally elsewhere) what one commentator calls ‘a sinister qualitative connotation’,⁸ evoking Odysseus’ capacity (as she perceives it) to twist everything round and turn friendship into enmity. In the space of just a few lines, the word, or the concept, seems to have changed its meaning – a characteristic technique of Euripidean ambiguity.⁹ Also, whatever we may think about doubleness or the number two, it is interesting to observe that Euripides has deliberately used this word to create an unsettling association between Hecuba and Odysseus – at just the moment when Hecuba is at pains to emphasize the immense gulf that exists between her enemy and herself. But the most common use of numbers in Trojan Women is in the evocation of emotion and pathos. At first this may seem a strange concept. Numbers do not seem an obvious source of emotionally moving subject-matter – far from it. But when the coolly rational language of counting or calculation appears in connection with the

with Odysseus’ men? Bierl (, ad loc.) takes the phrase as denoting two opposite outcomes: pleasure for the Greeks, pain for the Trojans.  This is the most obvious interpretation: see Lee  and Barlow  ad loc.; Lee compares Verg. Aen. . –  on this passage.  Barlow  ad loc. Cf. other uses of δίπτυχος or δισσός to imply ‘sinister’, ‘deceptive’, ‘uncertain’ or similar: e. g. Eur. Or. , Ion ; Soph. El. , etc.  I examine the subject of Euripidean ambiguity at length elsewhere: see Wright forthcoming.

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heat of passion, the unexpected juxtaposition is likely to make us pay particular attention to this language and ponder its significance. In this respect one might call to mind, especially, several famous love poems (including Catullus’ kiss-counting poem Vivamus, mea Lesbia, Donne’s lyric ‘The Computation’, or Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways’) which make surprisingly effective use of this unusual juxtaposition of registers, while also prompting the reader to reflect whether love can ever really be quantified in this way. All of these poems, in their different ways, seem to be suggesting that numbers are inadequate as a means of conceptualizing or accounting for human experience.¹⁰ A closely comparable effect is created by Euripides in Trojan Women, though the primary sensation that is being evoked is not love but loss. It is painful to watch the characters struggling to give numerical expression to the loss that they have suffered. Throughout the play we are confronted by the horrifying scale of Troy’s destruction and the immense number of casualties in the war, especially on the Trojan side. The number of individuals who fought or died in the conflict is described more than once as μυρίοι,¹¹ a difficult word to render into English, since essentially it refers to a number which is too enormous to count properly: it can mean ‘tens of thousands’ (precisely) or just any conceptually huge number.¹² Either way, it becomes clear that the suffering of the Trojans is simply too great to quantify or enumerate. Perhaps the most explicit statement of this fact comes when Andromache tells Hecuba that the seizure of her daughter by Ajax is far from being the last of her troubles (619 – 21): ΑΝΔ. ΕΚ. ὧν γ’ οὔτε μέτρον οὔτ’ ἀριθμός ἐστί μοι· κακῶι κακὸν γὰρ εἰς ἅμιλλαν ἔρχεται.

νοσεῖς δὲ χἄτερα.

Andromache:

Yet more miseries await you.

Hecuba: Too true – miseries which have neither measure nor number, indeed, for here comes evil upon evil, vying against one another.

Not only are Hecuba’s miseries unquantifiable,¹³ they are also imagined as still being somehow in a state of ‘war’ or ‘conflict’ with one another, even after the war is supposed to be over. And of course Hecuba’s story (even though she is

 See also Glaz and Growney .  Tro.  – ,  (cf. πoλλ[ὰ]…πήματα ).  Traditional usage marks a differentiation between μυρίοι (countless) and μύριοι (ten thousand), but it is hard to say with any confidence what accentuation Euripides himself would have chosen.  Cf. Eur. Bacch.  (πένθος οὐ μετρητόν) for a similar expression.

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a queen, and thus has had further to fall than the others) is just one of many. The play’s main focus is on the experiences of a very small cast of characters, but the implication is that these individual stories are being played out thousands upon thousands of times in other Trojan households. In a couple of other notable passages we see a sort of grim mathematical equation being worked out, with Helen on one side of the equation and the dead Trojans and Greeks on the other side. The first of these passages comes in the middle of one of Cassandra’s speeches (368 – 9): she is arguing, paradoxically, that Troy, though now in ruins, is more fortunate than Greece, because the Greeks have benefitted so little from their victory and lost so much: οἳ διὰ μίαν γυναῖκα καὶ μίαν Κύπριν θηρῶντες Ἑλένην μυρίους ἀπώλεσαν. In their quest for Helen the Greeks lost countless lives for the sake of one woman and one Cypris.

The idea that people would go to war for the sake of one woman (especially such a worthless, debauched woman) is shown up as a horrendous miscalculation.¹⁴ The disparity between the numbers brings the point home with an awful clarity, and the repetition of μίαν…μίαν emphasizes the contrast even more powerfully. A little later, Hecuba makes almost exactly the same point (497– 8): οἲ ’γὼ τάλαινα, διὰ γάμον μιᾶς ἕνα γυναικὸς οἵων ἔτυχον ὧν τε τεύξομαι. Ah! wretched me! – what sufferings I have endured, and will endure in the future, for the sake of one marriage of one woman!

As before, the grotesque unfairness of things is emphasized by the repetition of the number one, an effect which is enhanced here by the immediate juxtaposition of the different forms μιᾶς and ἕνα.¹⁵ Attaching numbers to human lives is one way of making death on a large scale seem even more terrible and even more poignant – not just in the Trojan Women but in all sorts of situations in real life (as in, for example, media reports of war casualties or the victims of natural disasters). Early on in the play (135) we are reminded by Hecuba that Priam had fifty sons: it is merely a passing refer-

 See Croally ,  –  for interesting discussion of the ‘stupidity’ of the Greeks and other criticisms of the causes of the war.  Remarked upon by Lee  and Bierl  ad loc. (comparing Eur. El.  for a similar juxtaposition).

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ence, but we may well recall Homer’s allusions to the fact that most of these sons perished in the conflict.¹⁶ Later in the play Hecuba tells us explicitly that her sons are all dead – but this later statement creates an interesting connection and contrast with her earlier words, for she says (475 – 6): ἀριστεύοντ’ ἐγεινάμην τέκνα, οὐκ ἀριθμὸν ἄλλως ἀλλ’ ὑπερτάτους Φρυγῶν. I gave birth to extraordinary children, who were not mere statistics but the most splendid of Trojans.

In the first passage Hecuba uses numbers to emphasize the awful scale of the loss, while in the second she uses numbers to stress that her sons must be seen as individual human beings and not just a unit of counting. This intratextual irony relies, in part, on the inherent double meaning of ἀριθμός (in Greek and English alike). We say that someone ‘counts’ if we regard them as important and worthwhile, but if someone is a ‘mere’ (ἄλλως) number or cipher the exact opposite seems to be true.¹⁷ A further ironical development towards the end of the play is that eventually Helen herself comes to be counted, in a rather different way from earlier: Menelaus announces that she is in the tent reserved for prisoners of war, ‘numbered along with the other Trojan women’ (κατηρίθμηται Τρωιάδων ἄλλων μέτα, 872). Now (κατ)αριθμεῖν is often used in an unmarked sense, almost as equivalent to the verb ‘to be’,¹⁸ but in this play the prominence of the language of numbers encourages us to interpret the word more literally.¹⁹ We have already been told (240 – 97) that all the women of Troy have been divided out like goods, in order to be distributed to the victorious Greek generals. Now it is being made clear that Helen, despite her unique importance as an individual, has been rounded up and numbered along with the rest of them. I end this section by briefly mentioning another unit of measurement that is of some concern to Menelaus when he encounters his wife again – that is, the possibility that Helen’s weight has increased (τί δ’ ἔστι; μεῖζον βρῖθος ἢ πάροιθ’ ἔχει; 1050). This line has usually been read as one of the few examples

 See (e. g.) Iliad .; .,  – ,  – ; cf. Macleod  ad loc.  Cf. the use of ἀναρίθμητος to denote someone of low birth or minimal significance, e. g. Eur. Hel. , Ion  (cf. Hcld.  – ).  E. g. Eur. Hel. , Hypsipyle fr. . Kannicht; cf. Pl. Prot. a, Soph. e; Arist. Pol. a, b, etc.  So Bierl  ad loc., comparing this passage to Tro. .

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of a joke in tragedy:²⁰ if it really is a joke, then its humour will seem jet-black in the middle of this unusually sombre tragedy. But it may well be that Menelaus’ words reveal a much more serious anxiety: that is, he is worried that Helen may be pregnant with Paris’ bastard child.²¹ Hecuba’s evasive reply to Menelaus’ question, ‘There isn’t anybody who ever stops loving once they’ve been in love’ (οὐκ ἔστ’ ἐραστὴς ὅστις οὐκ ἀεὶ φιλεῖ, 1050), suggests that she may well have Helen’s relationship with Paris in mind, as does Menelaus’ response concerning the character (νοῦς) of the lover in question (1051). It seems that both Menelaus and Hecuba have the measure of Helen. *** All of these references to numbers and counting enhance the imaginative world of Trojan Women in various ways. However, they take on an added level of significance when they are viewed in the light of Palamedes, the tragedy which immediately preceded Trojan Women in Euripides’ production at the 415 Dionysia. This play is lost – along with Alexandros, the first tragedy in the set, and Sisyphus, the concluding satyr-play – but a certain amount is known about its plot and characters.²² The crucial fact is that Palamedes, the famous mythical benefactor of mankind, was well known for (inter alia) the invention of numbers and counting. This detail is given in various literary sources, including Gorgias’ Defence of Palamedes (believed by many to have been an important source of inspiration for Euripides’ plays of 415 and later),²³ and it was a significant feature of Palamedes’ portrayal in other tragedies. Plato, summarizing the contents of several tragedies on the subject (which probably included Euripides’ play),²⁴ records that that Palamedes was able, through the invention of numbers, to organize the divisions of the army at Troy and to count the ships and everything else, since before this

 See Seidensticker ,  – ; Kovacs .  I owe this suggestion to Emily Symington.  See TrGF V.; cf. Collard and Cropp (,  – ) for extended discussion and commentary. Cf. also Usener  – .  Gorgias DK Ba §. On the supposed influence of Gorgias on Tro. (and Hel.) see Goldhill , ; Gregory , ; Gagarin . For a more sceptical view see Lloyd ,  – .  Pl. Rep. d = Eur. Palamedes Test. *vi Kannicht: φησὶν ἀριθμὸν εὑρὼν τάς τε τάξεις τῶι στρατοπέδωι καταστῆσαι ἐν Ἰλίωι καὶ ἐξαριθμῆσαι ναῦς τε καὶ τἄλλα πάντα, ὡς πρὸ τοῦ ἀναριθμήτων ὄντων. Plato goes on to add that before Palamedes came along, Agamemnon, being unable to count, did not even know how many feet he had; but this is probably best interpreted as a Platonic joke rather than a report of the contents of a lost tragedy: see Collard and Cropp , .

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time they had been unnumbered. Sophocles wrote a Palamedes in which the hero’s clever discoveries were mentioned (fr. 479 Radt): there is no mention of numbers in the surviving fragments of that play, but in Sophocles’ Nauplius (fr. 432 Radt) it is said that mankind has Palamedes to thank for numbers, weights and measures, the ability to count in units of 10, 50 and 1000, and the science of astrology.²⁵ And in Aeschylus’ Palamedes (fr. 181a Radt) the hero himself describes his invention of numbers as follows: ἔπειτα πάσης Ἑλλάδος καὶ ξυμμάχων βίον διώικησ’ ὄντα πρὶν πεφυρμένον θηρσίν θ’ ὅμοιον· πρῶτα μὲν τὸν πάνσοφον ἀριθμὸν ηὕρηκ’, ἔξοχον σοφισμάτων. Then I organized the life of all of Greece and its allies – life which had previously been in a state of confusion, like that of wild animals. First of all I invented exceedingly clever numbering, surpassing all else in sophistication.

It is interesting to observe that the extreme ‘cleverness’ of this invention is stressed (πάνσοφον…σοφισμάτων), since ‘cleverness’ (σοφία) is not invariably an admirable quality: indeed, it is often presented by fifth-century authors as a dangerous or ambivalent property and viewed with suspicion or hostility.²⁶ It was partly because Palamedes was perceived as being too clever, and too much of a threat to the status of Odysseus and Diomedes, that he ended up being betrayed and murdered. It is highly probable, given the strong connection between Palamedes and numbers in the mythical and literary tradition, that Euripides’ Palamedes contained some sort of discussion or demonstration of the newly invented art of counting. We cannot be absolutely certain of this, but it is clear that the play devoted some attention to a closely related theme – the development of literacy and the alphabet – in a scene where, as in the Aeschylus fragment quoted above, Palamedes was describing his achievements (fr. 578 Kannicht).²⁷ It would be natural in such a context for Palamedes to talk about numbers and his other inventions as well.  See Sommerstein and Talboy ,  –  for a recent treatment of the fragments.  E. g. Eur. Bacch.  – , Antiope fr.  – ; Thuc. .., ..; Ar. Clouds , Frogs , Wasps ; Archippus fr. , etc. The word/concept is especially prominent in Medea, but also elsewhere throughout Euripidean tragedy: see Origa , esp.  – . The word σοφός and its cognates occur several times in Tro. (,  – , ,  – ), nearly always in a pejorative or critical sense. Eur. Ion  –  explicitly associates measuring/counting with σοφοί.  Aristophanes’ parody of Palamedes (Thesm.  – ) also draws attention to the alphabet/ literacy theme.

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One also notes that a couple of the fragments feature an exaggerated contrast between small and large numbers very similar to what we have observed in Trojan Women (368 – 9, 497– 8, quoted above). In one of these fragments (fr. 584 TrGF) one just man is contrasted with very many men (μυρίοι) who are unjust; while elsewhere a character expresses the view that, while very many people can command an army, only one or two people can ever become clever – and even then it takes a long time (στρατηλάται τἂν μυρίοι γενοίμεθα, | σοφὸς δ’ ἂν εἷς τις ἢ δύ’ ἐν μακρῶι χρόνωι, fr. 581 Kannicht). Since Palamedes himself was famous for teaching people to count in large units, μυρίοι may well mean ‘tens of thousands’ here, rather than ‘countless’ (so perhaps one might be tempted to alter the accentuation from TrGF), though it hardly makes much difference to the rhetorical effect. The allusion to the double-edged phenomenon of ‘cleverness’ in connection with Palamedes or numbers also seems pointed, as elsewhere, but the state of the evidence does not allow us to say much more than this. There can be no absolute certainty, then, but on balance it seems likely that numbers played a visible part in Euripides’ Palamedes. In that case, the emphasis on numbers and counting in Trojan Women acquires an added significance. When the characters in the later play use numbers, and draw our attention to the fact that they are doing so, we are bound to reflect that they are making use of the very skills that Palamedes bestowed on mankind, and which led to his own downfall. In the same group of plays we are presented with a sort of evolutionary process or condensed history of civilization: we see the invention of the system of numbers in Palamedes followed immediately by its consequences in Trojan Women. It is easy enough to see this connection between the plays once it has been pointed out, but it is harder to judge the meaning of the connection. A good deal would have depended on the precise way in which Palamedes and his inventions were characterized in the lost play. It may be that Palamedes was presented by Euripides as a wholly or largely admirable figure, whose treatment at the hands of Odysseus was seen as unjustified or abominable; this would certainly fit in with the portrayal of Odysseus as a villain in Trojan Women.²⁸ In that case it will have seemed doubly poignant, perhaps, that the doomed women of Troy are shown as putting into use a system invented by someone who, like them, had suffered undeservedly. On the other hand, it could be that the invention of numeracy was presented in Palamedes as a more ambivalent or problematic phenomenon, rather than a

 So Webster , .

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straightforward boon.²⁹ Indeed, many other new developments or transformations in society, including literacy and rhetoric, tend to be depicted by Euripides with distinctly double-edged or uneasy overtones. I have already mentioned the ambiguous status of ‘cleverness’ in these tragedies and elsewhere; it is also relevant that in Trojan Women a similar ambiguity surrounds the words for ‘new’ (καινός, νέος etc.), which are often used to describe strange, terrible or abnormal things.³⁰ Furthermore, we know that Palamedes’ innovation proved particularly useful to the army leaders in the Trojan War, because it allowed them to divide and marshal their troops much more efficiently than before.³¹ In other words, it could be said that the invention of numbers was one of the contributory factors in Troy’s destruction. Thus, although mankind as a whole might be grateful to Palamedes for his ingenuity, the Trojans in particular might well rue the day that numbers were discovered – and it is from the Trojan perspective that the action of the play develops. Indeed, as we have already seen, where numbers are mentioned in that play, it is invariably in connection with painful or distressing experiences. On the whole, I feel that this more negative or troubling connotation of numbers fits in better with the prevailing mood of Trojan Women. But no one who is familiar with Euripides will expect him to provide us with neat-and-tidy answers to these questions of interpretation. Scholarly debate has long raged as to whether Euripides’ trilogies or tetralogies were conceived of by their author as (somehow) connected, or whether the individual plays in each set are to be regarded as independent works of art.³² No clear consensus has emerged from these discussions. However (as I have shown elsewhere), there is no real basis for the commonly held notion that the tragedians’ interest in connected trilogies or tetralogies waned after the time of Aeschylus. The fact that no fifth-century tetralogy survives complete, nor any trilogy apart from the Oresteia (which may have been out of the ordinary), makes it difficult to form a definite conclusion or to detect any very meaningful patterns in

 Scodel (,  – ) notes the ‘moral ambiguity of technical development’ in Palamedes. M.J. Cropp, in Collard, Cropp and Gibert (, ), believes that Palamedes ‘portrayed man’s capacity for using his own greatest gifts to malevolent and self-destructive ends.’  Tro. , , ,  – , , ,  – ,  – ,  – , . The prominence of καινός and related words in Euripides is noted by McDermott , though she interprets such references in terms of poetic self-consciousness; cf. Torrance  and (on the ambivalence of fifth-century attitudes towards novelty more generally) D’Angour .  Eur. Palamedes Test. *vi Kannicht (cf. n.  above); cf. Aesch. Palamedes fr.  Radt.  See, most recently, Wright . Other notable discussions include Garvie ; PickardCambridge ,  – ; Scodel ,  – ; Sommerstein (a)  – ; Wiesmann .

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the evidence. Nevertheless, there is plenty of fragmentary evidence to suggest that certain playwrights, from time to time, at least, thought carefully about the relationship between the plays in their productions. Ruth Scodel (following the lead of Gilbert Murray) has argued persuasively that Euripides’ tragedies of 415, Alexandros, Palamedes, and Trojan Women, formed a ‘Trojan trilogy’, loosely connected in terms of plot and theme.³³ It is obvious that these tragedies did not dramatize a single consecutive plot-line, but there is a discernible relationship of cause and effect to be observed in the events of the trilogy, as well as a series of thematic parallels between all three plays. Those scholars who maintain that the plays are not connected normally rely on a simplistic notion of what constitutes ‘connection’ or ‘unity’ – as if Euripides’ audience members would have been incapable of apprehending any sort of link between plays or poems except for straightforward narrative continuity.³⁴ Such a view greatly underestimates the subtlety and complexity of Greek drama and poetry generally, and the ability of audiences and readers to respond to intertextual echoes, allusions, and thematic linkages of various sorts. At any rate it seems misguided to deny, in the face of demonstrable correspondences of subject-matter and theme between plays in a group, that these works were connected in the poet’s mind. No doubt scholars will continue arguing about such matters until the end of time, even if the papyrus manuscripts of a few complete fifth-century tetralogies happen to resurface from the sands of Oxyrhynchus tomorrow. But in the meantime, this article is offered to readers as another small contribution to the ongoing debate. The motif of numbers and counting in Trojan Women and Palamedes constitutes a further thematic link (not mentioned by Scodel or others) between the plays in the ‘Trojan trilogy’. The loss of Alexandros and Palamedes except for a few tantalizing fragments makes it impossible to pursue this discussion much further.³⁵ Nevertheless, on the basis of the discussion above, it seems increasingly likely that these plays were connected in a meaningful sense, and that the connection in this case took the form of a carefully constructed series of suggestive  Scodel ; cf. Murray ; Parmentier and Grégoire ,  – . See also Webster ,  – , though his primary concern is the reconstruction of plots rather than the issue of thematic connection.  E. g. Koniaris (, ), who argued that ‘if we take any group of dramas and wish to find ‘links’ among them so as to argue for a unity, we shall have no difficulty in finding such links’. Koniaris promises a more nuanced discussion of ‘connection’ ( – ) but does not deliver on this promise.  The absence of any references to numbers or counting from the remains of Alexandros does not really affect my argument here. The state of the fragmentary evidence is hardly conclusive; but even if it were to emerge that Alexandros never contained a single reference to numbers, the connection between Palamedes and Trojan Women would still be remarkable.

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(or ironical) associations, key words, and recurrent concepts. The theme of numbers and counting is just one connecting thread that seems to run through the plays, adding subtlety and nuance to the poetry; I suspect that if the other plays in the trilogy (or tetralogy) were to be rediscovered we would be able to discern many more such threads.

Andreas Markantonatos

The Delphic School of Government: Apollonian Wisdom and Athenian Folly in Euripides’ Ion ¹ τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ μὲν χρηστά, τοῦ δὲ δαίμονος/βαρέα Euripides, Ion 1374– 1375

Introduction In this paper,² following what is becoming increasingly (and compellingly, in my view) the opinio communis that Greek drama was not only a reflection, and perhaps even a glassy one, of the development of the Athenian polis, but also an agent of its own that was actively influencing the political and social life of the city-state, in that it aspired to give the Athenians enough spiritual guidance to enable them to assess democratic leadership and to regain touch with reality, I shall argue that in Ion, which can be dated with considerable safety around 413 BCE,³ Euripides is inviting his audience to put itself at a distinctly social and political standpoint, from which Delphi with its inexhaustible sources of divine and cosmic wisdom and power is seen to be a great deal more interesting than a mere antithesis to Athens.⁴ In particular, throughout the play the Delphic oracular

 It is with a tremendous sense of loss that I offer this paper in honour of the late Professor Daniel I. Iakov, who was not only a brilliant and remarkably productive classical scholar, he was also a man whom one would like to have as a friend. His humanity and kindness were legendary; the range of his work was catholic; the mind behind it was a delight. As his grateful student in all matters concerning Greek tragedy I had the immense pleasure of enjoying his erudition, sensibility, and keenness of mind. He will be greatly missed.  The edition here used for Ion is the Oxford Classical Text by James Diggle, and the translations are based on the annotated edition of the play by Kevin Lee.  See Lee , , who follows Lesky ,  and , , and Diggle , ; Swift ,  – . For either later or earlier dates, see von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff , ; Owen , xli; Cagnetta , ; Klimek-Winter ; Zacharia ,  – ; Martin .  On the conception of Greek tragedy as a highly influential political driving force in the context of Athenian democracy, see recently the collection of essays in Markantonatos/Zimmermann  with exhaustive bibliography. Books and articles on Euripides’ Ion have proliferated in the last two decades, placing special interpretative emphasis on the play’s social and political dimension, as well as its visual and dramatic power and variety; cf. (e. g.) Dunn ; Matthies-

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shrine serves as the mirror image of an ideal Athens, the repository of those precious standards of behaviour and high moral principles which an apparently malignant chain of circumstances combined with the weak sides of the Athenian character had rendered pointless and irrelevant in post-Periclean Athens and especially so at the turn of the fourth century BCE.⁵ When looked at this way the plot of Ion yields a penetrating moral intelligence, at once intimate and forensic; it yokes effects to their opposite: from a nostalgic appeal for reaffirmation of the autochthonous legends of the Athenian past, it delivers a piercing truth about the urgent need to liberate the community from the antiquated extremities of social exclusivity and thereupon establish civic inclusivity in equal measure in order to counterbalance the pursuit of elite interests within the polis, from allusive creation of an atmosphere of imminent external danger stemming from paranoid explanatory hypotheses about extraordinary events, vivid psychological verities about those who possess supreme authority over state polity but are either deficient in understanding or, worse still, susceptible to conspiracy theories about impending foreign intrusions. Delphi, therefore, can be read as both an everywhere bringing out the importance of the notions of justice and purity, and to great extent also of common sense, of fairness, of compassion, and of honesty ‒ all of these reminding the original audience of those currently lost Athenian values enabling the citizenry to act with greater self-consciousness and to modulate if not avoid habitual, instinctive reactions ‒ and an elsewhere polemically inverse not only to the ethical disarray of contemporary Athens and the follies and weaknesses of her leaders but also to unproductive ideas calling for social subordination and political exclusivity as a means of instituting security and battling civil strife. In other words, Delphi in her role as an idealized Athens constitutes a kind of deep structure at the centre of the play: it generates light, revelation, in that it records with intensity and completeness the fontal truths of Athenian democracy, especially the far-reaching idea that citizenship should not be defined by personal resources or social status.⁶ sen ; Giannopoulou /; Zacharia ; Craik ; Lee ; Padel ; Arnott ; Cole ; Redondo ; Segal ; Quijada Sagredo ; Thorburn a & ; Morwood ,  – ; Pellegrino ; Goff ,  – ; Kosak ,  – ; Murnaghan ; Hose ,  – ; Chong-Gossard ,  – ; Weiss ; Mirto ,  – ; Walton ,  –  &  – ; Stehle ; Vickers ; Gibert .  On the social and political crisis enveloping late fifth-century Athens, see Markantonatos  and ,  –  with further references.  On the Delphic oracle and its close association with Athens, as well as its wider role in mainland Greece, see Parke/Wormell ; Fontenrose  and ; Flacelière ; Parke ;

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In addition to this, and most importantly, it is my contention that through the carefully engineered interplay between Athens and Delphi Euripides seeks to bring to the fore the importance of prevision and strategy as fundamental qualities of leadership; in fact, by transferring his Athenian story to the heart of the Delphic shrine he focuses attention on Apollo as the archetypal figure of the discerning visionary and keen-sighted strategist, the perceptive leader extraordinaire, completely lacking in late fifth-century Athens.⁷ In the play, as the oracular patron of Delphi Apollo serves as the ideal politician who is capable enough of interpreting present and future under changing circumstances and against the suspicion of the human characters; more than that, with his prophetic powers he sets the standard by which men should judge their leaders as to their capacities to conjure up the future and in so doing define effective strategic planning without yielding to the pull of fear and mistrust. It is beyond accident that Thucydides, a historian otherwise sparing with his praise, has no qualms about waxing lyrical on Themistocles and Pericles on the grounds that these two remarkable Athenian leaders have such an acuteness of mind that enables them to penetrate the unseen future and thus secure safety and greatness for their city. According to Thucydides, Themistocles could best conjecture the course of events in the future (1.138.3, καὶ τῶν μελλόντων ἐπὶ πλεῖστον γενησομένου ἄριστος εἰκαστής) and foresee the good and evil which lay hidden in the unseen future (1.138.3, τὸ τε ἄμεινον ἢ χεῖρον ἐν τῷ ἀφανεῖ ἔτι προεώρα μάλιστα), while Pericles was the best man of all in devising and explaining a sound policy, in that he could predict the outcome of the war by gauging the power of his country (2.65, ὁ δὲ φαίνεται καὶ ἐν τούτῳ προγνοὺς τὴν δύναμιν).⁸ In this regard, encumbered though they were with human frailties, both Themistocles and Pericles were seen as having a share in the divine; for not unlike Apollo, the prophet par excellence, as well as the mantic priestess at Delphi, they analyzed the ever-changing circumstances, so as to draw safe conclusions concerning future policy, thereby increasing the likelihood of their own survival and Lloyd-Jones ; Roux ; Burkert ,  –  esp. ; Price ; Parker , ,  & , ,  –  &  – ; Malkin ; Morgan ,  – ; Bremmer ,  – ; Bruit Zaidman/Schmitt Pantel ,  – ; Bowden ; Mikalson ,  – ; Johnston ,  –  esp.  – ; Bowie ; Graf a,  –  esp.  –  and b; Evans ,  – ; Scott . On the wide-ranging debate over Athenian citizenship, see the thought-provoking essays in Raaflaub ; Sealey .  On Apollo and his striking role in the play, see Wassermann ; Erbse ; Koster ; Winnington-Ingram ; Gellie ; Lloyd ; Neitzel ; Hartigan ; Gavrilov ; Giuliani ,  ff.; Kindt ; Lacore ; Hunter .  Cf. Hornblower ,  and  – , who expresses some doubt about Pericles’ foresightedness.

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thus the survival and continued well-being of the Athenian citizens without succumbing to the divisive forces of polarization and the corrosive effects of the distrust and opposition of the people. There are strong grounds for thinking that the Delphic oracle’s absolute and unerring mantic craft was predicated upon its rare capacity to construe circumstances, determine and expound the sensible course of action, and to promote prudent deliberation and collective resolve without imposing an asphyxiating authority upon individuals.⁹ In a sense by acting as guide to interpretation, goad to self-understanding, and aid to foresight Delphic divination embodies a structure of thought and life which adumbrates the ideal aims of Athenian democratic politics. Therefore, far from constituting a mere reflection, the close association of Athens with Delphi becomes fully dialogic, a transaction across what in the opening scenes of the drama may still be an ethical void filled only with obsolete legendary phantasies from the distant Athenian past ‒ yet a transaction that, as the play unfolds, moves back to recover significant markings and distinguishing national symbols from that glorious past, especially time-honoured principles with educative and equalizing power, thereby offering the promise that through the agency of perspicacious and honest rulers the feeling of distinctive patriotism can be merged in that of human brotherhood for the immense benefit of the city. And, indeed, it is not difficult to imagine the effect which the powerful treatment of an emerging magnetic leader such as Ion must have produced on an audience who were becoming increasingly disillusioned with their political leaders vying for influence against a backdrop of personal intrigues and power-hungry strategies. This is especially so, principally because Ion, the hero-ancestor of the Ionians, is portrayed as an exceptional individual, nurtured by the streams of Delphic wisdom and schooled in unalloyed Athenian values, as those are vigilantly preserved within the well-protected precincts of the Pythian sanctuary, where through their openness to all men with particular resources or talents the Delphians embody a successful strategy in leadership that promotes unanimity and even-tempered judgement.¹⁰ We need, then, at the very least, to eschew any simple or uniform model of the relationship between Athens and Delphi in the play; and this means that, among much else, we need to work towards a recognition of the many challeng-

 Cf. Bremmer , ; Johnston ,  – , who is right to argue that Delphic divination recognizes the conscious instrumentality of men in bringing about god’s end. For a revisionist view, see recently Bowden ,  –  and passim.  On the notion of leadership in ancient Greece, see Markantonatos  with further references. Cf. also Rhodes/‘t Hart  with recent insights into contemporary debates over problems concerning leadership.

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ing complexities of the close connection between these ancient sites of great Panhellenic importance, as well as the far-reaching social and political effects this remarkable correlation between sacred places sets in motion in the context of the Dionysia festival. It is not too bold to suggest that in Ion Euripides gives a mythical continuum and a model of human motives and reactions which are resonant with his own troubled times; more than this, through the constant demonstration of the torturing uncertainties that underlie the decisions his characters take in the process of living he encourages the Athenian audience to become more conscious of the crucial fact that only political leaders with vision possess that unique ability to see beyond the present ‒ the here and now. In a period of social uncertainty and turbulence, during which the security achieved through political provision is dismantled by factional conflict, and the capacity of those men in authority for judgement or forethought is obstructed by internecine passions, the Delphic Apollo, as well as his charismatic son Ion, whose bare and clumsy ambition of his youth is destined to become cloaked by the great man of experience and accomplishment, provides a much-needed benchmark for assessing strategic leaders capable of synthesizing the present and future in a broad sweep. It is fair to say that in earlier times and especially before the Peloponnesian War the mantle of Apollo and Ion fell on such far-sighted and sagacious Athenian politicians as Themistocles and Pericles, who never failed to assume the hard mental labour of deciphering what the future held in store for the Athenian state without falling victim to the passion and suspicion of the citizens. Understood as a timeless truth at the close of the fifth century BCE, the Euripidean argument that Athens must search for rulers invested with the leadership attributes of those provident and judicious men of the past, if she is to survive in the hour of extreme peril, seems more compelling than ever before.

Sacred Wisdom and the Folly of the World: Leadership against Crisis It is widely accepted among Euripidean critics that in Ion ‘[t]he scene is Delphi, but in a sense it is Athens’.¹¹ Far from claiming that I offer here further evidence of this unquestioned relationship between Athens and Delphi, exhaustively treated by more than a few scholars in comprehensive and illuminating discussions of the play, I shall draw attention to those striking similarities in geography, religion,  Owen () xxii. Cf. also Kuntz ,  – ; Lee  ad  – ; Zacharia ,  – ; Stieber ,  – .

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and mythology which buttress my argument that Euripides invests the Delphic sanctuary with multiple layers of distinctly Athenian meaning, so as to bring before our eyes an image of Athens in its most idealized conception as a profoundly hallowed place of moral purity and civic harmony.¹² There is a complex of correspondences between Athens and Delphi, arising out of numerous echoes, doublets, parallelisms, and pairings which facilitate a reflected duplication of the Athenian city, and not least its most sacred symbol, the Acropolis, that appears identical with the Pythian shrine. These geographical, religious, and mythological mirrorings are so discernible that I would not be wide of the mark to suggest that Euripides’ Ion is one of the most painstakingly spatialised plays in the tragic corpus. The actual storyline crystallizes along a consistent thread of spatio-temporal interpenetration of Athens and Delphi, and scenic presentation takes the form of a long series of perceptions of space shown from the ideologically-laden perspectives of a host of dramatic characters.¹³ Given that limitations of space prevent us from exploring this extensive network of interconnected themes and images in the depth it deserves, in the following brief review of these contemporary Athenian alignments which are projected back on the Delphic originals our examples will be scattered and not at all complete, mostly drawn from the opening scene of the play (1– 183) and the recognition episodes (510 – 675, 1250 – 1622). To be sure, our purpose is not to treat all aspects of the play’s Athenian and Delphic groundwork exhaustively, but to illustrate a number of individual related points, such as the conception of Apollo’s divine management as both a foretoken of Ion’s human leadership and, more widely, a timeless paradigm of political farsightedness, as well as the urgent need to redefine and recalibrate central ideological premises of the Athenian state in order to promote a more inclusive political identity and forge a stronger sense of mutual connectedness within the community. It is not unwise to argue that through the semantic charging of the Delphic space, which among much else aims to paint a picture of Athens as an ethically unambiguous force in the Greek world, Euripides evokes Athens’ earlier moments of self-praise, at which the city imagined herself as a place occupying the moral high ground of a utopian topography. In a play full of anachronistic references, questions of self-fashioning and self-enhancement through a constant exploration of ancestral origins and primordial claims to purity of blood and racial antecedence take on a special relevance to Athenian democratic politics, principally because this notion of indigenousness, predicated upon an un-

 On idealized conceptions of Athens, see Loraux ,  – ; Mills ,  – . On Athenian ideology, see Markantonatos ,  – .  On the focalization of tragic space, see Markantonatos ,  – .

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remitting and unspoiled blood tie to a host of native royal founders, is treated, rather surprisingly, within the context of democratic ideology as incontrovertible evidence of moral incorruptibility and irreproachable integrity. By priding themselves on being the unmediated progeny of the land, Athenians seek to lay great stress upon the strong character and ethics of their race; further than this, their sense of justice acquired by their intergenerational purity of birth forms the bedrock of a long line of successful military campaigns against hateful oppressors and vicious wrongdoers, among which the return of the bodies of the Argive dead to Adrastus and the help given to the Heraclidae against the cruelty of Eurystheus take pride of place.¹⁴ It is, therefore, no accident that this inherited ‘landedness’, despite its unrealistic foundation, together with the concomitant feelings of confidence and independence arising from deeply instilled self-worth, allows the Athenian citizen to recognize that the liberty of all is instrumental in promoting the possibility of unity and prudence. In this regard, the equalizing effect of autochthony is the root and matrix of democracy understood as a fine combination of the rule of law and the instruction of reason. All this appears directly significant in the situation of political turmoil that threatened to engulf the Athenian state in the closing years of the fifth century BCE, during which men in authority were unable to lay down steadfast principles of moral behaviour and social analysis, including how to explain human reactions under various conditions, and to learn the right ways to apply them and, when appropriate, revise them in particular cases. In any event, the emergence and evolution of Athenian democracy presuppose the existence of political rulers with a strong sense of public moral duty. Democratic leaders must reconcile the conflicting intentions of the Athenian citizens in a purposive whole, with the aim of preserving the common life and social order fostered in the political community; what is more, they must prevent the indulgence of exclusive interests, and by exercising judgement, so as to reduce man’s vulnerability to an unpredictable turn of events, they must act as successful conjecturers of the near and distant future under rapidly changing circumstances. Already the Prologue scene sets out to open up a double perspective on two of the most serious issues of the play: birth and ancestry. In an extensive expository narrative Hermes makes a point of juxtaposing Athens and Delphi, while at the same time reminding the audience of the inescapable fact that these two divinely protected places lie beneath the most ancient and holy site in the universe, the profoundly revered abode of the gods on Mount Olympus. He surely means for the spectators to ponder the deeper significance of lineage in both

 Cf. Mills ,  – .

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the divine and human spheres, given that gods and men are indentified by their ancestors; in fact, knowledge of their heredity affects their sense of personal worth, and gives their lives more importance and their glory more value. One should observe additionally that Hermes positions himself in the patriarchal order of Olympus, in that he proudly enlists his male ancestors, Atlas and Zeus, without detailing the matrilineal members of his family tree, thereby adumbrating certain threads of patterning concerning the priority of the male to the female in genealogical accounts which are woven throughout the play.¹⁵ As a true master storyteller Hermes recounts those events that serve as points of cohesion and in an external way provide the necessary drive to keep the play moving; and, moreover, he throws much light upon numerous mighty issues revolving about the ensuing scenes:¹⁶ Ὁ χαλκέοισιν οὐρανὸν νώτοις Ἄτλας θεῶν παλαιὸν οἶκον ἐκτρίβων θεῶν μιᾶς ἔφυσε Μαῖαν, ἣ ’μ᾽ ἐγείνατο Ἑρμῆν μεγίστῳ Ζηνί, δαιμόνων λάτριν. ἥκω δὲ Δελφῶν τήνδε γῆν, ἵν᾽ ὀμφαλὸν μέσον καθίζων Φοῖβος ὑμνῳδεῖ βροτοῖς τά τ᾽ ὄντα καὶ μέλλοντα θεσπίζων ἀεί. ἔστιν γὰρ οὐκ ἄσημος Ἑλλήνων πόλις, τῆς χρυσολόγχου Παλλάδος κεκλημένη, οὗ παῖδ᾽ Ἐρεχθέως Φοῖβος ἔζευξεν γάμοις βίᾳ Κρέουσαν, ἔνθα προσβόρρους πέτρας Παλλάδος ὑπ᾽ ὄχθῳ τῆς ᾿Aθηναίων χθονὸς Μακρὰς καλοῦσι γῆς ἄνακτες ᾿Aτθίδος.

(1– 13)

Atlas, who with his back of bronze rubs up against heaven, the ancient dwelling of the gods, fathered Maia on one of the goddesses. She it was who bore me, Hermes, to Zeus the supreme god, and I am the gods’ servant. I have come to this land of Delphi, where Phoebus, sitting at the very navel of the earth, sings to mortals, continually explaining in prophecy the things that are and those that are to be. Now there is a city of the Greeks, far from unknown, which is named after Pallas, who carries a spear of gold. In this place Phoebus had intercourse with the daughter of Erechtheus, Kreousa, against her will, where the north-facing cliffs beneath Pallas’ hill in the land of the Athenians are called ‘Long Rocks’ by the lords of Attic soil.

Much as the human agent is seen as no more than a mere part of the mighty sweep of events, especially as regards the daughter of Erechtheus, Creusa, who is overwhelmed by the sheer force of Phoebus Apollo (10 – 13), all-powerful dei-

 Cf. Rabinowitz ,  – .  See also Hamilton ,  – .

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ties such as Apollo and Athena are not inimical to mankind, given that Apollo is depicted as granting humans special clairvoyant penetration and insight in their view of present and future, while Athena is described as keeping guard over the Athenian city. By juxtaposing Apollo with Athena Euripides artfully weds the Delphic story with a bright mythological vision of Athenian grandeur under divine protection. This is the first instance among many in which a linking between themes and images is enforced by textual contiguity. Accordingly, and most importantly, the relationship between Athens and Delphi is thrown into high relief by their placement close together in the preamble of Hermes’ account of past events. Both these famous sites seem to belong to a larger domain that contains them both: the realm of the Olympian gods. The superimposition of one god upon the sphere of influence of another god offers the mechanism for transiting from one world to another in the Euripidean play. The process is so deeply involving that the audience are encouraged to think that one world displaces the other, including its legendary traditions and ideological foundations. Further than this, detailed spatial information about the place where Apollo raped Creusa allows the world of the fifth-century Athens to open up here, with its own mythological underpinnings and central characters. This sense of contemporaneity becomes a great deal more intense in view of the foregoing anachronistic mention of Athena’s golden spear (9), which no doubt hints at the colossal bronze statue of Athena Promachos sculpted by Pheidias. This statue of Athena stood on the Acropolis, and fable has it that the gilded tip of her spear and the crest of her helmet were visible from afar.¹⁷ In the following lines (14– 27) the contemporary flavouring of the Prologue is further reinforced by the direct reference to the story of Erichthonius and the daughters of Aglauros, which provides the aition of a widespread custom promoting the authoritative self-definition of the Athenian citizen body.¹⁸ The birth of Erichthonius from the earth and his adoption by goddess Athena, together with the horrible death of the daughters of the Athenian king Cecrops, another prototype ancestor of the Athenians, when they disobeyed Athena’s instructions not to open the chest where the child Erichthonius was kept with two snakes to guard him, and the sacrifice of the daughters of Erechtheus for the safety of the city in its war against the Eleusinians, bear out the uninterrupted habitation in Attica. At a deeper level, however, the evocation of these traditional tales about bloodrights tied to ancestral legacies aims to foreground the terrible violence inherent in crushing disasters brought about by a thoughtless moment or

 Cf. Lee  ad  – . See also Niels , .  Cf. also Mikalson ; Parker .

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the unspeakable terror inspired by self-denying actions dictated by the predominance of the collective over the individual will. It is important to reflect that, as well as symbolizing the triumph of equity and the defeat of wrong, the notion of Athenian autochthony as the never-weakening spring of an unsuppressible endurance enfolds instances of noble heroism along with monstrous applications of eternal laws, the workings of which can at times be merciless and unfeeling.¹⁹ Hermes continues to narrate the extraordinary events leading up to the adoption of Creusa’s son by the Delphic priestess; in particular, he focuses attention on the remarkable circumstances surrounding the discovery of the newborn infant at the entrance of Apollo’s temple, describing with vividness and a mysterious solemnity of tone how both human and divine spheres came together within the bounds of the oracular shrine in order to procure the child’s safety. Euripides obviously means us to see that beneath all the movement and turmoil of the action there is present continually a pervading sense of divine providence, and a meditative and empathetic spirit consistent with the quintessential democratic values of humanity and kindness. The Pythian priestess immerses in the flow of Apollo’s grand plan, allowing the plan to register in her its guiding ideas; in fact, far from rehearsing the problematical blending of salvation and violence, as this is depicted in autochthonous legend, her act of warm compassion for the helpless baby is prefatory to further striking gestures of unwonted kindness resulting in a series of near misses around family aggression. There seems to be no reason to doubt that the rescue of the infant from certain death through an act of human sympathy prompted by divine concern gives dramatic embodiment to the heart-thought of the play ‒ that is, the spirit of moderation fostered by perspicacious leaders may avert ruin. To be sure, this unselfish exercise in clemency, together with the realization that in a city torn by internal discord human well-being depends on the integrity of the community and the capacity of its rulers to take decisions untainted by petty self-interest, helps to achieve a stable political equilibrium in a city like Athens: κυρεῖ δ᾽ ἅμ᾽ ἱππεύοντος ἡλίου κύκλῳ προφῆτις ἐσβαίνουσα μαντεῖον θεοῦ· ὄψιν δὲ προσβαλοῦσα παιδὶ νηπίῳ ἐθαύμασ᾽ εἴ τις Δελφίδων τλαίη κόρη λαθραῖον ὠδῖν᾽ ἐς θεοῦ ῥῖψαι δόμον, ὑπέρ τε θυμέλας διορίσαι πρόθυμος ἦν·

 On the centrality of the theme of autochthony in the play, see Montanari ; Rosivach  and ; Walsh ; Zeitlin ; Saxonhouse  and ; Dougherty ; Shapiro ; Loraux ,  and ; Westra ; Dunn ,  – ; Calame ; Leão ; Kasimis .

The Delphic School of Government

οἴκτῳ δ᾽ ἀφῆκεν ὠμότητα καὶ θεὸς συνεργὸς ἦν τῷ παιδὶ μὴ ’κπεσεῖν δόμων· τρέφει δέ νιν λαβοῦσα, τὸν σπείραντα δὲ οὐκ οἶδε Φοῖβον οὐδὲ μητέρ᾽ ἧς ἔφυ, ὁ παῖς τε τοὺς τεκόντας οὐκ ἐπίσταται.

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(41– 51)

It happened that, with the sun’s orb starting its course, the priestess was just making her way into the oracular seat of the god. Catching sight of the helpless infant she was astonished that some Delphian girl had dared to get rid of the offspring she had borne in secret in the god’s house, and she was ready to remove the baby from the sanctuary. But pity got the better of her harsh feeling, and the god helped to prevent the child from being cast out of the temple. She picked it up and reared it and did not know that Phoebus was its father, or the mother who gave it birth, and the child does not know his parents.

As already suggested, in the play there are several effective reinforcements of the theme of compassion and sound judgement as deterrents to violent planning and ferocious behaviour. The extraordinary tale of Ion’s rescue by the Delphic priestess, partly engendered by Apollo’s unvoiced intervention, paves the way for a series of selfless acts to alleviate suffering and mitigate aggression. It is worth noting that Ion is the protagonist in no less than three striking examples of merciful handling of human and animal creatures; in fact, in those cases Ion comes very close to using mortal violence, but in a rethinking of his deadly rage he has a change of heart and spares his victims’ lives. His second thoughts, arising not only from his ability to think sensibly and to take good decisions, but also from his deeply seated feelings of respect and civility, reveal the twofold struggle between opposite motives in his breast, as he attempts to check his youthful impetuosity by showing benevolence and generosity as proper ethical commitments to Apollo. His moral maturity, understood as a deep and consistent moral judgement, emanates from principle-based reasoning honed up by an intense and unwavering consciousness of responsibility to act in accordance with divine laws and regulations. It is no accident that all three instances of arresting what had seemed the consummation of a ruthless killing are closely associated with Apollo, whose temple and altar serve as a crucial backcloth to this salutary harnessing of emotional impulses.²⁰ Firstly, it is the birds flocking the Delphic temple and searching for a place to build their nests: Ion, worried lest they should foul the shrine, shoos them away by repeatedly threatening to shoot them down with his bow and arrows (158,

 On the play’s moral dimension and the ethical choices facing Ion in his struggle to discover his true identity, see Burnett ,  passim and ,  – ; Willetts ; Troiano ; Yunis ,  – ; Farrington ; Belfiore ,  – ; Mueller ; Iakov ; Meinel ,  – . On tragic morality, see Lawrence .

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164– 165, 173). The thought nonetheless that birds can serve as messengers from the gods is powerful enough to overcome his initial tendency to use physical force (47– 48); αἰδοῦμαι (179), in particular, brings forth the great impact of reverence on human lives, especially once it is touched by those humbling feelings of shame and humility.²¹ It is important to recognize that at the beginning of the play Euripides is at pains to draw a picture of Ion as a devoted follower of Apollo who is at one with mildness and goodness ‒ in a word he strives to be just, and for that reason he understands divine power as the combination of celestial wisdom and kindly beneficence. Secondly, it is Xuthus, who immediately after coming out of the oracular temple and in infinite delight in having received a favourable response from the Pythian priestess attempts to embrace Ion as his long-lost son, but he is greeted with mocking incredulity and menacing warnings of instant death. Once more Ion threatens to take a life with his bow and arrows, but his initial indignation subsides once he learns of Apollo’s riddling prediction (524– 527). And finally, it is Creusa, who after having been condemned by stoning for the attempted murder of Ion takes refuge at the altar of Apollo in the hope of escaping immediate punishment for her crime. Although Ion and his attendants are in hot pursuit of Creusa, seeking to wreak vengeance on her for her homicidal intrigue, they yield to the divinely established rules of asylum (1250 – 1319). Ion withdraws, but not without bitter protest against what strikes him as an unmerited entitlement to suppliant invulnerability for all and sundry regardless of their moral disposition; in fact, he resents the fact that sacred immunity from all reprisals favours equally both the good and the evil (1312– 1319). His fierce critique of the time-honoured conventions of asylum exemption not only indicates that a long road awaits him before acquiring leadership status, as he is still caught in the temporal gap between the original uneasiness of what the extraordinary happenings at the Delphic precinct signify and the final comprehension that behind this concourse of untoward events there was a synthesizing consciousness doing its work in spite of human aspirations or doubts, but also gives special focus to the Athenian political doctrine, indissolubly linked to autochthonous ideas about ethical purity, that with unshrinking determination and unswerving integrity the indigenous populace of Attica were the first to use law for honouring the good and punishing the evil.²²

 Cf. Cairns ,  – ; Lee  ad .  See (e. g.) Lysias’ Funeral Oration ( – ), which is the most concise exposition of Athenian ideology.

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This unjust depreciation of a divinely sanctioned prerogative shielding suppliants from the shafts of ferocious aggressors in a sacred panoply impenetrable and complete gives rise to the forceful intervention of the mantic priestess, who guided by the invisible hand of Apollo rehearses her earlier act of mercy before the Delphic temple, only this time she does so on exiting the building in order to chastise an adult Ion (1320 – 1335). Echoing Hermes’ description of the miraculous events surrounding the salvation of the helpless infant, especially the priestess’ choice to ignore her harsh feelings and give way to compassion and kindness (47, οἴκτῳ δ’ ἀφῆκεν ὠμότητα […]), the condemnation of Ion for being too harsh on Creusa throws into high relief the faulty reasoning behind his implacable wrath (1327, […] καὶ σὺ δ’ ὠμὸς ὢν ἁμαρτάνεις, ‘But you are wrong in being so harsh’). Favourable as she is to Ion, the prophetess is quick to note that this kind of unforgiving rage may endanger his safe return to Athens and his unruffled welfare therein (1333). Once again Ion is willing to discard his violent plans and pay heed to good advice instead; like a true democratic leader he is ready to look at decision-making in dialogic terms, thereby abandoning the monotone absolutism of uncritical retaliation, while at the same time remaining receptive to accepted thoughts and procedures that promote far-sighted self-discipline on the part of the individual to secure his own good. To put it another way, in order to remain καθαρός he needs to espouse a mode of moral and political deliberation that counteracts the deleterious effects of thoughtless retribution and of unexamined preconceptions about law and justice. Returning to our discussion of the opening movements of the play, as the action strides forward, a succession of topographical mirrorings, visual reflections, and pictorial replications thickens the atmosphere of the inextricable interdependence of Athens and Delphi in ethical motives, religious principles, and mythological traditions. Without wishing to offer a prolix account of the methods of associating the Delphic precinct with the Athenian city, so expertly and thoroughly examined by Mary Stieber in her well-argued monograph on the Euripidean language of craft,²³ I shall very briefly highlight some points of interest primarily concerning symbolic connections and parallelisms. After hiding into a coppice of bay trees, Hermes is imagined as observing the action from afar without wishing to intervene with what fate has ordained for Ion ‒ this he leaves to his brother Apollo, the master plotter par excellence, who sets about modulating the events as circumstances change rapidly for the human characters. Ion enters the scene armed with bow  Stieber ,  – . On the play’s rich imagery as regards the descriptions of Apollo’s temple and Ion’s tent, see Barlow ,  – ; Immerwahr ; Mastronarde ; Müller ; Goff ; Zeitlin ,  – ; Pellegrino ; Fletcher ; Athanassaki ; Chaston ,  ff.; Torrance ,  –  and  – ; Saggioro .

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and arrows and carrying a broom made of bay leaves; his monody (112– 183), in particular, paints a picture of the Delphic shrine as a heavenly place of civic harmony, where Ion, the temple-servant and keeper of the god’s treasure, is given to a fulfilling life of dedicated service to Apollo and his prophetess. Furthermore, the ecphrasis of the Parodos (184 – 236) is rich in references to Athens and its impressive monuments: the serving women marvel at the temple of Apollo, describing with genuine enthusiasm the metopes (190 – 204) and the pediment (215 – 218), and comparing the loveliness and solemnity of the buildings with the exquisiteness of the shrines one can encounter in Athens. Their appreciative comments on the sheer beauty of the temple’s symmetry and sculptural ornamentation bring to mind distinctly Athenian landmarks: the first metope depicting the killing of the Lernaean hydra by Heracles with the help of his nephew Iolaus is reminiscent of the eastern metopes of the temple of Hephaestus or Hephaisteion, located at the north-west side of the Athenian Agora, which describe the twelve Heraclean Labours; what is more, the decoration of the pediment representing the gigantomachy, during which Pallas Athena demonstrated her prowess in defeating mighty Enceladus, a victory celebrated annually at the Panathenaea with a robe embroidered accordingly, finds a visual analogue in the fourteen east metopes of the Parthenon, on which the cosmogonic battle between the Olympian gods and the Giants serves as a powerful symbol of the triumph of civilizing forces over the world of monsters. It is worth noting that an impressive image of the chariot of the Sun with its four horses ascending the scales of heaven and bathing the Delphic sanctuary in bright light punctuates the remarkable entrance of Ion onto the stage, thus acting as a harbinger of better times to come for the human protagonists (82– 88). Perhaps this may be a direct echo from the fourteenth plaque of the Parthenon metopes, on which the Sun-god with his chariot is rising from the sea, thereby foreshadowing the defeat of the gruesome Giants at the hands of the Olympian divinities and Heracles.²⁴ In the same way, as well as alluding to such recognizable Acropolis monuments as the temples of Athena Polias (235 – 236) and Athena Nike (452– 460), along with the Erechtheum (281– 282), Euripides means for his audience to be put in mind of Athenian iconography in the detailed description of the decoration of a tent at Delphi, which is hurriedly but elaborately constructed to hold a large gathering of Delphic people in what comes close to being a genuine Attic symposium (1147– 1166). There are good grounds for suggesting that the Athenian spectators would have found iconographical realities affecting their response to this remarkable ecphrasis, insofar as part of the ornate imagery of the precious

 Cf. also Praschniker ,  – ; Brommer ,  & .

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textiles thrown over the roof of the tent and hung at its sides might have been interpreted as celebrating Athenian valour on the battlefield, especially in view of depictions of Greek vessels combating barbarian ships (1159 – 1160). This purposeful play on archetypical Athenian triumphs such as the naval battle of Salamis is intensified by the ensuing reference to a textile depicting snakeytailed Cecrops and his daughters (1163 – 1165), a suitable finishing touch to what appears to be a phantasmagoria of vastly symbolic descriptions tinged with Athenian significance. It is important not to overlook that once again the uplifting image of Helios driving his chariot and bringing on the brilliant light of the Evening Star is included within a highly descriptive context (1148 – 1149), thereby strengthening the thematic connection between Ion’s monody and the ecphrasis of the Delphic pavilion. In the midst of this remarkable correlation of Delphi with a highly improved version of the Athenian polis through a constant allusion to ocular analogues and pictorial similitudes, onto which the doctrines and ideals of the Athenian nation have been duly mapped over centuries of constitutional reform and political self-fashioning, there lie two adjacent scenes. By running a common thread through all the intricate windings of a complex argument concerning Athenian ethics and beliefs, the following two scenes slot together in a powerful peripeteia, thereby confounding the Apollonian programme and opening up the possibility of unanticipated complications: the recognition scene between Xuthus and Ion, featuring, among much else, a telling comparison between Athens and Delphi as sacred sites of Hellas-wide influence (585 – 647), and the intrigue scene between the Old Man and Creusa, precipitating the doom of Ion within the timeframe of the drama contrary to all expectations (735 – 1047). The evaluation of Athens and Delphi has an undeniable social and political importance, inasmuch as it reflects current feeling in Athens; more than this, and most importantly, it adumbrates the play’s double turn, namely the complete reversal of Apollo’s plan to lead Ion into Athens without revealing his true identity until time is ripe to break the news to unsuspecting Creusa. Similar social and political concerns weave in and out of our field of vision throughout the scene with Creusa and the Old Man hatching a murderous plot against Ion; these concerns interlace in a manner strongly reminiscent of Ion’s meditation on Athenian autochthony and monarchic government, although kept in the background, more strictly controlled in Creusa’s and the Old Man’s bloodthirsty designs and plans. Both scenes aim to show that excessive thoughts of retribution, engendered by a profound distortion of Athenian ideals which can become highly dangerous when put into devious political practice, primarily because they treat righteousness as inseparable from vindictiveness, are powerful enough in their cruelty and unreasonableness to overthrow divine providence. It is such

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a beautifully conceived coup de théâtre; for the slowly built up ironies of the hidden truth explode in diametrically different ways with regard to gods and men. Both Hermes and Xuthus are enlisted as strong advocators of Ion’s unobtrusive entry into the Athenian city, for the reason that this kind of discretion will avert Creusa’s retaliation and therefore secure the throne without peril (Hermes: 69 – 79 and Xuthus: 569 – 581); but it is only the first, keeping himself from view inside the copse of sacred bay next to the temple, who comes to know that Apollo’s designs are upset, and the issue of Ion’s ancestry is resolved within the Delphic precinct, whereas the latter remains in the dark about the earth-shattering developments in the recognition scene between Ion and Creusa.²⁵ Attractive though it is for a homeless youth, the prospect of following Xuthus to Athens and enjoying the privileges of dynastic rule therein does not in the least inspire Ion with warm enthusiasm; in fact, Ion launches into a critique of Athenian political life, thus elaborating on the caustic effect of polarization and factional conflict. He is sensible of the poignant truth that in a city, where private welfare takes priority over the public good, the citizens cease to be able to respond successfully to the vicissitudes of history, and thus consistent and rational policy is not possible. Retreat from politics is a negative corollary to this ferocious competition for personal influence: οὐ ταὐτὸν εἶδος φαίνεται τῶν πραγμάτων πρόσωθεν ὄντων ἐγγύθεν θ᾽ ὁρωμένων. ἐγὼ δὲ τὴν μὲν συμφορὰν ἀσπάζομαι, πατέρα σ᾽ ἀνευρών· ὧν δὲ γιγνώσκω, πάτερ, ἄκουσον. εἶναί φασι τὰς αὐτόχθονας κλεινὰς ᾿Aθήνας οὐκ ἐπείσακτον γένος, ἵν᾽ ἐσπεσοῦμαι δύο νόσω κεκτημένος, πατρός τ᾽ ἐπακτοῦ καὐτὸς ὢν νοθαγενής. καὶ τοῦτ᾽ ἔχων τοὔνειδος, ἀσθενὴς μένων †μηδὲν καὶ οὐδὲν† ὢν κεκλήσομαι. ἢν δ᾽ ἐς τὸ πρῶτον πόλεος ὁρμηθεὶς ζυγὸν ζητῶ τις εἶναι, τῶν μὲν ἀδυνάτων ὕπο μισησόμεσθα· λυπρὰ γὰρ τὰ κρείσσονα. ὅσοι δέ, χρηστοὶ δυνάμενοί τ᾽, ὄντες σοφοί, σιγῶσι κοὐ σπεύδουσιν ἐς τὰ πράγματα, γέλωτ᾽ ἐν αὐτοῖς μωρίαν τε λήψομαι οὐχ ἡσυχάζων ἐν πόλει ψόγου πλέᾳ. τῶν δ᾽ † αὖ λογίων τε † χρωμένων τε τῇ πόλει ἐς ἀξίωμα βὰς πλέον φρουρήσομαι ψήφοισιν. οὕτω γὰρ τάδ᾽, ὦ πάτερ, φιλεῖ·

 Cf. also Wolff ; Lee ,  – .

The Delphic School of Government

οἳ τὰς πόλεις ἔχουσι κἀξιώματα, τοῖς ἀνθαμίλλοις εἰσὶ πολεμιώτατοι.

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(585 – 606)

It is clear that things at a distance have a different appearance when seen close up. I welcome the way things have turned out, in that I have found you to be my father. But listen, father, to what has been on my mind. They say that the renowned earth-born inhabitants of Athens are not a people brought in from outside. I shall land there suffering from two disadvantages: being the son of an outsider and being myself born out of wedlock. Burdened by this slur, if I stick to a position without influence, I shall be spoken of †as a nobody†. But if I aim for a place in the first ranks of the city and strive to become someone, I shall be detested by the powerless. Superiority causes offence. On the other hand, from those who are sound as well as capable, but in their wisdom keep quiet and do not rush into the business of public life, I shall attract ridicule for being foolish, because I do not stay in the background in a city full of censure. Then again, if I manage to acquire a standing superior to those †again chroniclers† having dealings with the city I shall be hemmed in by their votes. This is the way things tend to be, father. Those who control cities and enjoy privilege are full of hostility towards any rival contenders.

It is fair to say that Ion offers a rival account of the way the Athenian city is which appeals to the audience’s historical experience at the close of the fifth century BCE. The disintegration of community, together with the degenerative force of cynicism and intolerance, precipitates the falsification of such democratic foundations as the autochthony myth. The misapplication of important national traditions and premises, which ensure that political impartiality among all citizens is realized to the fullest extent possible, undermines the wider commitment to inclusiveness and equal sovereignty. More importantly, Ion castigates Athenian politics on the grounds that the polis no longer expresses, reconciles, and promotes the beliefs and desires of ordinary men, thereby failing to provide citizens with a social identity and a conscious understanding of those public virtues encouraging men to explore each other’s views and in so doing reach consensus. Furthermore, Ion’s eulogy of Delphi as an ideal place where all citizens are integrated in a unique civic sensibility is in keeping with the motive of associating the Athenian city with the Delphic sanctuary through contiguity. The contrasting accounts of strife-torn Athens and peaceful Delphi paves the way for the ensuing scene with Creusa and the Old Man, in which the absence of insightful leadership, together with the inability to transcend narrow self-interest, aggravates the weaknesses of the Athenian characters. It is Apollo’s intelligent resourcefulness and unconditional kindness, coupled with Ion’s stolid self-control and unflinching morality, that promote prudent deliberation and collective resolve, thus bringing a salutary ending to what at first seemed a hopeless situation of inevitable familial disaster and kindred murder:

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ἃ δ᾽ ἐνθάδ᾽ εἶχον ἀγάθ᾽ ἄκουσόν μου, πάτερ· τὴν φιλτάτην μὲν πρῶτον ἀνθρώποις σχολὴν ὄχλον τε μέτριον, οὐδέ μ᾽ ἐξέπληξ᾽ ὁδοῦ πονηρὸς οὐδείς· κεῖνο δ᾽ οὐκ ἀνασχετόν, εἴκειν ὁδοῦ χαλῶντα τοῖς κακίοσιν. θεῶν δ᾽ ἐν εὐχαῖς ἢ λόγοισιν ἦ βροτῶν, ὑπηρετῶν χαίρουσιν οὐ γοωμένοις. καὶ τοὺς μὲν ἐξέπεμπον, οἱ δ᾽ ἧκον ξένοι, ὥσθ᾽ ἡδὺς αἰεὶ καινὸς ἐν καινοῖσιν ἦ. ὃ δ᾽ εὐκτὸν ἀνθρώποισι, κἂν ἄκουσιν ᾖ, δίκαιον εἶναί μ᾽ ὁ νόμος ἡ φύσις θ᾽ ἅμα παρεῖχε τῷ θεῷ. ταῦτα συννοούμενος κρείσσω νομίζω τἀνθάδ᾽ ἢ τἀκεῖ, πάτερ. ἔα δέ μ᾽ αὐτοῦ ζῆν· ἴση γὰρ ἡ χάρις, μεγάλοισι χαίρειν σμικρά θ᾽ ἡδέως ἔχειν.

(633 – 647)

Now listen, father, to the good things which I enjoyed here. First of all, leisure, a thing most dear to men, and a modicum of care. No base fellow ever pushed me out of his way. This is intolerable: to yield and give way to one’s inferiors. In prayer to gods or converse with men, I waited on those who were cheerful not sad. As I used to send some on their way, other visitors would arrive, so that I was always welcome, a fresh face to fresh arrivals. And what is prayed for by men, even if against their will, namely to be just, both the law and my nature presented me as such to the god. Pondering these things I reckon that life here is better than there, father. Let me continue to live right here! For the delight in being pleased with great things and in being contented with small is just the same.

It is hard to escape the conclusion that the plotting scene with Creusa and the Old Man expands the situation illustrated in both Ion’s virulent criticism of Athenian political practices and his profuse praise of the Delphic way of life; in fact, it is in the same mould, though dramatically a great deal stronger; for, as well as highlighting the power of fear and anger to poison the citizen’s understanding of his political condition, it showcases with intensity and completeness the harmful effects of man’s vulnerability to fraudulent manipulation and staggeringly absurd conspiracy theories.²⁶ After Ion’s disquisition on the corrosive effects of suspicion and deceit in Athenian politics, there comes as a resounding verification of this social fragmentation and ethical degeneration the murder plot, a hideous perversion of the autochthonous principle. It will take a series of corrective measures on the part of Apollo to lay out a new narrative grid; in particular, in the closing scenes of the play the intervention of the Delphic priestess (1320 – 1368) and the epiphany of Athena (1549 – 1622) allow the characters to follow a set of tracks that will lead smoothly from the troubled present to the glo-

 See also Gauger ; Yoon ,  – .

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rious future. While weaving the thread of divine causation into the human action of discovery and adaptation, Euripides stamps the play with its characteristic feature, the difficulty to come to terms with the simple truth that the fons et origo of Athenian democracy is not only the constant reaffirmation of the legendary virtues of the past, but also the wisdom, justice, and power of upright and legitimate leaders. He strongly believes that, as well as promoting abilities crucial to the creation of a decent political culture of constructively addressing the world’s most pressing problems, democratic politics should always aim to inculcate the all-important skill of critical thinking and logical foresight.

Conclusion In the first Book of his Histories Thucydides expresses admiration for Themistocles’ inborn talent to be the best prophet of the future (1.138.3); what is more, Herodotus’ Book 9 describes how, under the terrifying threat of the Persian invasion, the xenophobic Spartans made Teisamenus the diviner and his brother Hagias Spartan citizens with full civic rights in order to win the war (9.33). This exceptional individual enfranchisement, which has no parallel in Spartan history, evinces the great importance of foresight in ancient Greece. The ability to predict the future is the most precious attribute of leadership; in fact, by becoming ἄριστος εἰκαστής of future events a political leader proves his direct attunement with powers more than human. And, indeed, this momentary unity of purpose between man and god obliterates those prejudices that hinder the healthy growth of democracy, given that democratic interests and motivations are largely predicated upon the wide-ranging debate over the expansion of civil and political rights vis-à-vis the toleration of traditional conventions. Euripides’ Ion seeks to encourage the Athenians to see their fellow man from new points of view and so affect their behaviour in salutary ways; in fact, it presses the point that citizen status should be defined by merit alone. Although some would say that Greek tragedy’s power to do so is limited and unpredictable, and a society that depends on annual dramatic performances to immunize its masses against ignorant animosities and internecine rivalries depends on a tool too small for the job, the striking image of Creusa standing confuted and convinced at the end of the play, bravely admitting that with his prophetic wisdom Apollo was capable of orchestrating and fomenting the necessary alliances to secure the survival of the Athenian nation (1609 – 1613), should be interpreted as a clarion call to late fifth-century Athens to drink deeply from the common heritage of Delphi. In his Geographia Strabo draws attention to the distinctly theatrical outline of the Delphic site by describing it as πετρῶδες χωρίον

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θεατροειδές (9.3.3). One is tempted to argue that similarities run deeper than mere natural features: both the Delphic oracle and Attic drama aimed to instruct the Greeks in the democratic method of resolving difficult matters by debate, thus cultivating a garden of co-operation, fairness, and vision, where men of genius were capable of seeing glimpses of the future.

David Konstan

Did Orestes Have a Conscience? Another Look at Sunesis in Euripides’ Orestes Among the several moral concepts that the ancient Greeks are alleged to have lacked, which include such fundamental ideas as remorse, forgiveness, and guilt, is that of conscience: not just the word, but the very notion is said to be unknown in classical antiquity. One of the crucial texts cited in discussions of conscience in classical Greek is a scene in Euripides’ tragedy, Orestes. For example, in a study of modern investigations of the locus of conscience, Jan Verplaetse observes: “From time immemorial Euripides’ Orestes, in which after the matricide the protagonist declared: ‘it is remorse (synesis) that saps me,’ has been referred to. That description of Orestes’ fatal torment after murdering Clytemnestra would prove that the Greek knew about conscience.”¹ So too, V.A. Rodgers, in an article that explores the classical Greek conception of conscience in great depth, remarks: “The line has attracted a good deal of attention, and is frequently cited as an example of the existence in Classical Greek of a term or formula which may be rendered by the word ‘conscience.’”² The context is this: Orestes’ uncle, Menelaus, has just arrived in Argos, where Orestes is being tried for the murder of his mother, Clytemnestra. As the play opens, the audience sees Orestes afflicted by paranoid delusions induced, according to the version in Aeschylus’ Oresteia to which Euripides is undoubtedly indebted, by the Furies, who are avenging the matricide. When, in the later scene, Menelaus asks his nephew, “What are you suffering from? What disease is destroying you?,” Orestes replies: “It is sunesis, because I know [sunoida] that I have done dreadful things” ({Με.} τί χρῆμα πάσχεις; τίς σ᾽ ἀπόλλυσιν νόσος; {Ορ.} ἡ σύνεσις, ὅτι σύνοιδα δείν᾽ εἰργασμένος, vv. 395 – 96). Modern translations of the Orestes commonly render the word sunesis as “conscience,” and at first blush this seems like a reasonable interpretation of the term, in its context.

 Verplaetse , ; Verplaetse goes on to affirm: “Modern research shows that Euripides’ Orestes is not a moral philosophical drama in which a person suffers for violating a moral standard [citing Rodgers  and Porter ]. The basis of his torment was his fear of the Furies who would punish him with madness, despite Apollo’s order to kill his mother Clytemnestra.”  Rodgers , . See, for example, Stebler , : “Die Art und Weise nun, in der Orest seine seelische Lage umschreibt, enthält alle Elemente, die erforderlich sind zur Konstituierung eines rein inneren Gewissens-Vollzugs”; Stebler concludes: “Der euripideischen ‘Orestes’-Stelle … kommt also immer noch die Rolle des frühesten Beleges des Gewissens-Begriffs zu” (p. ).

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Indeed, the view goes back to an ancient thinker and astute reader of classical texts, namely Plutarch, who quotes the verse in his essay, “On Good Cheer” (Peri euthumias, commonly rendered in Latin as De tranquillitate animi). Plutarch is arguing that it is the fear of death that binds us to our bodies, and that only those who understand the nature of the soul can enjoy peace of mind; for if we do not fear death, what other misfortune can really trouble us? Even illness and exile will be endurable (18). Plutarch cites a discouraging verse of Menander’s, which warns: “It is impossible for a living person to say, ‘this I shall not suffer [peisomai],’” and he replies that this is true enough, yet one can nevertheless affirm, “this I shall not do [poiêsô]: I shall not lie, I shall not do wrong, I shall not steal, I shall not conspire.” Not to do evil, at least, is within our power, and is indeed the key to preserving good cheer. For it is precisely the awareness of having done wrong rather than having suffered misfortune that most torments the mind, and in proof of this Plutarch adduces Orestes’ remark in Euripides’ tragedy: “It is sunesis, because I know that I have done dreadful things” (19), and he adds that this “leaves regret [metameleia] in the soul like a wound in the flesh, which forever draws blood and stings [nussousan].” Plutarch goes on to explain that reason (logos) can remove other kinds of distress (lupai), but it itself produces remorse (metanoia), since the soul is bitten (daknomenês) by shame (sun aiskhunêi) and punished (kolazomenês) by itself. He compares the case of chills and fevers, which are harder to bear than external cold or heat; in the same way, the distress (lupai) that fortune brings is lighter, since it has an outer cause, whereas those who find themselves reciting the verse, “No one else is responsible for these things, but I am myself,”³ since their mistakes come from within, render their pain (to algeinon) heavier out of a sense of disgrace (tôi aiskhrôi). Plutarch concludes that not wealth, nor lineage, nor political power, nor grace and forcefulness of speech can endow life with such serenity as can a soul untainted by wicked acts and intentions, one that has a character that is imperturbable (atarakhon) and undefiled. Plutarch would seem, in this passage, to be identifying something very close to what is meant today by “conscience,” and in an important article on the treatise, Hans Dieter Betz has no hesitation in affirming that our capacity to make ethical decisions is “the way to tranquillity of mind, as Plutarch explains by referring to the concept of ‘conscience,’ which he defines as the ineradicable memory of the evil deeds one has committed” (p. 227). Betz continues: “the λόγος must deal

 The source of this quotation is unknown.

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with the conscience in a way different from that with which it handles the other λύπαι, for the λόγος itself produces ‘regret’ (μετάνοια) in the soul” (pp. 227– 28).⁴ Now, whether “conscience” is a suitable rendering of sunesis as Plutarch understands the term will depend in part on what we understand the English term to mean. Like any moral concept, conscience is a complex idea, even apart from its historical evolution.⁵ Broadly speaking, the term has three relevant senses. One meaning of “conscience” refers to a psychic or mental faculty, a specific function of the mind that registers moral qualities, in much the way a supposed aesthetic faculty has been imagined as the seat of judgments concerning beauty. For example, the Collins English Dictionary offers as one definition “a supposed universal faculty of moral insight,” and the Merriam-Webster dictionary has “the part of the mind that makes you aware of your actions as being either morally right or wrong.” There is no good reason to ascribe such a notion to Plutarch or any other thinker in the classical period. The earliest indication that conscience might be considered a mental compartment, in the way, for example, that appetites, spirit (thumos), and intelligence (dianoia) constituted three parts of the soul in Plato’s Republic, is a passage in St. Jerome’s commentary on Ezekiel, where he is commenting on the first of Ezekiel’s visions (1:5 – 10):

 Betz ; for Plutarch’s method of composition in De tranquillitate animi, and more particularly on his creative uses of sources and quotations, see Van der Stockt ,  – ; Van der Stockt takes to task the “the conviction of several scholars that De Tranquillitate Animi could be explained by reducing it to an amalgamation of literary sources (Quellen) and by assuming that the hypomnemata represented these sources without further ado” (p. ). See also Gill ,  –  on Plutarch’s Peri euthumias.  Cf. Rodgers , : “That σύνεσις and related nouns and verbal formulae can properly be rendered by the word ‘conscience’ may be correct, but it is a recognized problem in translation that it is very difficult to find exactly equivalent expressions in any two languages, not least when the two concerned are an ancient and a modern one, and when the terms involved are as complex as that of “conscience.’” Sorabji , , remarks: “Saint Paul was innovating … when he connected an expression for conscience closely with the idea of a general law of right and wrong”; cf. Sorabji  for a more positive view of early anticipations of the modern concept. Pierce , , notes that the pain of conscience is not described in the New Testament, nor needed to be, since it was part of the earlier Greek tradition. Chadwick , , notes that in the classical period “the moral experience … combines (a) the act of knowing with (b) a sense of pain which is the consequence of having deviated from the customs and rules of the community and therefore of passing a self-imposed censure,” and he adds: “The pain becomes a matter of conscience when the judgement of society is shared by the transgressor himself, whose feeling of shame is thereby transmuted into guilt;” this distinction between guilt and shame is dated, but Chadwick’s survey of sources, pagan, Jewish, and Christian, is extensive and sensitive. Potts , , observes: “Conscience has been much neglected by philosophers.”

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5

Also out of the midst thereof came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance; they had the likeness of a man…. 10As for the likeness of their faces, they four had the face of a man, and the face of a lion, on the right side: and they four had the face of an ox on the left side; they four also had the face of an eagle (King James Version).

In respect to verse 10, Jerome notes that some have interpreted the four creatures as representing the four evangelists, whereas others, influenced by philosophical theories, have seen a geographical allegory. However, many (plerique), following Plato (juxta Platonem), refer the faces of the human being, the lion, and the ox to the three parts of the soul, that is, the rationale, irascitivum, and concupiscitivum, which, Jerome remarks, Plato calls the logikon, thumikon, and epithumêtikon. He goes on to remark of these exegetes: They place the fourth part, which the Greeks call suntêrêsis, over and beyond these three, and this spark of conscience [scintilla conscientiae] was not extinguished even in the breast of Cain after he was expelled from Paradise, and it is by this that we realize that we are sinning when we have been overcome by pleasures or rage and sometimes when we have been deceived by a likeness of reason“ (Migne Patrologia Latina vol. 25.22 = vol. 5 of the Jerome series).

Jerome regards each of the three Platonic faculties as potentially causing or conniving at sin – even reason can mislead, since what appears to be rational is not always so – and it is only by virtue of the fourth, conscience, that we are reliably aware of wrongdoing. This passage in Jerome had an enormous influence on subsequent Christian thought, and Jerome’s use of the term suntêrêsis (or sundêrêsis, as it is sometimes rendered), which was taken to mean the spark of conscience as opposed to conscience itself, became a staple of scholastic theories, though in fact it appears that Jerome was confused about the Greek terminology (there is no such word as or sundêrêsis in ancient Greek).⁶ But neither Euripides nor Plutarch will have intended such a meaning. A second sense of conscience is something more like moral awareness or the capacity to distinguish right and wrong, without presupposing that this ability is lodged in a specific region of the brain or mind. Thus, The Oxford Dictionary offers as one definition “a person’s moral sense of right and wrong, viewed as acting as a

 For the Platonic sources of Jerome’s interpretation, and more especially the influence of Origen, see Kries ; the pioneering work explaining the origin of the error in Jerome is Lottin ,  – . On the confusion caused by Jerome in his discussion of conscience, see also O’Connell, ,  – ; Sorabji ,  – . Verplaetse  provides a brief review of later theories of conscience, including an account of the confusion introduced by St Jerome in his commentary on Ezekiel : – .

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guide to one’s behavior,” whereas the Collins English Dictionary gives “the sense of right and wrong that governs a person’s thoughts and actions; regulation of one’s actions in conformity to this sense.” Needless to say, Greeks in the classical period were capable of making moral distinctions, but Orestes is not characterizing the mere ability to make such judgments as a disease or the source of his distress. The relevant sense in context is rather what the Collins English Dictionary describes as “a feeling of guilt or anxiety,” and the Merriam-Webster lexicon as “a feeling that something you have done is morally wrong.” This is the sense in which we refer to “pangs of conscience,” the discomfort that is caused when we are aware of having acted in a way we recognize to have been wrong. The distinction between the last two senses of conscience may be understood as temporal: regulating one’s actions in conformity with a sense of right and wrong looks to the future, whereas a feeling of anxiety because one has done something wrong refers to past actions.⁷ This difference corresponds to that which is often drawn between what is sometimes called prospective shame and retrospective shame. The former, looking to future acts, corresponds what is spoken of as a sense of shame, that is, a moral sensibility that inhibits us from doing things that are deemed socially inappropriate, whereas the latter is more like an emotion that is felt for things already done, and is accompanied by symptoms such as blushing or a wish to hide. Thus, William Miller observes that shame that inhibits “is not the emotion shame, but the sense of shame, the sense of modesty and propriety that keeps us from being shamed.”⁸ This distinction is sometimes mapped onto the difference between the Greek words aidôs and aiskhunê; Jeffrey Rusten, for example, remarks that “aiskhunê and aiskhunomai denote properly the guilty shame for an act committed, aidôs and aidoumai the inhibitory emotion which prevents such acts.”⁹ Aristotle himself, however, treats aiskhunê as applying to past, present, and future actions; thus, his definition in the Rhetoric runs: “Let aiskhunê, then, be a pain or disturbance concerning those ills, either present, past, or future, that are perceived to lead to dis Rodgers , , cites the distinction between “‘backward-looking conscience’ and the ‘conscience’ which prompts a course of action, and which might therefore be called ‘forwardlooking.’ Thus we talk of having a clear or guilty conscience with reference to our past actions, and of following the dictates of our conscience when faced with alternative courses of action”; he ascribes this analysis to Zucker .  Miller , .  Rusten ,  on Thucydides ..; Rusten adds, however, that “the distinction between them becomes blurred by the late fifth century.” Grimaldi , , distinguishes between “aidôs, verecundia, a subjective feeling of honor which precedes and prevents a shameful act” and “aiskhunê, pudor, an objective aspect which reflects upon the consequences of the act and the shame it brings with it”; Grimaldi is summarizing here the view of Cope .

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grace, while shamelessness is a disregard or impassivity concerning these same things” (2.6, 1383b12– 14). The same shame that we suffer when we are conscious of having done something amiss afflicts us when we contemplate committing such a thing in the future, and it is this perception or phantasia that restrains us from such behavior.¹⁰ So too, we may suppose that the Greeks might not have distinguished as sharply as we between prospective and retrospective conscience: we feel, upon contemplating a wrongful act, the same pang that we experience when we are aware of having done wrong, and it is this that inhibits us from carrying out our intention. There is no reason why sunesis, as the Greeks conceived it, might not perform both functions. Nevertheless, Orestes is clearly reflecting on his past deeds, as he says: it is his consciousness of the terrible things he has done that is the cause of his distress. But here a further question arises, again well formulated by Rodgers: When we talk of having a clear or guilty conscience with reference to past actions, we can mean simply that we are aware or are not aware of having, whether by commission or omission, rendered ourselves liable to penalties if we are apprehended…. But we can also use phrases like “having a guilty conscience” and “being conscience-stricken” to denote a feeling of “moral guilt.” By this I mean the awareness that one has knowingly violated standards of behaviour to which one subscribes, an awareness which is usually associated with feeling ashamed of oneself…. Indeed the recognition of an act as “morally wrong,” that is, as contravening one’s own code of behaviour as distinct from incurring some external penalty, is a necessary prerequisite of a sense of moral guilt“ (pp. 242– 43).

Now, the idea that guilt represents an internalized moral code whereas shame is a response to outward disapproval is no longer tenable: shame is as much a selfmotivating principle as guilt. The moral question in regard to our past actions is rather whether we regret them because of their negative consequences for us – we are now in trouble – or feel remorse on account of the injury (presumably undeserved) we have done to another. As Laurel Fulkerson puts it: “true remorse looks beyond the self to the larger world, while regret simply wishes things were different.”¹¹ Robert Kaster, in turn, affirms that remorse “is essentially a ‘moral emotion,’ while regret is not.”¹² Remorse itself can assume more or less intense forms, and at one extreme it may seem incurable; to those suffering from such remorse, as Jeffrie Murphy observes, “a kind of hopelessness is essential to the inconsolable bite of conscience”, along with a sense that “the wrong one has

 On Aristotle’s view of shame, see Konstan a,  – .  Fulkerson , .  Kaster , .

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done is so deep … that one can in no sense ever make it right again.”¹³ But remorse may be assuaged by genuine repentance, whereby one both rejects one’s previous action and seeks to make amends for the harm one has inflicted. As Wolfgang Teubert explains: “For remorse, the wish to make amends, to repair the damage, and not to do whatever it was again, is essential,” and he contrasts remorse with guilt: “If we feel remorse, we repent…. If we feel guilt, we leave things as they are. Guilt is a feeling that does not commit us to any action.”¹⁴ The question concerning Orestes, then, is whether the self-awareness or sunesis that has followed upon the slaying of his mother is mere regret because he is now in trouble or remorse for what he perceives as a moral wrong, which we might legitimately describe as pangs of conscience. Now, there is a long tradition in classical scholarship arguing that remorse, as opposed to regret, was unknown in classical antiquity, and only emerged as a concept under the influence of Judeo-Christian thought.¹⁵ This view has recently been challenged, for example by Guy D. Nave, Jr., who affirms: “Biblical scholars have gone to great lengths to preserve and perpetuate the illusion that the concept of repentance found in the Bible in general, and in the New Testament in particular, was a uniquely Jewish concept that was alien to classical and Hellenistic Greek culture. However…, instead of being unique, the concept of repentance reflected in much of the preChristian and Christian Jewish literature was very similar to the concept of repentance found in much of the classical and Hellenistic Greek literature of the time.”¹⁶ The terms in question are metanoia and metameleia and the associated verbs (the Latin equivalent is paenitentia). The root meaning of the Greek words is something like a change of mind or afterthought, a sense that is common in  Murphy , .  Teubert , , . But contrast Tangney, Stuewig, and Martinez , : “Shame and guilt are both self-conscious emotions that arise from self-relevant failures and transgressions, but they differ in their object of evaluation. Feelings of shame involve a painful focus on the self – ‘I am a bad person’—whereas feelings of guilt involve a focus on a specific behavior—‘I did a bad thing.’ When people feel guilt about a specific behavior, they experience tension, remorse, and regret. Research has shown that this sense of tension and regret typically motivates reparative action—confessing, apologizing, or somehow repairing the damage done…. In contrast, when people feel shame about the self, they feel diminished, worthless, and exposed. Rather than motivating reparative action, the acutely painful shame experience often motivates a defensive response. When shamed, people want to escape, hide, deny responsibility, and blame other people. In fact, proneness to shame about the self has been repeatedly associated with a tendency to blame other people for one’s failures and shortcomings.”  See, for example, Norden ,  – ; Wilamowitz-Moellendorff , , in the unredacted part derived from his notes, remarks pithily: “Hellenen kein Gefühl für μετάνοια”; on sunesis see pp.  – .  Nave , ; see in general Fulkerson .

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Greek literature and which in itself carries no connotation of moral regret. To take two striking examples, in Xenophon’s Cyropedia a king declares: “I am not sorry that I killed your son, but that I did not kill you as well” (5.3.6) – the monarch would hardly be described as conscience-stricken. In Menander’s Dyscolus the misanthrope Knemon is described by Pan as being so unsociable that he refuses to greet anyone, except perhaps the god himself (that is, his statue) – and even then, he immediately regrets it (metamelei, 12); again, his sentiment is scarcely remorse but rather regret at having to display even a modicum of amiability. It is clear then that the decision to assign the meaning “remorse” to these expressions will depend entirely on the context. There are certainly some passages in classical literature that suggest such a moral sentiment. Thus, the Epicurean poet Lucretius speaks of crimes that bite at one because of deeds committed in the past (praeteritisque male admissis peccata remordent, 3.827), and again he affirms that the mind that is aware of a fault may gnaw itself (conscius ipse animus se forte remordet, 4.1135) – here is the very root of “remorse,” in a sense that is perhaps not far distant from the modern significance of the term. The Stoic Seneca professed himself to be in agreement with Epicurus on the point that evil deeds are punished by conscience (mala facinora conscientia flagellari, Letters to Lucilius 97.15). Yet Epicurus seemed to regard the source of this unease as the fear of detection or exposure: “It is hard for someone who commits an injustice to escape notice, and impossible to acquire confidence about escaping notice” (Vatican Saying 7). What, then, of the passage in Plutarch, cited above? We recall that sunesis, according to Plutarch, leaves metameleia in the soul like a stinging wound, and that logos, far from healing such lupai, in fact generates metanoia; what is more, the soul is bitten daknomenês – the same image as Lucretius’ remordere –and punishes itself with a sense of aiskhunê. That one is oneself responsible (epaitios) for the outcome renders the pain all the worse.¹⁷ As a cure for this kind of distress, Plutarch recommends a moral life, free of lying and wrongdoing. He does not, however, mention the need to make amends, which, as we have seen, features prominently in modern definitions of remorse. This is not surprising, since Plutarch is not examining a petition for forgiveness, with the attendant need to apologize for the offense and to make it clear that it will not be repeated – frequently buttressed by the claim to have experienced a profound change in

 This is the very point that Aristotle makes in respect to shame in the Rhetoric, which is exacerbated, Aristotle observes, if one’s deficiencies “are perceived to occur on one’s own account; for it is all the more a consequence of vice, if one is oneself responsible for what has happened, is happening, or is going to happen.”

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character, even to the point of being a new person. The essay’s focus is on achieving peace of mind rather than on reconciling with those one may have injured. This is not accidental: as I have argued elsewhere, expressions of remorse and a commitment to a new way of life did not typically enter into forgiveness scenarios in classical antiquity, although this is perhaps the principal context for remorse today.¹⁸ Especially in philosophical treatments, contrition was taken to be motivated by the recognition of a lapse from virtue, and hence was centered more on the self than on the other. This focus on oneself may be part of the reason why scholars have failed to identify remorse or moral regret in classical texts: we tend to see conscience operating in interpersonal contexts, where it serves to mend relations and enable reconciliation: one has a guilty conscience for what one has done, not for a lapse in respect to one’s ego ideal. Still, a virtue-based conception of conscience is nevertheless authentically moral. But how accurately does Plutarch reflect the original context of the verse that he has quoted from Euripides’ Orestes?¹⁹ There is, of course, no question of making amends in the tragedy (Orestes will soon enough attempt to kill Helen and threaten to murder Hermione), and Orestes is not seeking forgiveness from Menelaus.²⁰ The point at issue is whether Orestes believes that slaying Clytemnestra was morally wrong, and that his suffering is due to the sting of what we call conscience or remorse. Earlier, Menelaus spoke of Orestes as having dared to do “terrible evils” (τὰ δείν᾽ ἔτλη κακά, 376), to which Orestes responds: “I willingly reveal to you my evils” (ἑκὼν ἐγώ σοι τἀμὰ μηνύσω κακά, 381), and begs his uncle for help, for he has arrived at the very acme of his evils (ἀῖξαι δ᾽ αὐτὸν ἐς καιρόν κακῶν, 384). Orestes has evidently turned Menelaus’s words around: Menelaus meant by kaka what Orestes had done, but Orestes refers kaka to his present misfortune. Orestes goes on to claim that though he sees the light, he is no longer alive thanks to his evil condition (οὐ γὰρ ζῶ κακοῖς, φάος δ᾽ ὁρῶ, 386); once again, the reference is to his plight, not his actions, though he does allow that his deeds (erga) have disfigured him (οὐχ ἡ

 See Konstan ; Konstan .  Abel , , notes that “Die Tragiker des . Jahrhunderts haben den Gewissenskonflikt ergreifend gemalt, z. B. Euripides (Medea, Phaidra),” but he traces the chief sources of Plutarch’s essay to Plato, Aristotle, and others, ascribing little direct influence to Panaetius (“Für die Panaitios-Rekonstruktion ist aus der Schrift so gut wie nichts zu gewinnen, p. ). For a detailed commentary on the text, see Petine .  Cf. Willink , , who observes that Orestes “does not use the vb μεταγιγνώσκειν or related words” and that “even in his ‘saner’ moments … we feel that he would do the same thing again.”

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πρόσοψίς μ᾽ ἀλλὰ τἄργ᾽ αἰκίζεται, 388). When he mentions the matricide, Menelaus bids him not to dwell on evils (φείδου δ᾽, ὀλιγάκις λέγων κακά, 393), to which Orestes replies that his fate has been abundant in evils (ὁ δαίμων δ᾽ ἐς ἐμὲ πλούσιος κακῶν, 394), once again shunting aside the matricide in favor of his own situation.²¹ It is here that Menelaus ask what disease (nosos, 395) is afflicting him, and Orestes offers the much discussed response, it is sunesis, and he goes on to explain that he is aware of the dreadful things (deina) he has brought about (ἡ σύνεσις, ὅτι σύνοιδα δείν᾽ εἰργασμένος, 396). Is he manifesting here a sense of having done wrong? Scholars have rightly called attention to the significance of deina here. Thus Rodgers writes: “The adjective he uses to describe his deed is δεινός, a word which appears to bear no moral connotations at all, being used of things which are extraordinary or monstrous. What he is conscious of is the full horror of the deed, a feeling which need have nothing to do with awareness of culpability or with moral guilt” (p. 250); he thus concludes: “There is thus no evidence to support the rendering of the word σύνεσις by the word ‘conscience’ in any of its senses” (p. 252). Perhaps we may note further Orestes’ use of the perfect εἰργασμένος: he is referring not simply to something he did in the past, but a lasting condition that affects him in the present. The sense may then be that he is conscious of the abiding effects of his action, which would include his present distraught state. There is a parallel in Plato’s Gorgias, in which Socrates states that the best way of coming to one’s own aid is “never to have said or done anything unjust concerning human beings or the gods” (μήτε περὶ ἀνθρώπους μήτε περὶ θεοὺς ἄδικον μηδὲν μήτε εἰρηκὼς μήτε εἰργασμένος, 522c8 – d2); the perfect here covers the entire course of one’s life. A closer example perhaps is Sophocles’ Antigone, in which the guard, defending himself for permitting the corpse of Polyneices to have been buried, explains to Creon that each of the guards was eager to do anything to prove that he did not do it nor was he conscious either of having planned or brought about the action (τὸ μήτε δρᾶσαι μήτε τῳ ξυνειδέναι/ τὸ πρᾶγμα βουλεύσαντι μηδ᾽ εἰργασμένῳ, 266 – 67). If there is any contrast between dran and ergazesthai here, it may be that the latter term suggests bringing about the present state of affairs. Menelaus professes not to understand fully and asks Orestes for further clarification (πῶς φήις; σοφόν τοι τὸ σαφές, οὐ τὸ μὴ σαφές, 397). His question has been taken by some to indicate that he is confused about Orestes’ use of an un-

 Cf.  and , where kaka refers clearly to Orestes’ present difficulties. It is worth noting that Orestes speaks only of the act of matricide; he does not mention the harm or injustice done to Clytemnestra as a person.

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familiar concept. Thus, Martin West, though he translates sunesis as “intellect,” comments: “Greeks did not yet have a word for conscience (syneidêsis is Hellenistic), but the concept was beginning to be familiar,” and he adds: “Menelaus finds Orestes’ answer obscure” (p. 210).²² Rodgers suggests that it is the “internal awareness expressed in the word σύνεσις, rather than the strange use of the word itself, which puzzles Menelaus in the Orestes…. This concept Menelaus fails to grasp since, as his question to Orestes implies (τίς σ᾽ ἀπόλλυσιν νόσος;), he understands Orestes’ plight in terms of something external destroying him” (p. 254).²³ Surely, however, Menelaus understands well enough the meaning of σύνοιδα δείν᾽ εἰργασμένος, which is hardly obscure. My own hunch is that he is asking Orestes for more detail: just what horrible things is he claiming to have done or caused, and why should these, whatever they are, have afflicted him to the degree that he is physically wasted? To this Orestes replies that pain is destroying him (λύπη μάλιστά γ᾽ ἡ διαφθείρουσά με, 398).²⁴ The word λύπη is ambiguous, since it may refer to physical or psychological discomfort; as a result, it is often rendered in English as “distress,” which covers both senses.²⁵ Menelaus is doubtless thinking of the physical meaning when he replies that pain can be cured, but he is also pushing Orestes for a fuller account of what has so ravaged him. At this point Orestes comes clean and reveals that it is the avenging Furies of his mother’s blood (μανίαι τε, μητρὸς αἵματος τιμωρίαι, 400). This explanation finally makes sense to Menelaus as a cause of Orestes’ affliction (cf. 407), and he concludes that it is not shocking that one who has done shocking things should suffer them (οὐ δεινὰ πάσχειν δεινὰ τοὺς εἰργασμένους, 413). Once this point is clarified, Orestes returns at once to his present plight, since he has, after all, recovered from the attacks of the Furies, and declares that there is indeed a way of dealing with it (ἀλλ᾽ ἔστιν ἡμῖν ἀναφορὰ τῆς

 West , .  Cf. Holzhausen , : “Man fragt sich, was einleuchtender sein könnte als die Gewissenqualen eines Muttermörders und wie wenig es in Orestes’ Fall auf ‘Weisheit’ (σοφία) ankommt. Aber für Menelaos ist die Gleichsetzung von Bewusstsein und Wissen (σύνεσις) mit Krankheit nicht nachvollziehbar.”  Biehl , , remarks that “Or. führt nun die psychischen Folgen des Muttermordes (λύπη, μανίαι) an…, wobei das Mythische (‘Erinyen-Motiv’) vorübergehend in den Hintergrund tritt,” but he immediately adds: “eine strenge Scheidung ist jedoch offenbar nicht angestrebt, weder zwischen der intellektuellen Seite des Handelns und den zu Grunde liegenden ‘irrationalem Gewalten’ … noch zwischen dem inneren und äusseren Ursprung der Pathosmomente.”  Cf. Harris , : “The meaning of lup- words is from a modern point of view ambiguous: they can refer to physical pain or to psychological distress.”

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ξυμφορᾶς, 414), adding that Apollo ordered the murder – thus exonerating himself of blame (416).²⁶ There is, then, no distinction here between inner and outer causes of Orestes’ suffering: the pain inflicted by the Erinyes is epexegetical, a clearer statement, such as Menelaus requests, of what has disfigured him. Orestes is now aware of the consequences of what he has done, in the form of the pain inflicted by the Erinyes.²⁷ His thoughts have all along been less on what he did than what resulted from his act. Such an awareness scarcely counts as “conscience” in the modern acceptation of the term.

 This is not to deny that there is a comic element in the exchange between Menelaus and Orestes. Menelaus has not seen Orestes since he was a baby, but what strikes him is his awful appearance; there is a possible analogy in the Strepsiades’ recognition of his son in Aristophanes’ Clouds, cf. Konstan b. The verbal sparring is also humorous, and involves deliberate wordplay, e. g. on pheidomai ( – ); cf. Willink , lvi-lvii.  See Porter ,  –  (Appendix , “Madness and σύνεσις in Orestes”), who also hesitates between a moral and narrowly intellectual sense of σύνεσις here. Porter affirms that one ought not “to overemphasize the psychological nature of Orestes’ affliction – to base an interpretation of the play on the premise that Euripides presents us with an Orestes whose initial defining characteristic is a convulsive sense of guilt” (p. ); but because Orestes cites not only sunesis and lupai but also maniai, that is, the Erinyes, Porter concludes that he is afflicted “by the combined assaults of the Ἐρινύες and his own remorse” (ibid.). Porter rightly notes, I think, that “Euripides finds remorse much less significant than do many modern readers” (p. ), and that Orestes doesn’t regard the matricide as “utterly villainous” (pp.  – ), but he continues to see remorse at work: “the audience would find nothing shocking in the fact that Orestes, despite this remorse, could still look to Menelaus for salvation or could produce a defense of his acts” (p. ).

Anna Lamari

Madness Narrative in Euripides’ Bacchae ¹

1 Introduction What exactly is a madness narrative? Obviously, a narrative connected to madness. But what is this connection? Does it refer to accounts of mental instability provided by mentally stable narrators? Does it refer to illness-based writing, namely autobiographical accounts of psychic illness? We are all familiar with the literary topoi of love or revenge as madness, or of captivating fictional madmen such as Don Quixote, Poe’s mad narrators,² or Gogol’s crazy diarist. Over the last decades, this wide range has been further enriched by pathography,³ clinically related accounts, written⁴ or uploaded online⁵ by patients or their families. In a recent article on the wide range of madness narrative, Anca-Luisa Viusenco defines it as following: Madness narratives are … texts at the border between creative writing, pathography, scriptotherapy and political activism. They are, mainly, either entirely fictional accounts of madness, … instances of (auto)biographical fiction dealing with mental instability, or the selfproclaimed non-fictional madness memoirs … and, according to certain critics, relational madness narratives.⁶

Madness narratives guide the audience through the delusional world of the mad character, immersing them in a new, fictional world.⁷ This world however, does

 It is with the greatest respect that I dedicate this piece in the memory of Professor Daniel Iakov. I was fortunate enough to be one of his students and benefit from his unparalleled knowledge and academic integrity. My emotional and academic debts to Daniel Iakov are immense and this is just a small token of gratitude –I am thankful to Patrick Finglass for his illuminating comments.  E.g. the narrators in ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’, ‘MS. Found in a Bottle’, ‘A Descent into the Maelstrom’.  See Hunsaker-Hawkins a; b.  See e. g. Bernard ; Hansel ; Van Pelt .  E. g. the European Network of (Ex) Users and Survivors of Psychiatry: http://www.enusp.org; Mental Health Testimony Project: http://insidestories.org/; Psychiatric Survivor Archives: http:// psychiatricsurvivorarchives.com.  Viusenco , . ‘Relational madness narratives’ are texts ‘whose primary subject is not the writer but a proximate other, such as a blood relative or a partner, or the relationship between the author or that other’ (Couser , ).  Ryan , , ‘once we become immersed in a fiction, the characters become real for us, and the world they live in momentarily takes the place of the actual world’.

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not only display mental instability, but can reciprocally also be the product of that particular instability. In other words, madness narratives can even determine the narrative development of events. As Lars Bernaerts, Luc Herman and Bart Vervaeck put it: Madness can be the decisive factor in the creation of narrative interest … The reader is encouraged to ask all sorts of questions that not only enhance his interest in the text, but that also force him to focus on the textual strategies: Is this storyworld a mental projection? Is the main character really mad? How will his or her madness develop and affect the course of the events? … A madness smuggled into the make-up of narration and focalization, can intensify the thematic questions of the narrative relating, for example, to problems of knowledge and perception, to the nature of worlds, or to issues of ethics, language and the construction of identity.⁸

In Greek tragedy madness is symbolic,⁹ transient, relating to the mad person’s connection to the community or the gods,¹⁰ and deriving from specific actions performed either by the suffering character or by others. Lillian Feder defines madness as ‘a state in which unconscious processes predominate over conscious ones to the extent that they control them and determine perceptions of and responses to experience that, judged by prevailing standards of logical thought and relevant emotion, are confused and inappropriate’.¹¹ In the context of Greek tragedy, such a crisis would be addressed more as a conflict between inner and outer forces, as a conflict within the self, expressing human inner susceptibility to the power of outer influence.¹² This chapter seeks to explore narrative strategies employed for the description of madness in Greek tragedy, using Euripides’ Bacchae as a case study. The intense delirium of Agave and the rotating focalizers of her mania provide the perfect material for such an investigation, although other tragedies with madness narratives exhibiting similar characteristics will also be cited along the way. Whereas examples of madness and folly in Greek drama have been thoroughly discussed, the inner mechanics of madness narratives, as well as the side effects of embedded madness narratives at the wider diegetic level, have not yet been studied. Demonstrating how embedded accounts of madness affect the very structure of the narrative, but also how madness is narrated, are two of  Bernaerts, Herman & Vervaeck , .  On the symbolic effect of madness in Greek tragedy see Oyebode ,  – . On the symbolism and the prototypes of Dionysiac frenzy in the Bacchae, see Feder ,  – .  For the relationship between human and divine in the causation of madness, see in general Padel .  Feder , .  In general, Padel ; .

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this study’s raisons d’être. By means of a narratological analysis, I attempt to show that the description of madness in tragedy is not chaotic, as its content might suggest, but neatly and carefully organized by the tragic narrator. Madness narratives display particular narrative characteristics, which yield specific narrative results. The present chapter consists of an analysis of two large groups of narrative characteristics that can be traced in the madness narrative of the Bacchae. The first group focuses on the constituents of the so-called narrative delirium; the second explores the description of the split between the narrating and the experiencing selves as an extra component of a madness narrative.

2 Madness Narrative In Bacchae 2.1 Narrative Delirium Narrative delirium ‘arises when a character’s or a narrator’s delirium extends to the narrative progression and narrative presentation’.¹³ Madness narratives often display the characteristics of the narrator’s delirium, mainly expressed by a crisis of identity, by a split between a delusional and a lucid acting subject. Delirium narratives develop in stages, starting with revealed traces of delusion in the narrator text, and finally reaching the climax of ultimate division between hallucination and sanity. The narrative power of delusion in delirium narratives usually dominates the rest of the narrative voices. Even when the suffering character realizes the terrible situation that he is experiencing, he can still be pulling the narrative strings. As Bernaerts notes, in spite of all the insights into his situation the experiencing self fails to get rid of his delusions. His delirium still monopolizes his perception and cognition. And so, in a context of literary postmodernism, the delirium is explicitly resisting reduction to a secondary state. It might even be more actual than the supposed real world, as it motivates the thoughts, utterances, and actions of the protagonist. … The products of the protagonists’ sick mind are constitutive to the narrative.¹⁴

In Greek drama, however, delirium narratives are generically tuned down at the end, since the tragic hero experiencing the delirium has to recognize his own destruction. Such a generic necessity postpones narrative resolution, increases narrative tension, and leads to a more complex and layered narrative outcome.

 Bernaerts , .  Bernaerts ,  – .

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Whereas in non-dramatic literature a madness narrative’s climax is usually reached at the peak of the suffering character’s delusion, in drama, narrative intensity is also kept for the end, where the mentally suffering character will have to revert to sanity and face the repercussions of her/his deviating behaviour. In a dramatic context, the intensity of the narrative outcome of such a presentation is extraordinary. In Sophocles’ Ajax for example, the description of all the stages of the title character’s delirium does not exceed 46 lines (Ajax, 284– 330). It happens at the play’s beginning and encompasses all the stages of hallucination, from start, to peak, and then to painful return to sanity, in a single account by Tecmessa.¹⁵ The tragic hero then has to endure the repercussions of his mania for the rest of the play. Narratively, delirium in drama is usually not the climax, but rather an intermediate step that, moves the plot to the next level. Ajax’ s delirium serves as a bridge to the play’s climactic peak, the hero’s self-destruction.¹⁶ Similarly, Heracles suffers a madness attack at the moment of his greatest glory. In hallucination,¹⁷ he kills his three sons and wife and then falls asleep (Heracles, 922– 1015). He wakes up tied to a pillar next to his slaughtered family (Heracles, 1094– 1097) and his father helps him realize what has happened (Heracles, 1111– 1152). Heracles’ intention to kill himself (Heracles, 1146 – 1152) is overturned by Theseus, who convinces Heracles to follow him in Athens. Although Heracles’ madness attack undoubtedly constitutes a powerful dramatic peak, it is not the climax of the play. Heracles’ delirium and the subsequent return to his senses move the narrative forward, towards the aetiology of his cult’s Athenian context.¹⁸ A parallel narrative course is also followed in Euripides’ Ino, where Athamas killed his son Learchus after he was overcome by madness while hunting, but then returned to sanity, and faced the toils of the filicide. The play’s fragments are sufficient to show that the killings of Athamas’ children did not constitute the final parts of the plot.¹⁹ The potential of a powerful dramatic crescendo that would be

 On this description by Tecmessa, see Finglass ,  – . Although her account draws special attention to Ajax’s return to sanity, it also introduces the idea that he might never recover fully, thus constituting a threat to his own self.  On Athena’s involvement in Ajax’s madness attack and his subsequent intention to kill himself, see Kyriakou ,  – .  The description of Heracles’ madness is considered rather traditional in terms of tragic typology. On the tragic conventions of descriptions of madness and the typology of Heracles’ madness in particular, see Papadopoulou ,  – .  Mikalson , .  On Ino and the reconstruction of its plot, see Finglass .

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created by the mourning of Athamas over the corpse of his victim son, made his return to sanity narratively necessary.²⁰ Euripides’ Bacchae offers one of the most outstanding instances of delirium narrative in Greek theater. Coming full circle from sanity, delusion and then back to reason, Agave experiences the delirium which Dionysus imposed on her and which is narrated either by onstage narrators (externally) or by her (internally).²¹ Dionysus is the first to allude to Agave’s madness in the play’s prologue. He reveals that he has stung the daughters of Cadmus with madness, forcing them and the rest of the Theban women to leave their houses and perform his rites in the mountains (Bacchae, 32– 38). Unlike other literary narratives of madness, the pathology of madness in Greek drama is connected to the generic motifs of hybris and nemesis, deriving from the gods’ vengeance. This is also the reason why the suffering characters return to sanity and realize their hallucination by the end of the play. Contrary to modern psychoanalysis, according to which mental instability is traced back to inherent characteristics of one’s personality, or to traumatic experiences of the past, in Greek tragedy, madness constitutes a central feature,²² presented as a transient state of abrupt beginning and limited duration and connected to external, mainly divine, forces.²³ According to Ruth Padel, ‘in Greek tragic plots, madness had two functions –to cause crime and to punish it- which reflect the two weightings of Homeric and tragic Erinyes. Homeric Erinyes fulfill curses, but also “send atē on phrenes” causing crime, causing damage, whereas tragic Erinyes, like tragic madness, are primarily punitive’.²⁴ This vicious circle of madness as causation of crime but also as punishment is reflected exemplary in the character of Agave, who suffers madness as punish-

 On this, see Finglass in this volume.  The presentation of the story in drama has either the focalization of the character who, in embedded narratives, narrates offstage events, or neutral focalization, when the narrated events are put forth by onstage actors in dialogue scenes or monologues. In a dramatic context, internal focalization takes place when events are narrated by onstage characters and are thus presented through their point of view, while external focalization happens when the unseen dramatic narrator exhibits events not through the mouth of onstage characters, but through their enactment by these. A shift of focalization in the case of drama would take the form either of changing from one on-stage character to another, or from an embedded narrative by an on-stage character, to a bare enactment of the story, by on-stage characters, through the external focalization of the unseen external dramatic narrator. On the types of dramatic narrators, see Lamari ,  nn. – .  Padel .  Tragic madness is connected to the idea of the ‘mad god’ according to Padel , ; , especially  – .  Padel , .

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ment, but also as generator of crime. The audience gets a first idea of Agave’s delirium via the external focalization of the Messenger (Bacchae, 677– 774). His description projects the image of the divinely maddened Agave as the leader of the maenads (Bacchae, 689 – 691) and communicates the reactions of the herdsmen (Bacchae, 712 – 723; 734– 735) and of the people of the village the maenads attacked (Bacchae, 758 – 764). The narrative delirium here relies on the external focalization of the Messenger. External though it is, it can still demonstrate the perspective of the deranged characters by a dexterous narrative endorsement of the maenads’ hallucinations. In lines 726 – 727, the Messenger reports that the whole mountain and its wildlife are in frenzy with the bacchants (Bacchae, 723 – 727): … αἱ δὲ τὴν τεταγμένην ὥραν ἐκίνουν θύρσον ἐς βακχεύματα, Ἴακχον ἀθρόωι στόματι τὸν Διὸς γόνον Βρόμιον καλοῦσαι· πᾶν δὲ συνεβάκχευ᾽ ὄρος καὶ θῆρες, οὐδὲν δ’ ἦν ἀκίνητον δρόμωι. And the women at the appointed time of day began to wave their thyrsoi and to worship Dionysus, calling on Zeus’s son Iacchus with united voice as Bromios: the whole mountain with its beasts was as possessed as they were, and everything was set in rapid motion.²⁵

Further on in his speech, the Messenger describes his witnessing of the maenads’ surreal actions. Even if the dramatic narrator is not using Agave’s point of view, the signs of her hallucination are vivid parts of the fictional world. Her maddened perspective is experienced, if not endorsed, by the shepherd and the audience (Bacchae, 748 – 764): χωροῦσι δ’ ὥστ’ ὄρνιθες ἀρθεῖσαι δρόμωι πεδίων ὑποτάσεις, αἳ παρ’ ᾿Aσωποῦ ῥοαῖς εὔκαρπον ἐκβάλλουσι Θηβαίοις στάχυν, Ὑσιάς τ᾽ Ἐρυθράς θ᾽, αἳ Κιθαιρῶνος λέπας νέρθεν κατωικήκασιν, ὥστε πολέμιοι ἐπεσπεσοῦσαι πάντ᾽ ἄνω τε καὶ κάτω διέφερον· ἥρπαζον μὲν ἐκ δόμων τέκνα, ὁπόσα δ᾽ ἐπ᾽ ὤμοις ἔθεσαν, οὐ δεσμῶν ὕπο· προσείχετ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἔπιπτεν [ἐς μέλαν πέδον, οὐ χαλκός, οὐ σίδηρος], ἐπὶ δὲ βοστρύχοις πῦρ ἔφερον, οὐδ᾽ ἔκαιεν. οἱ δ᾽ ὀργῆς ὕπο ἐς ὅπλ᾽ ἐχώρουν φερόμενοι βακχῶν ὕπο· οὗπερ τὸ δεινὸν ἦν θέαμ᾽ ἰδεῖν, ἄναξ·

 Text and translation are by Kovacs .

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τοῖς μὲν γὰρ οὐχ ἥιμασσε λογχωτὸν βέλος, οὐ χαλκός, οὐ σίδηρος , κεῖναι δὲ θύρσους ἐξανιεῖσαι χερῶν ἐτραυμάτιζον κἀπενώτιζον φυγῆι γυναῖκες ἄνδρας οὐκ ἄνευ θεῶν τινος. They rose like birds and moved rapidly over the spreading plains that near Asopus’ waters produce abundant grain for the Thebans and hurled themselves like enemy troops upon Hysiae and Erythrae, which stand in the hill country of Cithaeron, in its lower reaches. There they turned everything upside down. They snatched children from houses, and all those they put upon their shoulders, though not held in place by any fastening, stayed without falling [onto the black earth, not bronze, not iron]. Upon the hair of their heads they carried fire, and it did not burn them. But the citizens, being plundered by the bacchants, rushed angrily to arms. And here occurred something dreadful to see, my lord: the men found that no weapon of theirs, whether bronze or iron, bloodied , whereas the women, fighting against men and hurling their thyrsoi at them, wounded them and put them to flight: some god was at work.

The spectators are being presented with the behavior of the maenads through the viewpoint of the shepherd. The vividness of description, and the obviousness of divine intervention introduce the maenads’ abnormal behavior as parts of the fictional universe, alluding proleptically to extreme narrative possibilities (like that of lethal delirium) that will actually be realized. The second Messenger speech (Bacchae, 1043 – 1052) reintroduces the embedded delirium, adds another, distinguished character as the focalizer, and thereby calls for more interpretative attention.²⁶ Although the narrator is again a Messenger, his narrative also endorses the point of view of Pentheus, whom the Messenger was accompanying in the woods. Delirium is here initially narrated in layers, resembling a framed narrative:²⁷ the bacchic tasks of the maenads are witnessed by Pentheus (1043 – 1057), whose divinely orchestrated actions are witnessed by the Messenger (1063 – 1074). Ironically, the narrative standards of theoria are soon reversed, since Pentheus, who, along with the Messenger, was the focalizer of the bacchants, becomes the focalized object. The focus of the maenads and of the Messenger’s narrative is Pentheus. The Messenger now narrates the delirium of the bacchants and communicates their focalization, according to which Pentheus is not Agave’s son, but a wild lion (Bacchae, 1095 – 1114). As in the previous Messenger speech,  ‘When the embedded delirium is intensifying or when it is reintroduced, it gives rise to increased suspense and it calls for more interpretative attention’ (Bernaerts , ).  In framed narratives, ‘the narrative ramifies into a frame tale that constitutes the main diegetic level and embedded or hypodiegetic levels [are] created when characters within that frame tell stories of their own’ (Herman , ). See also Fludernik ,  – .

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the description of the delirium happens through an external focalizer. This time however, the narrator also embeds the words of Agave, giving access to her maddened thinking. Although Agave is not the focalizer of this Messenger speech, the recipients of the narrative can still see through her eyes, via the Messenger’s embedding of her words. Lines 1106 – 1109 make clear that Agave thought she was hunting a beast that was spying on their bacchic rituals: ἔλεξ᾽ ᾿Aγαυή· Φέρε, περιστᾶσαι κύκλωι πτόρθου λάβεσθε, μαινάδες, τὸν ἀμβάτην θῆρ᾽ ὡς ἕλωμεν, μηδ᾽ ἀπαγγείληι θεοῦ χοροὺς κρυφαίους. Agave said, “Maenads, circle round and take hold of the tree so that we can catch the beast mounted on it: we don’t want him to tell about our secret dances”.

Embedding the suffering person’s perception of reality in a narrative of external focalization is a characteristic method of giving access to a character’s delirium without necessarily endorsing his or her point of view. When delivered through internal focalization, delirium narrative is even more powerful.²⁸ In the peak of the play’s narrative tension, Agave is an autodiegetic narrator of her own delirium. When delirium is presented without any focalization or narrative comment, the audience is even more directly immersed into the character’s world of hallucination, with the delirium becoming ‘the engine of the textual dynamics’.²⁹ The unstable relationship between Agave and the rest of the characters, as well as the tension triggered by the fact that her beliefs and understanding of the world are different from those of the rest of the characters’ and/or the readers’, justify the episode on a narrative level and progress the story, working towards its narrative completion.  An interesting shift from internal to external focalization takes place in the Oresteia and concerns the presentation of the Erinyes, who are present in the trilogy’s second and third plays. The most important difference between their presentation in the Choephoroi and the Eumenides is that of focalization, of the ‘eyes’ through which the audience ‘sees’ them. In the Choephoroi, the Furies are presented through the internal focalization of Orestes. They appear in a characteristic manner only at the end of the play, and as frequently commented by the chorus, it is only Orestes who sees them. In the Eumenides, the Furies are the chorus, presented externally, through the zero focalization of the external invisible narrator, and they make it to the stage as characters. Although they were seen only by Orestes in the Choephoroi and their existence was not recognized by anyone else, their existence in the Eumenides is recognized as grandiosely as possible by the external invisible narrator, who turns them into stage characters. A shift of focalization, from Orestes to the external narrator, gives the Erinyes a stage existence as the chorus in the Eumenides.  Bernaerts , .

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Agave’s first appearance on stage with the head of her son on her thyrsus is certainly one of the most shocking and powerful entrances in the extant ancient Greek tragic corpus.³⁰ The following self-narration of her divine delirium develops gradually, with a narrative scene of exchange with the chorus until her own description of the manhunt just before the entrance of Cadmus. In her dialogue with the chorus, Agave is totally deranged and shockingly happy. Her focalization not only reflects her delirium, but also allows the spectators to access her disturbed emotions. She refers to her son’s corpse as a ‘fortunate catch’ (Bacchae, 1171, μακάριον θήραν), brags about her hunting technique (Bacchae, 1173, ἔμαρψα τόνδ᾽ ἄνευ βρόχων), and believes she should be called ‘Agave the blessed’ (Bacchae, 1180, μάκαιρ᾽ ᾿Aγαυὴ). By endorsing her focalization for the description of an object, which the spectators can also see (Pentheus’ head), the dramatic narrator amplifies the appalling bipolarity of Agave’s folly. While speaking of her son’s head, Agave says: νέος ὁ μόσχος ἄρτι γένυν ὑπὸ κόρυθ᾽ ἁπαλότριχα κατάκομον θάλλει. The calf is young, his cheek just growing downy under his crest of delicate hair.

(1185 – 1187)

There could have been no better narrative way to communicate the deranged point of view of Agave. By putting the focalizing object in front of the eyes of the spectators, the dramatic narrator intensifies the effect of Agave’s delusion, according to which, Pentheus’ head, which the spectators can see, is the head of a lion. Some lines later, Agave still exhibits the object of her delusionary focalization in an autodiegetic account of the bare-handed hunt (Bacchae, 1202– 1210): ὦ καλλίπυργον ἄστυ Θηβαίας χθονὸς ναίοντες, ἔλθεθ᾽ ὡς ἴδητε τήνδ᾽ ἄγραν,

 Other instances of filicide after Dionysus induced madness are attested in Aeschylus’ Edonians (fr.  –  Radt) and Xantriae (fr.  – b Radt). In the Edonians, Lycurgus murders his son Dryas mistaking him for a vine (West , ). In the Xantriae, filicide is possibly performed by the Minyads, the daughters of Minyas, king of Orchomenos (LIMC s.v. Pentheus , , ; Jouan , ,  – ; Kefalidou , ). Both plays are fragmentary and we cannot know whether Aeschylus had presented those parents carrying their murdered children on stage just as Agave did. But even if Lycurgus and the Minyads did carry their victims onstage, it seems to me least probable that they did so while still in hallucination. The dramatic effect of Agave exhibiting her gruesome trophy on stage, while still in delirium, could be one of a kind.

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Κάδμου θυγατέρες θηρὸς ἣν ἠγρεύσαμεν, οὐκ ἀγκυλωτοῖς Θεσσαλῶν στοχάσμασιν, οὐ δικτύοισιν, ἀλλὰ λευκοπήχεσιν χειρῶν ἀκμαῖσι. κἆιτ᾽ ἀκοντίζειν χρεὼν καὶ λογχοποιῶν ὄργανα κτᾶσθαι μάτην; ἡμεῖς δέ γ᾽ αὐτῆι χειρὶ τόνδε θ᾽ εἵλομεν χωρίς τε θηρὸς ἄρθρα διεφορήσαμεν. Dwellers in fair-towered Thebes, come and see the catch, the beast we daughters of Cadmus have snared! We caught him not with the thong-hurled javelins the Thessalians use or with nets but with the fingers of our pale-skinned hands. After this, should one throw the javelin or get the weapons armorers make? It is pointless. We caught the beast with our bare hands and tore him limb from limb.

Agave’s delirium is structured upon her own perception of truth. She is not insincere; she is not faking her delusion. As usual in delirium narratives, the character suffering from delirium believes in his version of reality. In the words of Bernaerts, ‘contrary to lies, mistakes, and, to a certain extent, dreams, a delirium presupposes a person who believes in the truth and reality of the alternative version. As a consequence, the subject may be unreliable, but not insincere. When the delirium loses its intensity, the strong belief might slide into an all-encompassing doubt.’³¹ Even after meeting Cadmus, Agave is consistent in her delirium, boasting about her hunting prowess (Bacchae, 1233 – 1243): πάτερ, μέγιστον κομπάσαι πάρεστί σοι, πάντων ἀρίστας θυγατέρας σπεῖραι μακρῶι θνητῶν· ἁπάσας εἶπον, ἐξόχως δ᾽ ἐμέ, ἣ τὰς παρ᾽ ἱστοῖς ἐκλιποῦσα κερκίδας ἐς μείζον᾽ ἥκω, θῆρας ἀγρεύειν χεροῖν. φέρω δ᾽ ἐν ὠλέναισιν, ὡς ὁρᾶις, τάδε λαβοῦσα τἀριστεῖα, σοῖσι πρὸς δόμοις ὡς ἀγκρεμασθῆι· σὺ δέ, πάτερ, δέξαι χεροῖν˙ γαυρούμενος δὲ τοῖς ἐμοῖς ἀγρεύμασιν κάλει φίλους ἐς δαῖτα· μακάριος γὰρ εἶ, μακάριος, ἡμῶν τοιάδ᾽ ἐξειργασμένων. Father, you have the right to boast loudly that you begot the world’s bravest daughters: I said all of them, but especially me, since I have left my loom and shuttle and taken on greater things, hunting beasts with bare hands. I grasp, as you see, a prize of victory here so that it can be nailed up on your house’s walls. Father, take it in your hands. Exult in my hunt and invite your friends to a feast: blessed, blessed are you since we have accomplished this!

 Bernaerts , .

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The highly ironic passage intensifies the shock created by the previous narrative selections, where Agave had a completely deranged focalization of an object that the spectators could also see. This contrast is here proliferated since Agave also invites Cadmus, an additional focalizer, to marvel at the macabre focalizing object, which only she can see as a lion head. In all those instances, the dramatic narrator provides access to Agave’s madness through ‘reflectorization’. Fludernik has used the term to refer to the technique of the narrator’s endorsing the stances of individual characters and/or a communis opinio.³² ‘In the reflector mode there is no such thing as an internal impersonal (neutral) perspective since a reflector figure … perceives the world through her/his own mind’.³³ Through reflectorization, the audience can have access to a state of mind typically inaccessible. Agave here acts as a reflector of her own and her companions’ delirium, allowing the audience access to her deranged psyche. Some lines later however, her delirium subsides when Agave returns to sanity (Bacchae, 1269 – 1270): οὐκ οἶδα τοὔπος τοῦτο· γίγνομαι δέ πως ἔννους, μετασταθεῖσα τῶν πάρος φρενῶν. I don’t know what you mean. But I am coming somehow to my senses and have abandoned my former frame of mind.

Through a painful dialogue with Cadmus, Agave comes back to her senses. Their dialogue is structured upon recurring flashbacks that work as a healing procedure that brings Agave back to sanity (Bacchae, 1269 – 1281).³⁴ It is typical for the character suffering from delirium to use a ‘psychological narrative’ that accounts for the

 Fludernik ,  – .  Fludernik , .  Cadmus’ questions initiate flashbacks with specific local emphasis to the οἶκος (, ἐς ποῖον ἦλθες οἶκον ὑμεναίων μέτα;, , τίς οὖν ἐν οἴκοις παῖς ἐγένετο σῶι πόσει;). In self-writing narratives ‘the question is not so much “who am I?”, as “where am I?” (Regard , ). A narrated self is primarily defined by the spatial outlines of a narrative (Hoffmann , ), and consequently, a deranged narrator is mostly grounded and re-oriented by spatial references. The spatial sense of belonging to a ‘storyworld’ in which events develop for both the participants and the recipients of the story (Herman ; cf. also Herman ,  –  on the so called ‘ecology of narrative interpretation’) proves to be healing and reassuring. ‘In a narrative of uprooting and drifting, metonymy exceeds its function of localized and conventional trope: it expresses and obsessive need to define the self by its geographical origin, to assert a sense of belonging (Hoffmann , )’. Analogously, mental instability can be addressed through metaphors of spatial displacement.

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creation of her/his pathology.³⁵ As structured here, the narrative also includes the investigation leading to the realization of the reason of Agave’s double self (1296): Διόνυσος ἡμᾶς ὤλεσ᾽, ἄρτι μανθάνω. Dionysus has destroyed us: now I realize this.

Even before this moment of revelation, when her delirium starts decreasing and during this assisted introspection, Agave experiences the split between her two selves: the narrating and the experiencing ones.

2.2 The split between a character’s narrating and experiencing selves The Bacchae is structured upon the tension between madness and sanity, the former imposed by Dionysus avenging human hybris. The narrative leading to Agave’s delirium is a tug of war between belief and disbelief in the gods’ ultimate power, which finally imposes the delirium of madness. Such tension is a key element of the narrative’s development. Narrative progression is generated ‘through instabilities, that is, some unstable relationships between or within characters and their circumstances, and through tensions, that is, some disparity of knowledge, value, judgement, opinion, or belief between narrators and readers or authors and readers’.³⁶ The danger of becoming mad as a result of not believing in Dionysus is what glues together the narrative until Agave’s delirium. Throughout the first part of the play, until the first description of the manic behavior of the Theban women in the mountains (given by the Messenger in Bacchae, 677– 774), the narrative itself is seen as a rhetorical battlefield between the rational and the irrational, between resisting and surrendering to the divine madness imbued by Dionysus. This rhetoric operates at the diegetic level, is delivered by the on-stage characters, and works as a thematic preparation for descriptions of the Bacchants’ delirium. Most importantly, it proleptically reflects another narrative dichotomy, that of the split between Agave’s narrating and experiencing selves. In autobiographic narratives of madness, the recipients of the narrative often find themselves wondering whether narrators are aware of their own delusions, whether they are conscious about their situation, whether they have identified

 Bernaerts , .  Phelan , .

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their delirium. When an autodiegetic internal narrator is unaware of her/his hallucination, narrative is developed upon a distinction between the narrating self and the experiencing self. The narrating self ‘is telling after the events’,³⁷ while the experiencing self is unaware of the split until the end of the delirium. This double narrative identity is what Agave is experiencing for most of the play. Although her narrating self brings narration forth, her experiencing self is delusional. When she first appeared on stage and presented her gruesome trophy to the chorus, she was delusional regarding Pentheus, but perfectly lucid in terms of conducting a conversation. Her experiencing self was suffering, but her narrating self accomplished its task. It is the narrating self of Agave that Cadmus is addressing in line 1259, where he tells her that it is only delusion that can still keep her happy (Bacchae, 1259 – 1262): φεῦ φεῦ· φρονήσασαι μὲν οἷ᾽ ἐδράσατε ἀλγήσετ᾽ ἄλγος δεινόν· εἰ δὲ διὰ τέλους ἐν τῶιδ᾽ ἀεὶ μενεῖτ᾽ ἐν ὧι καθέστατε, οὐκ εὐτυχοῦσαι δόξετ᾽ οὐχὶ δυστυχεῖν. Ah, ah! If you all come to realize what you have done, you will suffer dreadfully! But if you remain throughout in your present state, though you will not be truly happy, you will at least not be thought miserable.

Cadmus refers to Agave’s two conflicting selves, including his and the other citizens’ focalization on the bacchants, who are thought nor happy nor unhappy, but simply in a different state of mind. The dichotomy between pathology and lucid narration is also expedited by Pentheus. Although he hardly resisted the Dionysiac frenzy, Pentheus ultimately yielded to Dionysus’ power. In lines 918 – 922, he is an autodiegetic narrator of his own hallucinations: καὶ μὴν ὁρᾶν μοι δύο μὲν ἡλίους δοκῶ, δισσὰς δὲ Θήβας καὶ πόλισμ᾽ ἑπτάστομον· καὶ ταῦρος ἡμῖν πρόσθεν ἡγεῖσθαι δοκεῖς καὶ σῶι κέρατα κρατὶ προσπεφυκέναι. ἀλλ᾽ ἦ ποτ᾽ ἦσθα θήρ; τεταύρωσαι γὰρ οὖν. Look, I seem to see two suns in the sky! The seven-gated city of Thebes—I see two of them! And you seem to be going before me as a bull, and horns seem to have sprouted upon your head! Were you an animal before now? Certainly now you have been changed into a bull.

 Bernaerts , .

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Pentheus has just started hallucinating, so he can still describe the dichotomy he starts to experience. His narrating self criticizes his experiencing one, commenting on what he can see now, contrary to what he could see before divine intervention. It is this differentiation between what a character experiences and what a character narrates that makes narration reliable. In the course of delirium narratives, when the narrator experiences unrelenting mania, frenzy keeps any forces of sanity away from the narrative. At the moment of hallucination narrators can hardly overcome their experience and also include in their world lucid accounts of reality. When delirium subsides however, narrators experience the difference between their hallucination and reality, recognizing both aspects of their persona. Delirium narratives are products of hallucination and can thus be unreliable. It is only through the recognition of their bipolarity that narrators regain their liability.³⁸

3 Conclusion The present study springs from the need to explore the narrative mechanisms employed in madness narratives embedded in tragic texts. Madness narratives appear in a great variety of texts, ranging from literary fiction to autobiographical pathography or scriptotherapy.³⁹ Generic conventions make tragic narratives of madness differ from the rest. By displaying characteristics such as symbolism, transience or divine reasoning, to name just a few, tragic accounts of madness win for themselves a special position in an extensive sum. Drawing my examples from the Bacchae, I have discussed two categories of narrative features typically pertaining to madness narratives. The first category has to do with the presentation of narrative delirium, and the second with the split between the narrative and the experiencing selves. The Bacchae is structured upon the narrative tension between madness and sanity. The strain of the opposites of belief and disbelief in Dionysus prompts narrative development and sets the tone for the narrative presentation of delirium as divine punishment. Delirium is displayed in narrative mainly through crises of identity or the split between the delusional and the lucid acting subjects. The narrative embedding of delirium proves to be a powerful narrative tool that

 In Greek drama, delirium narratives are outstanding, making clear to the recipients that they are a product of hallucination. In other genres, delirium narratives can be dexterously concealed, leaving the recipients doubt whether what they are exposed at is the product of the narrator or of his hallucinating ego. Narration becomes unreliable when the recipients of the narrative are unaware of this split (Bernaerts , ).  On scriptotherapy, namely therapeutic, mostly auto-diegetic writing, see Riordan .

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drives the narrative towards its generic climax of catharsis. The narrative display of the fabula⁴⁰ in the Bacchae situates delirium somewhere in the middle of the narrative sequence of hybris, nemesis, and catharsis. Delirium is narrated by several focalizers, either externally or internally. Even when the narrator is not using the suffering character’s point of view, vivid descriptions of the narrating subjects can make the sufferer’s hallucinations an actual part of the fictional universe. The narrative strength of delirium is naturally reinforced when its narration is repeated by different focalizers. When finally delivered through internal focalization, without any narrative comment, by the sufferer himself, the audience is immersed in his own world of delusion. Agave describes her delirium while she is not yet back to her senses, while also holding Pentheus’ head. She addresses the chorus and the Theban citizens, showing off what she thinks is a lion’s head. The dramatic effect is tremendous. Agave’s autodiegetic account makes her a reflector, giving access to her hallucinations, but the spectators’ viewing of the actual object of her delusion is even more powerful. This very image of Agave having a completely deranged perception of reality underscores the bipolarity of her delirium. The audience realizes that she is unaware of her situation and that the narrative is developed upon the distinction between Agave’s narrating and experiencing selves. The dexterous handlings of the dramatic narrator in the Bacchae show how madness narratives are incorporated in a tragic text, transformed according to generic narrative rules, and also how they lead to a narrative product of high theatrical intensity. Deciphering the narrative mechanisms used for tragic descriptions of madness reveals that in tragedy, madness narratives are conveyed to well structured narrative units, of limited length, that serve the wider narrative needs of the play.

 The events of the story in their real chronological order. For brief discussions of the term see Lamari ,  n.; Fludernik , ; Herman , ,  – .

Seth L. Schein

The Language of Wisdom in Sophokles’ Philoktetes and Euripides’ Bacchae* One conspicuous feature of fifth-century Attic tragedy is that the poet-playwrights exploit and adapt the meanings of individual words and families of words in accordance with the dramatic action and ethical concerns of specific plays. The present paper compares and contrasts the different ways in which Sophocles and Euripides draw on the language of wisdom –σοφός, σοφία, σοφίζομαι, σόφισμα, and τὸ σοφόν–in two plays dating from the closing decade of the fifth century B.C.E.: Sophokles’ Philoktetes, first produced in 409 B.C.E., and Euripides’ Bacchae, produced posthumously c. 405. Both authors draw on the multiple denotations and connotations of σοφός and its cognates as they developed between the time of Homer and Hesiod and the late fifth century.¹ The earliest examples of the language of wisdom, in Homer and Hesiod, involve σοφία, in the epic-ionic form σοφίη, and the denominative verb σοφίζομαι. σοφίη is first used in the sense of a ‘skill’ or ‘craft’ carried out with one’s hands,² and is normally accompanied by a form of the verb *δάω, e. g. δαήμενος or δεδαήμενος, indicating that an artist or craftsman has been taught and has learned that skill, so that he can be said to know it; sometimes σοφίη occurs together with τέχνη, also indicating an ‘art’, ‘craft’, or ‘skilled technique’ that has been learned, and with the name of a god who has taught it to a craftsman. At Il. 15.410 – 12, for example, the narrator speaks in a simile of ‘a line that makes straight a ship’s timber / in the hands of an experienced carpenter, who knows well / (his) whole art by the counsels of Athene’ (ἀλλ’ ὥς τε στάθμη δόρυ νήϊον ἐξιθύνει / τέκτονος ἐν παλάμηισι δαήμονος, ὅς ῥά τε πάσης / εὖ εἰδῆι

* I am happy to dedicate this essay to the memory of Daniel Iakov, from whose scholarship I have profited over the years and whom I admired personally.  Cf. Snell ,  – , ,  – ; Chantraine  – ,  –  s.v. σοφός; LSJ s.vv. σοφία, σοφίζομαι, σόφισμα, σοφός; Kurke ,  – . Kurke, following Kerferd  and influenced by Helms , rejects a developmental or historical approach to σοφός and its cognates, in favor of a synchronic model of ‘a coherent (wisdom) tradition, designated as sophia, and its practitioners as sophoi or sophistai’ (). The word σοφιστής does not occur in either Philoktetes or Bacchae and is rare in Attic tragedy generally; see n. , below.  Kurke ,  –  suggests ‘skilled crafting’, which she borrows from Helms , as a general term for σοφίη.

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σοφίης ὑποθημοσύνηισιν ᾿Aθήνης);³ at Hes. WD 649 the speaker describes himself as ‘in no way instructed in the art of sailing’ (οὔτε τι ναυτιλίης σεσοφισμένος), and the speaker of Hes. fr. 306 describes the kitharodist Linos as ‘instructed in every sort of art’ (παντοίης σοφίης δεδαηκότα), but neither passage refers to a teacher. At HHHermes 482– 4, Hermes, speaking metaphorically of the lyre, tells Apollo that ‘…whoever searches her / with craft and skill, having been instructed’ (i. e. ‘whoever plucks her strings and tries her tones knowledgably), / she, raising her voice (i. e. ‘sounding loudly’), teaches (him) all sorts of things pleasing to the mind’ (…ὅς τις ἂν αὐτὴν | τέχνηι καὶ σοφίηι δεδαημένος ἐξερεείνηι, | φθεγγομένη παντοῖα νόωι χαρίεντα διδάσκει), and at 509 – 11 the narrator tells how Hermes himself gave the lyre to Apollo ‘and in turn sought out the craft of another art: / he invented the sound of the syrinx that is heard from a distance’ (αὐτὸς δ’ αὖθ’ ἑτέρης σοφίης ἐκμάσσατο τέχνην· | συρίγγων ἐνοπὴν ποιήσατο τηλόθ’ ἀκουστήν). Σοφίη, σοφίζομαι, and σοφός are used throughout the archaic period of poetic skill and art and the skill and art of the Muses and other divinities who could teach it (e. g. Solon 13.52, Theognis 19, 770, Sappho fr. 56.2, Pindar Ol. 9.38, Pyth. 6.49), as well as of other crafts and craftsmen (e. g. the carpenter Epeios in Stesichoros fr. S 89.7– 8 Davies = fr. 100 Davies and Fingolass; riding and horsemanship in Alkman fr. 2.1 and Anacreon fr. 417.2, a fisherman-helmsman in Archilochos fr. 211 τρίαιναν ἐσθλὸς καὶ κυβερνήτης σοφός (‘good in respect to a fishing spear and a skilled helmsman’)–perhaps the earliest surviving example of the adjective σοφός used in relation to the kind of art or skill that one could describe as a σοφίη, unless fr. 2 of Homer’s Margites is earlier: τὸν δ’ οὔτ’ ἂρ σκαπτῆρα θεοὶ θέσαν, οὔτ’ ἀροτῆρα / οὔτ’ ἄλλως τι σοφόν· πάσης δ’ ἡμάρτανε τέχνης (‘the gods made that man neither a digger nor a plowman / nor otherwise skilled in any respect but he failed in every craft’).⁴

 The relative clause also could be translated, ‘who knows well all wisdom’, which would imply that he knows not only his art but other arts, or even that wisdom is not limited to ‘skilled crafting’. Cf. Kerferd , , cited by Kurke , . Cf. ‘the Cyclic tag’ (Janko ,  on Il. . – ) σοφὸς ἤραρε τέκτων, quoted by several late commentators on Aristotle and by Clement of Alexandria, Ammonios, and Eustathios and variously attributed to Homer, to ‘the poet’, or to ‘the men of old’ (οἱ παλαιοί). See “Homerus” fr.  in Davies , . Philoponos, commenting on Arist. Eth. Nic. ., in a passage sometimes thought to go back to Arist. On Philosophy (fr.  in Ross , but not included Gigon ), seems to quote the end of Il. . as σοφὸς ἤραρε τέκτων, but the MSS of the Iliad read κλυτός, not σοφός. See Kurke ,  with n. .  σοφίη, however, is derived from σοφός, so the examples of σοφίη in the poetry of Homer and Hesiod indicate the existence of the word, even though it does not appear in the surviving works of these two poets. See Chantraine  – ,  s.v. σοφός.

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By the late sixth or early fifth century, σοφός, σοφία, and σοφίζομαι are also used positively of more abstract skills, such as cleverness in planning, thinking, and speaking, especially in the realm of politics and statesmanship–skills that from the mid-fifth century on were taught by the intellectuals known as the Sophists–and σοφός could also denote someone genuinely ‘learned’ or ‘wise’ and σοφόν, genuine knowledge or wisdom.⁵ At the same time, however, from the mid-fifth century on, σοφός could describe negatively someone or something who is merely ‘clever’ or ‘ingenious’; ‘sly’, “tricky’, or ‘artificial’; or ‘shrewd’ or ‘worldly-wise’ in a too subtle, over-ingenious way. It could also be used of language and action that is insincere, pretentious, or (in the modern sense of the word) sophistic. σοφός also, when opposed to ἀμαθής, could refer to a ‘wise’ or ‘knowledgeable’ man in contrast to one who is ‘ignorant’ or merely ‘clever’–that is, to a sophist in the pejorative sense of the word found frequently in Plato, Xenophon, and Aristotle–or to someone with special religious expertise or who has been initiated into a religious cult or religious mysteries, as opposed to someone without such expertise or uninitiated.⁶ Similarly, the term σόφισμα (‘clever device or contrivance’), found first in Pindar (Ol. 13.17) and then in Herodotos and the tragic and comic poets, could be used in a good sense (e. g. Aesch.(?) PV 459 ἀριθμὸν ἔξοχον σοφισμάτων), but like σοφίζομαι was more often used pejoratively. Sophocles and Euripides, like their audiences, were familiar with the range of meanings of these words and their potential for semantic or ethical ambiguity, when more than one traditional meaning was evoked. Both Philoktetes and Bacchae reflect this shared familiarity, which enabled the poets to challenge their audiences to evaluate the use of σοφός-language by different characters and how it contributes to the overall meanings of the plays. It is striking that σοφός and its cognates occur in Philoktetes and Bacchae with unusual frequency. In Sophokles’ seven surviving plays, there are only 31 occurrences of these words, an average of 4.4 per play, but 12 of the 31 examples are found in Philoktetes, as opposed to 4 in Ajax, 4 in Antigone, 5 in Elektra, and 6 in Oidipous the King, with no examples in Trachiniae or Oidipous at Kolonos. In

 E. g. Herakleitos D-K B  σωφρονεῖν ἀρετὴ μεγίστη καὶ σοφίη, ἀληθέα λέγειν καὶ ποιεῖν κατὰ φύσιν ἐπαΐοντας (‘Thinking well is the greatest excellence and wisdom: to act and speak what is true, perceiving things according to their nature’, tr. C. Kahn); D-K B  ἓν τὸ σοφόν, ἐπίστασθαι γνώμην, ὅκη ͜†κυβερνῆσαι† πάντα διὰ πάντων (’for the wise is one, to know the plan which steers all things through all’, tr. C. Kahn); Empedokles fr. D-K B . οὐκ ἂν ἀνὴρ τοιαῦτα σοφὸς φρεσὶ μαντεύσαιτο… (‘a man wise in such matters would not surmise in his mind…’).  See Eur. Ba.  – , , Roux  – , ,  and Seaford ,  –  on Eur. Ba. , Origa , . Cf. Kurke , .

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Euripides’ 18 surviving plays, there are c. 200 occurrences of the language of wisdom, an average of nearly 11 occurrences per play. Twenty-five are found in Bacchae; 10 – 14 in Hippolytos, Andromache, Suppliants, and Phoenician Women; and 4 to 9 in each of the remaining plays except Medea, where there are 23. Clearly, the status of Medea as σοφή and her exercise of σοφία to achieve her desires are central concerns of the play, just as the meaning of these words and the ways in which various characters demonstrate their σοφία (or ἀμαθία) are central concerns of Bacchae. Thus the frequency of σοφός-language in the plays of both Sophokles and Euripides varies with its relative thematic importance.⁷ In Philoktetes, the language of wisdom is used in a relatively straightforward way to characterize Odysseus, positively in his own words and negatively in the words of others, as a pragmatic, sophistically tinged, clever intellectual, an amoral representative of the Greek army, committed to victory at Troy and to his own, personal victory everywhere and by any means. The use of σοφός and its cognates also charts Neoptolemos’ transformation from an innocent, persuaded by Odysseus into carrying out his ‘cunning contrivance’ (σόφισμα, 14) by acting cunningly (δεῖ σοφισθῆναι, 77): first, into an effective deceiver who relies on a negative characterization of Odysseus as σοφός and as willing to say or do anything at all, just or unjust (409), to persuade or force Philoktetes to come to Troy; second, into the man who achieves and expresses a new-found integrity (like that of his father Achilles), rejects Odysseus’ instrumental emphasis on that which is σοφόν, and instead prefers δίκαια ‘things that are just and better’ (lit. ‘stronger’, κρείσσω) to σοφά’ (‘things that are cunning and clever’, 1246 – 7)– a preference that leads him to return the bow to Philoktetes. In Bacchae, on the other hand, the language of wisdom is used in a more complex way. Not only the Stranger (Dionysos incognito) and Pentheus, but also the Chorus, Kadmos, and Teiresias describe others or themselves or are spoken of by others as σοφός, or else they lay claim to σοφία. The play juxtaposes these characters and their forms of ‘wisdom’ with one another, challenging audiences and readers to decide for themselves what σοφία and σοφός really mean and who is really σοφός. Yet because the characters and Chorus rely on various

 This is also true of Aeschylus’ seven surviving plays (counting PV), in which there are  examples of σοφός-language,  in PV, which also has two instances of σοφιστής. Sophokles has no instances of σοφιστής, except in fr.  Radt where it probably is used of a kitharodist (see the comments of Pearson and Radt ad loc.). Eur. has three examples of σοφιστής: at Hipp.  in the sense of an ‘skilled expert’, at Hcld.  in Eurystheus’ self-description as an ‘expert technician of many woes’ (πολλῶν σοφιστὴς πημάτων), and at Supp.  (perhaps interpolated), which praises Tydeus as a ‘technician skilled with the spear and at inventing many skillful (i. e. ‘destructive’) things’ (sc. in battle).

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senses of these words, both traditional and modern, and sometimes transform these meanings to serve their own interests, such a decision is difficult. In the end no one changes morally, as Neoptolemos does in Philoktetes, and it seems that an understanding of the language of wisdom in Bacchae has more to do with the possession or lack of knowledge and power than with anything ethical. *** σοφός and its cognates are key elements of Odysseus’ self-presentation in the Prologue of Philoktetes, as he successfully seduces Neoptolemos into carrying out his plan to obtain the bow that is needed for the conquest of Troy. At the same time, the use of this language invites the audience to consider the ethical dimensions of Odysseus’ character as the dramatic action takes place. When Odysseus explains to Neoptolemos that it is time for actions, not words, ‘lest [Philoktetes] learn that I have come, and I waste the whole / cunning contrivance by which I expect to catch him right away” (13 – 14), the word he uses for ‘cunning contrivance’ is σόφισμα, with its late fifth-century connotations of slyness, trickiness, and insincerity.⁸ After Odysseus has made clear Neoptolemos’ status as a subordinate (15 ὑπηρετεῖν, 53 ὑπηρέτης), he tells him that he must deceive Philoktetes in order to steal the bow and that he himself cannot do so, because he would be recognized, would perish, and would also destroy Neoptolemos. Perhaps sensing that such deception would be distasteful to the son of Achilles, Odysseus resorts to another σοφός-word in an effort to disarm Neoptolemos’ potential unwillingness to act as instructed, and in order to persuade him to do what must be done (77– 85): ἀλλ’ αὐτὸ τοῦτο δεῖ σοφισθῆναι, κλοπεὺς ὅπως γενήσηι τῶν ἀνικήτων ὅπλων. ἔξοιδα, παῖ, φύσει σε μὴ πεφυκότα τοιαῦτα φωνεῖν μηδὲ τεχνᾶσθαι κακά· ἀλλ’ ἡδὺ γάρ τι κτῆμα τῆς νίκης λαβεῖν, τόλμα· δίκαιοι δ’ αὖθις ἐκφανούμεθα. νῦν δ’ εἰς ἀναιδὲς ἡμέρας μέρος βραχὺ δός μοι σεαυτόν, κἆιτα τὸν λοιπὸν χρόνον κέκλησο πάντων εὐσεβέστατος βροτῶν. but this is just the thing in which you must act cleverly, so you may become the thief of the invincible weapons. I know well, my son, that by nature you were not born to say such things or contrive such evils. Since, however, the possession of victory is something sweet to gain,

 E. g. Eur. Ba. , IA , Ar. Ran. , .

80

85

80

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bring yourself (to do it); we will appear just on another occasion. Give yourself to me now for a brief portion of a day for something shameful, and then for the rest of time call yourself and be called the most pious of all mortals.

85

At the very beginning of this passage, σοφισθῆναι and the lines it introduces strike a clearly Sophistic note in privileging the expediency implicit in σόφισμα at line 14 (cf. 131 τὰ συμφέροντα). Odysseus tells Neotpolemos that he ‘must act cleverly’ for his own advantage, then attempts to ingratiate himself with Neoptolemos by calling him παῖ, in effect implying that he himself is a father whose precepts Neoptolemos should follow. He then tells him, with apparent sympathy, that he understands that ‘to say such things or contrive such evils’ goes against his nature (sc. as the son of Achilles), but that, in order to achieve the sweetness of victory, Neoptolemos should repress his inborn nature, dare to ‘act cleverly’, and temporarily put aside his scruples; they will ‘appear just’ (not be just) in the future, and Neoptolemos can call himself and/or be called the most pious of mortals for the rest of time. Here Odysseus manipulates moral language for his own ends, suggesting that justice or injustice is merely a way of seeming and of using language, and that piety is a matter of what one is called. Odysseus could not better express the moral opportunism and ‘the desire for victory everywhere’ that govern his own actions (cf. 1050 – 52), and he wants Neoptolemos to accept his ethical position, that justice is not a moral absolute but a name given to a particular kind of behavior or speech which can change from time to time, and that in the future ‘we’ will seem to be just.⁹ Odysseus’ τεχνᾶσθαι (80) and τέχνης (88) belong to the same world of sophistic diction as σόφισμα (14), σοφισθῆναι (77), σοφός 119, and τὰ συμφέροντα (131).¹⁰ σοφός τ’ ἂν αὑτὸς κἀγαθὸς κεκλῆι’ ἅμα (‘You, the same man, will be called both clever and noble at the same time’) in 119 is particularly significant. In 116 and 118 Neoptolemos has almost accepted that lying, which he himself considers shameful (cf. 108), might be necessary to obtain the bow and sack Troy. In 119, σοφός τε…κἀγαθός (‘both clever and noble’), a characteristically Odyssean twist on καλός τε κἀγαθός (‘both fine and noble’), the common Attic idiom expressing aristocratic excellence, is intended to persuade Neoptolemos to lie, despite his scruples. The rare perfect optative passive form–a potential optative with virtually future meaning–is the final step in Odysseus’ persuasion of

 Cf. Blundell ,  – .  Cf. Aesch.(?) PV  with Griffith’s note, Plat. Prot. d τὴν ἔντεχνον σοφίαν.

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Neoptolemos to carry out the σόφισμα¹¹, and in 120 Odysseus conquers, when the son of Achilles finally gives way, despite the hesitancy he expressed earlier about using language as Odysseus wants him to do (86 – 87), and despite his claim that ‘my inborn nature is to do nothing by evil contrivance’ (ἔφυν γὰρ οὐδὲν ἐκ τέχνης πράσσειν κακῆς, 88): ‘All right, let it go! I’ll put aside all shame and do it’ (ἴτω· ποήσω, πᾶσαν αἰσχύνην ἀφείς. Despite being overcome by desire for the glory of sacking Troy, Neoptolemos still has some scruples of shame, which he must set aside. Perhaps these scruples would have suggested to Sophokles’ audience at this point in the play, as it does to some modern readers, that Neoptolemos has the potential to reverse his decision, which is what he does after his successful intrigue, after witnessing Philoktetes’ physical agony (730 – 826) and realizing that he has compromised himself morally in a way that is wholly counter to his inborn nature (895 – 913, 1222– 1249; cf. 1310 – 13). In the long first episode (219 – 675), Neoptolemos employs the language of wisdom and shows that he himself is as skilled in deceiving Philoktetes into becoming his friend as Odysseus was skilled in enlisting Neoptolemos to carry out his σόφισμα. The difference is that Odysseus uses this language to appeal to Neoptolemos, but Neoptolemos uses it against Odysseus (cf. 64 – 65), in order to ingratiate himself with Philoktetes. Unlike Odysseus in the Prologue, who openly employs sophistic language and values positively as part of his effort to persuade Neoptolemos to lie to Philoktetes, Neoptolemos repeatedly uses σοφός negatively to slander Odysseus as a morally reprehensible leader of the Greek army who relies on speech to harm his enemies. ἔξοιδα γάρ νιν παντὸς ἂν λόγου κακοῦ γλώσσηι θιγόντα καὶ πανουργίας, ἀφ’ ἧς μηδὲν δίκαιον ἐς τέλος μέλλοι ποεῖν. for I know well that he would apply his tongue to every evil speech and every villainy by which he might achieve an end that is in no way just.

(407– 9)

In this speech Neoptolemos, in effect, reverses Odysseus’ assertion at 98 – 99 of the power of speech, rather than action, to ‘lead the way in all things’. Both Odysseus’ positive and Neoptolemos’ negative evaluations of the power of speech would have associated Odysseus, in viewers’ minds, with the sophistically trained rhetoricians who dominated the late fifth-century Athenian democracy

 Cf. Odysseus’ emphasis in  –  on himself and Neoptolemos ‘appearing just’ and on Neoptolemos ‘being called most pious of men’ in the future.

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through their verbal skill and oratorical dexterity.¹² When Philoktetes questions Neoptolemos about which Greek warriors have perished and which are still living, he alludes to Thersites as a man γλώσσηι δεινοῦ καὶ σοφοῦ (440), and Neoptolemos asks, ‘What (sort of) man is this of whom you mean to speak, except Odysseus’? The combination of σοφός and skillful speech have been so specifically Odyssean since the beginning of the play that Neoptolemos cannot even think of anyone else, but his mistake in confusing Odysseus with Thersites, ‘the ugliest and most disgraceful man to come before Ilion’ (Il. 2.216) expresses well his feigned low opinion of Odysseus.¹³ Neoptolemos also uses σοφός, when conversing with Philoktetes, to characterize Odysseus metaphorically as a skilled wrestler, who might nevertheless be defeated (431– 2): σοφὸς παλαιστὴς κεῖνος, ἀλλὰ χαἰ σοφαὶ γνῶμαι, Φιλοκτῆτ’, ἐμποδίζονται θαμά. that man is a clever wrestler, but even clever plans, Philoktetes, are often tripped up and thwarted.

Wrestling terminology is frequently used figuratively for sophistic cleverness in both Attic drama and Attic courtroom speeches,¹⁴ and ἐμποδίζονται may refer to a wrestling move by which one trips up an opponent, though no such use of the word is found elsewhere.¹⁵ When Neoptolemos and Odysseus re-enter quarreling at 1222, Neoptolemos has decided to return the bow to Philoktetes, and Odysseus tries to stop him from doing so. A stichomythia ensues in which the relationship and relative value of

 The Scholiast on  –  suggests that with Odysseus’ comments on the power of γλῶσσα (both ‘tongue’ and ‘speech’), Sophokles ‘slanders contemporary Athenian political leaders (ῥήτορας) as succeeding in all things through speech (ὡς διὰ γλώσσης πάντα κατορθοῦντας)’. Cf. Euripides at Ar. Ran.  –  στοματουργὸς ἐπῶν βασανίστρια λίσπη | γλῶσσ’ ἀνελισσομένη (‘the smooth tongue unfurling, mouth-working | tester of words’) ( transl. J. Henderson), who at Ran.  prays to Γλώττης Στρόφιγξ (“Pivot of Tongue”).  The scene could be played in such a way as to signal to the audience that Neoptolemos knows that Philoktetes is asking about Thersites and only pretends to take his question as referring to Odysseus. This pretence would further belittle Odysseus in the judgment of Philoktetes’, who already hates him, and thus bind Philoktetes more closely to Neoptolemos.  See, e. g., Eur. Ba.  –  with Dodds’s and Roux’s notes, IA , Ar. Nub. , Ran.  – , Aischines ., and the title of Protagoras’ Καταβάλλοντες ([Arguments] that Throw Down [an Opponent]). Cf. Origa ,  – .  See, though, Ar. Eq.  –  διαβαλών, ἀγκυρίσας, | εἶτ’ ἀποστρέψας τὸν ὦμον αὐτὸν ἐνεκολήβασας (‘having slandered, having tripped (him) up, | then having twisted back (his) shoulder, you trampled (him)’.

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that which is σοφόν and that which is δίκαιον, are prominent (cf. 77– 85). At 1244, Neoptolemos responds to Odysseus’ empty threat that the whole army, including Odysseus, will prevent him from returning the bow to Philoktetes: σοφὸς πεφυκὼς οὐδὲν ἐξαυδᾶις σοφόν (‘although you are by nature clever, you say nothing clever’). Neoptolemos here turns a favorite word of Odysseus against him, reversing the situation in the Prologue when Odysseus succeeded in enlisting him in the σόφισμα against Philoktetes by persuading him of ‘the need to act cleverly’ (δεῖ σοφισθῆναι, 77). When Odysseus responds weakly, σὺ δ’ οὔτε φωνεῖς οὔτε δρασείεις σοφόν (‘and you neither say nor wish to do anything clever’ (1245), Neoptolemos shows how far he has developed in the course of the drama and that he is now an independent moral agent rather than the ὑπηρέτης (‘servant’, 53; cf. 15) of Odysseus: ἀλλ’ εἰ δίκαια, τῶν σοφῶν κρείσσω τάδε (‘but if (I say or do) things (that are) just, these things are better (lit. ‘more powerful’) than (things that are) clever’, 1246). Neoptolemos here opposes δίκαια to σοφά (cf. 1251), unlike Odysseus at 77– 82, who found cleverness wholly compatible with justice–or at least with the future appearance of being just. The exchange between the two at 1244– 46 is one key element in the whole stichomythia at 1222– 60, which reverses the effect of the stichomythia in the Prologue (100 – 22). There Odysseus was in command, claimed to be acting ‘on the commanders orders’ (6) and for the sake of the army (8 – 11), and instructed Neoptolemos, his subordinate, in how to deceive Philoktetes and gain control of the bow in order to conquer Troy (81, 113, 115), while Neoptolemos asked questions, received guidance, and compromised his moral standards, in order to carry out Odysseus’ σόφισμα. Here Neoptolemos is no longer Odysseus’ subordinate but in control of the situation. He rejects Odysseus’ implicit claim to represent ‘the whole army’ (1243, 1250, 1257; cf. 1143 – 55) and his instrumental emphasis on what is σοφόν; instead he puts a premium on what is right (δίκαια) as he tries to undo or take back the shameful error he committed when he deceived Philoktetes (cf. 1224 ἐξήμαρτον) . The language of wisdom in Philoktetes bears almost entirely on the self-presentation, representation, and moral evaluation of Odysseus and Neoptolemos. σοφός and its cognates have their developed, fifth-century meanings, both positive and pejorative, of sly and tricky, with reference to clever or skillful language, to action that is ‘sophistic’, and to a person who is amorally ‘crafty’, ‘shrewd’ or ‘worldly-wise (cf. 96 – 99), especially in the realm of politics. As far as the interaction between Odysseus and Neoptolemos is concerned, the gods are absent and utterly irrelevant. Despite occasional references to the prophecy of Helenos–whatever he might have said–and notwithstanding the final, appearance ex machina of the defied Herakles as both the old friend of Philoktetes and the spokesman of Zeus, all the significant plans and choices made by Odysseus,

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Neoptolemos, and Philoktetes are human plans and choices, motivated by human desires. It is significant that from 1261 on, Odysseus has no part in the dramatic action and is completely excluded from the play’s the ‘happy ending’. He never reappears after his ignominious exit– probably between 1300 and 1301 and at the latest by the middle of 1302–and he is not even mentioned by Herakles, Philoktetes, or the Chorus in the final scene. Neoptolemos, on the other hand, and Philoktetes will share in the conquest of Troy ‘like two lions feeding (cooperatively) in the same pasture’ (1436), though the instability of Neoptolemos’ rejection of Odyssean amorality is suggested in 1440 – 44 by Herakles’ allusion to the future impiety of the son of Achilles during the sack of Troy.¹⁶ *** The complex deployment of the language of wisdom in Bacchae can be seen in the multiple and sometimes puzzling ways it is used by and of different characters and in the thematic contrasts between types of σοφία and between σοφία and τὸ σοφόν. When Kadmos first enters at 178, he immediately tells Teiresias that he ‘heard and recognized your skilled and wise voice, the skilled and wise voice of a skilled and wise man’ (σὴν γῆρυν ἠισθόμην κλύων | σοφὴν σοφοῦ παρ’ ἀνδρός, 178 – 9), and at 185 – 6 he calls on Teiresias to teach him how to dance and how to place his feet and shake his head when dancing to Dionysos, ‘for you are σοφός’. In both passages, he uses σοφός both in its earliest senses of ‘skilled’ and ‘knowledgeable’ in a particular craft or technique, and of ‘having religious knowledge and authority’. A few lines later, however, when Kadmos insists that he will join Teiresias in dancing for Dionysos, because ‘I do not despise the gods, being mortal’, Teiresias responds in a way that immediately complicates the language of wisdom as used in the play, partly because, in a drama that is set in a long-past heroic age, he suddenly speaks like a figure from the fifth century and introduces a modern notion of what it means to be σοφός.¹⁷ At first Teiresias rejects Kadmos’ designation as σοφός, but in doing so transforms its meaning (200 – 203): oὐδ’ ἐνσοφιζόμεσθα τοῖσι δαίμοσιν. πατρίους παραδοχάς, ἅς θ’ ὁμήλικας χρόνωι κεκτήμεθ’· οὐδεὶς αυτὰ καταβαλεῖ λόγος, οὐδ’ εἰ δι’ ἄκρων τὸ σοφὸν ηὕρηται φρενῶν. 200 οὐδ’ ἐνσοφιζόμεσθα Musgrave: οὐδὲν σοφιζόμεσθα LP 201 πατρίους Valkenaer: πατρὸς ΠLP 202 καταβαλεῖ Scaliger: -βαλλει ΠL: -βάλλη ΠP

 See Schein ,  on  – .  See Dodds ,  –  on  – , Origa , .

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And we do not use clever intellect on the gods. Ancestral traditions and those coeval with time we have as (our) possession, and no rational argument will throw them down, not even if cleverness has been invented by top minds.¹⁸

‘To use clever intellect on the gods’ would be, in effect, to perform as a sophist, a contemporary figure for Euripides and his audience, and Teiresias rejects this kind of innovative modernism and claims instead to be faithful to ‘ancestral traditions’, which, in context, means recognizing and worshipping Dionysos as a long-familiar divinity, even though in the action of the play he is a new god who has come to Thebes (and Greece generally) for the first time.¹⁹ Yet Teiresias’ rejection of sophistry is itself undercut later in the scene, when he delivers a long speech about Dionysos to Pentheus (266 – 327), praising the god’s power and his gifts to mortals in language that is not only clever but sophistic in its prosaic, quasi-scientific rhetoric, its word play, and its opportunistic rationalization of myth and religion. Here Teiresias is totally out of touch with the kind of religious experience and wild ritual that Dionysos is praised in the parodos for offering to his worshippers. At 638 – 41 in the second episode, just after the so-called ‘palace miracle’, the Stranger (i. e. Dionysos) emerges from the ruins to tell the Choros what has happened–how Dionysos has shaken the palace to the ground and demonstrated his physical and mental power over Pentheus. Then, both clever and controlled, hearing the King emerging from the palace, he assures the Chorus ironically and disingenuously (640 – 41),

 The text, translation, and interpretation of these lines have been much debated. See the app. crit. in the editions of Roux and Diggle and the commentaries ad loc. of Dodds, Roux, and Seaford.  This double sense of Dionysos as both old and new is but one of the recurrent and unresolved contradictions in the play. See, e. g.,  – ,  – , where Dionysos says that he has come to establish his cult in Greece for the first time, and , where the Chorus sing of τὰ νομισθέντα γὰρ αἰεὶ Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω (‘I will hymn Dionysos always (with songs) that have been established as customary’). Cf. the Chorus’ celebration in the parodos of Dionysos ‘hunting slain-goat blood, the raw-eating grace’ (ἀγρεύων | αἷμα τραγοκτόνον, ὠμοφάγον χάριν,  – ) and their praise of ‘the son of Zeus’ who ‘rejoices in festivals, loves prosperity-giving Peace’, and himself gives to rich and poor alike ‘the griefless joy of wine’ ( – ). See too the contradiction between the First Messenger’s report of the wild, Dionysian power of the maenads on the mountain ( – ) and his recommendation at  –  that Pentheus ‘receive the god…in this city’, because ‘he gave to mortals the grief-stopping vine. And if there were no longer wine, there is no longer Kypris | nor anything else joyful for mortals’ (cf. Teiresias at  – ).

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ῥαιδίως γὰρ αὐτὸν οἴσω, κἂν πνέων ἔλθηι μέγα. πρὸς σοφοῦ γὰρ ἀνδρὸς ἀσκεῖν σώφρον’ εὐοργησίαν. for I will endure the man easily, even if he comes blowing with full blast. For it belongs to a wise man to exercise a self-controlled gentleness of temper.

Here σοφοῦ suggests the Stranger’s (i. e. Dionysos’) awareness of the divine knowledge and power that are the basis of his mastery of Pentheus. When the Stranger and Pentheus resume their dialogue at 645, and Pentheus’ physical powerlessness is exposed and he is defeated verbally, he resorts to a kind of helpless bluster (655): σοφός, σοφὸς σύ, πλὴν ἃ δεῖ σ’ εἶναι σοφόν (‘you are clever, clever, except in that in which you need to be clever’).²⁰ The meaning of these words is not entirely clear: on the one hand, Pentheus seems to maintain that, despite the real power that the Stranger has manifested, he is no more than a clever trickster (cf. 234 γόης ἐπωιδός, ‘a sorcerer, an enchanter’); on the other hand, he implies that the Stranger is not clever in the rational way he should be, which would involve submitting to Pentheus’ royal authority. The Stranger responds (656), ἃ δεῖ μάλιστα, ταῦτ’ ἔγωγ’ ἔφυν σοφός (‘In what I most need [to be clever], in this I, for my part, am clever by nature’). He knows that he is clever in the way a god is clever, by his very nature, with real knowledge (that he is a god) and real power over a mere mortal; Pentheus, however, not only has limited understanding as a mortal and limited power as a king, but he is ignorant of his own ignorance (cf. 480, 490). One sign of this ignorance is his extreme literalness: when, at 500, the Stranger tells Pentheus that Dionysos is present and sees what he (the Stranger) is suffering, Pentheus asks, ‘Where is he? He’s not manifest to my eyes’, as if only additional sensory evidence could teach him what already should be clear from how Dionysos has used his power to free the women from prison without lifting a hand. A further indication of this literalness comes a few lines later, when Pentheus tells his men to bind the Stranger, claiming ‘to have more authority than [he] (has)’ (ἐγὼ…κυριώτερος σέθεν, 505). In response the Stranger tells him, ‘You do not know what life you’re living, nor what you’re doing, nor who you are’ (οὐκ οἶσθ’ ὅ τι ζῆις, οὐδ’ ὃ δρᾶις, οὐδ’ ὅστις εἶ, 506), and Pentheus responds feebly and cluelessly, ‘(I am) Pentheus, son of Agaue, and of Echion as a father’.²¹

 Cf. the comment of Hermione at Eur. Andr. , when she has been defeated in a verbal exchange with Andromache: σοφή σοφὴ σύ· κατθανεῖν δ’ ὅμως σε δεῖ (‘you are clever, clever; you must, however, die’).  Cf. the literalness of the Chorus at Aesch. Ag.  – , who reply to Kassandra’s agitated question, addressed to Apollo, ‘Ah, whither have you led me? To what sort of dwelling’? by telling her, ‘To the house of the Atreidai; if you don’t understand this, / I’m telling you, and you will

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Part of the education of Pentheus by the stranger (Dionysos) in the course of the play is that he learns his own mortal limits, and part of the way Dionysos manifests himself as a god is through the expression of his σοφία. At 824, when Pentheus is under the Stranger’s ’ spell, and the Stranger persuades him to dress like a woman and go to spy on the maenads, the reversal of Pentheus’ sense of himself as a man and his decisive choice to crossdress are marked by an exclamation of admiration for the god’s advice: εὖ γ’ εἶπας αὖ τόδ· ὥς τις εἶ πάλαι σοφός (‘You spoke well again about this; how clever you are, and have been for a long time’). Later in the play, describing what she thinks is the successful hunting of a young lion, Agave tells the chorus (1189 – 91), ὁ Βάκχιος κυναγέτας σοφὸς σοφῶς ἀνέπηλ’ ἐπὶ θῆρα τόνδε μαινάδας. Bacchos the hunter, the clever one, cleverly swung the maenads against this beast.

Here, in Agave’s words, Dionysos is σοφός both as the hunter exercising his distinctive skill and as the god who has cleverly planned the destruction of his enemy, but even more fundamentally he is σοφός as the avenger for whom ‘revenge itself is part of the “wisdom” of his worship’.²² Just as the play gradually reveals what it means for the Stranger–Dionysos incognito–to be σοφός, so it also explores the meaning of σοφία in contrast to τὸ σοφόν, a kind of counterfeit cleverness. Teiresias first introduces τὸ σοφόν when he says that no rational(izing) logos will throw down ‘ancestral traditions’, not even ‘the cleverness that has been invented by top minds’ (200 – 203).²³ In antistrophe A of the first stasimon, the Chorus sing, τὸ σοφὸν δ’ οὐ σοφία | τό τε μὴ θνητὰ φρονεῖν (‘cleverness is not wisdom, | nor is not thinking like a mortal (wisdom)’, 395– 96); in antistrophe B they praise ‘living out the life of happiness by night and day’ and ‘keeping a mind and heart that are wise (σοφάν) / away from men of excess. / Whatever the simple multitude thinks and does, this I would accept’ (425– 32). Both Teiresias and the Chorus, reject the sophistic σοφόν, with its ration-

not say that this is false’. She then goes on to give the kind of answer to her own question for which she was looking: ‘No, (a house) hateful to and hated by the gods, witness / to many evil kindred murders and beheadings, / a slaughterhouse for men, where the ground is sprinkled (with blood)’ ( – ).  Winnington-Ingram , . Cf.  –  =  – .  For the text, see, p. , above.

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al(izing) cleverness, and choose instead a quiet life that is, paradoxically, far from ‘Dionysian’ as the Dionysian manifests itself elsewhere in the play.²⁴ The Chorus also reject τὸ σοφόν in similar terms in the fourth stasimon (1002– 10): ²⁵ γνωμᾶν σωφρόν⟨ισμ⟩α θάνατος. ἀπροφασίστως ⟨δ’⟩ ἐς τὰ θεῶν ἔφυ βροτείως τ’ ἔχειν ἄλυπος βίος. τὸ σοφὸν οὐ φθονῶ· χαίρω θηρεύουσα τάδ’ ἕτερα μεγάλα φανερὰ τ’ ὄντ’· ἄ⟨γ⟩ει ⟨δ’⟩ ἐπὶ τὰ καλὰ βίον, ἦμαρ ἐς νύκτα τ’ εὐαγοῦντ’ εὐσεβεῖν, τὰ δ’ ἔξω νόμιμα δίκας ἐκβαλόντα τιμᾶν θεούς. death is a chastener of (mortals’ mad) purposes. But to behave unquestioningly, as a mortal, in regard to things having to do with the gods, means a griefless life. I do not begrudge (the clever their) cleverness. I rejoice hunting these other things that are great and manifest; they lead life to the fine things–by day and on through the night to be holy and reverent, and, rejecting customs that are outside justice, to honor the gods.

Here again, as at 395 – 6, τὸ σοφόν is not true wisdom but sophistic, counterfeit cleverness, which the Chorus reject for a life lived in accordance with one’s mortal nature. The life, however, which the Chorus prefer, is not a quiet one, even though it ends with praise of a peaceful ordinary life, away from men of excess (402– 32). For 1002– 10 are preceded and followed by a refrain in which the Chorus make clear that ‘the fine things’ and the ‘other things that are great and manifest’ include, first and foremost, the violent justice consisting of vengeance (992– 97 = 1011– 16): ἴτω δίκα φανερός, ἴτω ξιφηφόρος φονεύουσα λαιμῶν διαμπὰξ τόν ἄθεον ἄνομον ἄδικον Ἐχίονος γόνον γηγενῆ. 1016 γόνον Elmsley: τόκον P, cf. 996

 Cf. Mirto ,  – .  In  – , the text, meter and meaning are uncertain and much debated. For detailed discussion, see Dodds ad loc., whose preferred text I print and translate, as do Winnington-Ingram ,  and, for the most part, Seaford ,  –  (with brief discussion on p. ).

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Let Justice come manifest, let her come bearing a sword, slaughtering straight through the throat Echion’s godless, lawless, unjust, earth-born offspring.

This refrain recalls the extreme violence in the Chorus’ description of Dionysian cult at 72– 82, and in effect echoes their answer to the rhetorical question they ask in the third stasimon, which expresses their attitude toward dominating their enemies and toward ‘wisdom’ (877– 81 = 897– 901): τί τὸ σοφόν; ἢ τί τὸ κάλλιον παρὰ θεῶν γέρας ἐν βροτοῖς ἢ χεῖρ’ ὑπὲρ κορυφᾶς τῶν ἐχθρῶν κρείσσω κατέχειν; ὅτι καλὸν φίλον ἀεί. What is wisdom? Or what is the finer prize of honor from the gods among mortals than to hold over the head of enemies a hand that is more powerful? (Nothing.) Whatever is fine is dear always. ²⁶

These lines make ‘wisdom’ a matter of superior power, and they approve, from the Chorus’ viewpoint as human worshippers of Dionysos, the god’s ‘wisdom’ in trapping and destroying Pentheus. In 881 = 901 the Chorus pointedly allude to the proverbial line, ὅττι καλὸν φίλον ἐστί, τὸ δ’ οὐ καλὸν οὐ φίλον ἐστί (‘whatever is fine is dear, but the thing (which is) not fine is not dear)’, Theognis 17), and they strengthen their allusion with ἀεί (‘always’). This line, Theognis says (15 – 16), was part of a song sung by the Muses and the Graces at the wedding of Kadmos, and the force of the allusion to this line at Bacchae 881 and 901 has to do with its anticipating the destruction of Kadmos’ family by Dionysos,

 The meter and sense of  –  =  –  can be understood in other ways. Seaford, for example, places a question mark after ἐν βροτοῖς at the end of  and prints ἦ rather than ἢ at the beginning of , which gives the sense, ‘What is wisdom? Or what is the finer / prize of honor from the gods among mortals? / Is it to hold over the head of enemies / a hand that is more powerful? / (No, for) what is fine is dear always’. With this text, the Choros would not be generalizing about σοφία being a matter of power, and they would not associate themselves with the destruction of Pentheus until the fourth stasimon. See Seaford ,  –  on  – .

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who indulges his all-too-human desire for vengeance, in order to be revealed and worshipped as a god in his native Thebes, which Kadmos founded. The Chorus’ extreme responses here and in the fourth stasimon to the questions, τί τὸ σοφόν; ἢ τί τὸ κάλλιον…; may spring from devotion to Dionysos, but the play also includes what is, in effect, a more moderate answer by the Second Messenger at the end of his report of the destruction of Pentheus and of Agaue’s delight in her successful hunt (1150 – 52): τὸ σωφρονεῖν δὲ καὶ σέβειν τὰ τῶν θεῶν κάλλιστον· οἶμαι δ’ αὐτὸ καὶ σοφώτατον θνητοῖσιν εἶναι κτῆμα τοῖσι χρωμένοις. To be moderate and to revere the things of the gods is finest; and I think that this is also the wisest possession for mortals who make use of it. 1152 κτῆμα Orion: χρῆμα P et Chr. Pat. 1147 (cf. Dodds ad loc.)

The Messenger’s more restrained, moralizing sentiment is, in its own way, as Dionysian as the Chorus’, since σωφρονεῖν is associated with the god and his worship by Teiresias at 314 and 316 and by the Stranger at 504 and 1341. After the association of the σοφόν with violence and revenge in the third and fourth stasima, the Second Messenger’s words recall ‘the sanity, the piety, the honour and wisdom’ that characterize the worship of Dionysos earlier in the play.²⁷ It is left for the audience or readers to choose among or try to reconcile the various senses and uses of σοφός, σοφόν, and σοφώτατον here and throughout the play. *** The dramatic exploitation of the language of wisdom in Philoktetes and Bacchae shows the broad range of options available to playwrights in the late fifth century and the different poetic aims and technique of Sophokles and Euripides in these two plays. The use of sophia and its cognates in Philoktetes is far simpler than the use of these words in Bacchae. Their meaning is not contested, only their moral significance: Odysseus, who is characterized as a contemporary type of sophistically tinged political opportunist, uses σοφός, σοφία, σοφίζομαι, and σόφισμα instrumentally, as does Neoptolemos when he is putting Odysseus’ intrigue into practice. After Neoptolemos has freed himself from assisting in Odysseus’ plan to capture the bow of Philoktetes, both he and Philoktetes place a strongly negative value on the sophistic cleverness denoted and connoted by the language of wisdom, and on the unheroic Odysseus who relies on it.  Winnington-Ingram , 

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The dramatic exploitation of the language of wisdom in Bacchae is more complicated. It demands an intellectual effort on the part of a member of the audience or a reader, rather than a straightforward moral response, in order to keep track of the traditional and modern meanings of σοφός and its cognates as they are used throughout the play. Only through such an effort can a viewer or reader evaluate the ethical significance of the ways in which both the characters and the Chorus sometimes combine or transform established meanings to serve their own interests. In the end no one in Bacchae changes morally as Neoptolemos does in Philoktetes, and it seems that σοφία and being σοφός in Bacchae have more to do with the possession or lack of knowledge and power than with anything that can be called ethically just. In the course of the play, sympathy shifts from Dionysos, a god who is beyond good and evil, to Pentheus, his all-too-human victim.²⁸ Dionysos resembles Aphrodite and Artemis in Euripides’ Hippolytos, with whose amoral knowledge, power, and cruelty it is similarly hard to sympathize. On the other hand, like Hippolytos’ destruction by Poseidon in response to Theseus’ curse, Pentheus’ ignorance and weakness and his terrible death and dismemberment at his mother’s hands and in accordance with Dionysos’ plan, cannot help but evoke human sympathy and solidarity. In the end, it is not only Theseus and Kadmos who reestablish a relationship of φιλία with their offspring (Hipp.1446– 58, Ba. 1352– 80), but also the audience or reader who earlier in the play may have found fault with their limited, misguided attitude toward divinity and their ignorant inflexibility. In Philoktetes, the hero’s victimization, isolation, and exploitation by the Greeks also call forth sympathy, but since divinity is almost entirely absent from the play, the sympathy is quite different from that invited by Bacchae. Philoktetes offers the interpretive challenge of evaluating the instrumental, exploitative, and inhuman treatment by one human character of other human characters for both personal and political reasons. It raises, however, none of the fundamental questions about the nature of ‘wisdom’ and the relationship between divinity and humanity that are so prominent in Bacchae, and for this reason Philoktetes and the experience of reading or viewing it are far less intellectual. It is striking that two plays produced within a few years of one another in the same cultural setting should draw so differently on the language of wisdom, in accordance with the poets’ distinctive artistic purposes.²⁹

 See Dodds : xlii, xlvi.  I would like to thank Maria Serena Mirto for her helpful response to an earlier version of this essay.

Bernd Seidensticker

The Figure of Teiresias in Euripides’ Bacchae After Dionysus’ self-introduction in the prologue and the vivid singing and dancing of his thiasus in the parodos, the dramatic action of the Bacchae opens with the entrance of two brand- new proselytes of the god: first the seer Teiresias (170) and then Cadmus, the former king of Thebes and grandfather of the theomachos Pentheus (178). The entrance of Teiresias will have surprised the audience as it, a moment later, surprises Pentheus, who reacts with astonishment and derisive laughter to the strange sight of the two old men in their Dionysiac outfit (l. 250). For Euripides – in his well-known penchant for playing with the figures of myth and their literary portraits – has substantially transformed the traditional picture of the Theban priest of Apollo as drawn by Sophocles in Antigone (988 ff.) and Oedipus Tyrannus (444 ff.) and by himself in the Phoenissae (834 ff.):¹ 1. The venerable priest of Apollo κατ᾽ ἐξοχήν is dressed with the insignia of the new god Dionysus: fawnskin, thyrsus, and ivy wreath.² 2. Teiresias comes alone. In Sophocles’ Antigone and Oedipus Tyrannus he is guided by a boy, and in Euripides’ Phoenissae by his daughter. The slow, groping entrance of the blind old man, probably leaning on the thyrsus, forms a stark contrast to the ecstatic dance of the young maenads that form the chorus.³ Since it is a long way through the parodos on to the stage, he may already have become visible at the end of their joyful choral song. Teiresias summons Cadmus out of the palace⁴ and the two old men, after a short stichomythic dialogue in which they continuously assure each other that despite

 For the differences and parallels cf. Ugolini ,  – .  Cf.  und  f.; whether Teiresias also wears a long female robe, such as Pentheus will put on in the so-called dressing scene, must remain open. The text offers no evidence for Leiniks’ () statement: “Their σκευή‚ outfit,’ mentioned in  is certainly meant to include a woman’s robe.” The dressing up can be regarded as a comedy element; but that does not necessarily mean that it is comic. For the distinction between comedy elements and comic elements cf. Seidensticker ,  n. .  Cf. Winnington-Ingram , ; Seidensticker , .  That Cadmus, like Teiresias, is dressed up as follower of the new god is equally surprising, since we are told in the prologue that he does not believe that Semele has conceived a son by Zeus (cf.  – ).

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their old age they can and will dance for Dionysus, are about to leave for Mount Cithaeron, when suddenly Pentheus appears, who has hurried home from a journey, to restore law and order in Thebes. The effect Euripides has intended to achieve with the two ‘Dionysiac’ old men is controversial. Many critics have advocated a comic reading of the brief scene at the beginning of the first epeisodion;⁵ others have expressed doubts or protested strongly;⁶ and there are good reasons why critics judge the tone of this scene (and many other scenes in Greek tragedy) differently:⁷ 1. Temporal distance and fragmentary knowledge make it difficult to answer the question what ancient tragedians and their audiences may have viewed or felt as comic. 2. In a foreign and ‘dead’ language, which, to make matters worse, is only partially documented, it is difficult to determine the connotations of a word or phrase and the associations which may be aroused by it. 3. Furthermore, important information, available to critics of modern plays, is missing: we know next to nothing about the conventions and techniques of staging in the 5th century B.C. in general or about the production of single plays in particular, and the little information about audience reactions does not help either.⁸ 4. Stage-directions, which would inform us about the emotional effect the author intended, did not exist,⁹ and there are very few cases, in which the text offers an explicit clue. Therefore the risk of subjectivity is high. Circumspect interpretation can help to reach plausibility, but there will always remain room for disagreement.¹⁰ In the case of the Teiresias-Cadmus scene, at least, there is testimony for a possible response to the appearance and behavior of the two old men: Pentheus, when he notices Teiresias and Cadmus, bursts into loud laughter. It is true that his exclamation πολὺν γέλων (250) need not be accompanied by laughter, but  Cf. e. g. Norwood , ; Grube ,  f.; Winnington-Ingram ,  – ; Dodds , ; Kitto , ; Seidensticker,  und ,  – ; Oranje , ; Leinieks , ; Foley ,  – .  Cf. e. g. Murray ; Schmid , I , , n. ; Pohlenz , I ; Rivier ,  f.; Ugolini ,  – ; Seaford , : “not comic, but festive, like the festivals it prefigures” (sic!); Gregory /,  f.; Radke ,  n. ; Donzelli .  Cf. Taplin (,  f.) speaks of “a strange uncertainty of tone”.  For the scarce material cf. Bain .  Cf. Taplin .  Goldhill ,  – , has pointed out correctly that – as today – not everybody will have laughed about the same words and situations.

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could mean: “This is completely absurd!”,¹¹ but in view of the fact that Teiresias and Cadmus repeatedly refer to Pentheus’ reaction with the verbs διαγελᾶν (Teiresias, 272 and Cadmus, 322) and καταγελᾶν (Teiresias, 286), there is good reason to assume that Pentheus indeed laughs.¹² To be sure, Pentheus’ laughter is not the happy laughter of comedy, but a bitter laughter, derisive and scornful.¹³ He does not find the appearance of the two old men amusing or funny, but ridiculous, and he also says why. The fact that the prophet of Apollo and his grandfather, despite their old age, act as dancing bacchic revelers, is in his eyes completely inappropriate, in fact shameful and a sign of great foolishness (251 f., 344). The evident incongruity between the actual physical weakness of Teiresias and Cadmus and their painful awareness of being old on the one hand and their youthful enthusiasm on the other highlights the ridiculousness of the two old men. Critics of a comic reading of the little scene have tried to remove this contrast by interpreting the surprising entrance of the blind seer without a guide and the repeated assertions of the old men that they will honor the god with dancing as a sign that Dionysus leads Teiresias and that the god has rejuvenated both him and the old king.¹⁴ The constant emphasis on their old age and the repeated acknowledgment of their feebleness, however, leave little doubt that Teiresias and Cadmus do not dance like youths about the stage¹⁵ but move arduously and with caution, so as not to fall.¹⁶ In view of lines 193 or 198 or especially 363 ff., it is difficult to see how Seaford, 167, can judge the scene as an example for the rejuvenating power of the Dionysiac dance:

 So Gregory /,  f., with reference to Tro.  and Or.  and to the use of γελοῖον in the scholia.  Laughter plays an important role in the Bacchae: cf. , where Dionysus accuses Pentheus of having made his cult a laughing stock. In  it is the god who laughs about his opponent; in  f. he announces that he will ensure that the Thebans laugh at Pentheus (cf. also ), und immediately before the catastrophe the chorus calls on Dionysus to destroy Pentheus with a laughing face’ (: γελῶντι προσώπωι). So the god, who probable wore a smiling mask, turns out to be the one who has the last laugh; for the tragicomic quality of laughter in the Bacchae cf. also Beltrametti ,  – .  Cf. e. g. Winnington-Ingram ,  (“without mirth”); Gredley , ; Gregory / , ; Donzelli , .  Sandys , XLIX; Nihard ,  f.; Steidle , ; Roux , ; Leinieks , ; Gakopoulou , ; there is, however, no sign of divine enthusiasm (Ugolini , ) either in the speech of Teiresias or at the departure of the two old men for Mount Cithaeron.  Seidensticker , .  The exit of Oedipus into the sacred grove of Colonus shows what a serious metamorphosis of a blind old man looks like.

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… . ἀλλ᾽ ἕπου μοι κισσίνου βάκτρου μέτα, πειρῶ δ᾽ ἀνορθοῦν σῶμ᾽ ἐμόν, κἀγὼ τὸ σόν· γέροντε δ᾽ αἰσχρὸν δύο πεσεῖν· ἴτω δ᾽ ὅμως.

Donzelli takes the view that since the two old men are conscious of their weakness, the audience is prevented from considering them ridiculous;¹⁷ but it is by no means certain that sympathy eliminates the ludicrousness of the scene. One might rather say: The two old men know pretty well that they appear silly and ridiculous and therefore try to defend themselves against the expected criticism. Since the evaluation of the first scene also depends on how the two old men are portrayed in the further course of the epeisodion,¹⁸ it is appropriate to look at the speech of Teiresias before reaching a final judgment and attempting to answer the question what Euripides might have wanted to achieve with a comic presentation.¹⁹ Teiresias’ attempt to convince Pentheus of the existence and importance of the ‘new’ god –despite the fact that the young king for some time has spoken without noticing Teiresias and Cadmus²⁰ – shows that Euripides has handled Pentheus’ speech as part of an agon.²¹ The angry tirade against the false new god, marked by haste (212) and agitation (214), is followed by a calm and matter-of-fact defense. Paradoxically, the proselyte, who should be full of Dionysiac enthusiasm, delivers a completely rational speech, whereas the words of the opponent of the frenzy, which Dionysus initiates, are highly emotional.²² Already the first lines of Teiresias indicate that Euripides meant to characterize the seer as an accomplished rhetorician of the 5th century,²³ and Cadmus un-

 Donzelli ,  f.  Mastronarde’s statement that the reception of the Teiresias-Cadmus scene affects the reception of Teiresias’ speech applies to the audience; for the critic the reverse is also true.  In the further development of the epeisodion, Cadmus does not play a major role. At the end – in a last attempt to persuade his grandson to accept the god, even if he does not exist – he again, and this time with disarming openness, confirms that his decision to recognize and honor the new god has nothing to do with Dionysiac enthusiasm, but is guided exclusively by the best interests of the royal family (cf.  – ).  It is also conceivable that he addresses servants or soldiers who accompany him.  Cf. Schadewaldt , .  Cf. illogical development of thought, ( –  before ), conflicting statements (, ), constant repetition of the same words, syntagmata, and thoughts.  Cf. artificial word order (, ), slightly contrived phrases (, ) growing trikola ( – ;  f.; it is fitting that Euripides in  alludes to Protagoras (cf. J. Bernays, RM , ,  – ); Dodds ad loc.: “possible, though hardly certain.” But in view of the wording (and of the sense of  – ) there can be little doubt that οὐδεὶς αὐτὰ καταβαλεῖ λόγος refers

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derlines this skill of the seer when he enters the stage: ὦ φίλταθ᾽, ὡς σὴν γῆρυν ἠισθόμην κλύων / σοφὴν σοφοῦ παρ᾽ ἀνδρός (178 f.). The long rhesis, which is organized according to the rules of rhetoric, confirms the first impression.²⁴ Dodds has pointed out that Euripides lets Teiresias open his speech with a topos much favoured by the orators,²⁵ and repeatedly used in his tragedies, to point to the dangers posed to the polis by ruthless sophistic demagogues.²⁶ It is subtle irony that the attack against the rhetoric and sophism of the time is put into the mouth of a dramatis persona, who himself is a skillful rhetorician and uses sophistic techniques and arguments.²⁷ A similar irony is already unmistakable in the surprising statement, with which Teiresias justifies the recognition of the new god. His assertion οὐδὲν σοφιζόμεσθα τοῖσι δαίμοσι²⁸

is already belied in the next lines when the seer, without further ado, lets the son of Semele and Zeus, who has just arrived in Greece, appear as part of the age-old religious and cultic traditions: πατρίους παραδοχάς, ἅς θ᾽ ὁμήλικας χρόνωι κεκτήμεθ᾽, οὐδεὶς αὐτὰ καταβαλεῖ λόγος, οὐδ᾽ εἰ δι᾽ ἄκρων τὸ σοφὸν ηὕρηται φρενῶν.²⁹

to the Καταβάλλοντες , which Protagoras is reported to have recited in the house of Euripides.  Prooimion:  – ; main part:  – : a) prothesis:  – ; b) pisteis:  – ; epilogos:  – ; Kirk (ad loc.) has aptly characterized Teiresias’ speech as sober: “a speech, from which poetry and inspiration are notably absent.”  Teiresias opens the main part of his speech with yet another topos of ancient rhetoric ( – ), i. e. the confession that the topic actually goes beyond the capability of the speaker.  Dodds, ad  – : “The prooimion is of a type much favoured by the orators – a denunciation of the opposing speaker’s abuse of professional skill;” cf. Med.  ff.,  ff.; Hec.  ff.; Phoen.  ff.,  f.; cf. also Oranje , .  For the signal words ἀνὴρ σοφός (), ἀφορμάς, and εὖ λέγειν () in the prooimion and for Teiresias as “geschulter Redner” “a skilled orator,” cf. Egli ,  f.  Seaford’s attempt to resolve this contradiction – namely that Teiresias despite his assertion not to argue like a sophist does exactly that – by changing the transmitted text into οὐδ᾽ εἰ σοφιζόμεσθα τοῖσι δαίμοσι is unwarranted. Murray’s reading of the transmitted ουδενσοφιζομεσθα as οὐδὲν σοφιζόμεσθα is preferable to Musgrave’s οὐδ᾽ ἐνσοφιζόμεσθα. ἐνσοφίζεσθαι would be a hapax, and there is no reason, why the dative τοῖσι δαίμοσι cannot be understood as dative of interest (cf. Kühner-Gerth, I  – ; Schwyzer, II  f.).  The glaring anachronism warns the audience that the agon about the new god reflects contemporary debates about new cults; cf. Dodds ,  (ad  – ); Allan , .

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Since Pentheus has spoken derisively of the “new” god,³⁰ Teiresias tries to prove in the main part of his defense that Dionysus belongs to the “old” gods; and again Euripides, right from the start, stresses the ironic tension between Dionysus’ alleged ‘membership’ in the circle of established Olympian gods, and the fact that the god is a newcomer by letting Teiresias speak of his future greatness (272– 74).³¹ In the following, Teiresias praises Dionysus as a benefactor of mankind equal to Demeter (272– 85), defends the story of his second birth from Zeus’ thigh, which Pentheus had denied (242– 47), and presents the god as an ‘inspirer of prophecy’ (298 – 301) and the ‘cause of fear’ (302– 305), thus making him equal to Apollo and Ares; he then prophesies his recognition by Delphi and his future greatness in Hellas (306 – 13), before he finally defends him against accusations of corrupting the chastity of women (314– 18). The prose hymn – complete with aretalogy and birth legend – celebrates the god as ‘old’ with the means of the ‘new’ time: Teiresias is not only well-versed in the topoi, techniques, and tricks of rhetoric, he also ‘quotes’ philosophers such as Prodicus (274– 83)³² and Protagoras,³³ refers to the nomos-physis debate among the sophists (314– 18),³⁴ alludes to the mysteries and to orphism,³⁵ and

  f.; .   – : οὗτος ὁ δαίμων ὁ νέος, ὃν σὺ διαγελᾶις, / οὐκ ἂν δυναίμην μέγεθος ἐξειπεῖν ὅσος / καθ᾽ Ἑλλάδ᾽ ἔ σ τ α ι. The same ironic tension (old – new) recurs a little later, when Teiresias, in the same breath, calls Dionysus “inventor of the wine” and “son of Semele” ( f.); cf. also Oranje ,  n. .  Dodds , ad  – , Henrichs,  and ,  n. ; Egli , . It is correct that the passage evokes the opposition of the dry and the wet (: ἐν ξηροῖσι; : ὑγρὸν πῶμα), known from cosmological and medical theories (cf. G. Lloyd, JHS , ,  – ), but it is not true that Teiresias, as Dodds and others maintain, identifies Demeter with bread. There is only an implicit identification of Dionysus with wine: οὗτος θεοῖσι σπένδεται θεὸς γεγώς (); cf. Winnington , : “As an argument it is ridiculous.” Since Nestle (, , ), it is generally assumed that τὰ πρῶτα in  means “the first elements;” but in view of the formulation τὰ πρῶτ᾽ ἐν ἀνθρώποισι () and of ὃς ἦλθ᾽ ἔπειτ᾽ in  (how can one of the two first elements come later?) it should perhaps better be taken as “the best, most important things”.  Cf. n. .  Cf. Dodds , ad  – : “Here once more Teiresias speaks the language of the fifth century and thinks in terms popularized by the sophistic movement;” cf. also Egli , .  Cf. Segal ,  – ; Leinieks ,  – ; Egli , . That the speech is a kind of mystical instruction, as Seaford wants us to believe, is just as mistaken as Friedrich’s attempt (in his review of Seaford’s commentary on the Bacchae) to show that it (and the play as a whole) does not contain any allusions to the Dionysiac mysteries. For the parallels between the speech of Teiresias and the Derveni papyrus, cf. n. .

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makes use of both allegorical explanation of myth (287– 98)³⁶ and of explicit and implicit etymologizing (292– 97; 298 – 305). To be sure, not everything that the seer presents is ‘new’ – some of it is traditional wisdom. But taken together, the picture of a rhetorically trained sophist emerges, who may have reminded the audience of contemporary theologians like Euthyphro,³⁷ and the sophistic explanation of the thigh-birth alone appears to rule out that Euripides meant to portray the seer as “weisen Mahner,” as Schmid, Pohlenz, and others want us to believe.³⁸ Teiresias must respond to Pentheus’ criticism of the story, since it implies the negation of the god. But the form of his defense, built on two imaginative etymologies (292 f.: μέρος / μηρός and 294– 97: ὁ μηρός – ὅμηρος), is so absurd that neither Pentheus takes it seriously nor can the audience.³⁹ The physically grotesque is eliminated, but only at the price of a no less grotesque pseudo-scientific explanation.⁴⁰ That Teiresias opens his defense of the traditional religion with an argument that must have reminded the audience of Prodicus, who denied the existence of the gods,⁴¹ fits the picture of a shrewd sophist, as does the trick, with which he develops out of the Dionysiac μανία prophetic (298 f.: μανιώδης / μαντική) and martial (304– 305) abilities of the god. If we add the impression Teiresias makes in the entrance-scene, it is more than likely that Euripides meant to present to his audience the ironic, not to say satirical,

 Cf. the discussion below.  For this comparison, already made by Grube (, ), cf. Roth ,  –  (and  –  with reference to further sophistic theologians): “Teiresias’ particular intellectual preoccupations are closely paralleled by those of the Athenian mantis Euthyphro, a younger contemporary of Euripides, suggesting that the playwright’s portrayal of the Theban seer as a ‘theological sophist’ has some basis in reality;” cf. also Santamaría , . In recent years, several scholars have discussed parallels between the Euripidean Teiresias and the author of the Derveni papyrus; cf. Seaford ,  f.; Egli , ; Di Benedetto , ,  f.; Santamaría ; Ferrari ,  – .  Cf. n. ; Seaford even wants to take Teiresias as “a mystagogue with religious authority.”  The fact that comparable etymological explanations of rejected myths can be found in archaic and classical literature (cf. Dodds , ad  – ; Donzelli ,  f.) does not change this evaluation; the decisive point is not the form, but the content of the explanation. In addition, Teiresias’ version is in stark contrast to the ‘official’ version, which is presented twice ( – ;  – ) by the Dionysiac chorus; cf. Papadopoulou ,  n. .  Winnington-Ingram , : “a futile attempt at reason and refinement, which leaves the myth no better than before.”  Henrichs ,  – ; Santamaría ,  f., who believes that Teiresias, being aware of the fact that Pentheus, in denying the existence of Dionysus, argues like the sophists, “takes on certain sophistic doctrines in order to convince Pentheus with ideas similar to his own, thereby performing his captatio benevontiae.”

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portrait of a rationalistic⁴² theologian of the time.⁴³ This does not mean that he cannot express or evoke deep truths.⁴⁴ Teiresias’ statements about the greatness of the god Dionysus,⁴⁵ or about the blindness of Pentheus and the danger the theomachos runs with his resistance,⁴⁶ lose none of their importance or impact on the audience, just because they are spoken by a satirically drawn dramatis persona.⁴⁷ It is Teiresias who pronounces that nobody can refuse to accept the universal mandate of the god (206– 209); it is Teiresias who accuses Pentheus of μανία and thereby, with a formulation which at first glance looks like an empty wordplay, points forward, without realizing it, to the moment when Dionysus will strike Pentheus with madness: μαίνηι γὰρ ὡς ἄλγιστα, κοὔτε φαρμάκοις / ἄκη λάβοις ἂν οὔτ᾽ ἄνευ τούτων νόσου (326 f.); it is Teiresias, who with his last words prefigures, again without realizing it, the end of the tragedy: Πενθεὺς δ᾽ ὅπως μὴ πένθος εἰσοίσει δόμοις / τοῖς σοῖσι, Κάδμε (367 f.), a prophecy that will be fulfilled with the complete destruction of the house of Cadmus; and behind the bright picture, which the seer paints in his great aretalogy of Dionysus and his greatness, there again and again gleams the threatening dark and destructive side of the god, which the rationalistic apologist is incapable to understand.⁴⁸

 Teiresias himself, at the end of his speech, declares that he does not speak as a prophet but as a pragmatist – on the basis of facts (πράγματα) and common sense ( f.).  Cf. Winnington-Ingram , : “brilliant satirical picture of a shrewd ecclesiastic, not too scrupulous or too sincere, who gives his adherence to an emotional religion on political grounds,” Segal , : “minor masterpiece of satire.”  Equally wrong is the assumption that a comic reading of the Teiresias-Cadmus scene necessarily implies that Euripides intended to draw a negative picture of the god and his cult (so Conacher ,  n. ; Rohdich , ; Lesky , ). Cf. already Grube (, ), who correctly states: “It should perhaps be added that the appearance on the stage of a calculating old man and an adaptable prophet does not necessarily imply an attack on the part of the poet upon the existence or nature of the god they worship, but at most upon their type of worship.” Donzelli , , disapproves of a comic reading of Teiresias’ speech because this would weaken, if not shatter, its credibility. But exactly this is likely to have been the intention of Euripides. The speech of a venerable and credible defender of the god would have made Pentheus’ behavior completely incomprehensible and thereby would have destroyed the delicate balance between the two opponents already before their first encounter.   – ,  – .   f.,  f.,  – .  It is a widespread misunderstanding that ridiculous, or, to put it more generally, negative figures cannot utter the truth or some truth; cf. e. g. Thersites (Il. ,  – ) or Pheres (Eur. Alc.  – ).  Cf. Segal ,  – .

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In my study about comic elements in Greek tragedy⁴⁹ I have tried to show that the comic and the tragic are not mutually exclusive but that Euripides succeeds, time and again, in deepening the intended tragic meaning of single lines, smaller and larger scenes, and whole plays by means of the comic.⁵⁰ In the case of the Bacchae it is precisely the ridiculousness of the two old men and the satirical quality of Teiresias’ speech, which confer on the first epeisodion its tragic impact:⁵¹ Teiresias and Cadmus are the first followers of the new god that Pentheus meets in person, after having received the reports while being away from Thebes. The undignified appearance of the two old men, the quibbling sophistic defense of the god by Teiresias, priest of Apollo and unexpected proselyte of Dionysus, and the dubious request of his grandfather to recognize the god in the interest of the family, even if he does not exist (333– 36), cannot but strengthen his prejudices and assumptions of the malign influence of the cult and thus, by stiffening his resistance against the god, contribute to his tragic end. The audience will be tempted to join in with Pentheus’ laughter; but it sticks in their throats: Dionysus’ overwhelming power has turned Cadmus, the old king, and Teiresias, the respected seer, into ridiculous figures. What will happen to Pentheus?⁵²

 Seidensticker .  In view of the fact that the tragedians did not only write tragedies but also comic satyr plays, I fail to understand why the use of comic elements in tragedy is excluded, because it would mean a transgression of the clear-cut borders of tragedy and comedy, as Radke (cf. n. ) thinks. For my definition of tragicomic and tragicomedy cf. Seidensticker ,  – .  Seidensticker ,  f.  The comic dressing up of the two old men foreshadows the tragicomic scene ( ff.), in which Pentheus is dressed up with the insignia of Dionysus (cf. Seidensticker ,  – ).

Davide Susanetti

The Bacchae: Manipulation and Destruction The Bacchae is a puzzling play. What is it about? Is it a celebration of Dionysus, the god who can be ‘most dreadful to mortals but also most gentle’ (861)? A sacred performance where we can find the original form of sacrifice from which tragedy was born? Is the drama shaped by initiation rituals with their dynamic of symbolism of death and rebirth? The play shows the contrast between identity and otherness, of reason and madness.¹ What does it aim to do? Must the city include otherness within its walls as a necessary condition of political and psychological harmony? A good and happy life—as some lines of the play seem to claim—can be provided and ensured only by behaving like animals, by stripping oneself of all civilized habits. Mortals don’t have to be clever, to investigate nature or to desire cultural progress. All they have to do is worship the gods and behave as their fathers did. Does the play take a stand against contemporary philosophical theories and athenian intellectualism? Some interpretations dwell upon anthropological aspects and religious beliefs as the real core of the play.² Other readings point out the metatragic dimension of the play: on stage we see a play within a play with special effects, ambiguous asides, double meanings, robing scenes and even hints of comedy.³ Did the dramatist reflect on the illusion-inducing power of the theater, on the paradoxical truth that the theatrical deceit can convey, on the boundaries and aims of theatrical perfomances? Each of those interpretations contains elements of truth. But, I think, the Bacchic elements of the plot involve a second degree perspective in which Dionysus’ agency raises a political question about the polis and governors: a sort of ‘Apocalypse Now’ at the end of the century, a judgement on the polis that is destroying itself and its empire. But let’s see what happens in Thebes. The city does not embrace Dionysus’ cult; it vilifies the memory of his mother Semele; those who govern the city refute what is sacred or exploit it like any other means for holding onto power. But the gods demand veneration and mercilessly strike down anyone not abiding by their laws. In The Bacchae, Dionysus vents his wrath on the Thebes of King Pentheus and teaches the city a harsh lesson for excluding him from its prayers and sacrifices. On his arrival, he infects Thebes with a sickness that undermines the very roots of order and life. A col See  See  See ,

Vernant ,  f. Seaford and  – ; Lejnieks . Segal  and ; for an overview of the critical trends on the Bacchae see Mills  f.

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lective madness that drives the city’s women into a frenzy. Furthermore, Dionysus has changed his shape from god to mortal. He appears as a nameless Stranger, a classic anthropological category and a befitting guise for a god who represents the unnameable and destructive Otherness that wreaks trauma upon the well-established hierarchies of self and identity. The situation, however, is complicated because the nature and status of Dionysus are not taken for granted. The play is based on doubts over whether Dionysus is a god, and indeed whether he actually exists. The myth, which its audience knew well, told that Semele laid with the almighty Zeus and became pregnant with Dionysus. Their liaison came to a tragic end when Zeus appeared in Semele’s chamber with a lightning bolt, incinerating her where she stood. Zeus, however, saved the foetal Dionysus by sewing him into his thigh; this makeshift male womb brought the pregnancy to term and produced another Olympian god. In the play, however, Thebes thinks the myth far-fetched, if not an outright lie (26 f.): Semele was probably one of the many women who invented a hierogamy to cover the shame of an illicit affair, just as Creusa of Athens had claimed that her blond rapist was Apollo.⁴ Semele’s death may have been seen as just deserts for her lies. It was also unlikely, if not risible, that a child could be born from a male thigh (285). Euripides’ play investigates the doubt and invention at the heart of the myth, as well as its origins and its reliability. His play unfolds along a path that leads to the destructuring of archaic wisdom and imagery, and calls community values into question.⁵ It forces the audience to ask troubling questions about what makes a god, how cults become established, and what separates ritual from deceit. For all these reasons, Dionysus must prove himself to be a god. And that means he must stage a show. He must build his own theatre and turn Thebes into an open performance space, engulfing the city in shadows and illusions. Divine logic, however, does not iron out the problems and twists of Dionysus’ plan. His mother Semele is the daughter of Cadmus, and her sister Agave is the mother of Pentheus, the current King of Thebes. This means that Dionysus is the king’s cousin and part of the royal dynasty. Therefore, his arrival also has additional implications, as it evokes images of the avenger, of the relative who returns to claim his rights from a family that has disowned and excluded him.⁶ His furious revenge slowly and intentionally eliminates his relations, destroying their prerogatives and their privileges. The tragedy takes the form of a

 On Euripides’ Ion see Susanetti ,  f.  On Euripidean deconstruction of myth see Susanetti ,  f.  See Beltrametti ; Stella/Macrì .

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theodicy but, at the same time, recalls the powerful Aeschylean idea of a household that chokes on its own cruelty, a cursed lineage that brings about its own destruction, destroying all blood ties. In the same way, Dionysus uses the weapons that most befit the situation: entrapment and deceit. He combines them with the artful duplicity of pretending to be someone else in order to remove obstacles and smite his enemy from close-range. From Oresteia to Hamlet, the avenger must play both director and actor; thus he controls the scene, weaves the plot and stuns his adversaries with mind-blowing special effects. The resources of meta-theater are not a innocent pretext to reflect on poetics or theatricality, but conceal something far more sinister. Theater and meta-theater are the tools Dionysus uses to demonstrate his divinity but also to take revenge on his own family. Meta-theater is part of a political strategy to subjugate the city and sow the seeds of a charismatic power. While the women of Thebes run riot on Mount Cithaeron, another multitude of women descend upon the palace of King Pentheus. They are the Bacchae, women from Asia and Dionysus’ followers that he has brought along to fulfil his plan. They are the play’s Chorus and are a mirror-image of the god, the voice of his propaganda and the tools of his strategy. They are also unwitting pawns. For the entire duration of the play, the trepid, zealous acolytes are unaware who this Stranger really is. In the face of the king’s refusal to recognise Dionysus’ divinity, the women of Lydia must take extreme lengths to tell the sacred story of the god’s double birth; they must announce to Thebes that Dionysus was saved from the flames by Zeus and then born from his thigh (86 f.). The Bacchae explain the god’s many names, the places he visits, his symbols and those of his cult. The Bacchae promise happiness and purity to anyone who converts and devotes their soul to the thiasoi. This vague promise is backed up by well-worn formulas: Happy are those who know the god’s mysteries with the help of the heavens; happy are those who lead a holy life […]; happy are those who partake in the god’s mountain rituals and cleanse themselves (73 – 9).

The chant of the Chorus is a liturgy, a divine office that combines myth and ritual. The Bacchae combine their praise of Dionysus with an increasingly acute demonisation of anyone refusing the cult. Non-believers are labelled godless and lawless, insane and inhuman, unjust and monstrous, heretics deserving death. Any other explanation that contradicts the Bacchae’s words and the ‘truth’ of Dionysus’ birth and rituals is void of sense and foundation. The knowledge of others, knowledge that refuses Dionysus, is not knowledge but sheer madness. “Cleverness is not wisdom, nor is it wise to think thoughts not mortal’

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(395 – 6). ‘Never should man’s thought and practice be above the tradition’ (890 – 2). This adulteration and arrogance should be replaced with the patrimony of simple beliefs and practices of humble folk: ‘I shall accept what the simple people prefer and do’ (430 – 1). The Bacchae seem to take a harsh anti-intellectual stance. But again what is at stake here is not solely controversy over knowledge; we need to look more closely at the rhetoric. As opposition to Dionysus comes from the royal household, references to the meek and lower classes are a demagogical move to undermine Thebes’ elite; ‘nature’, ‘simplicity’ and ‘happiness’ are powerful, yet empty words that use a populist tone to arouse collective solidarity against power, against the royal family. The Bacchic revolution needs to use a language that implies restoration and conservation. It must embrace obvious and common knowledge and portray its enemies as the ones who forget and betray the memory of their roots and their people. Dionysus wants to be worshipped in Greece. Taking foreign gods and rituals was a political process that required the support of oracles and inspired words to confirm its lawfulness. It is no coincidence therefore that Dionysus’ main supporters are Cadmus and Tiresias. Cadmus is the founding father of Thebes; Tiresias is the master of truth, the seer of Apollo who interprets signs and knows all things past and future. The city’s founder and prophet, the personifications of politics and religion, join forces to welcome the new phenomenon that has come into Theban life. Their arguments are full of surprises and afford an insight – revealing perhaps too much – into the backroom workings that should stay hidden for the sake of prudence and credibility. Dionysus is a ‘new god’, a ‘recent demon’ (219, 272). Despite this, recurrent mention is made of nomos, ‘tradition’, and of ‘convention’.⁷ Dionysus’ supporters claim that worshipping him would mean being loyal to ancestral customs, as it is a practice written in law and cultural memory. On closer inspection, the obsession with combining new and tradition reveals how a speech is given its authority and how even a new institution is made an indisputable part of tradition. The scene shows how ‘the truth’ is constructed, how traditions are invented. The ‘new’ must be incorporated into existing traditions and laws or be rejected. But how does this incorporation work? In contemporary Athens, Sophist teachings emphasized the distinction and the conflicting claims between nomos and physis, tradition and nature.⁸ Law and tradition are merely human conventions. Gods are mortal inventions. Nature is the truth, is the way things are. Following the dictates of nature is much more beneficial. ‘That which is right by nature is superior to law’ (Pl. Grg. 482c). Sophistic

 See , , , , , , ,  f., , .  On nomos among the Sophits and Euripides’ perspective see Conacher ,  f.

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theories rejected traditional ideas and explanations: the relativity of virtue and opinions replaced absolute ancestral values. Young Athenian aristocrats, sophist pupils, gave these theories a political purpose and took them to extremes in a bid: we wanted to subvert democracy and to establish an oligarchy. It was the beginning of a crisis in which the brotherhood of citizens drowns in endless squabbles between political factions, trials, accusations, ulterior motives and mutual vilification. On the other hand, the words of the Bacchae, the ‘gospel’ of the Chorus, seems to be a sharp reaction, an attempt to heal that dreadful split between politics and culture.⁹ The Chorus says that nomos is physis – tradition is nature – laws and customs coexist alongside the eternal being and the cosmic order: Never should a man’s thought and practice rise above the laws. It costs so little to believe that these do rule: whatever the divine may be, whatever over long ages is accepted as lawful and comes to be through nature (894– 6).

But the healing comes too late. The Chorus’ words are more a condemnation than a positive proposition. The re-stiching of tradition and nature—so firmly claimed—is a symptom of a deep crisis, and there is no simple solution. That re-stiching is a sort of keyword in the strategy of Dionysus, in the strategy of a system troubleshooter who eliminates the corrupt systems and affiliations. That perspective is not Euripides’ point of view, but the very analysis of an historical turn after all previous cultural paradigms had collapsed. But what does the Thebanian élite really think? Cadmus has turned the tomb of his daughter Semele into a sanctuary. Thebes’ nomos of worshipping Dionysus originates from this gesture, which may be interpreted as religious devotion. However, Cadmus’ other daughters believe that it is merely a crafty pretence and denounce the use of nomos as a ruse. Their reaction might have been interpreted as bias, malevolence or envy had Cadmus himself not announced to the audience the far-from-devout reasons behind his scheme. Cadmus invites his nephew King Pentheus to proclaim Dionysus a deity regardless of the truth or his own personal beliefs. It matters little whether Dionysus is a god, or whether he even exists. What matters is that the king makes this proclamation in the interests of his own and the family’s power, as it will bring the ruling household prestige. What matters is that the governing family all agree to support this ‘new tradition’:

 See Bollack ,  f.

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Take our side […] Dionysus is not what you would call a god? It doesn’t matter. Declare him one anyway; it is a convenient lie! The people will believe that Semele brought a god into the world and it will be a great honour for our household (330 – 5).

Cadmus’ words reveal that tradition is a lie, that myth is a deliberate fabrication and an instrument of power. Exposing the workings of mythology means destroying the mirage of origin and the persuasive charm of ancient tales. The position of Cadmus, who is dressed as a Bacchant and ready to dance for the honour of Dionysus despite his age, is not dissimilar from that of the atheist who claims that the pantheon was invented as a convenient way to keep society in order. Tiresias’ speech also raises a host of issues. During the play, Tiresias interprets no divine message, nor does he speak through his second sight. He tries to convince Pentheus by describing the greatness awaiting Dionysus. But he gives a speech that is far removed from the naivety of ancestral stories. In Tiresias’ opinion, Dionysus, god of wine, is a principle of nature: Two things are primary among mortals, young man: the goddess Demeter—she is earth but you can call her either name you like—nourishes mortals with dry food. But he who came next, the son of Semele, discovered as its counterpart the wet drink that flows from the grape cluster and introduced it to mortals (275 – 9).

Dionysus is understood as the ‘wet’ element that complements the ‘dry’ nurture of Demeter. The gods become features of a culture, stages on a path towards civilisation that advances through human invention and discovery. Deities are nothing more than symbols of the cosmos, the allegories for the essential parts of human existence. Traditional stories and religious beliefs are perpetuated as an alternative means of expressing a conceptual world, a cultural context that is completely alien to the original situation in which the stories and beliefs arose. Furthermore, when a myth causes controversy because it is illogical or unbelievable, one must find different interpretations that remove the absurdity of the literal meaning; the collective imagination can be changed by adapting a myth to new times and contexts. Dionysus’ birth from Zeus’ thigh may seem a risible invention, and consequently Tiresias puts forward a seemingly more acceptable version. Zeus defended Dionysus from Hera’s wrath by shaping the air into the likeness of his son and then giving it to his jealous consort so that she could wreak her fury upon him without Dionysus suffering any harm. Time and misunderstandings had blurred the legend, Tiresias claimed. The simulacrum ὅμηρος ‘hostage’ had been miswritten as μηρός, the ‘thigh’ of almighty Zeus (285 f.). The seer uses philology to explain how the tales are distorted as tradition is handed down, how mortals change and reshape their beliefs. His

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change, however, comes at a price. Tiresias allegorises and rewrites the myth;¹⁰ his speech uses the language of philosophy and not religion. He puts forward a hidden ‘truth’ within the myth and by doing so detaches himself from it, offering a paradigm that deliberately manipulates what is sacred. His interpretation taints the sacred tale he is trying to salvage with deceit and duplicity, as he suggests that Olympus is home to a true Dionysus and an impostor. His simulacrum raises the issue of deceit and the difficulty of distinguishing a god from what he is and what he is not. Tiresias hints that there is no need to sophisticate when dealing with divine matters; tradition should not be disputed with cunning ruses or intricate theories. Nevertheless, he speaks as a Sophist and uses the theoretical baggage of a modern intellectual. His words hint at Ionian studies on nature and refer to Protagoras’ and Prodicos’ writings.¹¹ Despite his declarations, Tiresias does not believe the myth; he is a godless philosopher who believes only in nature, replacing popular beliefs with new ideas and new gods. However, the Chorus – the mouthpiece for the will and word of Dionysus – believes that the truth is and must remain literal: ‘Semele bore her son premature and was killed by the lightning. But Zeus immediately slipped him into his thigh’ (89 f.). Dionysus rejects allegory and wants his true story to be told; his cruel machinations aim to prove that the myth of his birth is true. Although Euripides’ plays contain a host of characters in contrast with their legends – heroes who refute the tales that recount their deeds – Dionysus is proof that if myth and tradition are to survive all doubts and heterodoxy must be destroyed. Myths must be taken literally. They must be believed to be rooted in the ‘true being’. In this way, ancient stories work like a perfect ‘machine’ of persuasion and order.¹² They are not literature, but a political means to hypnotize civic consensus. Dionysus re-enacts the archaic dynamics of myth and uses them against his more sophisticated enemies. Cadmus and Tiresias hobble from the scene like the two decrepit old men they are. They need to be guided and treated like children, as the verb παιδαγωγεῖν suggests (193 f.).¹³ Their supposed authority and wisdom turn into a ridiculous failure, and they are discredited. When Pentheus hears what is going on in Thebes, he appears upset and nervous. It is almost as though the power he represents is already marked by excess and an inability to deal with the situation. Pentheus wishes to restore order and crackdown on these seditious foreign women by stopping their rituals and practices immediately. He issues increasingly violent orders and punishments    

See Roth ; Stella ; Susanetti ,  f. See Di Benedetto ,  and . On myth as ‘machine’ see Jesi ,  f. Dodds , ; Susanetti ,  f.

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against anyone who challenges his power and the city. ‘Capture’, ‘imprison’ ‘bind’, ‘shut’, ‘silence’ and ‘subjugate’ recur obsessively in Pentheus’ speech (343 f., 510 f.). Pentheus’ actions may make him appear to be an extreme incarnation of the tragic tyrannos, a dark figure who sows atrocity and ruin around him. He wears the fearful mask of a king whose laws blindly and furiously breach the principles of justice and religious devotion he is supposed to stand for. But Pentheus is not a king who has grown old on his throne, a man skilled in the controversial art of government. He is merely ‘a boy’ who has been entrusted with running the land. Pentheus is a ‘young man’ caught between the old custodians of power—Cadmus and Tiresias—and the women of the royal family.¹⁴ The figure of the fearful tyrant fades into one of a young, yet aggressive novice. The play portrays the power of King Pentheus as frail and limited. The child who controls the fate of the kingdom is an allegory for an unsound politics that has produced no heirs and has no future. Dionysus uses his insidious counter-power to take the situation to the extremes of caricature and carnivalesque. When Pentheus punishes or threatens, Dionysus responds with a maze of illusions and deceit, putting on a wondrous show during which majesty collapses into ridiculousness and powerlessness. The kingdom of Thebes is turned into a theatre of ghosts and hallucinations. Pentheus becomes increasingly flustered and frantic; he changes his mind, yells orders and counter-orders, runs through the palace, calls for arms, sweats, bites his lip and lashes out (616 f.). But he achieves nothing and gains nothing. By opposing Dionysus, political power becomes a parody of itself, a machine that idles wildly before breaking down forever. Dionysus is a mirror that provides the city and its king with a distorted and disturbing reflection of their own failures and fate. Dionysus turns into the household fiend, the ghost that haunts the powerful élite: it shows up the insufficiency and ineligibility of this élite, he profits from its blindness and its prejudices. Dionysus uses scorn and blood to aggravate a weakness that also characterises King Agamemnon in Euripides’ contemporary play Iphigenia in Aulis.¹⁵ Pentheus hunts ghosts, and Agamemnon and Menelaus contradict one another. Each man proves himself unworthy of his title and is sentenced with the same guilty verdict. In Euripides’ theatre of deceit and punishment, Dionysus is the writer, actor and director. He changes shape and dons a mask, measuring his tone and actions. The Stranger is an initiate with a mysterious secret; a god-worshipping prophet; a meek, smiling prisoner; a trouble-maker who mocks his adversary;

 See , , , , , .  Susanetti ,  f.

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a tempter who brings out the dark-side in others; and an assistant and guide whose concern belies his malicious intent. Dionysus has every movement planned to perfection. Instead of theatre providing a window onto civic politics—that sort of politics that Dionysus’ strategy symbolizes—civic politics uses the theatre for its own underhand purposes, in a bid to vanquish political enemies. Thus, the divide between cavea and stage is swept away. The distance that safeguards the audience from the dangers of excessive empathy, the gap between the violence on-stage and the safety of the cavea, is bridged. The spectator is sucked into the performance; instead of being ‘watcher’ he is ‘watched’ as he descends towards ruin. If dramatic poetry is ἀπάτη, ‘deceit’, as Gorgias believed (82 B 23 D.K.), the King of Thebes fails to see the ἀπάτη before him. When he discovers that he is part of the scene, it is already too late. For the very same reason, the governing principle of tragedy, that bizarre ‘pleasure’ of watching pain,¹⁶ is nothing but an illusion. All he experiences is terrible suffering. As a result of Dionysus’ scheming, as a result of his on-stage play-acting, Pentheus finds himself in Oedipus’ situations. Pentheus stumbles towards his fate in Oedipal obliviousness, a comparison that is effectively underlined by the dialogue between Pentheus and Dionysus. In Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, Tiresias accuses Oedipus of not knowing who he is, what he is doing and whom he lives with: ‘You do not see the trouble you are in, nor where you dwell, nor who it is who shares your household. Do you know from whom your being arose ?’ (413 – 5). Dionysus accuses Pentheus of the same blindness: ‘You don’t know how you live, you don’t know what you see; you don’t even know who you are’ (506). Unlike Oedipus, however, Pentheus has no investigations to conduct or past to piece together to discover his true identity. Indeed, Pentheus is brashly aware of who he is: ‘I am Pentheus, son of Agave and Echion’ (507). But this knowledge will not save him; nor is his knowledge of himself the root of the problem. The Oedipal language, however, is merely a sign that Pentheus is being delegitimized as king. With perfect timing, the plot rushes towards its tragic déjà vu ending. Dionysus exploits the fatality of incest, the curse of Oedipus, as a destructive signifier against the “straight” ruler of the city.¹⁷ In his moment of madness, the king puts himself completely into the hands of his seducer. Pentheus submits to Dionysus and devotes himself to the cult; he is a statue to be dressed and consecrated as the god commands, an animal decorated for immolation, an initiate who must face the terror of a symbolic death before being reborn (934 f.). In a sequence that contrasts darkness and light, the

 See  and Susanetti ,  – .  See Serra ; Stella ,  f.

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Stranger promises Pentheus salvation and success. The path that leads the king to Mount Cithaeron to see the maenads is like a procession that precedes the decisive moment of a test. Pentheus’ death is horrific: his σπαραγμός—being torn apart by the maenads—mirrors the fate of a sacrificial victim and may even hint at the death of Dionysus, who is torn to pieces by the Titans. This tragic scene reveals the skeleton of a religious myth to a secular audience, translating a mysterious ritual into a stage performance and affording an insight into the culminating point of an initiation ceremony. The path that leads Pentheus from the city may also represent the fate of a scapegoat and the dark archaic ritual of periodically killing a king. We must ask ourselves, however, if all of this defines the play or whether it is merely the bare bones; are the rites of Dionysus and the king’s sacrifice merely parts of the play’s plot and language, or do they offer the audience something more? What does that mimesis of religion aim to do? The play’s ending shows no signs of rebirth and offers no consolation by restoring harmony, order or values. In this case theatre seems destined to take both myths and rites and turn them into a défilé of signifiers that can be applied to different and often contrasting phenomenology, to a different host of meanings. On stage, esoterism and initiation risk becoming a parody. The arrival of the Stranger turns Mount Cithaeron into an open-air brothel. King Pentheus believes that the rites of Dionysus are merely a pretext for debauchery, licentiousness and orgies (219 f., 814 f.). According to the king, the women who escape their homes have one objective alone: sate their unlimited physical appetite for obscenity, drink wine and have sex, squatting like beasts beneath the shade of the trees. The violent repression Pentheus plans to enact is as powerful as the fantasies that have invaded his mind under the influence of Dionysus. The god has taken the form of a man, but his fine looks—long, soft hair, white skin and deep eyes—are troubling and androgynous: Dionysus is a ‘queer’ epiphany that blends and blurs male and female features.¹⁸ Pentheus eyes him up and down; he comments on Dionysus’ every physical trait, censuring his effeminacy and criticising his unsuitability for the healthy virility of sport and outdoor activities. Pentheus’ criticism, however, conceals a weakness for Dionysus’ erotic power. Pentheus defends himself by insulting and belittling Dionysus, yet he grudgingly concedes that Dionysus is handsome and attractive: What long hair! You surely are not one of those who wrestle in the gymnasium, with those locks of yours reaching your cheeks … they make you attractive!

 On Dionysus’ queerness see Fusillo ; Susanetti . On gender troubles and political agency see Butler .

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And such fair skin! You surely avoid the sun on purpose: always in the shadow, hunting for sex, handsome as you are (435 – 9). By lingering on Dionysus’ physical qualities, Pentheus unwittingly reveals that he is intrigued and fascinated. The scene contains underlying tones of homoerotic seduction. The two men stand face-to-face- and their initial hostility turns into intimacy, as the King surrenders his body to the rival. Thus, the unnameable desire for the queer Stranger smoothes the path, after few scenes, to the spectrum of the female desire that frightens and attracts Pentheus. The power of eros, the fearful seduction of sexual ghosts, overcomes the king: it is the fulcrum of Dionysus’ plan to sweep aside all resistance and to subjugate an aggressive enemy. The King becomes a docile slave to his mind’s phantoms and a dark desire installs itself at the heart of politics and sovereignty. However, when we look beyond speculation over Pentheus’ character, psychology, inhibitions and inability to repress his hidden yearnings, we see how dark desire installs itself at the heart of politics and power. Female lust may represent complete chaos and be a compulsion that the city must exorcise to restore harmony, but Pentheus’ irrepressible yearning is a sign that he is spiralling towards destruction and a trigger that springs a fatal trap. The topic is widely covered in Greek history and philosophy.¹⁹ Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War (6.24) describes the fearful, deranged eros that drives the Athenians to a failed attempt to conquer Sicily. Plato’s Republic (571a f.) describes how a tyrannical eros takes over the city and its citizens’ souls, destroying every other need and turning the goodness of day into the horror of night. Even in his early plays, Euripides explored the margins of deviancy and eros, the inability of virtue that is not able to manage and master sexual desire. In the later stages of The Bacchae, the theme of eros doesn’t involve an effective psychological inquiry: it writes the epilogue of an age and a phenomenon that no longer requires any explanation. The same dynamic is at work and one again pushes the city and its leader into an abyss. Pentheus heads towards his downfall in stages. After the tense encounter with his seductive adversary, the king’s imagination is still running wild, despite a messenger’s report that the women on the mountain are not involved in anything obscene or untoward. But Pentheus is obsessed and will not listen to reason. The king wants to take up arms and declare war on the Bacchae, so he summons his army. A furious war is the only answer to licentiousness. But Dionysus quickly intervenes and suggests another plan. His idea is to spy on the women and catch them during their obscene acts. Dionysus toys with Pentheus’ desire

 See Wohl .

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and exploits all the resources of the phantom of sexuality. Although the king is repulsed, eros drives his voyeuristic desire to watch the orgy of wine and sex and to witness the ghosts he is fighting. Pentheus would pay ‘gold’ to be able to see that sight (811). But to watch the maenads has another significant implication in the dramaturgical design: in fact, Pentheus gets ready to spy on his own mother and witness her supposed state of sexual abandon. In consequence of that, the profile of the political leaders seems to blur into the horizon of a primary scene where the king regresses to being a child spying on his mother.²⁰ But Pentheus has to take one last step before becoming a voyeur: disguise himself as a maenad. This seems like a clever move to avoid being discovered, but as later events prove his disguise is a tactical failure. Nor is it suggested to help him blend in with the maenads. It is merely a symbolic transition that leads to his downfall. Dionysus’ strategy strips Pentheus of his male identity and forces him to “become a woman” (822). Therefore, instead of dressing like a warrior, he dons a long maenad robe and an Asian woman’s headdress; he shakes his thyrsus and dances. Dionysus dresses him and tweaks the pleats in his robe; he even arranges Pentheus’ hair with his own hands. Dionysus assures Pentheus that his disguise, one inspired by madness, is perfect. The entire scene seems to be borrowed from Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusai, from the comic theme of unlikely gender crossing.²¹ But the result is not comic at all. Dressing as the opposite sex pertains to the rituality of celebrations and rites of passage, and it is part of the mythobiography of heroes²². In Pentheus’s case, however, no positive rite of initiation coincides with the Dionysian costume.²³ Furthermore, Pentheus’ craving to watch his mother turns Pentheus into his mother. Once the king is disguised as a Bacchant, he is desperate to resemble his mother Agave and his aunts, and tries to imitate their gait and posture. ‘Do I not have the carriage of Ino or my mother?’ he asks the Stranger (926). Seeing Pentheus —as the god replies in a derisive undertone—is like “seeing one of them” (927). It is said that playing a sexual gender is a matter of performance, but the scene Euripides portrays exploits the dreadful consequences of this logic. As king, Pentheus is supposed to imitate his father, yet he turns himself into his mother, a Bacchant. Pentheus wraps himself in the phantoms of sexuality, which have been freed by Dionysus’ artful persuasion. His loss of identity culminates in his being torn to pieces. The majesty of Oedipus was ruined by the terrible discovery that he had killed his father and married his mother, yet all it    

Dionysus defines Pentheus μητρός…. κατάσκοπος (). See Di Benedetto ,  f. On ritual gender crossings see Gallini . On cross-dressing and initiation see Gallini; Kalke ; Bremmer .

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takes to topple Pentheus is to dress him as his wicked mother Agave, the feral, bloodthirsty Bacchant, last of the furious heroines and infanticide mothers that fill Greek tragedy. As soon as the King of Thebes, the male holder of power, dons the guise of the city’s murderous queen and the mask of ‘Evil mother’, all order implodes. The laughable sight of King Pentheus, as Dionysus leads him through Thebes dressed as a maenad, becomes a grotesque simulacrum of royalty but also of what is sacred. Thus, the language of tragic theatre has exhausted its themes and reached its nadir. At the end, Agave comes on stage holding a grisly trophy and wants to celebrate; she believes she has killed a wild beast. By resorting to a sort of psychological therapy, Cadmus brings her back to reality and reveals her crime. Then, all Cadmus and Agave can do is acknowledge what has happened and bow to the cruelty of the offended deity. Dionysus, deus ex machina, appears on stage and reveals his true identity, announcing the proof of his power and his triumphant revenge. Once the god has declared his glory, he makes a prophecy (1330 f.): Cadmus shall be exiled to a foreign land but one day will return to Greece at the head of a barbarian army and destroy its tombs and sacred sites. His exile combines with the dark future of an invasion and further ruin. Agave and her sisters will wander far from the places that they have stained with Pentheus’ blood; Thebes is empty and desolate. There is no reconciliation between the god and the survivors of the royal family; there is no new dawn, nor is there any glimpse of a new start before the end of the play, nor is there any mention of the city or its people. Cadmus rebukes Dionysus for his excess. Dionysus had the right to punish his detractors, but he was ‘too cruel’; his punishment surpassed all reasonable bounds and strayed into blind ferocity. The gods, observes Cadmus, should not fall prey to mortal passions or lose their sense of control or measure (1346 f.). This is, however, impossible to grant in a theatre that enacts traditional myths. This task should be left to other gods and another theology. In Thebes, the king and his family are mere puppets that have been ripped to pieces and thrown away. These puppets were not up to their role, and divine will had no hesitation in razing their theatre to the ground. Mortals, as Plato says (Lg. 644e), are playthings of the gods, puppets pulled this way and that by a series of strings; their only hope of salvation is to be tugged by the golden string of reason and law. If this is to happen, however, the gods must incarnate the good that this string represents. The Bacchae and its depiction of Thebes’ decline could equally apply to the political and cultural decline of Athens. When Euripides wrote the drama, he had retreated to Macedonia. From abroad his intellectual dramatic art, his queer theatre could voice triumphant outrage and wholesale condemnation about his city. But what is left in the space made vacant? It will no longer be the Greece it was.

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And Athens will go the same way: the dreams of an empire are shattered, swallowed up in the mirage of expansion and conquest, Athens becomes an outpost, a satellite of another empire, Alexander the Great’s empire. After democracy, a new charismatic power will establish itself and rule the Greek world as Dionysus announces in the play. The Euripidean play captures the decline of an era. The undoing of Cadmos’ family is a sentence without leave of appeal: a severe condemnation of Athens. Sophocles offers, on the contrary, a prospect of regeneration as counterweight to the doom and gloom of this period. His Oedipus at Colonus also sees the arrival of a Stranger, the old and blind hero of Thebes, whose presence unsettles the inhabitants of Attica. Wondrous events occur in a wood; a divine voice breaks the silence; thunder rumbles; and Oedipus vanishes miraculously. But old Oedipus does not bring ruin to Athens; he does not wreak destruction on his host city. His controversial reign and horrific past bring the city good fortune, protecting it from war and promising joy and prosperity. As Attica safeguards the hero’s tomb, it ‘will always be free from pain’ (1765). Although Euripides’ play depicts Athens and Thebes as equally doomed, Sophocles uses mythology in a bid to outline a possible future that eschews the bloody events in Thebes and restores hope to a city once blessed by the gods. From his exile in Macedonia, Euripides may have been loath to nurture this hopeful illusion. If Athens did indeed have a future, its roots lay in a land far away from the realm of Theseus and his descendants.²⁴

 See Susanetti ,  f.

P. J. Finglass

Mistaken Identity in Euripides’ Ino ¹ Until recently, our sole evidence for the plot of Euripides’ Ino was a tale recorded by Hyginus under the heading Euripidis Ino (Fab. 4): Athamas in Thessalia rex, cum Inonem uxorem, ex qua duos filios , perisse putaret, duxit nymphae filiam Themistonem uxorem; ex ea geminos filios procreavit. postea resciit Inonem in Parnaso esse atque bacchationis causa eo pervenisse. misit qui eam adducerent; quam adductam celavit. resciit Themisto eam inventam esse, sed quae esset nesciebat. coepit velle filios eius necare. rei consciam, quam captivam esse credebat, ipsam Inonem sumpsit; et ei dixit ut filios suos candidis vestimentis operiret, Inonis filios nigris. Ino suos candidis, Themistonis pullis operuit; tunc Themisto decepta suos filios occidit. id ubi resciit, ipsa se necavit. Athamas autem in venatione per insaniam Learchum maiorem filium suum interfecit; at Ino cum minore filio Melicerte in mare se deiecit et dea est facta. When Athamas, king of Thessaly, thought that his wife Ino, by whom he fathered two sons, had perished, he married Themisto, the daughter of a nymph, and had twin sons by her. Later he discovered that Ino was on Mount Parnassus, where she had gone for the Bacchic revels. He sent someone to bring her home, and concealed her when she had been brought. Themisto discovered that she had been found, but did not know her identity. She began to desire to kill Ino’s sons, and made Ino herself, whom she believed to be a captive, a confidante in the plan, telling her to clothe her children with white garments, but Ino’s with black. Ino clothed her own with white, and Themisto’s with black; then Themisto mistakenly killed her own sons. When she discovered this, she killed herself. Moreover, Athamas, while hunting, in a fit of madness killed his older son Learchus; but Ino with the younger, Melicertes, cast herself into the sea and was made a goddess.

This tale is one of only two which Hyginus explicitly attributes to Euripides. In the case of the other, Antiope, a substantial papyrus fragment corroborates Hyginus’ assertion; we may thus provisionally accept his claim for Ino, too.² The quoted fragments of the play are too sententious to give an indication of the con-

 It is a pleasure to offer this paper in honour of the memory of Professor Daniel Iakov, who treated me with great kindness on my visits to Thessaloniki, and from whose work I have learned so much. I think in particular of his article on Stesichorus, Iakov (), which makes more sense in two pages than others do in hundreds, and of Iakov ()  – , which analyses a fragment of the play discussed in this paper. – I am grateful to Dr Lyndsay Coo, to Professor David Kovacs, and to Professor Alan Sommerstein for helpful comments.  This point is argued at greater length by Finglass ,  – .

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tents of its plot;³ but the recent publication of a new papyrus has greatly increased our knowledge. Its text runs as follows:⁴

 Eur. frr.  –  TrGF, a few of which are mentioned in the discussion below. One of these fragments, however (fr. , mentioned at Finglass ,  with n. ) should rather be classed among the ‘fragmenta incerti dramatis’, as G. O. Hutchinson points out to me; see Nauck as cited by Kannicht, and Hutchinson in a forthcoming study of Plutarch’s quotations.  P.Oxy. , edited by Luppe and Henry ; their attribution of the fragment to Euripides and to his Ino is supported by Finglass . The text in this article is identical to that printed at Finglass , , except that in line  I write ἥκουϲ̣[’ instead of ἥκουϲ̣[ι , to give the bisected anapaestic dimeter typical of Euripides. In line  we might consider μικρό̣ν instead of μικρό̣ν, again to give better Euripidean orthography (see Finglass , on Soph. El. ). Both these changes are suggested in a forthcoming article by Kovacs, which offers further textual analysis of the piece.

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[End of song by chorus. Attendants carrying Learchus’ body are observed entering via an eisodos.] CHORUS Another … For these men have come … aloft the ill-fated … of Cadmus … carrying to the master’s house. [Attendants carrying Learchus’ body arrive on stage.] ATHAMAS Place him gently in front of the house, bystanders, a weight small for you, but painful for me. Strip him, show him to the light … so that not escaping notice in robes … [Attendants place Learchus’ body on the stage and remove the robe that was covering him.] INO (sings) … soul … … … terrible, o wretched … unhappy

This chapter considers the play afresh in the light of this new evidence; what sort of drama was this, and how did its themes and characters compare to those in other tragedies? By offering this kind of thematic analysis here, after the inevitably philological focus of my earlier piece on the play, I hope to position this still relatively neglected drama within Euripides’ oeuvre, and to highlight particularly important and distinctive aspects of its dramaturgy. The papyrus permits the following deductions about the story.⁵ Towards the end of the play, immediately after a choral ode, the boy Learchus is carried on stage, dead; after brief remarks from his father Athamas, his mother Ino sings a lament over the body. The news of the boy’s death had already reached the house, perhaps via Athamas himself; but the choral ode that preceded the arrival of the corpse was devoted to mourning for some other tragic event that had struck the family. We know from Hyginus that Ino subsequently cast herself into the sea together with her other son, Melicertes; she, and perhaps her son too, became a divinity, and this fact, together with the narration of their watery leap, which could not be represented on stage, would have been communicated by a deus ex machina at the conclusion of the play. Ino may have been overcome by madness when she jumped into the sea with Melicertes, as she is described in

 These points are all argued for in one or other of the works cited in the previous footnote, which also contain detailed bibliography.

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the brief reference to her in Euripides’ Medea;⁶ this would balance Athamas’ madness, which also led to the death of a child.⁷ The final part of the drama thus portrays the traumatic ends of two children and of their mother. The suffering that this caused would have been ameliorated in part if Melicertes underwent an apotheosis, but the prevailing emotions are nevertheless likely to have been grief and loss; Athamas, in particular, has to live on bereft of his close kin. We already knew, thanks to Hyginus, that he was robbed of all four of his sons; what we did not know, until the publication of the papyrus, was that the deaths of his sons by Ino were spaced out across the final scenes. Learchus’ killing has already taken place, and been announced, before a choral stasimon, which might well not even be the last stasimon of the drama; Learchus’ body is subsequently brought on stage, and lamented by his mother in a song that would have provided a moment of high pathos. The death of Melicertes then constitutes a separate incident, not, as in many other accounts of the myth,⁸ part of an instantaneous reaction by Ino to news of Learchus’ death, prompted by the fear that her still maddened husband might kill her other son. By separating these events Euripides gives Athamas, and particularly Ino, the opportunity to mourn Learchus’ death; his end thus has an impact on the spectators in its own right, before being succeeded by the further tragedy of Ino and Melicertes. For Athamas to mourn his son requires his return to sanity after killing his child. This is a further essential point in Euripides’ handling of the drama, one not apparent from Hyginus’ summary, but which can be inferred from the papyrus; we may compare how Agave in Bacchae, and the title character in Heracles, recover their faculties only to have to confront the killings of their own children which they had perpetrated during their madness. The brevity of Athamas’ expression of sorrow in the papyrus fragment suggests that he has already lamented his son’s end at greater length (a mere four trimeters seems insufficient to mourn such a tragic event); he might also participate to some extent in his wife’s mournful lyric. It is frustrating that the papyrus breaks off before we

 Eur. Med.  –  μίαν δὴ κλύω μίαν τῶν πάρος | γυναῖκ’ ἐν φίλοις χέρα βαλεῖν τέκνοις, | Ἰνὼ μανεῖσαν ἐκ θεῶν, ὅθ’ ἡ Διὸς | δάμαρ νιν ἐξέπεμπε δωμάτων ἄλαις· | πίτνει δ’ ἁ τάλαιν’ ἐς ἅλμαν φόνωι | τέκνων δυσσεβεῖ, | ἀκτῆς ὑπερτείνασα ποντίας πόδα, | δυοῖν τε παίδοιν ξυνθανοῦσ’ ἀπόλλυται. For this passage see Newton , although his conclusion, that the chorus’s unique version of the myth, in which Ino kills both of her children, is meant to be understood as objectively false by the audience, does not take account of the malleability of paradigmatic myth in the hands of the tragedians. See also Battezzato, this vol.,  – .  Cf. Euripides’ Heracles, where madness sent by Hera causes Heracles to kill his own children.  For references see Newton ,  n. .

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can appreciate the power of Ino’s song, but at least we see that she did sing, marking this point in the play as especially fraught. And since Ino, and probably Melicertes, will receive the consolation of apotheosis, pausing on Learchus’ fate directly confronts the audience with what, for the play’s eponymous heroine, will have been the single most tragic event of the play. The emotional force resulting from children’s deaths at the hands of a parent was used to famous effect by Euripides at the conclusion of his Medea; the eponymous character in that play became so much the child-killer par excellence that Horace could describe the convention that violent acts leading to death were not represented on the tragic stage via the admonition ‘let Medea not kill her children in front of the spectators’.⁹ But Ino was arguably more dominated by child-killing than even Medea; in our play, at least four children met their ends, at the hands of no fewer than three different parents. And unlike those in Medea, the child-killings in Ino were all to some degree unintentional, and took place not just at the end of the drama, but in its earlier stages too. This latter fact sets Ino apart even from plays such as Bacchae and Heracles which, as mentioned above, involve only a single act of child-killing.¹⁰ As we know from Hyginus, Athamas’ other wife, Themisto, attempted to kill Ino’s children, but by taking the disguised Ino into her confidence ensured the ruination of her plan: Ino brought it about that Themisto killed her own children instead. The mistaken killing of children by their parents thus seems to have formed the backbone of the drama; and this failure of parents, first of Themisto, and then of Athamas, to recognise their own offspring was accompanied by the failure of Themisto to recognise Ino, the woman whose offspring she wished to kill. One family member not recognising another, leading to the prospect of an unintentional act of kin-killing, is a feature fundamental to several tragedies from across Euripides’ career.¹¹ So in his Aegeus Medea probably attempted to have Theseus killed by his father Aegeus, who was unaware of the young man’s true identity. Alexandros saw the Trojan prince Paris nearly murdered  Hor. AP  ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet.  For the killing of children by their parents as a motif in tragedy see McHardy .  Karamanou  believes that although ‘near-catastrophic events between close kin occurred sporadically in earlier Euripidean plays … [this plot type] develops into a trend with the wide production of “family reunion” plays [from c.  until ]’ (pp.  – ; cf. p. ). But the surviving plays of Euripides for which we have a firm date (approximately  out of  surviving titles) are already dominated by plays from the last twenty years of his life (fully  out of ; see Finglass ,  n. ), so it is not surprising to find more plays that deal with this plot pattern from the end of Euripides’ career than from its beginning. Ino, at least, was not a late play, having been produced some time between  and  inclusive (see Finglass ,  n. ).

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by his mother and brothers when, as an unknown stranger, he defeated the latter in the games instituted to commemorate his own supposed death as a child. The title character of Ion is nearly killed by his mother because she suspects him of being her husband’s lovechild; the title character of Cresphontes almost meets with a similar fate, when he returns home claiming to be Cresphontes’ killer and thus provokes his mother’s grief. These plays all delay the recognition of one family member by another in order to bring the plot to the point of disaster; the audience thus experiences terror as they anticipate a dreadful, unintentional crime, followed by the drama of the moment of recognition, the relief that the killing will not in fact take place, and the excitement caused by the characters’ reactions to the very different situation in which they now find themselves. In Ino, by contrast, the failure to recognise family members leads not merely to the brink of disaster, but past it; and this happens not once, but twice.¹² A similar pattern might have been found in Euripides’ Plisthenes, if some scholars are right to reconstruct its plot on the basis of a tale in Hyginus; in that story, Atreus kills his own son Plisthenes thinking that he was his brother’s son. It is quite uncertain that this account in Hyginus goes back to Euripides, however,¹³ so we cannot use it as a safe parallel. Killings by people who fail to recognise their kin are attested for Astydamas’ Alcmeon and a play called Odysseus Wounded unascribed to any dramatist, but we know nothing about these plays other than that the killing took place within the timeframe of the drama itself.¹⁴ A further parallel is found in Sopho-

 The contrast between different sorts of kin-killings is a key concern for Aristotle in his Poetics (ch. , b – a). He describes kin-killings that are (i) committed with the full knowledge of the perpetrators; (ii) begun, but not completed, by people who knew that their targets were their kin; (iii) carried out when the perpetrators were unaware that they were killing their own kin; (iv) begun, but not completed, by people who did not know that their targets were their kin. Aristotle rates (ii) the worst, (i) the next best, (iii), which corresponds to what happens in Ino, the next best (βέλτιον δὲ τὸ ἀγνοοῦντα μὲν πρᾶξαι, πράξαντα δὲ ἀναγνωρίσαι· τό τε γὰρ μιαρὸν οὐ πρόσεστιν καὶ ἡ ἀναγνώρισις ἐκπληκτικόν, ‘a superior arrangement is where the agent acts in ignorance, and discovers the truth after acting: for here there is nothing repulsive, and the recognition produces a powerful effect’, translated by Halliwell , ), and (iv) the best, describing it as κράτιστον. We are not bound to adopt his preferences, nor were the audiences of the fifth century. For recent bibliography on this passage of Aristotle see Karamanou ,  n. .  See Collard and Cropp , ii .  Both the Astydamas fragment (TrGF i  F b) and the Odysseus Wounded fragment are both cited by Aristotle, Poetics b – , who contrasts them with the handling of Laius’ death in Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. The play that Aristotle calls Odysseus Wounded may be the same as Sophocles’ play Odysseus struck by a Spine (thus Nauck ,  –  = , ; Radt, TrGF iv  attributes the suggestion to Brunck, but I could not find it under either of the relevant

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cles’ Euryalus, in which the title character, Odysseus’ son by Euippe, daughter of Tyrimmas, king of Epirus, comes to Ithaca to meet his father. Odysseus is away when he arrives, and Penelope, on his return, tells him that the new arrival is planning to kill him; so Odysseus kills him himself, without knowing his identity.¹⁵ As in Ino, here we have a failure of recognition that arises from the separation of family members. Another comparison involves Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, which is centered around the discovery that the title character, years before the action of the play, unknowingly killed his father. The theme of failed recognition is strong in that drama, with Jocasta failing to recognise the son whom she married, and Oedipus failing to recognise, until the end, all the indications that point to him as the killer. The effect of Ino would have been quite different, however, in that the failed recognitions take place during the play’s action, on the same day, and their consequences are presented to the spectators almost in real time. The very fact that there are several failed recognitions, leading to separate deaths of innocent children, ensures the special prominence of the motif. Themisto’s desire to kill Ino’s children seems to have been prompted by the jealousy typical of a stepmother, or of a woman who perceives another as a sexual rival.¹⁶ The news that Ino had been discovered alive threatened her position as Athamas’ spouse, a threat all the more dangerous while Ino’s children still lived; with those children dead, however, it would be harder for Ino to displace her, since she would no longer have heirs to offer her former husband. So too in Medea Medea’s hatred of Jason for abandoning her in favour of a new bride is what leads to the tragic dénouement, although her decision to kill her own children is a particularly horrific variation on the vindictive acts that the audience might have expected in such a context.¹⁷ Jealousy of one woman for another lies at the heart of Andromache, where Neoptolemus’ wife Hermione hates the enslaved Andromache for having borne her husband a child, and, together with her father Menelaus, attempts to kill both her rival and her rival’s son. In the Phrixus plays Ino herself plots against her step-children Phrixus and Helle, who are rescued only thanks to the intervention of their divine mother Nephele.¹⁸

titles in Brunck’s edition of  or the reprint of ). Whether or not that identification is correct, the appearance of the motif in a play by the fourth-century poet Astydamas suggests that it remained popular among the audiences of tragedy.  See Radt, TrGF iv  – .  Eur. fr.  TrGF, which refers to love (Κύπρις) as an illness experienced by ‘us women’, and fr. , an attack on φθόνος, may be connected with this theme. For a list of tragedies which deal with this familiar motif see Watson ,  n. , Foley , .  For modern parallels for Medea’s action see Mossman ,  – .  For this myth in tragedy and elsewhere see Watson ,  – , Fowler ,  – .

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We encounter a further variation in Alcmeon in Corinth, where Merope, wife of Creon, with whom Alcmeon had lodged his two children, Amphilochus and Tisiphone, grows jealous of Tisiphone’s beauty and sells her into slavery. The jealous woman rarely triumphs in this kind of play (Medea as often being an exception), and that is the case in Ino too. Where Ino is distinctive is in the paradox that the jealous Themisto turns for assistance to the woman whose potential influence she wishes to check. Themisto’s failure to recognise Ino thus inadvertently dooms her plan; her subsequent failure to recognise her children leads to outright catastrophe. A play particularly similar to Ino, and not just in connexion with the theme of jealousy, was Euripides’ Captive Melanippe, in which Melanippe’s sons were adopted by Metapontus, founder and king of Metapontium. The queen becomes jealous (presumably fearing that her own offspring would end up disinherited) and plotted with her brothers to kill them; but the boys escape, and the queen’s brothers are the ones who die.¹⁹ Here the motif of the jealous stepmother is combined with that of the plan which recoils onto the head of its originator. This pattern of recoiling jealousy is found in Pherecydes’ account of Aedon, daughter of Pandareos and wife of Zethos, who kills her child Itylos by mistake at night, having intended to kill one of the children of Zethos’ brother Amphion; she was jealous that Amphion’s wife had produced six children, whereas she herself had managed only two.²⁰ Sophocles’ Trachiniae provides a better-known example: Deianira’s attempt to win back the love of her husband (a milder version of the jealousy seen in the other myths), by sending him a robe doused in what she thinks is a love-potion, ends in disaster when the potion turns out to be a deadly poison. What appears an ingenious plan turns out to have dire consequences for its originator; although in this case, at least, there is no malice on her part.²¹ The same pattern of a plot that recoils can be identified elsewhere

 See Collard and Cropp , i  – . A different story, found in Hyginus (Fab. ) and perhaps reflecting a tragic original, has the queen (called Theano) encourage her sons to kill her stepsons while they are out on a hunt; but Theano’s children are the ones who perish, and Theano consequently commits suicide.  Pher. Ath. fr.  EGM, compared with the Ino/Themisto myth by Sourvinou-Inwood () ; see further Fowler ()  – , Hansen ,  –  (‘Ogre kills his own children’). According to Robert ( – ) ii/  n. , Euripides took Pherecydes’ story as a model for his play, but it is more prudent to see them as largely independent manifestations of the same story pattern. Russo ap. Russo et al. () on Od. . –  suggests that the story in Pherecydes was invented on the basis of the brief account in the Odyssey.  Cf. Goldhill ()  ‘for all that Erôs is thematised in this drama, and for all that erotically motivated revenge and intrigue are central to the plotting, it would be misplaced to describe the Trachiniae as a drama of jealousy or even spite.’ In epic versions of the story Deianira

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in tragedy too. In Euripides’ Archelaus the title character is set a task by Cisseus, king of Thrace; when he completes his mission, Cisseus attempts to kill him by throwing him into a fiery pit, but he is warned by a slave and manages to cast Cisseus there in his stead.²² A more distant parallel is found in Sophocles’ Electra, where Orestes’ plan, to take Clytemnestra unawares by bringing a false report of his own death, causes immense, unintended suffering to his sister; that play too involves a failure of recognition, with Orestes at first not identifying his sister when he arrives with the urn that supposedly contains his ashes, thus unintentionally allowing her torment to continue. Ino is particularly remarkable among these dramas in that the plotting stepmother, Themisto, loses out ‘through the counter-machinations of another stepmother, Ino’.²³ The mechanism of Themisto’s scheme, having the doomed children dressed in dark robes, makes use of a distinction in the colour of costume attested elsewhere in tragedy.²⁴ Dark clothes are associated with mourning,²⁵ bright clothes with celebration;²⁶ the change from bright or normal clothing to dark robes in response to some trauma is sometimes explicitly mentioned.²⁷ Themisto’s fatal confusion thanks to the exchange of garments can be paralleled by Aegeus’ suicide as a result of his son, Theseus, returning from Crete with black rather than white (or red) sails; this story seems to have been told in Simonides, although it

(whose name could mean ‘man-destroyer’) may have known about the robe’s deadly power when she sent it to Heracles, intending to punish him for his infidelity.  See Collard and Cropp , i  – . Their reconstruction leans on a tale in Hyginus not explicitly attributed to Euripides; but the tale appears to have been taken from a tragedy, and seems consistent with several fragments of the play.  Watson ,  n. .  This aspect of the play suggested to Zieliński ,  that the killings took place by night, since otherwise the mother would have recognised her offspring, and that the children therefore slept in the same chamber. If so (cf. Aedon’s mistaken killing of her son at night in Pherecydes), this would add to the horror: children who themselves were close to each other were tragically divided by the hostility of their mothers, and their deaths took place against the suitably grim backdrop of the darkness. According to Webster , , by contrast, Themisto arranges for Ino’s children to be sacrificed; but (i) as Webster himself notes, black garments are not elsewhere associated with sacrificial victims, (ii) the children could still be identified at a sacrifice, unless they were hooded, and (iii) it is not very likely that Themisto could have organised an impromptu sacrifice of this kind.  Cf. Aesch. Cho.  – , Eur. Alc.  – , Phoen.  – ,  – , Or.  – .  Cf. Aesch. Eum. , Eur. Phoen. .  So at Eur. Alc.  –  Admetus laments νῦν δ’ ὑμεναίων γόος ἀντίπαλος | λευκῶν τε πέπλων μέλανες στολμοὶ | πέμπουσί μ’ ἔσω; cf.  – , Hel.  – ,  – .

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is otherwise not attested, in tragedy or elsewhere, before the Hellenistic period.²⁸ More generally, costume seems to have played quite a role in Ino: as well as the garments used to clothe or cover the children (whether or not either of the pairs of children actually appeared on stage in this garb), Ino herself (at least at the beginning) will have been dressed in the rags that pertain to a servant, Themisto in the finery of a queen.²⁹ This is not merely an inference from Hyginus’ plot summary (although it would be a legitimate one if it were): the rags worn by Euripides’ Ino are highlighted by Aristophanes in his Acharnians, as is her palour in the same playwright’s Wasps.³⁰ Fabric or clothing is thus involved in two separate failures of recognition within the drama. To Aristophanes’ mockery Euripides could reply that his Ino had good Homeric precedent: Athena makes Odysseus unrecognisable by changing his physical appearance and clothing him in wretched garments, when he returns home after a long absence to reclaim his rightful position in his house.³¹ After Themisto’s death, it is possible that Ino changed her clothes for queenly garments, to symbolise her regained status as Athamas’ wife;³² if so, her change to a more fortunate state will have been brief, as the death of her son Learchus would follow not long after. It is a matter of central importance for the play that there are multiple failures of recognition, multiple killings of children by their parents. The repetition of these motifs ensures that they lie at the heart of the drama, and that the spectators will have made connexions between them. Exactly how Euripides handled these connexions, however, is one of the great unknowns of the play. Was the death of Learchus in some sense a punishment for Ino’s involvement in the

 Simonides fr. a Poltera; for Hellenistic and later sources for Aegeus’ suicide see Fowler () .  ‘Incipiente actione Themistonem regio ornatu incedere, Inonem vero thapsino faciei colore, pannis semilaceris indutam inter humillimas eius ancillas videmus’ (Zieliński , ). Compare the contrast between the slave Andromache and the royal Hermione, another pair of female rivals for the same man, in Euripides’ Andromache (cf. especially  – ); also the contrast between the appearance of Sophocles’ Electra and that of Chrysothemis and Clytemnestra (cf. especially  – , ,  – , and Finglass , on  and ), and the second entrance of the Queen in Aeschylus’ Persae, without the royal finery that she wore on her first appearance (cf.  – ).  Eur. Ino testt. iia, iib TrGF (= Ar. Ach.  – , Vesp.  – ). For Euripidean characters dressed in rags see Muecke .  Hom. Od. . – ,  – .  The reverse occurs in Euripides’ Andromache ( – ), where Hermione’s fall is symbolised by the removal of her finery (cf. Finglass ,  – : ‘Previously the elaborate coverings of her head and body … had symbolised her status and her consequent right to express herself as she wished ( – ). Their public removal is a telling sign of the reversal of her fortunes’).

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deaths of Themisto’s children?³³ If so, Ino indirectly causes two different acts of infanticide even before she leaps into the sea with Melicertes. Hyginus moves from one set of killings to the other via the laconic autem, which does not help. Some explicit connexion might have been drawn between the two acts of filicide; even if it was not, the structure of the drama would have made it impossible for the audience not to compare them. But a master tragedian could have shaped the audience’s response in ways that go beyond mere plotting. Compare how, say, the figure of Clytemnestra receives such distinct portrayals, and such differing levels of sympathy, in different dramas, even though the basic details of the plot (she kills her husband and mistreats her surviving children) remain unchanged.³⁴ Our sources do not allow us to make any comment for certain about Ino’s attitude to the killings of Themisto’s children, or about the level of moral responsibility for those killings that the spectators were encouraged to attribute to her. But we can say at least that this was probably a fundamental issue in the drama. Themisto is likely to have been a much less interesting, more conventionally wicked character: a jealous woman who attempts to kill her rival’s children, and kills herself when she kills her own by mistake. Ino, by contrast, became involved in the deaths of Themisto’s children only in order to save her own. But did she at least regret their deaths? Or did she display indifference or even triumph over their fate, since their killing involved not only the punishment of the woman who had attempted to kill her own offspring, but also the removal of potential rivals for her children’s inheritance? Might Euripides even have raised the possibility that Ino could have saved her own children without substituting Themisto’s? The answer to the last of these questions is likely to be ‘no’ (the substitution looks like an essentially defensive tactic, not an offensive one), but as for the others, we cannot tell for sure. We can at least say that her response will have had a major impact on how the audience reacted to her song of grief for her dead son Learchus.³⁵  Cf. Zieliński , : ‘totus ethicus tragoediae sensus in hac una scena positus erat, ex qua tamen nihil nobis servatum esse dolemus. Accepitne Learchi mortem Ino ut iustam commeritae noxae poenam?’  Ino’s afflictions may also have been caused by Hera’s anger against her for having brought up the infant Dionysus (cf. Eur. Med.  – , cited above, n. , where the cause of Hera’s antipathy is not stated, Pher. Ath. fr. c EGM, Ov. Met. . – , . – , Henrichs ,  –  with. nn.  – , Fowler ()  – ). Ino’s association with Dionysus may have been part of the play’s back-story, since according to Hyginus she had gone into the wilderness to celebrate Bacchic revels.  Cf. Watson ,  n. : ‘It is still possible … that a stepmother such as Sidero or Ino was presented not merely as a stock villain and that an attempt at characterisation was made which

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A fragment cited by Plutarch seems to shed light on this question, although in the end it is not as illuminating as we might have hoped:³⁶ οἱ πονηροὶ τὴν κακίαν ἐν ἑαυτοῖς διορῶντες ἀνθ’ ἡδονῆς μὲν εὐθὺς κενὴν χάριν ἐχούσης ἐλπίδος ἔρημον εὑρίσκουσι, φόβων δὲ καὶ λυπῶν καὶ μνήμης ἀτερποῦς καὶ πρὸς μὲν τὸ μέλλον ὑποψίας ἀπιστίας δὲ πρὸς τὸ παρὸν ἀεὶ γέμουσαν· ὥσπερ τῆς Ἰνοῦς ἀκούομεν ἐν τοῖς θεάτροις λεγούσης, ἐφ’ οἷς ἔδρασε μεταμελομένης, φίλαι γυναῖκες, πῶς ἂν ἐξ ἀρχῆς δόμους ᾿Aθάμαντος οἰκήσαιμι τῶν πεπραγμένων δράσασα μηδέν;

(Eur. fr. 399 TrGF)

ταῦθ’ ἑκάστου τῶν πονηρῶν τὴν ψυχὴν ἀναπολεῖν ἐν αὑτῆι καὶ διαλογίζεσθαι, πῶς ἂν ἐκβᾶσα τῆς μνήμης τῶν ἀδικημάτων καὶ τὸ συνειδὸς ἐξ ἑαυτῆς ἐκβαλοῦσα καὶ καθαρὰ γενομένη βίον ἄλλον ἐξ ἀρχῆς βιώσειεν. Wicked people, when they contemplate their own wickedness, find that instead of pleasure, which gives only a short and empty delight, it is void of hope, and always weighed down with fears, sorrows, joyless memories, suspicions of the future, and distrust of the present. So we hear the words of Ino in the theatres, in regret for what she had done: Dear women, tell me, how I wish I could dwell in the house of Athamas from the beginning, having done none of the things that I have done! It is reasonable to believe that the soul of every wicked person turns these things over and reasons within itself, how by escaping from the memory of former transgressions, and casting from itself its consciousness and becoming pure, it might live another life from the beginning.

The fragment was attributed to Euripides’ Ino by Valckenaer,³⁷ rightly. Plutarch quotes Euripides more than twice as often as he does Sophocles,³⁸ and cites this very play three times elsewhere;³⁹ the reference to performance (ὥσπερ τῆς Ἰνοῦς ἀκούομεν ἐν τοῖς θεάτροις λεγούσης) suits a play which we know was performed during the Imperial period;⁴⁰ Euripides’ Ino had a chorus of women (φίλαι γυναῖκες). The passage provides a tantalising glimpse into our drama, with both Ino’s words and Plutarch’s introduction to them referring to Ino’s regret for her actions. Unfortunately, we are not told what these actions

might have included an exploration of the motives that led these women to plan the deaths of their stepsons.’  Plut. De sera numinis vindicta a-a.  Valckenaer , .   times (more than any other author except for Plato –  – and Homer – ) versus  (figures from Morgan ,  – ; for the indirect tradition of Euripides more generally see Morgan ,  – , Finglass ).  Eur. frr. , ,  TrGF; see Di Gregorio ,  – .  See the final paragraph, below.

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were. If the passage came from early on in the play,⁴¹ the actions in question might be her treatment of Phrixus and Helle; but we might wonder whether that part of the myth existed for the purpose of this play, since if Ino had been established as a wicked stepmother before the drama began then Athamas’ decision to bring her back into his house would be inexplicable.⁴² Ino’s words might refer instead to her involvement in the deaths of Themisto’ children,⁴³ either when those deaths were still the most recent to afflict the house, or after Learchus’ death had also become apparent; if the latter, the speech could have taken place before the text preserved on the papyrus (before the choral ode with which the papyrus begins), or after it (in a speech following her song). Too much is uncertain here for us to place much weight on this fragment, but at least it tells us that Ino did feel regret during the play for something that she had done. So far I have been arguing, largely on a priori grounds rather than from hard evidence, that the Themisto episode must have remained important in the final part of the play, and that it had an impact on how the audience viewed Ino in the later scenes. Hard evidence for this play is not easy to come by; but the papyrus may provide a hint that this hypothesis is correct. At the start of the anapaests that mark the transition from the choral song to the episode that follows, the chorus appear to declare ‘Another sorrow has struck this house’, or something of this kind; only half the line is preserved, including the crucial ἄλλη, but the overall sense seems clear.⁴⁴ This implies that the chorus have been singing about a different topic in the ode, and not about the death of Learchus. On the other hand, their relatively restrained, or at least unsurprised, reaction to the entry of Learchus’ body indicates that his death has previously been announced, perhaps by Athamas himself, who would therefore have arrived beforehand without the body. What other sorrowful topic relating to the house could have been the subject of song apart from the death of Themisto’s children? Any lesser grief would have been a curious focus when news of a child’s death had recently been announced; the very designation of Learchus’ end as

 Thus Welcker  – , ii .  Plutarch cites the passage in the context of a wrongdoer’s concern for offences committed in the past, which might be thought to support that idea that Ino is referring to her actions from before the play began. But his main interest in the lines may have been Ino’s wish to live her life with Athamas again from the beginning; this may have provided such a good parallel with what he wanted to say about the guilty person’s conscience that he may not have been concerned with how far in the past lay the actions for which Ino was expressing regret.  Thus Webster , .  See Finglass ,  – .

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‘another sorrow’ implies some sort of equivalence between the two events, without which the transition would feel emotionally unsatisfying. And although those children and Learchus had different, hostile mothers, they shared the same father in Athamas. Themisto’s death is a less probable topic, since she was guilty of child-killing and unlikely to be the subject of mournful reflection in her own right. Moreover, to move from her death, which, after all, was a kind of self-punishment for her murders of her children, to the death of the innocent Learchus via the phrase ‘another sorrow has struck this house’ would be surprising, perhaps grotesque. Nevertheless, it cannot be altogether ruled out. If the above reasoning is correct, this single, precious word ἄλλη allows us to see how the drama was patterned around an intricate structure of infanticide. Even after Learchus’ end has been announced, the chorus still devote a song to the deaths of Themisto’s children; and at the arrival of Learchus’ body, they connect their deaths with his, at least on the level of seeing them as successive sorrows that afflict the house of Athamas. This is of interest in purely structural terms – evidently the play was no mere diptych. But it also suggests that the play developed and exploited a connexion between the child killings that so dominate the drama. This connexion could have been taken up by Ino in the song that followed; even if it was not, the idea of the link had already been planted in the audience’s minds and would have been present as she sang. The figure of Athamas himself is likely to have been particularly important in this context. When he (probably) returns with the news of Learchus’ death, three of his children are dead, two at Themisto’s hands, one at his own. It is possible that he is unaware of the deaths of Themisto’s children when he returns to announce the killing of Learchus. The latter takes place during a hunt,⁴⁵ and it would be a heartless person who went hunting after learning of the deaths of two of his children. On the other hand, Learchus must have been present in the palace when Themisto kills her children, since Ino saves her own children not by sending them away, but by covering them in white garments. It nevertheless would have been possible for Athamas to go hunting with his son after the killing of Themisto’s children, but before those deaths had been announced; or for Learchus, presumably still unaware of the killings of his half-siblings, to leave the palace to join his father who was already out on a hunt. So Athamas may have returned with the terrible news that he had killed his son, only to learn that two more of his children had also perished at a parent’s hands.  For the killing of a child during a hunt in tragedy cf. Sophocles’ Niobe (see the hypothesis at TrGF iv pp.  – , more easily read at Lloyd-Jones ,  – ), where Niobe’s fatal boast takes place as or just after she sends her sons out hunting; they presumably die during that expedition, leaving their sisters to perish at home.

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This is speculation, and could be mistaken. What is certain is that the impact of these deaths on Athamas would have been an important and distinct part of the play. Themisto and Ino would naturally have been affected by the deaths of their own children. As noted above, Ino may or may not have been affected by regret or sorrow for her involvement in the killing of Themisto’s offspring; but if she was so affected, this would have been a quite different emotion, and a much milder one, than she felt at the death of her own child. Only Athamas experiences the full force of all acts of child-killing, with a marked intensification in Learchus’ death since the boy died at his hands. Even Melicertes’ probable apotheosis would have been a poor consolation, representing as it did the disappearance of his final offspring. The man who began the play with (in effect) two wives and two pairs of children ends it with none of either.⁴⁶ Such a fate recalls that of Jason in Euripides’ Medea, who begins that drama with a pair of wives, and two children by his first wife; by the end he has lost them all, although unlike Athamas, he had only one set of children to lose. Euripides himself noted the similarity between the myths: the chorus in Medea cite Ino as the sole possible parallel for a woman who killed her own children.⁴⁷ But Jason is not especially interesting as a character in his own right – his self-interested moral choices and arrogant attempts at self-justification render him quite unsympathetic. By contrast, Athamas had married his second wife while under the impression that his first had died, and the trouble begins when he attempts, however mistakenly, to deal with the consequences of that innocent error. He is thus likely to have been a much more nuanced figure than the despicable Jason. It is worth looking more closely at the beginning of Hyginus’ summary in our tentative assessment of Athamas’ role. According to Hyginus, Athamas was himself the prime mover in bringing back Ino into his house and hiding her. His motives for doing so are not stated, nor are we told what his long-term plans were. Did he intend to displace Themisto in favour of Ino, or did he believe that Ino could be kept indefinitely at his house disguised as a servant? Did he advise her on the disguise, something that would have seemed a good idea at the time, but which will have led directly to the catastrophic loss of his children? Again, we cannot tell. But we do have enough of the story to see that Athamas’

 In the light of this I cannot accept the view of Watson ,  that ‘In plays where the stepmother appears in her classic guise, such as … Ino …, it is always the suffering stepchild who is the principal character of the drama.’ In this case there are four stepchildren who suffer, yet it is unlikely that they all featured as speaking characters, and it is more than possible that only one, or none, of them did; and however many spoke, it is unlikely that they were given the capacity to express their grief in a manner more profound than that of Ino and Athamas.  Eur. Med.  –  (cited above, n. ).

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decisions first to bring Ino back, and then to conceal her identity, indirectly result in the death of his children by Themisto. He is not morally responsible for this terrible outcome, but has nevertheless unknowingly set in motion the circumstances that will culminate in disaster. Moreover, his decision to bring back a former wife into his house, when his current wife was still living there, might be thought questionable, even foolish.⁴⁸ We may be reminded again of Sophocles’ Trachiniae, where Heracles has his new love Iole brought into the house that he still shares with his wife Deianira. Heracles’ herald Lichas attempts (in vain) to conceal Iole’s identity from Deianira, later clarifying that this attempt was made on his own initiative, not on Heracles’ orders (Tr. 479 – 83). This pattern is also found in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, where the title character brings back a new lover, Cassandra, into his house, who will herself be killed by his wife Clytemnestra.⁴⁹ But as we noted above in connexion with Euripides’ Medea, the woman whom Athamas imports is a former wife whom he had thought dead, not a new lover; his action is not morally reprehensible in the way that Heracles’ or Agamemnon’s is, and indeed to have left Ino in the wilderness might itself have seemed callous. Athamas’ action, though perhaps forced on him from a moral point of view, is nevertheless full of risk, since he might reasonably have anticipated that the two women, both married to the same man, and both with children by him, were unlikely to have seen eye to eye; and his attempt to counter that by disguising Ino seems at best an inadequate safeguard. His response to the deaths of his children by Themisto may thus have involved self-reproach for his foolishness, if not for actual guilt. These deaths are then succeeded by another which involves Athamas more directly, and which will have led to further self-reproach on his part, even if again he is not morally reponsible for the killing, this time on the grounds of temporary insanity. Such connexions help to structure the drama, and, more importantly, make Athamas into a morally interesting character. He is not simply

 For the problems that arise in tragedy from a second sexual union on the part of a man see Seaford ,  – .  For the close associations between Trachiniae and Agamemnon (and indeed the Oresteia) see Easterling ,  –  and Coo ,  –  (who argues that the same model may have been employed, mutatis mutandis, in Sophocles’ Tereus). In Trachiniae (and possibly Tereus) the new woman introduced into the house is in disguise, like Ino, whereas Agamemnon brings Cassandra back home openly.

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a man affected by temporary madness who kills his child; his own decisions, however well-intentioned, bring ruin on himself and his family.⁵⁰ The little evidence that we have suggests that Euripides’ Ino enjoyed considerable popularity in antiquity. We have references to actual performances in Plutarch and in Philostratus;⁵¹ the papyrus fragment shows that the play was still being read, and quite possibly performed, at Oxyrhynchus in the third century;⁵² many quotations of the work entered the gnomological tradition; and even Horace’s line ‘let Medea be fierce and unconquerable, let Ino be tearful’ may have been prompted by the central character of our play.⁵³ We are doubly unlucky that it was not preserved: unlucky that what seems to have been one of the better-known plays did not make it into the selection of dramas that survived antiquity, and unlucky that a play whose title begins with iota nevertheless failed to be included among the alphabetic plays (Ἴων survived, but not Ἰνώ).⁵⁴ But thanks both to Hyginus’ summary and to the remarkable new find from Oxyrhynchus, we can begin to discern just a hint of why this sophisticated and exciting drama continued to cast its spell on spectators centuries after its first performance.

 In this light, the fragment of the play cited from Stobaeus (fr.  TrGF) which urges that a prosperous man should have as many wives as possible so that he can get rid of bad ones has a deeply ironic impact, whoever actually delivered the lines and in whatever context.  Plut. De sera numinis vindicta a (cited above), Philostr. Vita Apollonii .. The play is one of only two for which Plutarch refers to performances, the other being Cresphontes (De esu carnium ii de); it may be significant that that play, like Ino, was centered on kin-killing and recognition.  See Finglass ,  – .  Hor. AP  sit Medea ferox invictaque, flebilis Ino. Cf. Webster , , for whom the description ‘suits the oppressed Ino of this story’; contrast the malevolent Ino of the Phrixus plays. The ‘sufferings of Ino’ (Ἰνοῦς ἄχη) were proverbial (Zenobius .), and this too may have been a result of our drama.  The other unlucky iota-plays are Ixion and Hippolytus Kalyptomenos.

III Reception

David Sansone

Whatever Happened to Euripides’ Lekythion (Frogs 1198 – 1247)? The swell of scholarly interest in the lekythion-scene of Aristophanes’ Frogs that crested in the 1970s and 1980s seems to have subsided in recent years.¹ The controversy had focused on a discussion of the nature of the vessel that Aeschylus interjects into the opening lines of six of Euripides’ tragedies and is about to interject into a seventh. For many scholars the lekythion is a symbol of manhood— the grammatical subject of the expression ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν is in all seven instances masculine—and its loss is expressive of Aeschylus’ incisive emasculation of Euripidean tragedy.² For this reason, and because the object in question is thought to have had an elongated shape, a number of critics have argued in favor of a phallic significance for the vessel.³ Modern archaeologists do, indeed, apply the term “lekythos” to the tall, slender ceramic containers for oil and perfumes that survive in great numbers from antiquity, and there is good reason to believe that this name was used in Aristophanes’ day as well to refer to them.⁴ But we know that this word was used in the fifth century also when talking of the squat, bulbous containers for oil that men took with them routinely when they exercised in the gymnasium, containers to which archaeologists now apply the term “aryballoi.”⁵ The shape of this type of lekythos has suggested to some that what is at issue is rather the scrotum, so that what Cadmus, Pelops and the other unfortunate victims of Aeschylus’ vandalism have lost is their testicles.⁶ Although he is not concerned with the lekythion-scene and does not mention Frogs, Hildebrecht Hommel, in a fascinating feat of “experimental philology,”

 For a good survey of the issues and the earlier literature, see Gerö and Johnsson . A version of this paper was presented on  January  at the th annual meeting of the American Philological Association. I am grateful to the audience on that occasion for helpful comments and criticisms.  For the lekythos as a symbol of masculinity, see Thesm. , with Austin and Olson , , ad loc.  Whitman ; Hooker ; J. G. Griffith ; Penella  and ; Snell ; Robertson ; O’Sullivan , ; Sider ; Borthwick .  Oakley ,  – .  The red-figure vessel Athens , signed by Douris and classed by Beazley (ARV , ) as a “round aryballos,” is identified on the vase as ΑΣΟΠΟΔΟΡΩ ΗΕ ΛΕΓΥΘΟΣ (sic; for the misspelling, compare ΗΕΓΤΟΡ on a vase by Exekias, Broneer ,  with fig. ).  Anderson ; Beck .

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has had vessels constructed of the scrota of a ram and a goat that look quite remarkably like the ancient Greek aryballos. ⁷ Of course, if in this scene Aeschylus is referring to a material lekythion, that is, to a piece of stage property that the audience can see, there will have been no ambiguity regarding the shape of the vessel. Unfortunately, we do not have the vantage of Aristophanes’ original audience, nor is it even clear from the text whether a lekythion was visible on stage. Alan Sommerstein is inclined to the view that Aeschylus carried a lekythos with him when he came on stage.⁸ If that was the case, however, one wonders why Aeschylus would undercut his own claim (1200 – 1) to be able to sabotage Euripides’ prologues with a single lekythion by saying (1202– 4) that it would be equally possible to do so using a “fleeshikie” or a “wee pokie.”⁹ Did Aeschylus have with him all three items, κῳδάριον, ληκύθιον and θυλάκιον (1203), or only a lekythos? If the former, why was only one of them applied to Euripides’ prologues? If the latter, why were the other two items mentioned? Rather, the wording of the text suggests that no lekythion was visible on stage, since it is consistently referred to with the pronoun τοῦτο (1209, 1221, 1223, 1246) rather than τόδε.¹⁰ It has been proposed that the three items together are intended to call to mind the male genitalia as a whole,¹¹ in which case it is all best left to the audience’s imagination. Not everyone, however, is convinced that there is a sexual significance to Aristophanes’ lekythion, and the view that it has sexual connotations has been sub-

 Hommel ,  –  with figs.  – . Hommel’s concern is to account for the origin of the form and name of the aryballos (and of the container for Franconian wines known as the “Bocksbeutel”). The expression “experimental philology” is attributed by Hommel ( n. ) to Wolfgang Schadewaldt. Martin Kilmer provides references for ancient “oil-containers shaped like male genitals” (,  n. ) and other vessels “made in the form of human male genitals” ( n. ); cf. Boardman  for the Bomford Cup and other examples of “genital additions” on Attic vases.  Sommerstein b,  – , ad  – . Henderson ,  thinks it appropriate for Aeschylus, being dead, to carry a lekythos, which was “so common in funerary contexts.” But then the dead Euripides should be carrying one as well.  The translations of κῳδάριον and θυλάκιον are taken from Douglas Young’s scintillating Scots version (). Gerö and Johnsson ,  do well to call attention to the “potential application” of the fleece and the sack, but the expectation that is aroused by mentioning them is never consummated.  Contra Vamvouri-Ruffy ,  n. , who points to “les deictiques” τοῦτο and ἰδού [!] at line  as evidence for the presence of an on-stage lekythion.  J. G. Griffith , , with κῳδάριον = pubes, ληκύθιον = phallus and θυλάκιον = scrotum (referring to Hippiatr. ., where θυλάκη is used of a horse’s scrotum); cf. van der Valk , , comparing Dutch slang zak (= “sack”). The OED, s.v. “purse” II .a, records instances of that word in English = “scrotum” from about .

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jected to serious criticism, notably by Jeffrey Henderson and David Bain.¹² Instead, Bain considers the humor of the scene to lie “not in a series of complicated double meanings, but almost entirely in the insignificant nature of the object mentioned” (36); according to Henderson (1972, 138), “this scene is funny both in its slapstick action and in its verbal playfulness.” Others have sought a more elevated significance to the lekythion-scene. For Derek Collins the confrontation represents a sophisticated game of “capping.”¹³ Earlier, Thomas Tucker had proposed “that the Athenians had a forfeit-game, in which it was ‘one to me’ if I could fit on (προσάπτειν) a certain tag to something being said.”¹⁴ According to J. H. Quincey (1949), Aristophanes intends the word lekythion here to be understood as referring to a “turgid or elevated style of poetry.”¹⁵ And David Sider (1992) offers “a suggestion for combining the bombast theory with the phallic interpretation.” But, as Alan Sommerstein (1996b, 264) notes, an allegation that several of Euripides’ characters had lost a lekythion so understood, “far from being a criticism of Euripides, would be a compliment to him.” In striking contrast to the controversy that has raged over the nature of Euripides’ lekythion, no one has paid the slightest attention to the second element of the two-word phrase ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν, about which there seems to be general agreement. Inasmuch as the three items mentioned by Aeschylus are ordinary, everyday objects that an Athenian man would casually bring with him to the bath or gymnasium, everyone seems to assume that losing one of them through inadvertence would have been a common occurrence.¹⁶ The modern equivalent, according to Octave Navarre (1933, 280), would be to lose one’s walking-stick or umbrella. Similarly, Kenneth Dover says that losing a lekythion “was no doubt a commonplace misfortune comparable to leaving an umbrella in a train,”¹⁷ and Gilbert Murray even rendered ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν in his translation of Frogs (1902, 265) as “found his umbrella gone.” More recently, Alan Sommerstein (1996b, 131) has made explicit the general understanding of the occurrence as an inadvertent accident by translating, “mislaid his oil-flask.” Scholars seem,  Henderson  and ; Bain a; cf. van der Valk ,  – ; Sommerstein b, .  Collins ,  – ; for capping in Aristophanes, see also Hesk .  Tucker , , ad  sqq. Tucker also suggests that the three words, κῳδάριον, ληκύθιον and θυλάκιον, may have “possessed a vulgar application, with which he is playing to the gallery,” an application that Tucker sees as not incompatible with the game of forfeit.  Similarly, Bill ; Thielscher ,  – ; Taillardat ,  – .  Snell , , “da kam es sicher oft vor, daß jemand sein Fläschchen vergaß und verlor.”  Dover , , ad . In fact, umbrellas are not the most commonly lost item on the London Transport (books are number one while umbrellas are number eight); see Ash , .

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however, to have inappropriately imported the encumbrances and complexity of modern life into their understanding of daily life in ancient Athens. We today are often in such a hurry, and we are regularly carrying or wearing so many personal items, that it is not uncommon for us to leave something behind in an airport or a dentist’s office or a fast-food emporium. Such was not necessarily the case for Athenians in Aristophanes’ day, who did not wear sunglasses and wristwatches or carry umbrellas and cell phones. When a Greek man went to the gymnasium or palaestra he had with him only those few items that he would use in connection with his exercises; these typically included a flagon for olive oil, a strigil, a sponge and a sack for carrying them.¹⁸ Along with one’s clothes and shoes, these items were common targets of thieves, both in the gymnasium and the baths.¹⁹ Indeed, the likelihood of one of these objects being stolen was so much greater than the chances of leaving one behind through inadvertence that, I am convinced, the expression ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν would have been understood by Aristophanes’ audience to mean “had his little oil-flask stolen.” Nor was it a trivial matter, comparable to losing one’s umbrella, when one had one’s little oil-flask stolen while exercising. Alan Sommerstein cites Demosthenes’ Against Timocrates (24.114) in support of his claim that the loss of a lekythion of the sort that one brought to the bath or the gymnasium “was regarded as a trifling matter.”²⁰ On the contrary, Demosthenes there states that the thief was liable to capital punishment for stealing a cloak or a lekythion (note the diminutive) or “some other item of minimal value (ἄλλο τι φαυλότατον)” from the Lyceum, the Academy or Cynosarges.²¹ The Aristotelian Problemata devotes a lengthy chapter (29.14) to a discussion of the reason for so drastic a punishment in cases of theft from a bathhouse, a palaestra, the agora or any such public place: Because of the ease and apparent frequency of such thefts it seems to

 Miller ,  – , with figs. , , , , , , , , showing some or all of these items hanging on the wall of the gymnasium. In Plato’s Charmides, which takes place in a palaestra (a), Socrates alludes to his surroundings when he names four items to illustrate the absurdity of requiring that the temperate man “make” his own things: a himation, shoes, a lekythos and a strigil (e).  See Thphr. Ch. .[], with Diggle , ad loc., where the verb is ἀποβάλλω: πολλάκις … ἐν τοῖς βαλανείοις … τὰ ἱμάτια ἀποβεβλήκασιν. For the frequency of theft in Roman baths, see Blümner ,  and Fagan ,  – . The victims did not, however, take the thefts lightly, as is implied by Tomlin , , who says, “Cloaks in the Roman world were like umbrellas in ours, misappropriated often enough to be a bit of a joke.”  Sommerstein b, , ad ; similarly, Gerö and Johnsson (, ) refer to “an insignificant act, that of losing a lekythion.”  For a full discussion of this passage, see Cohen ,  – . In the Frogs, Dionysus sets the value of the lekythion in question at an obol ().

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have been felt necessary to impose so severe a penalty in order to discourage further occurrences (952a23 – 30). It is important to recognize that both Demosthenes and the author of the Problemata are explicitly talking about the theft of personal items like clothing or oil-flasks that are brought into the gymnasium or palaestra rather than about those who steal property belonging to the institution; theft of items belonging to the gymnasium was treated as an instance of hierosylia.²² Now, it may have been a trifling matter to misplace a common object that could be easily replaced, but to have even so ordinary an item stolen was an occurrence that involved the full apparatus of the Athenian legal system. When Aeschylus embarrasses Euripides by representing several of his male characters as having lost their lekythia, it is important that we determine whether the objects were inadvertently misplaced or, rather, stolen. To begin with, ἀπολέσαι, like “lose,” can mean any number of different things, depending upon context. The basic meaning of both verbs is: to be deprived of the use or possession of, or access to, some thing due to circumstances beyond one’s conscious control. Here are six sentences that illustrate the range of meanings in English: (1) The sergeant lost his life trying to rescue his comrades. (2) Dolores Haze lost her virginity at summer camp. (3) Xerxes lost 200 ships in the battle of Salamis. (4) Anton Chekhov lost forty francs at Monte Carlo. (5) Roger Federer lost his Wimbledon title to Rafael Nadal. (6) Joseph Conrad lost both his parents before he was twelve. Each of the meanings can be paralleled by sentences in Greek that use the verb ἀπολέσαι (or, in the case of (4), the uncompounded verb).²³ In none of these instances is inadvertence responsible for the loss, nor would anyone react to one of these sentences by saying, “Well, I hope the item in question will turn up.” What is more significant is the fact that, in each instance, the context consists of only a

 See SEG  () B. – , a gymnasiarchal law from Beroia dating to the middle of the nd century BC: ἐὰν δέ [τ]ις κλέψῃ τι τῶν ἐκ τοῦ γυμνασίου, ἔνοχος ἔστω ἱεροσυλίαι δίκῃ νικηθεὶς ἐπὶ τοῦ καθή[κ]οντος δικαστηρίου, “if anyone steals anything belonging to the gymnasium, let him be subject to (punishment for) hierosylia once he has been found guilty in the appropriate court of law.”  H. Il. ., Longus .., A. Pers. , A.R. ., X. An. .., Hdt. ... See Cohen ,  –  for discussion of the ambiguity of ἀπολέσαι as it relates to the law of theft. It is this ambiguity in the English verb that enables Lady Bracknell to say, in The Importance of Being Earnest, “To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”

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few words and yet those few words are sufficient to convey to a twenty-first century reader the nature of the loss incurred. Evidence is available suggesting that, to an ancient audience, the mere phrase ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν provides all the context needed to understand that the object in question has been stolen. We have seen that Demosthenes (24.114) singles out the lekythion, along with the himation, as the kind of item likely to be stolen from the gymnasium. We do not know whether this diminutive was in common use in Demosthenes’ day, but we do know that the only surviving text earlier than Against Timocrates in which it occurs is Frogs, where it occurs only in this scene. This scene was famous, and if the diminutive was memorably associated with the scene,²⁴ Demosthenes’ use of the diminutive in talking about thefts from the gymnasium may point to a general understanding that the scene implies that Euripides’ lekythion was stolen. Demosthenes does not in this connection use the verb ἀπολέσαι, presumably because his focus is on the thief rather than on the victim.²⁵ Elsewhere, however, we find the verb used in such a way that it clearly means “to have something stolen,” often in a context, such as the bath or the gymnasium, in which one would expect to lose an oil-flask. The verb appears in the discussion of theft in the Aristotelian Problemata, where the victim of theft is twice referred to as ὁ ἀπολέσας (952b18 and 22). To be sure, the reader has been prepared by what has gone before to understand this to mean “the man who has had something stolen.” But no such prior introduction is needed. Here is a chreia, in its entirety, from the Progymnasmata of Nicolaus of Myra (Felten 1913, 21.10 – 13): Δάμων ὁ παιδοτρίβης, φασί, στρεβλοὺς ἔχων τοὺς πόδας καὶ τὰ ὑποδήματα ἐν τῷ βαλανείῳ ἀπολέσας ηὔχετο ταῦτα τοῖς ποσὶ τοῦ κλέψαντος ἁρμόσαι. Damon the trainer, they say, had twisted feet and when he lost his shoes at the baths he expressed the hope that they would fit the feet of the thief.²⁶

Clearly Damon (whoever he was) did not simply misplace his shoes and, equally clearly, the wording of the anecdote presupposes that its audience will understand from ἀπολέσας that Damon’s shoes were stolen. (The frequency with which shoes might be stolen at the baths is illustrated by the quick thinking

 Hephaestion (p. . –  Cornsbruch) gives the name “Euripidean or lekythion” to the trochaic dimeter catalectic, citing E. Pho.  – ; Pollux (On. .), talking about names for perfume bottles, says, “In Frogs Aristophanes also uses the word lekythion.” It may be that Aristophanes coined the word himself.  Cohen , .  The translation is from Kennedy , .

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of Philesitherus in Apuleius, Met. 9.21: Having left his shoes behind when he fled at the sudden appearance of his lover’s husband and about to be confronted with the damning evidence, he cleverly evaded the charge of adultery by accusing the husband’s slave of having stolen his shoes at the bath.²⁷) Nicolaus lived in the fifth century after Christ, but this anecdote had been in circulation for a long time before that. The subject of the anecdote varies—we find it told also about Simonides, Damonidas, “Eumonidas” and the fourth-century BC musician Dorion—with the earliest occurrence being in Plutarch.²⁸ The format of the anecdote is in every instance the same: The subject of the story is said to have “lost” his shoes, using a form of the verb ἀπολέσαι, whereupon he curses the thief. We find this verb used occasionally in the curse tablets in which the victim of theft brings down imprecations upon the person who stole the property that has been “lost.” Christopher Faraone, who has produced an illuminating study of these impassioned appeals for justice, considers that the use of this verb “leaves open a face-saving option to the person who might with easier conscience return a ‘lost’ object, rather than a ‘stolen’ one” (2011, 33). Faraone explicitly contrasts the “evenhandedness” of those tablets that use the verb ἀπολέσαι with the directness of most tablets in which thieves are cursed, tablets in which “we find such active phrases like κλέψαντα (‘the one who stole’) or ἄραντα (‘the one who took’).” But the wording of the anecdote about Damon shows that there is no incompatibility between referring to the object as “lost” and condemning “the thief.” Indeed, in certain contexts, ἀπώλεσεν could be expected to be construed as “had something stolen.” In the case of the texts referred to by Faraone, the context is that of a curse tablet, where “I dedicate to Demeter and Kore the bracelet that I lost” is readily understood to mean “the bracelet that was stolen from me.”²⁹ Latin perdere is used in precisely the same way. The curse tablets from Bath, like the tablets from Cnidus noted by Faraone, refer to stolen items as having been “lost.” So Tomlin (1988, 114) gives the following text and translation of no. 5:

 Even at a dinner-party one might “lose” one’s shoes, unless one had a vigilant slave to stand watch: Mart. .. (perdidisse).  Mor. d, Ath. a = Epit. . – , Gnom. Vat.  Sternbach, Kindstrand , , no. . For a discussion of this and a number of related anecdotes, see Sansone .  Faraone ,  –  refers to Blümel , no. B (from which the above example is taken) and no.  (in which the stolen item is a himation), both from Cnidus and dating to the st or nd century BC.

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[D]ocimedis [p]erdidi(t) manicilia dua qui illas involavi(t) ut mentes sua(s) perd[at] et oculos su[o]s in fano ubi destina(t). Docimedis has lost two gloves. (He asks) that (the person) who has stolen them should lose his minds [sic] and his eyes in the temple where (she) appoints.

Similarly, the dedicator of no. 8 devotes to Sulis the six silver coins “which I have lost” (quos perd[idi]), and then goes on to ask the goddess to retrieve them from the persons named on the tablet; that is, the author of the curse knows that the coins were stolen and, further, knows the identity of the thieves. In the fragmentary no. 62 the dedicator claims to have lost (perdedi) a cloak and asks Sulis to inflict punishment within nine days, presumably on the person or persons responsible for the theft. And in no. 99 perdiderit even seems to be used as a synonym for involaverit.³⁰ Likewise, on a lead tablet from Lydney Park (RIB 306) we are told that Silvianus has lost (perdedit) a ring, the contents and material of the tablet making it clear to the addressee, the god Nodens, that the ring has been stolen. Outside the context of curse tablets, we find perdere aliquid = “to have something stolen” at Pl. Cur. 584, Men. 665, Sen. Ben. 7.16.3, Petr. 30.11, Mart. 12.87.1 and Dig. 47.2.48. To return to Greek, there is no need to resort to black magic and curse tablets to find instances of ἀπολέσαι τι meaning “to have something stolen.” The verb is so used in Aristophanes. In Birds, Euelpides complains that he lost (ἀπώλεσα, 493) a cloak made of Phrygian wool because of a cock’s untimely crowing; thinking it was dawn he went outside the city at night and was robbed of his cloak (495 – 98). Another occurrence of this meaning of the verb is found in Clouds, when Strepsiades is trying to persuade his son to take lessons in his place. The father claims that he keeps forgetting what he has learned and the son says, “So that’s why you’ve lost (ἀπώλεσας, 856) your himation?” Strepsiades replies that he has not lost it; rather, he has yielded it up to cogitation (οὐκ ἀπολώλεκ᾽, ἀλλὰ καταπεφρόντικα, 857), in an attempt to conceal from his son what the audience knows to be the case, namely that the himation has been stolen by Socrates.³¹ The same fate has befallen Strepsiades’ shoes (719), and when his son asks him what has happened to them Strepsiades repeats Pericles’ fa-

 So Tomlin , ad loc., translating execro qui involaverit qui Deomiorix de hospitio suo perdiderit as “I curse (him) who has stolen, who has robbed Deomiorix from his house”; cf. Versnel ,  n. . For the fullness of expression, compare PGM V  τὸν κλέπτην τὸν ἄραντα,  τὸν κλέπτην τὸν κλέψαντα and a lead tablet published by Bruneau ,  – , A = B  –  τὸν ἄραντα τὸν κλέψαντα.  At  Socrates’ pupil admiringly describes how his master stole a cloak from a palaestra (ἐκ τῆς παλαίστρας θοἰμάτιον ὑφείλετο), so that when Strepsiades is asked at  to remove his himation we know what is to happen to it.

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mous exculpatory remark, that he had surrendered them to the needs of the moment (εἰς τὸ δέον ἀπώλεσα, 859). Another victim of robbery uses this verb in Acharnians. Dercetes comes on stage in tears begging Dicaeopolis for a dollop of peace and, when he is asked why he is crying, he explains that he has lost his pair of oxen (ἀπολέσας, 1022). The oxen, it turns out (1023), were rustled by the Boeotians, with whom the Athenians were then at war. Oxen are unlike the other objects of theft that we have been considering, being both animate and mobile.³² So, when Hesiod says that an ox would not be lost (ἀπόλοιτο, Op. 348) unless one had worthless neighbors, Martin West notes ad loc. that an ox can be stolen, can wander off and get lost or can get itself “into some dangerous spot from which it cannot extricate itself unaided,” and that worthy neighbors could be expected to intervene or at least sound the alarm. Given the value of oxen and the presumable vigilance of their owners, talk of “losing” one’s ox would surely be understood to mean that the animal had either died or been stolen. This is confirmed by a fable recounted by Babrius and found in the corpus of Aesop. The fable opens by telling us that a herdsman had lost an animal from his herd;³³ when his search for the beast was unsuccessful, he vowed to make a sacrifice should he discover the thief, τὸν κλέπτην. (As it happens, upon discovery the “thief” turns out to be a lion, and the herdsman vows an even more substantial sacrifice should he emerge alive from the encounter.) To return, finally, to Aristophanes’ Frogs: We have seen that there is evidence that ἀπολέσαι τι can mean “to have something stolen.”³⁴ What obliges us to think that Aristophanes’ audience would indeed have taken Aeschylus to mean by ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν “had his lekythion stolen” rather than “misplaced his lekythion”? To begin with, if it is assumed that the lekythion stands for something else—a phallus, say, or a bombastic style—then the humor of the situation is not likely to depend upon the audience’s construing the expression to mean that the subject of the verb has inadvertently lost track of his little flask. But even if there is no “hidden meaning” to the lekythion, is there any way of telling which of the two possibilities, misplacing one’s lekythion or having it stolen, is more likely to have occurred to an audience hearing ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν? As we have seen, oil-flasks are mentioned by Demosthenes as typical objects of theft in public places. Further, use of the verb

 See Cohen ,  – .  Babrius . ταῦρον κεράστην ἀπολέσας, Aesop  Perry ἀπώλεσε μόσχον.  Further instances can be found at Antiphon  B  D–K, Lys. . (noted by Bain a,  n. ), Sammelb. . ( BC), Plut. mor. a, Arr. Epict. .., IG IX. . –  (with Pritchett ,  n. ), SIG . – . Dunant  publishes a bronze tablet dating from some time between the st century BC and the nd century AD cursing those who possess “all the gold that I lost” (χρυσᾶ ἁπ(ώ)λεσ(α) πάντα).

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ἀπολέσαι to refer to losing something through inadvertently mislaying it turns out to be surprisingly difficult to document.³⁵ Such a meaning is latent in the passage from Clouds that we discussed above, in which Pheidippides asks his father whether his admitted forgetfulness is responsible for the loss of his himation (856).³⁶ One possibility is that he has simply forgotten where he put his cloak and (858) his shoes. Another possibility is that, being old and absent-minded, he is likely to be a prime target of thieves and scam-artists. As we have seen, the latter is in fact the case; Strepsiades knows exactly what has happened to his belongings, identifying himself to the inmates of the Reflectory at the end of the play as “the guy whose himation you stole” (ἐκεῖνος οὗπερ θοἰμάτιον εἱλήφατε, 1498). Aristophanes seems to have used the verb ἀπολέσαι precisely because of its polyvalent character. Unlike Strepsiades, none of the Euripidean characters who lost their oilflasks is an infirm old man, and some, like Pelops, Oeneus and Cadmus, are presumably in the prime of life; one, Dionysus, is even a vigorous divinity engaged in a dance at the time of the loss. On the whole, then, it seems likely that Aristophanes intended his audience to understand ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν to mean “had his lekythion stolen” rather than “misplaced his lekythion” and that his audience did so understand it. It is surprising that this meaning has not previously been recognized, particularly since it is explicitly confirmed later in the scene. When Euripides begins to recite from his Meleager (“Oeneus, reaping an abundant harvest from his land and making an offering of the first fruits …”) and Aeschylus interrupts with ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν, Dionysus asks, “And who stole it?”³⁷ Clearly Dionysus has understood that Oeneus’ lekythion has been stolen. Nor is there anything in the context to suggest that the case of Oeneus is any different from that of Aeschylus’ other victims, that Oeneus has had his flask stolen whereas Aegyptus, say, has merely forgotten where he left his. All of Aeschylus’ victims have “lost” their lekythia and all, like Damon the trainer when he “lost” his shoes, would feel justified in cursing the thief.

 Wasps  –  is one of the few instances that I can find. There, the chorus expresses surprise that Philocleon has not yet come out of his house, wondering if perhaps he has lost his shoes (μῶν ἀπολώλεκε τὰς ἐμβάδας;) or has stubbed his toe in the dark. Compare Luc. Philops. , where a sandal could not be found because it had slipped down under a chest, and Thphr. Ch. ., where chests are moved to look for a lost coin; but the verbs used are παραπίπτειν and ἐκβάλλειν.  Strepsiades’ forgetfulness is stressed throughout the play (,  – ,  – ,  – ), as is his old age (, , ,  – , , ).   καὶ τίς αὔθ’ ὑφείλετο; The same verb is used at Dem. . (ληκύθιον … ὑφέλοιτο). Curiously, Judet de La Combe , , ad , where he translates “égara son gonflette,” says, “Quant au verbe apôlesen, il pourrait signifier ‘a perdu’ ou ‘a détruit’; le v.  lève l’ambiguïté.”

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What difference does it make whether Pelops et al. were victims of crime or simply forgetful and why has so much time and effort been expended here to show that the former is the case? And, most importantly, what makes Aeschylus’ repeated intervention so devastating to Euripides’ pretentions? To our twentyfirst century way of thinking, being forgetful or negligent concerning one’s personal belongings is a minor character flaw, whereas being the victim of a crime is an accident that has no bearing on one’s moral standing. Things were different in fifth-century Athens, where one’s standing was seen to be diminished if one were the victim of a crime and needed to be restored by seeking retribution.³⁸ More importantly, in the Frogs Euripides represents himself as the very champion and mentor of those who seek to keep a vigilant eye on their property. In contrast to his rival Aeschylus, whom Euripides criticizes for having taken advantage of audiences that were too stupid to see that they were being hoodwinked (909 – 10), Euripides boasts that he taught the Athenians “perception, vision, comprehension; twisting the hip, contriving schemes, suspecting foul dealing, thinking all round everything.”³⁹ He continues by saying that his introduction of oikeia pragmata to the tragic stage would have made him vulnerable to criticism if he had gotten anything wrong, because his audience would have caught him out (959 – 61), the implication being that he considers his expertise regarding everyday matters to be impeccable. He contrasts his own focus on judicious thinking (φρονεῖν, 962) with Aeschylus’ indulgence in outlandish bluster. When he launches into the pnigos at 971 Euripides advertises “the achievement he most vividly takes pride in” (Lada-Richards 1999, 242; cf. 289 – 92), namely his introduction of a probing, rationalizing mentality into the tragic art.⁴⁰ The result is that today’s Athenians, schooled in the theater of Euripides, “manage their households better than previously” (977), taking stock and raising questions (978 – 79): “What’s the status of this? What has happened to my whatsit? Who has taken that?” The final question makes explicit what is hinted at in the first two, that the master of the household suspects that any deficiencies are the result of pilfering by his slaves. This is confirmed by Dionysus’ contribution to the pnigos, when he endorses Euripides’ self-glorificatory iambics. According to the god of tragedy and comedy, nowadays every Athenian comes home (from the theater?) and bellows at his servants, demanding to know (983 – 88, in Som-

 Cohen ,  – .  Sommerstein’s translation of  – : νοεῖν, ὁρᾶν, ξυνιέναι, στρέφειν ἕδραν, τεχνάζειν, / κάχ’ ὑποτοπεῖσθαι, περινοεῖν ἅπαντα.  λογισμὸν ἐνθεὶς τῇ τέχνῃ / καὶ σκέψιν,  – . Both terms are prosaic, the former occurring only here in fifth-century verse, the latter only here and E. Hipp. , where Artemis castigates Theseus for not conducting an exhaustive probe into his son’s guilt.

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merstein’s translation), “Where’s the pot? Who’s bitten off this sprat head? That year-old plate has died on me! Where’s yesterday’s garlic-head? Who’s been nibbling at the olive?” This serves as the introduction to the debate that follows between the two rival tragedians, and the chorus advise Aeschylus to defend himself smartly against so formidable an opponent. Aeschylus will have his work cut out for him, particularly since it appears from what has just been said that the judge in the contest is favorably disposed toward Euripides. It was, after all, to bring Euripides back to Athens that prompted Dionysus’ journey to the land of the dead in the first place. The image of Euripides that has been projected in the first half of the play is of someone who is, as we would say today, entirely “with it,” someone who has “street smarts.” He is, as Dionysus admiringly says, πανοῦργος (80), the kind of person who can cleverly weasel out of an oath (101– 2). Appropriately, the crowd of his admirers, also described as πανοῦργος (781), consists largely of “clothes-snatchers and cutpurses and father-beaters and burglars” (772– 73, in Sommerstein’s translation). When we first see Euripides on stage we are left in no doubt that he has completely figured out his opponent’s psychology,⁴¹ accurately predicting that Aeschylus’ sullen silence will be broken by an outburst of unrestrained polysyllabic verbiage (837– 39). Of course, Aristophanes has presented Aeschylus as behaving just like a character from one of his plays, and at one point the chorus even address him as “Achilles” (992; cf. 911– 13). Euripides also is identified with his own dramatis personae, just as Aristophanes had earlier, in Thesmophoriazusae, portrayed Euripides as taking on the roles of Menelaus and Perseus from his own plays. So here we expect the Euripidean personages who are the subjects of the prologues that are scrutinized in the lekythion-scene to be worldly-wise characters who are supremely self-aware and vigilant. But what happens? As soon as Aegyptus, with his entourage of fifty sons, disembarks at Argos, he has his lekythion stolen (1206 – 8 = frag. 846 Kannicht). Not only is the seemingly secure manhood of Aegyptus diminished by his victimization but, by extension, so is that of Euripides. The next prologue to be subjected to scrutiny is that of Euripides’ Hypsipyle (1211– 13 = frag. 752 Kannicht), and now Dionysus himself is victimized, since it is he whose lekythion is stolen. Appropriately, Dionysus’ reaction is modeled on the outcry of an Aeschylean victim of a more serious crime, when he cries out, “Alas, once more have we been smitten by the cruet!”⁴² After Euripides has

 ἐγᾦδα τοῦτον καὶ διέσκεμμαι πάλαι, .  οἴμοι, πεπλήγμεθ’ αὖθις ὑπὸ τῆς ληκύθου, ; cf. A. Ag.  ὤμοι μάλ’ αὖθις δευτέραν πεπληγμένος.

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made two more unsuccessful efforts to recite a prologue into which the lekythion cannot be inserted, Dionysus advises him to buy, or “buy back” (ἀποπρίω, 1227), the offending vessel. Still full of self-confidence, Euripides makes one more attempt. When Pelops, like Cadmus before him, has his lekythion stolen, Dionysus renews his plea that Euripides buy back the stolen goods.⁴³ Undaunted, Euripides begins to recite from his Meleager (1238 – 41 = frag. 516 Kannicht), only to be frustrated again when Oeneus has his lekythion stolen twice, once in line one and again in line two. When Euripides has no answer for Dionysus’ question, “And who stole it?” the god insists that he give up and Euripides turns his attention to attacking Aeschylus’ lyrics. Clearly Euripides has been soundly defeated in that part of the agon that was concerned with prologues. Recognizing that the lekythion-scene presents Euripides’ divine and heroic characters as victims of theft allows us to understand why this is such a devastating outcome for the poet who prided himself on teaching his fellow citizens to be scrupulously attentive to their household belongings. Not only are Euripidean characters so careless of their personal property that they are unable to prevent things from being stolen, their creator cannot even say who made off with Oeneus’ oil-flask. As it happens, though, Dionysus’ attempt to protect his favorite poet by changing the subject fails to prevent Euripides from being subjected once again to the very same criticism. For the next stage of the agon is brought to an end by Dionysus precisely at that point at which a Euripidean character is seeking the restoration of a stolen object. Aeschylus wins this round of the competition by singing a hilarious parody of Euripidean monody which, interestingly, Kenneth Dover summarizes as follows: “the singer has lost [!] her cockerel and suspects that her neighbour has stolen it.”⁴⁴ In fact, the first we hear of the incident is in line 1343, when the unnamed woman who sings the monody laments that Glyce, “Candy,” has snatched her cockerel and run off with it. Dover (ad 1352a) and van der Valk (1982, 422 n. 6) comment on the incompatibility between the woman’s claim to be the victim of theft and her statement that the cockerel “has flown, has flown up to the heav-

 ἀπόδος, , is problematic, as it normally means “give what is owed” or “give back.” But the context demands “buy,” so it seems here to have the unusual meaning “pay the asking price”; see van der Valk , ; Sommerstein b, ad loc.  Dover , , ad  – . (M. Griffith ,  compares the “trivial, everyday nature” of the lekythion with that of the “lost” cockerel that is lamented here.) Like the diminutives in line , the word ἀλεκτρυών is not found in tragedy (although Aeschylus uses the form ἀλέκτωρ, Ag.  and Eum. ). At Frogs  Euripides, ridiculing Aeschylus’ ἱππαλεκτρυών (frag.  Radt), implies that cockerels have no place in tragedy, but then goes on to crow about his own introduction of oikeia pragmata into the genre ().

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ens on the gossamer tips of his wings.”⁴⁵ But this is to ignore the exquisite humor in Aristophanes’ choice of the word ἀνέπτατο, which is used in the surviving works of Euripides only by characters, mostly women in hopeless situations, either wishing that they themselves could fly up into the heavens (Hec. 1100, Ion 796, Or. 1377) or lamenting that some abstract good has vanished, or might vanish, into thin air (Med. 440, Andr. 1219, HF 69, IT 844). By applying the verb to a bird, especially one not noted as a denizen of the empyrean, that has been carried off by a petty thief, Aeschylus both makes Euripides’ image concrete and brings his rhetorical flight of fancy ludicrously down to earth. The monody comes to an end with the distraught victim enlisting the aid of Cretan archers, Hecate and Dictynna (with her hounds) so that she can search Glyce’s house for the stolen property (1356 – 63). It is surely no coincidence that both rounds of the competition, the one concerned with prologues and the one concerned with monodies, conclude with Euripidean characters who have failed to prevent the loss of their personal belongings.⁴⁶ Nor is this incidental to Euripides’ ultimate defeat in the contest. As we have seen, Euripides’ claim to occupy the Stygian Chair of Tragic Verse Composition rested upon his claim of having brought familiar, everyday matters onto the stage (959 – 63) and having taught the Athenians how better to manage their households (971– 79). Euripides’ boast had earned the approval of Dionysus, who noted that “every Athenian” now comes home from the theater having learned to keep a vigilant watch on every cooking utensil and every morsel of food in his house (980 – 91). The Aeschylean versions, however, of Euripides’ prologues and lyrics reveal a cast of tragic characters, both human and divine, who are pathetically incapable of preventing the loss of their personal belongings through theft. By contrast, it is impossible to imagine anyone daring to steal an oil-flask from one of Aeschylus’ craggy, beefy, sullen heroes. Thus the humor of the lekythion-scene derives not only from the absurdity of hearing an everyday object grafted onto a solemn narrative involving a mythical or divine character. Those mythical and divine characters turn out to be so far from setting

 ὁ δ᾽ ἀνέπτατ᾽ ἀνέπτατ᾽ ἐς αἰθέρα κουφοτάταις πτερύγων ἀκμαῖς, .  The parallelism between the two episodes, one involving the theft of a cock and the other the theft of an oil-flask, may suggest to some that the phallic interpretation of the lekythion is thereby vindicated. Given the use in English of the word “cock” as a slang term for “penis,” one might expect similar associations in Greek. The archaeological evidence does seem to indicate that the Greeks made some associations between cocks and phalli; see Hoffmann ,  – . There is, however, no evidence that words for “rooster” in either Greek or Latin had a sexual connotation; see Adams ,  – ; Henderson ,  – . In any event, the victim of Glyce’s theft is a woman.

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an admirable example of household management for the ordinary members of Euripides’ audience that they cannot even protect their belongings from common thieves. That is not to deny that other—sexual, metrical and stylistic—factors may contribute to the humor of the scene. But sometimes a lekythion is just a lekythion.

Thalia Papadopoulou

Euripidean Frenzy goes to Rome: The Case of Roman Comedy and Novel¹ Greek tragedy has always been an unfailing source of inspiration for Latin literature, mainly for Roman tragic adaptations of Greek dramas, yet by no means exclusively; recent scholarship has profoundly explored the way tragic scripts inform as significant intertexts other literary genres, such as Roman comedy², epic³, or even novel⁴. Intertextuality may thus be secured either through citation of lines, imitation of significant themes, narrative sequences and typified scenes, staging or a combination thereof. From this perspective, Euripides seems to be an extremely influential tragic poet, whose ideas, thematic options and dramatic techniques crucially influence Latin literature, across a wide range of texts and genres. The aim of the present paper is to examine the way Euripidean tragedy, Euripidean frenzy in particular, in terms of basic thematic options, narrative sequences as well as diction is received by non-tragic texts of Roman literature, of a lower literary register in particular, namely comedy of the republican period and the novel of the imperial years. I also intend to examine how the tragic sub-text may contribute to the un-coding of the meaning of the recipient Latin text as well as to contextualize the tragic modal intrusions in the host comic/ novelistic texts within the social and political milieus of both the late republic and the Neronian Rome. Terence’s Eunuchus and Petronius’ Satyricon, also informed by comedic discourses, will be used as a case study.

Comedy / Terence Various tragic linguistic favorites, at home with Euripidean tragedy as well, occur in Terentian drama, giving Terence’s high characters an elevated and formal linguistic coloring, in terms of the well-known Terentian techniques of linguistic characteriza-

1

I wish to thank Dr Evangelos Karakasis for reading through the paper and offering useful feedback.  See esp. Sedgwick ,  – ; Thierfelder ,  – ; Katsouris ; Sheets ,  – ; Hunter ,  – ; Goldberg ,  – ; Hurst ,  – ; FantuzziHunter ,  – ; Fraenkel , esp.  – ,  – .  See esp. Panoussi  (with the bibliography cited there).  See esp. Panayotakis  (with the relevant status quaestionis).

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tion⁵. This is, for example, the case with disjunction of the particle per from its object in terms of comic oaths and/or supplications (e.g. E. Andr. 892, Ter. Andr. 538), verbal combination of dicam + accusative + infinitive in direct or indirect questions (E. Rh. 38– 9, Ter. Phorm. 659 – 60), syntagms consisting in perfect or present + future of the same verb in paratactic construction within a line (E. Tr. 468, Ter. Hec. 722). Apart from individual tragic, also Euripidean, linguistic allusions, in Terentian drama, one may also spot several instances of clearer intertextual references to Euripidean tragic drama, especially allusions to Euripidean tragic furor in particular.

Adelphoe This comedy is chiefly about the way children should be brought up, with the two opposing views, current in Rome at the wake of Carthaginian Wars, represented on stage by the lenient Micio (senex lenis) vs. his stern and parsimonious brother (senex durus et iratus), Demea. Demea has educated his son Ctesipho by means of the strict moral educational views, the mos maiorum of the conservative Roman countryside, whereas Aeschinus, his other son, was brought up by his uncle Micio, in a more liberated manner, at ease with a sophisticated urban environment. Demea is absolutely convinced that his pedagogical principles are the right ones, as evidenced mainly by the alleged proper behavior of his son Ctesipho. When, however, he realizes the truth, i. e., that it is Ctesipho who leads a spendthrift life and is, at the moment, in a socially reprehensible relation with a trained prostitute, Bacchis, Demea, in a particularly animated emotional state, acknowledges his bitter resentment by resorting to a tragic quotation, in all probability (789 – 90): ei mihi! quid faciam? quid agam? quid clamem aut querar? o caelum, o terra, o maria Neptuni! Oh dear! What am I to do? How am I to act? What cry or lamentation can I utter? Oh heaven, oh earth, oh seas of Neptune’s realm (trans. Barsby 2001)

Although this apostrophe of tragic caliber cannot be assigned to a specific tragedy, its structure (namely, the anaphora of o in vocative asyndeton) as well as its theme (triple apostrophe to natural elements) has clear tragic connotations⁶. What is more, a similar apostrophe appears in a Menandrian comedy (cf. Sam. 325 – 6) in the speech of the infuriated, old man Demeas, who is convinced  See Karakasis ,  – .  Cf. Karakasis , ; ,  – ; Sharrock ,  – .

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that his partner, Chrysis, is also the lover of his son. Critics have persuasively read here a Menandrian citation from Euripides’ Oedipus ⁷. I wish to suggest that, although in a modified form, the tragic citation from Terence’s Adelphoe may also constitute a paratragic quotation of the Euripidean Oedipus. This Terentian comedy is about a thematic transition from darkness to knowledge as is also the case with tragedies centered upon Oedipus and his identity. The moment an exasperated Demea realizes the truth, he is being intertextually associated with an agitated Euripidean Oedipus, also coming to terms with a bitter reality. The comic effect is by all means heightened through the association of Demea’s rather ‘educational’ predicament with Oedipus’ life and identity crisis. At the same time, however, it points to the blemished character of Demea’s educational politics, being one of the main themes of the comic narrative. In terms of a historicizing contextualization one should point out that Demea with his conservative rhetoric has been compellingly read as a comic incarnation, up to a point of course, of Cato and his old fashioned, conformist ideas⁸. An association of a plebeian Cato with a negatively depicted king would increase the comic effect, especially if one takes also into consideration the dislike the Roman mind has against forms of kingship in general, especially during the late Republican period. Terence’s sympathetic attitude towards the liberal Scipions and their circle (if this is not merely a much later, literary construction of Cicero⁹) may account for this intertextual parody. A more obvious example of Euripidean frenzy in Terentian drama comes, however, from his Eunuchus.

Eunuchus As commonly in Terence, the plot of this comedy also centers upon the erotic troubles of two young men (adulescentes, in terms of the so-called Terentian duality method), namely, the Athenian brothers Phaedria and Chaerea. Both are in love with socially inappropriate women, namely the meretrix Thais and her adopted sister respectively, and, therefore, the action revolves around their efforts to overcome the various problems they cope with in order to get access to their sweethearts. Chaerea in particular, the younger son of the family, who, during the comedy’s dramatic time, is serving his military service, according  See esp. Gomme and Sandbach , ; Bain , ; Hunter , . See further Collard, Cropp and Gibert ,  –  and , on fr. b Kannicht from Euripides’ Oedipus.  For the relevant status quaestionis, cf. Leigh ,  – .  See esp. Beacham ,  –  vs. Astin ,  – , Parker ,  – .

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to the comic ethos, falls in love at first sight, when he comes across Pamphila, i. e., Thais’ ‘sister’ on the street; the young girl with whom the ephebe is infatuated is the gift the miles gloriosus Thraso, i. e., Phaedria’s rival, offers to the courtesan Thais in exchange for her exclusive favors for two days. The young man is pondering upon the way he could gain entrance into Thais’ premises, when he receives the counsel of his slave, namely the servus callidus of the play, at least at this part of the comic plot, Parmeno. Although initially intended as a joke to his interlocutor, Parmeno suggests that Chaerea should be disguised into a eunuch and thus impersonate Dorus, i. e., the eunuch who has also been sent as a gift to Thais by Chaerea’s brother, Phaedria. Several linguistic similarities (cf. E. Bacc. 832, Ter. Eun. 370; Bacc. 824, 846, Ter. Eun. 376; Bacc. 845 – 6, Ter. Eun. 337) as well as a significant narrative sequence, namely, a dramatic character persuaded by another figure to dress up with female garments in order to be accepted into a community of women, have long been compellingly read as an influence of Euripides’ Bacchae¹⁰, i. e. one of the most influential Euripidean plays in the Hellenistic and the Roman period, especially in the mid/late-republic¹¹. In the Greek tragic intertext, it is Dionysus who gives Pentheus the advice to disguise as a woman, in order to avoid the angry reaction of a female group (E. Bacc. 821– 3). In Bacchae Pentheus is already called mad (326 – 7) by Tiresias due to his hostile attitude to Dionysus, but, of course, his real madness is enacted on stage through Dionysus’ instigation; Dionysus in the role of the Stranger directly and explicitly links Pentheus’ cross-dressing with madness (849 – 53)¹². A similar objective is also achieved by Chaerea’s impersonation, which will rescue him from the irate women of Thais’ house, although he will have to cope with this female anger soon after, namely, when the truth is revealed. Similarities in the way the disguise scheme is carried out (close collaboration of the characters for the impersonation, evasion of the public eye and option for unpopulated streets, castration¹³ etc.) further attest to the intertextual association of the Greek and Latin text. In terms of such an intertextual association, an erotically insane Chaerea is associated with a frenzied Pentheus, whereas the instigator of Chaerea’s erotic madness, the slave Parmeno, with the very god himself, Bacchus also responsible for the eventual tragic frenzy of Pentheus; in opposition, however, to tragedy, where Pentheus’ dismember-

 See Sharrock ,  – ; , , Karakasis , .  See Sharrock ,  and n. ; cf. also Stewart ,  –  for an influence of Euripides’ Bacchae on Plautus’ Amphitruo.  See further Segal  – ,  – .  For the implied notion of castration in Euripides’ Bacchae, see Segal  – ,  and n. .

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ment becomes the solution of the tragic drama, Chaerea in the Terentian comedy, following comic generic rules, violates the girl but, consequently, re-establishes himself within the community, promoting New Comedy ideals in becoming a husband as well as in propagating his oikos. This is the way comedy accommodates tragic intertexts for comic generic purposes; the tragic intertextual furor ultimately becomes the means for Chaerea’s entering the world of comic adulthood. What is more, this tragic intertext has further ‘tragic’ implications in the course of the comic plot, for the modal tragic generic intrusion is underscored by obvious tragic diction. In particular, after the rape takes place and a disguised Chaerea exits Thais’ house in a particularly exalted emotional state, he meets with his friend and co-ephebe Antipho, i. e., a Terentian innovation with respect to the Greek model, to whom he describes the circumstances of the rape: dum adparatur, virgo in conclavi sedet suspectans tabulam quandam pictam: ibi inerat pictura haec, Iovem quo pacto Danaae misisse aiunt quondam in gremium imbrem aureum. egomet quoque id spectare coepi, et quia consimilem luserat iam olim ille ludum, inpendio magis animus gaudebat mihi, deum sese in hominem convortisse atque in alienas tegulas venisse clanculum per inpluvium fucum factum mulieri. at quem deum! “qui templa caeli summa sonitu concutit.” ego homuncio hoc non facerem? ego illud vero ita feci ac lubens.

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While things were being got ready, the girl sat in the room, looking up at a painting; it depicted the story of how Jupiter sent a shower of gold into Danae’s bosom. I began to look at it myself, and the fact that he had played a similar game long ago made me all the more excited: a god had turned himself into human shape, made his way by stealth on to another man’s roof, and come through the skylight to play a trick on a woman. And what a god! The one who shakes the lofty vaults of heaven with his thunder! Was I, a mere mortal, not to do the same? I did just that – and gladly (trans. Barsby 2001)

Upon looking at Zeus impregnating Danae, Chaerea, crucially in the shoes of a Greco-Roman tragic divinity, imitates the example set by the father of the gods and, eventually, copulates, in the form of a rape, with Pamphila; the overall tragic coloring of the erotic sub-story (i.e, Chaerea’s erotic drama) is further highlighted by a line Chaerea utters from Ennius (372 R3 = fr. 161 Jocelyn), also reminding, in turn, of Naevius’ Danae, trag. 12 R3, namely 590 – 1: ‘qui caeli templa summa sonitu concutit’. ego homuncio hoc non facerem? (cf. also Donat.

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ad Eun. 590: (‘sonitu concutit’ parodia de Ennio. ‘templa caeli summa’ tragice, sed de industria, non errore)¹⁴. A similar pattern is developed in Plautus’ Casina as well, where the basic Bacchae pattern may also be discerned: a dramatic character convinces another dramatic figure to cross-dress, so that access to a female dramatis persona is secured. In this case it is about the two ladies (matronae) of the comic plot, namely Cleostrata and Myrrhina, who persuade the slave Chalinus to dress up as a bride in order to be wedded to Olympio as a Casina, whom the lecherous senex Lysidamus, Cleostrata’s husband, lusts after. An inversion of the Terentian character types, with whom an intertextual Pentheus and Dionysus are associated, is discerned in the case of Plautus’ reception of Euripides; it is now the high character, the free born matron Cleostrata, who is intertextually associated with Dionysus, whereas it is the slave Chalinus, with his (comically) frenetic behavior, who is being identified with a transvestite Pentheus. The overall intertextual tragic sequence is yet again here underscored by the tragic diction inserted into the comic host text, namely the syntagm sospes and sospites (817– 18) alluding to Enn. trag. 249 – 50 R3 = fr. 246 Jocelyn (Melanippa): regnumque nostrum ut sospitent superstitentque (819)¹⁵. As in the case of the Eunuchus, however, the tragic associations are eventually well put in the service of the comic world, namely in the service of the farcical humor of the Plautine comedy, in which the latter excels in relation to the epigonal Terentian comic theatre. In other words, tragic reminiscences are used by Terence for promoting civic ideology and ideas, as in Menander for example, but in the more Italian Plautine comedy their use aims at increasing the farcical effect. In both cases, however, comedy generically imposes well on the tragic modal intrusions. How could one contextualize these reminiscences of Euripides’ Bacchae (i.e, as a play on the introduction and expansion of Bacchic cult in Greece) in the Roman comic theatre of the late republican period, especially in Terence? Around 186 BC a serious Roman official reaction took place against Bacchic rites and their establishment in the Roman world, for which Livy gives us a detailed account (39.8.3 – 39.9.1): consulibus ambobus quaestio de clandestinis coniurationibus decreta est. Graecus ignobilis in Etruriam primum uenit nulla cum arte earum, quas multas ad animorum corporumque cultum nobis eruditissima omnium gens inuexit, sacrificulus et uates; nec is qui aperta religione, propalam et quaestum et disciplinam profitendo, animos errore imbueret, sed occultorum et nocturnorum antistes sacrorum. initia erant, quae primo paucis tradita

 See esp. Brothers , , Sharrock ,  – ; , , Karakasis , .  See MacCary-Willcock , ; Moore ,  – ; cf. also Fraenkel , .

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sunt, deinde uulgari coepta sunt per uiros mulieresque. additae uoluptates religioni uini et epularum, quo plurium animi illicerentur. cum uinum animos , et nox et mixti feminis mares, aetatis tenerae maioribus, discrimen omne pudoris exstinxissent, corruptelae primum omnis generis fieri coeptae, cum ad id quisque, quo natura pronioris libidinis esset, paratam uoluptatem haberet. nec unum genus noxae, stupra promiscua ingenuorum feminarumque erant, sed falsi testes, falsa signa testamen taque et indicia ex eadem officina exibant: uenena indidem intestinaeque caedes, ita ut ne corpora quidem interdum ad sepulturam exstarent. multa dolo, plera que per uim audebantur. occulebat uim quod prae ululatibus tympanorumque et cymbalorum strepitu nulla uox quiritantium inter stupra et caedes exaudiri poterat. huius mali labes ex Etruria Romam ueluti contagione morbi penetrauit. Both the consuls were charged with the investigation into the secret conspiracies. A low-born Greek went into Etruria first of all, but did not bring with him any of the numerous arts which that most accomplished of all nations has introduced amongst us for the cultivation of mind and body. He was a hedge-priest and wizard, not one of those who imbue men’s minds with error by professing to teach their superstitions openly for money, but a hierophant of secret nocturnal mysteries. At first these were divulged to only a few; then they began to spread amongst both men and women, and the attractions of wine and feasting increased the number of his followers. When they were heated with wine and the nightly commingling of men and women, those of tender age with their seniors, had extinguished all sense of modesty, debaucheries of every kind commenced; each had pleasures at hand to satisfy the lust he was most prone to. Nor was the mischief confined to the promiscuous intercourse of men and women; false witness, the forging of seals and testaments, and false information, all proceeded from the same source, as also poisonings and murders of families where the bodies could not even be found for burial. Many crimes were committed by treachery; most by violence, which was kept secret, because the cries of those who were being violated or murdered could not be heard owing to the noise of drums and cymbals. This pestilential evil penetrated from Etruria to Rome like a contagious disease. (trans. Roberts 1905).

Similar concerns are also in display by the preserved Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus (see also Liv. 39.15.9 – 10). Bacchic rites and mysteries, as presented in the text mentioned above, function within the standard opposition Roman-ness vs. Greek-ness, operating both in the social dynamics of the Republican Rome and in Roman Comedy as a genre, which, as a literary product of the period, crucially also operates across the Greek vs. Roman polarity. Bacchic rites are, according to Livy’s annalistic testimony, viewed as a demonstration of Greekness, dangerously imposing upon Roman identity. Bacchic cult, and Bacchus consequently, is linked with low born Greek-ness, secrecy and nocturnes, wine and feasting, erotic inflammation, sexual promiscuity of old people, lack of decency, emasculation and self-indulgence. Terence could not have been left uninfluenced by this central phenomenon of the late Republic; on the contrary, he seems to be capitalizing on these ideas concerning Bacchus and his rites, current in his time. Crucially, Dionysus is in-

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tertextually identified, in the Terentian Eunuchus (161 BC), with a low born, Greek slave, Parmeno, who instigates sexual licentiousness and rape; Bacchic counseling thus results in Chaerea’s deceptive schemes, his hedonism and sexual arousal, despite the eventual happy end of the comic scenario. The tragic intertext thus brings to the fore typical features of a Greek identity as discussed and parodied in the Roman palliata as well. Livy dates the import of Bacchic cult in Rome in 186 BC; yet the expansion of Bacchic rites in Rome should certainly be placed much earlier. It is thus very possible that much of the criticism, which is dated around 186 BC, would, in all probability, have been circulating in the Roman world before the Livian chronology and, thus, Plautus’ Bacchic reminiscences may also be read in the same light. Although Cleostrata is not a low born Greek, yet again the whole sub-plot, in which she is involved, deals with matters of trickery and concealment, sexual promiscuity, indecent lecherous old men and homosexual affairs. The ‘Bacchic’ characters of these two plays (Terence’s Eunuchus and Plautus’ Casina) are not only Greeks (in the sense that they have a Greek name and live in Greece), but are also notably associated with the form of a typified pernicious Bacchic Greek-ness, ‘fashionable’ in the period.

Novel / Petronius’ Satyricon; Eumolpus’ inset story of the widow from Ephesus (Petr. 111 – 13) In the course of Lichas’ episode, and after the quarreling between the main novelistic heroes of the boat sub-story comes to its end, Eumolpus recites the story of the widow from Ephesus as a means for evidencing muliebris levitas; an attractive lady decides to die through starving in the tomb of her husband. A loyal servant follows her to the monument and helps her with taking care of the candle light every night. A soldier, charged with guarding crucified criminals, takes notice of the light in the tomb and, out of comic/novelistic generic curiosity, eventually comes upon the widow. Because of his consolatory discourse of Senecan coloring¹⁶, through food and drink as well as by means of the servant’s help, the lady falls for the soldier and the couple eventually consummate their love in the vault. Due to the soldier’s ill-guarding of the crucified criminal, the latter’s relatives remove the corpse and, for that reason, the soldier decides to commit suicide in order to escape state punishment. Finally, the widow gives the solution to the problem, by having her husband’s corpse hung on the cross.

 See e. g. Pecere ,  – .

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This inset tale has variously been interpreted as a story informed by a range of theatrical discourses¹⁷, as is also the case with the whole of the Satyricon¹⁸. Relevant scholarship has long detected several features of the mime in the story, discerned throughout the Petronian narrative as well; this is the case with the tale’s emphasis on sexual promiscuity, spousal betrayal in particular, as chiefly evidenced by the adulterous triangle (erotic rival – beautiful lady – husband). Several additional motifs and ‘dramatic’ ‘staging techniques’ also attest to the mimic outlook of the story, namely the presentation of the copulation as false nuptials, the crucifixion motif and the prominence of wine drinking, the setting of the closed doors, epic travesty, a narrative penchant for maxims, various ‘staged-like’ exits and entries, unforeseen forwarding of the plot, the technique of the apostrophe and, last but not least, the function of the lady’s maid as an erotic go-between, importantly facilitating the eventual succumbing of the lady to the erotic desire of her suitor. Some of the mimic features mentioned above have also been read as imparting a comedic coloring to the story as well; this is particularly evident with the function of a maid as erotic counselor with a particular soft spot for drinking, well known from the meretricious servants of both Greek and Roman Comedy, as well as crucifixion threats and exit/ entry ‘staged’ settings. However, readings discerning a tragic outlook or sub-texts are not missing altogether: Perotti 2001– 2, 258, for example, understands the main characters of the story as tragic actors, namely the widow as a protagonist, the soldier as a tragic δευτεραγωνιστής and the maid / go-between as a τριταγωνιστής; the dead husband in the grave is viewed, from this perspective, as a mute person; the same is also suggested by Massaro 1981, 226, when referring to the deceased spouse as the κωφὸν προσωπεῑον, whereas for Fedeli-Dimundo 2000, 184 the solemnity with which the lady of the story is presented crucially renders her a kind of a tragic heroine. It has also been claimed that an allusion to Seneca’s Phaedra may be discernible, most recently by Cipriani in Ragno 2009. Despite the possible intertextual allusion to the Senecan drama, one is, however, entitled to examine the possibility of a direct influence of Euripides’ Hippolytus on the Petronian story¹⁹, especially if one takes into account Petronius’ knowledge of Greek tragedy as evidenced in other parts of his satirical work²⁰. The aim in this sub-section is to examine the way Phaedra’s tragic furor is received in the Petronian text; Euripides’ Hippolytus largely explores Phaedra’s erotic obsession    

See esp. Ragno . See e. g. Panayotakis . See also McGlathery ,  – . Cf. e. g. Schmeling , .

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as madness, as early as her desire to join Hippolytus in hunting, at the beginning of the tragedy. The Nurse describes her as out of her right mind (232) and Phaedra admits that she was in a state of frenzy (241). All the structural and thematic similarities, catalogued below, point to the possible sub-textual associations of the Euripidean drama with the Petronian tale; especially the motif of inedia, starvation, as a means for the heroine’s suicide, which is crucially absent from the Latin adaptation of Seneca’s Phaedra, reveals, on a compelling basis, the Euripidean version of the story as the primary sub-textual model of the Petronian inset story. What is more, had Euripides’ Hippolytus Veiled been also preserved in the transmission, one would probably observe further additional similarities between the tragic and the novelistic plot. 1. A stress on the notion of chastity becomes a focal point of the narrative, a lever for plot denouement (in the Petronian story it is about the lady’s superhuman acclaimed pudicity, which becomes a spectacle even for women of neighboring places, whereas in the Euripidean tragedy the focus is rather on Hippolytus’ extraordinary celibacy). 2. Both heroines, i. e., Petronius’ unnamed matron and Euripides’ Phaedra, are presented as facing a similar dilemma, i. e., to be faithful to their husbands (i.e, the nameless dead husband and Theseus respectively) or to succumb to their feelings for another young and handsome lover (the iuvenis and facundus miles-suitor and Hippolytus). 3. Both are presented as resolved to die on account of their grave erotic troubles. In the case of the widow of Ephesus the suicidal attempt takes the form of starvation, inedia (ἀποκαρτέρησις) for the loss of a beloved, whereas, in Euripides, a maddened Phaedra is willing to starve herself to death, also due to her erotic frustration, namely her unlawful feelings for her stepson. As happens with the Petronian widow, the Euripidean chorus of Troezenean women informs the audience that the queen, in a state of sore afflication, has not eaten for three days (135 – 40). 4. The object of the heroine’s affections is in both tales (the unnamed miles and Hippolytus) presented as a military figure. In Hippolytus’ case a noticeable military air is implied through the association between hunting and warfare training throughout Greek antiquity. 5. Both ladies are ‘staged’ with a weak, sickly disposition, with afflicted health, because of their undernourishment and erotic aggravation. 6. Both are offered the help of a confident maid (the fidissima ancilla in Petronius and frenzied Phaedra’s Nurse in Euripides, who is similarly presented as an erotic mediator, an assistant in a love affair, despite her concluding misplaced enthusiasm and Phaedra’s eventual suicide, after the disclosure, on the Nurse’s part, of Phaedra’s passion to Hippolytus); this maid becomes

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notably implemental to the forwarding of the plot and a catalyst for the ending of the story. What is more, in both instances the Nurse decides to help with the coming together of the illicit couple, out of fear for her mistress’s life, i. e., when the latter discloses her wish to die. Both servants clearly rate their mistress’s life and happiness superior to matters of public honesty, honor and self-esteem. In terms of ‘staging’ an emphasis is put, in both plots, on closed doors settings; the praeclusae fores of the tomb in the Petronian narrative (112.13) as well as the shut doors of Theseus’ palace (808 – 10).

It has already been observed and well documented by the relevant Petronian bibliography that Petronius often parodies Seneca in his Satyricon, namely the philosopher’s life, works and views; it is thus by now, for example, a communis opinio that several Senecan ideas are being humorously uttered by the pretentious and uncultivated freedman Trimalchio, the uneducated host of the Cena Trimalchionis (e. g. Petr. Sat. 71.1 = Sen. Ep. 47.1)²¹, in terms of Petronius’ acute and pointed criticism of Nero’s pedagogue. In terms of this general parodying tendency of the Satyricon, one could read here a satire of Seneca’s tragic inspiration – his tragedies are frequently based on a Euripidean drama -, the Euripidean tragic furor in particular forming the narrative foundation of several Senecan tragedies (Phaedra, Hercules Furens, Phoenissae, Medea, Troades). The Senecan sub-textual queen, crucially under a tragic, divine furor, becomes in Petronius a lady of easy virtue and this contrast between the sub-textual gravity, the Euripidean madness, and the textual hilariousness, the Petronian ‘adulterous lady’ adds to the overall satirical tone of the episode²². What is more, in terms of the Petronian narrative, the tragic sub-textual associations, as pointed out above, prove the counterfactual character of Eumolpus’ initial remarks: the Petronian narrator claims that he will establish his point, i. e., female fickleness, by recounting a real life story without resorting to famous names in the history and old tragedies. In reality, he eventually gives his audience a story full of old tragic sub-textual reminiscences and this, of course, does justice to the literary qualities of the narrative, despite the narrator’s claims to the opposite. This may also be explained within the general tendency of the Satyricon for suspense and a final inversion or deconstruction of initial reading expectations.

 Schmeling ,  – .  In the relevant bibliography readings viewing the story as a positive exemplification of the victory of life over death are not missing (see Plaza ,  – ); be that as it may, the story clearly has a satirical, playful character, irrespective of the way one reads its conclusion.

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Conclusions The foregoing discussion has attempted to show that Euripides becomes an important intertext in the Roman genus tenue, namely in Roman Comedy and Roman novel, also informed, in turn, by Roman Comedy discourses. This is, of course, perfectly understandable, if one takes into account the crucial importance of Euripidean drama for both the genesis and the evolution of the New Comic drama. Not only does Terence often resort to tragic diction, mainly Euripidean, but he also makes use of broader narrative sequences, highlighted, in turn, by tragic diction, which points to an intertextual association with Euripides; this is the case with Chaerea in the Eunuchus, both thematically and linguistically harking back to Euripides’ Pentheus in the Bacchae, whereas the servus callidus Parmeno is re-appropriated as a New Bacchic Dionysus. A similar subtextual association with the Euripidean Bacchae may also be discerned in the case of Plautus’ Casina. In both cases the Bacchic associations underscore notions of illicit passion, deception and lowness ascribed to a malicious Greekness as evidenced by Livy’s account concerning the intrusion of Bacchic cult into Rome as well as the Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus. Demea’s transposition from ignorance to knowing is probably marked by an allusion to Euripides’ Oedipus, with the main Greek tragic hero similarly operating between darkness and truth. An historicizing allegorical reading of Demea as Cato along with his intertextual associations with a negatively colored regal figure increase the comicality and, at the same time, crucially undermine Demea’s austere pedagogical policy, probably in connection with Terence’s Scipionic politics. Euripidean discourse also seems to be informing the widow of Ephesus theatrical tale in Petronius’ Satyricon. A series of thematic and structural similarities establish Euripides’ Hippolytus as a main intertext of the story. In this way the seriousness of the tragic intertext is deconstructed in the novelistic adultery story and thus the comic/satirical effect is yet again increased. A parody of Senecan tragic poetics may also be read as an objective of such an intertextual association, which also marks an inversion of Eumolpus’ initial remarks as to a lack of tragic examples, in line, however, with the general poetics of reversal in the Satyricon.

Barbara Goff

The Leopard-skin of Heracles: traditional wisdom and untraditional madness in a Ghanaian Alcestis Euripidean drama characteristically questions human abilities in the face of terrible odds, undermining any simple faith in human solutions even while – sometimes – valuing human sympathies. The notions of wisdom and folly come under close scrutiny, and in tragedy the stakes are unusually high; the misapplication of human ingenuity may result in death, and conversely human wisdom may need to be exercised in managing the realisation of mortality. Such a perspective resonates widely, but has fifth-century relevance in that it casts doubt on the ambitions of democratic politics, with their commitment to the largely human management of decision-making and the peaceful transfer of power. Many Euripidean dramas are particularly conscious of the developing fifth-century vocabulary of perception, deploying ‘sophistic’ terms such as synesis.¹ Although some of this vocabulary is especially characteristic of later plays, the exploration of sophia and its cognates, and the representation of madness and other extreme mental states, is recognisable in plays of much earlier date. As intellectual activity is examined, the question whether it amounts to wisdom or instead to folly is repeatedly posed. In Alcestis, the division between ‘wisdom’ and ‘folly’ is multiplied by the play’s double generic affiliation, its provocative display of both tragic and comic elements,² and by the way in which any moral judgement on the main characters seems to be provisional and suspended. Does Admetus ever gain a profound understanding of what has happened, of what he has done? Critics remain divided, apportioning both praise and blame to the protagonist and indeed to other characters.³ At 940, speaking to the Chorus over the corpse of his wife, Admetus says ‘ἄρτι μανθάνω’, ‘now I understand’. This is a quintessentially tragic utterance like ‘τί δράσω?’ ‘what do I do?’⁴ But uniquely among tragic protag-

 Rutherford ,  – .  On the genre of Alcestis see e. g. Seidensticker ,  – . Hypothesis B suggests that the drama is ‘more satyric’ (σατυρικώτερον), and commentators have continued to debate the possible implications of this. Even without the hypothesis, however, it is likely that notice would have been taken of the play’s multiple generic affiliations.  Padilla ,  has an historical conspectus of views of the play in general.  See Parker  ad loc. ἄρτι μανθάνω is found in a similar desperate juncture at Bacchae ; τί δράσω marks the crisis at Libation Bearers .

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onists Admetus does not have to understand, because he is exempt from his own death and, after the rescue by Heracles, does not have to face the loss of another. In this essay I shall first consider the vocabulary of wisdom and folly in Alcestis, and its relation to the generic and moral doubling that I have noted. But the bulk of my discussion will be taken up with a play that is much less familiar, Edufa by the Ghanaian playwright Efua Sutherland. To all intents and purposes an adaptation of Alcestis, this play too is marked by generic ambivalence, moral doubt, and a discourse of wisdom and folly that is strongly conscious of tradition. Edufa is also, significantly, an adaptation of a Greek tragedy that was produced and published in the wake of Ghana’s independence, so that its reservations about human capacities are available for specific political interpretation. Although most critics agree that it is modelled on Alcestis,⁵ there are significant variations in several scenes; we shall examine some of those that relate to the themes of wisdom and folly, but also those that speak to generic identity and the possibilities of moral judgement, praise and blame. Edufa is often typed as didactic, or even pedagogic, but I shall suggest that it follows Greek precedent in having more pointed political relevance. There are only four uses of the word sophos in Alcestis, and there is no use of terms such as synesis. Each use of sophos is individually quite striking. The first instance comes in the scene between Apollo and Death, where Death chides Apollo for suggesting that he should wait until Alcestis is older before carrying her off, in order to get better grave goods. ‘You propose laws for the rich’ he points out (57), to which Apollo replies (58) πῶς εἶπας; ἀλλ’ ἦ καὶ σοφὸς λέληθας ὤν; What are you saying? Have you secretly become clever?

The incongruous term, here abusively sarcastic, epitomises the slightly pantomimic quality of the scene. Arguably more significant is the use of the term at 348 – 9. Origa⁶ cites Snell (1924) for the claim that technical ability and craft is at the root of the word’s significance, and it appears for the first time in Euripides with this kind of connotation, when Admetus says that he will employ the ‘skilled hand’ of craftsmen to make an image of Alcestis after her death, which will bring him some cold comfort:

 Okafor  disputes the notion that Edufa invokes Alcestis, and suggests instead the Ashanti legend of the self-sacrificing Tweneboa Kodua. Most critics agree that Alcestis is also relevant. Okafor’s overall discussion of the differences between Alcestis and Edufa is important.  Origa , .

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σοφῇ δὲ χειρὶ τεκτόνων δέμας τὸ σὸν εἰκασθὲν ἐν λέκτροισιν ἐκταθήσεται by the wise hand of craftsmen your body represented will be laid out on the bed.⁷

The ‘fifth-century’ term might be thought of as highly appropriate here, in that human ingenuity is going to do its best to overcome death, by the use of the image.⁸ But Stieber notes that the phrase σοφὴ χείρ is hardly paralleled elsewhere in Greek literature, and that the combination of ‘wise’ and ‘hand’ is ‘striking, if not jarring, especially in the age of the Sophists’.⁹ Admetus’ overall plan for Alcestis’ commemoration has thoroughly divided critics, who have found it grotesque as well as idealistic.¹⁰ So the challenging use of sophos here is duplicated by the discomfiting nature of Admetus’ proposal. The image of Alcestis which the ‘wise hand’ will construct is, arguably, made visible in the silent figure who closes the play, and who provokes so many varied interpretations, so that the means of overcoming death is questionable twice over.¹¹ This particular use of sophos, in a context of creative activity, also points to the play itself, and almost seems to foresee the critical ambivalence that surrounds its experimentation. There is a similar discomfort around the other uses of the word, for instance at 699 when Pheres accuses Admetus of wisely, or cleverly, finding a method of putting off death for ever, by getting successive wives to die for him. Origa¹² suggests that sophos in this kind of context, where its connotations are so negative, is equivalent to kakos, indicating a lack of scruple; and here it underlines an indictment of Admetus that many critics share. At 779 Heracles encourages the Servant not to mourn the ‘foreign’ woman but to become sophōteros by listening to his sage advice. He proceeds, tipsily, to deliver a collection of hoary saws about the uncertainty of life and the necessity to enjoy the moment (780 – 802). Throughout this embarrassing speech he draws on a fifth-century and even sophistic vocabulary including tyche, techne, didaskein, logos, physis, and phroneo, but none of these words succeeds in making him look at all intelligent, and it seems as if his attempt at sophia

 My translation, more or less literal in order to convey how strange the sentiment may appear.  Segal ,  suggests that drama itself defeats death, but only by providing a simulacrum of life in art, myth or fantasy, as this play defeats death by providing a silent version of Alcestis.  Steiber , .  Parker  ad loc calls Admetus’ project ‘disconcerting’, ‘extravagant’ and ‘bizarre’, to the original audience as well as to us. See e. g. Ahl ,  on various views of this moment and of Admetus overall.  See also Steiber .  Origa , .

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has thoroughly misfired. And when he discovers that the ‘foreign’ woman is in fact Alcestis, he quickly sobers up. For all this, however, his diatribe does have close affinities to many tragic consolations that are delivered ‘straight’, so that the line between wise and foolish seems not very hard to cross. There are also a few loaded moments when words for foolishness are deployed. The minute that Admetus has ushered Heracles into the house, the Chorus rounds on him and asks him (along with the audience, we might imagine) ‘What are you doing? …Why are you foolish (μῶρος)?’ (552). This outburst seems to show the Chorus horrified at Admetus’ lack of common sense. Yet a few lines later the Chorus praises Admetus’s sophia (602) and proclaims, if I may over-simplify a complex utterance, that good people always get things right.¹³ τὸ γὰρ εὐγενὲς ἐκφέρεται πρὸς αἰδῶ. ἐν τοῑς ἀγαθοῖσι δὲ πάντ’ ἔνεστιν· σοφίας ἄγαμαι. Good birth Is borne away towards respect. In good people is everything; I love [his] wisdom.

The punctuation of this passage is not certain, as much of the transmission offers a full stop after σοφίας and no stop after ἔνεστιν; such a sentence, however, would not clarify the status of Admetus’ wisdom here at all, and modern editors including Parker and Diggle punctuate as above.¹⁴ At 728, in another difficult moment, Pheres calls Alcestis aphrona, without thought or senseless. Admetus has just exclaimed ‘Oh, oh, how full of shamelessness is old age’ and Pheres rejoins ‘She was not shameless; but you found her foolish’ (727– 8). This is not a final hostile judgement on her, instead forming part of the escalating aggression between him and his son, but it repeats the unsettling effect that the other words for wisdom or foolishness have had.¹⁵ We might also include Heracles in a discourse of ‘folly’, because he is clearly impaired by partying when he comes on stage to berate the Servant. When he switches out of this into the valiant speech at 837– 60, proclaiming the necessity to battle even Death, he compounds the difficulty of discerning the emotional tone of the play as a whole.  See Parker  ad loc on the paradoxical and ‘mixed’ nature of their utterance here. Origa ,  notes how the Chorus connects sophia with eugeneia, aidos, and theosebeia.  Meridier and Murray punctuate after σοφίας.  Parker  ad loc terms it ‘startling, but not at all unorthodox. Greeks had difficulty in seeing any rational justification for acts of pure self-sacrifice’.

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A focus on wisdom and folly in the Alcestis, then, indicates and contributes to the split that criticism has repeatedly found in the play, whereby its different elements decline to cohere into a stable judgment on Admetus or indeed any other character. Admetus is represented in the criticism as villainous as well as noble, and he is either irredeemably myopic where the worth of Alcestis is concerned, and thus incapable of recognising the significant elements of his situation, or he is indeed a good man who understands where priorities lie and is suitably rewarded. Similarly, critical views of Alcestis show her as tiresome as well as virtuous, and the play as a whole is perceived as dark and cynical or alternatively healing and uplifting.¹⁶ Not only are the judgements kept in solution during the drama, but other dualities are also in play; Alcestis participates in the genre of satyr drama as well as of tragedy, and Alcestis herself is dead as well as alive (141, 519, 521). The double music in the house of which the Servant complains (760) is symptomatic. We should not be surprised to find wisdom and folly exerting pressure upon one another. The Ghanaian Alcestis of my title similarly marshals some striking moments of wisdom and folly, and plays complexly with genre and with moral judgement. While many African adaptations of Greek tragedy have been the object of sustained critical reflection in recent years,¹⁷ Edufa has so far escaped much attention; those who have written about it have done so within the discipline of African literature rather than that of Classics. The play is now increasingly recognised as one of the ‘AfroGreek’ plays, adaptations that mark independence and then the postcolonial period,¹⁸ but some of its distinctive characteristics are not always acknowledged. Produced in 1962, five years after independence, Edufa was published in 1967, one year after Nkrumah’s overthrow, and is thus among the first of the ‘Afro-Greek’ plays.¹⁹ It is the earliest such adaptation to be written by a woman, and Efua Sutherland was not just any woman; she was a dauntless campaigner for independence on the cultural as well as the political front, and founder of many post-independence institutions.²⁰ A further way in which Edufa is set apart from other Afro-

 See Parker , li-lv for discussion of key readings.  See especially Wetmore , Budelmann , Hardwick , Goff and Simpson , van Weyenberg .  On the term see Wetmore , . Greenwood ,  suggests that it may originate in the work of Derek Walcott.  Only John Pepper Clark-Bekederemo’s Song of a Goat, which is not always included in this group, is earlier ().  Among the institutions she founded were the magazine Okyeame, the publishing house Afram Publications, the Ghana Society of Writers, the Ghana Drama Studio, which was the forerunner of the National Theatre, and the Kodzidan or Story House in Atwia, which promulgated

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Greek adaptations is that it does not tackle one of the mighty dramas of violent resistance and revenge, such as Bacchae or Medea or Antigone, which might be readily rewritten in such a way as to destabilise colonialist assumptions of cultural superiority, and thus might be congenial to an African dramatist.²¹ Instead, it situates itself in relation to a drama which is generically troubled to the extent of having an almost happy ending. As we shall see, Edufa pursues the Greek ending to a more troubled destination. We might also note at this point that to adapt a Greek tragedy was perhaps an even more surprising move for Efua Sutherland than for other African playwrights. She was characteristically careful to make her work accessible to ‘ordinary’ Ghanaians, but adapting a Greek tragedy may have seemed to contradict this aim, not least in the unavoidable identification of Greek tragedy with western colonialism. Devoting her long career to building a theatre that would be worthy of the first African nation to achieve independence, Sutherland developed a range of forms and discourses that drew on Ghanaian oral traditions. She is perhaps best known for the play The Marriage of Anansewa, which invokes the ‘Ananse’ stories of West African folklore. The Alcestis may even have been attractive to her because it involves folk- or even fairytale-like aspects. Perhaps because of this commitment to accessibility, her plays, including Edufa, have often been read in relatively straightforward terms as ‘didactic’ or ‘pedagogic’.²² The discourse of wisdom and folly in this play has not been fully explored, or has been assimilated to a discourse on tradition and modernity, where the ‘lesson’ of the play is understood to be that Ghanaians should not be too quick to embrace the materialism and success that comes with westernisation. With the increasing focus on postcolonial literature, more sophisticated accounts have emerged,²³ but the relationship between the Ghanaian identity of the play, and its invocation of a Greek tradition, has not attracted sustained attention. Yet given that ‘westernisation’ by European colonialism was what brought Greek

traditional performance techniques. For accounts of this work see e. g. Adams and SutherlandAddy .  Compare the African adaptations Demea by Guy Butler, a version of Medea, The Bacchae of Euripides: a communion rite by Wole Soyinka, and Tegonni: an African Antigone by Femi Osofisan.  See e. g. Pearce , , Wilentz a, , Adams ,  – . Edufa in particular has sometimes been evaluated quite negatively for awkward language and improbabilities of plot; see Pearce , , Wetmore , , and Rotimi , .  For instance Reiss , which shares some of my conclusions although not many details of my analysis.

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tragedy to an African audience, we might want to investigate further the wisdom or folly of adopting the Greek tragic model. The eponymous Edufa, who is a prosperous westernised businessman and pillar of the community, has acquired a traditional African charm that will let him live if another dies for him, and almost accidentally has prevailed upon his wife Ampoma to agree to this. The dramatic date is the day when Ampoma must die, but Edufa intends to counter the power of the charm by combating it with traditional remedies, with the help of his sister Abena, the housekeeper Seguwa, and his ‘idiot’ servant Sam. These efforts render him distinct from Admetus, who can do nothing to halt the approach of Death, as does the Chorus of village women whom Edufa must keep ignorant of the household’s plight. His friend Senchi, the Heracles-figure for whom he throws a party, is similarly kept in the dark, even though Ampoma is dying during the entertainment itself; nobody apart from the married couple understands what is happening to her until it is far too late. This is a tragic situation, but with a comic potential for misunderstanding which gives the play a generic instability similar to that which marks Alcestis. As in Alcestis, the inevitability of death puts all coping strategies into question, but unlike in Alcestis, no strategy, by human, divine, or by the drama itself, succeeds in rescuing Ampoma. To the extent that ‘wisdom’ emerges into this play as a concern, it is often in relation to tradition or convention. In this respect the theme is closely tied to the Ghanaian context in which the events are set, and several elements of the play, such as its music, its religious practices and its folklore, are specifically Ghanaian. Edufa, the ‘big man’ of the town, has used a charm to save his life rather than a gift from the gods, and this provokes much discourse on traditional ritual practices between him and other characters, prominently his sister and his father. The Chorus, all women of the nearby town, come to Edufa’s house not to commiserate on his wife’s death, because she does not die until the last moments of the play, but to perform an established collective ritual of consolation, driving out evil from all the town’s houses. They deliver themselves of time-worn sentiments not unlike those of the Chorus and Heracles in Alcestis. The Chorus in Alcestis attempt to ‘console’ Admetus by pointing out, tritely, that many other men have lost noble wives, (416 – 19, my translation): Admetus, it is necessary for you to bear these disasters; for you are not at all the first or last of humans to lose a noble wife; know that All of us are due to die.

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Some of the pronouncements by the Chorus of Edufa also address this kind of shared suffering, and if Heracles enjoins cheerfulness in the face of inevitable change, Edufa’s Chorus sounds not dissimilar: To purge our house also in the same old manner, for calamity is for all mankind and none is free from woe. (119) ²⁴ Crying the death day of another is crying your own death day. While we mourn for another We mourn for ourselves. One’s death is the death of all mankind. (120)

One of the Chorus-members sums up thus: Tears and laughter. That’s how it is. It isn’t all tears and sorrow, my friends. Tears and laughter. It isn’t all want and pain. With one hand we wipe away the unsweet water. And with the other we raise a cup of sweetness to our lips. It isn’t all tears, my friends, this world of humankind. (121)

The quotation on ‘tears and laughter’ may point towards the generic instability of both ‘Alcestis’ plays, as they divide repeatedly into the tragic and the comic. Like Alcestis, Edufa stages a gruesome row between the protagonist and his father, and in this scene too we can see different models of traditional wisdom and untraditional folly. The confrontation between African tradition and westernisation is particularly acute here, and is framed in terms of different forms of knowledge and education; in contrast, there is hardly any discussion of the father’s refusal to die for his son, which attracts considerable attention in Alcestis. In Edufa the father Kankam arrives much earlier on in the action than Pheres, and much more aggressively. He taps angrily on the ground with his umbrella when the housekeeper Seguwa is first reluctant to call his son, and shouts his name (107), whereas Pheres is ready to condole with his son, and it is Admetus who reacts with anger and rejects the familial relation (629 – 72). Kankam fell out with his son years ago over his materialist outlook, but returns to the house because he has discovered the story behind Ampoma’s illness. From his own diviner, Kankam has acquired knowledge of Edufa’s charm and its consequences, and he rehearses the events in detail, reminding Edufa of his various stratagems first to get the charm to work and then, when Ampoma unexpectedly took the death upon herself, to stop it (110 – 12). Kankam does not spend time defending

 All quotations are taken from Sutherland .

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his own decision not to die, but alternately reprimands his son and pleads with him to do more to save Ampoma’s life. Accepting that Edufa was offered life in return for another’s life, he goes on to say Has that not been heard before? Has that not been said to many of us mortal men? Why were you not content, like all of us, to purge your soul by offering gifts of cola and white calico to the needy, and sacrificing a chicken or a sheep, or, since you can afford it, a cow? (110)

Here, the offer of a life for a life is interpreted as meaning simply the ordinary animal sacrifice that many men do and should make. Since Edufa has acquired Ampoma’s life instead, however, Kankam urges him to a different ritual act (112): Confess and denounce your wrong. Bring out that evil charm. And before Ampoma and all of us whose souls are corporate in this household, denounce it. Burn it.

It is not clear whether this is a traditional ritual or whether Kankam is improvising, but his reference to the whole household does tie his suggestion to established Ghanaian practice, in which the household is very significant.²⁵ At first sight, it seems as if the play is dividing Edufa from Kankam on the grounds of traditional observances versus modernising materialism. Edufa is clearly a successful businessman in a western mode; for instance, as the play develops we learn that he has made money from quarrying granite (132). But this is not sufficient as an interpretation of the play, because Edufa is using ‘traditional’ remedies against the charm already; he is collecting dew and river water to mix with herbs, and he has also sent his servant Sam to yet another diviner, who has provided counter charms and spells (128 – 9). Conversely, Kankam is not to be identified solely with ‘traditional’ wisdom, as Edufa makes clear. When Kankam prescribes the rituals, Edufa is scornful: ‘Do you want me to take you seriously? You cannot believe all this, you who educated me to lift me to another plane of living’ (109). The father who represents himself as a repository of traditional wisdom thus appears to have rejected it in favour of a westernised education for his son, which has rendered him ‘emancipated’ (109). Indeed, Edufa mentions the possibility of hiring western doctors to cure Ampoma, although in the end he does not do so: ‘There are doctors with skill enough to sell for what’s ailing her, and I can pay their fees’ (112). So, Kankam enjoins traditional methods of defying death, but we cannot be sure that they will work, particularly since he has not always identified completely with traditional practices; Edufa, who  On the community dimension of Ghanaian drama, see Banham ed. ,  – , Wetmore ,  – .

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has identified with more western methods of advancing his career and status, has been tripped up by the power of the charm, but is endeavouring to counteract it in traditional ways – which in the end will prove equally fruitless. The play has, as I noted above, been typed as ‘didactic’ in the criticism, but it is hard to see exactly what it is didactic of. It seems to enjoin caution about westernisation, because it is the westernised Edufa who is brought down by the play, but the drama does not show a whole-hearted support of African tradition either; traditional wisdom does not ‘work’ in any straightforward way, and it is the ‘traditional’ charm which carries the seeds of destruction. Commentators note that Edufa can be criticised for not cleaving wholeheartedly either to ‘tradition’ or to western ways, but for rootlessly supposing that he can pick and choose among different cultures’ resources, and indeed he says himself, after his father leaves, that he is condemned ‘for my failure to create a faith… I bent my knee where I have no creed and I’m constrained for my mockery’ (114– 15).²⁶ Yet the play itself is combining African and European, or at least Greek, in its dramatic allegiances. In at least one of Sutherland’s other dramas a westernised future is considered a possible means of salvation from a stagnating past, so modernity can be represented as a source of success.²⁷ We should also perhaps register that as with Admetus, moral judgements about Edufa can be divided. Although many critics find him unattractive in his worldliness, and condemn him, as I have said, for his failure to take seriously the charm which he nonetheless uses, he is admired by the community (98) and loved by otherwise admirable characters like his sister Abena, Ampoma, and Senchi. Types of wisdom and education are at stake in the agon between Edufa and Kankam, but folly, or rather madness, is also a counter in their argument. Edufa goes so far as to call his father mad (111), an insult which contravenes all decorum. Kankam cries out ‘Nyame above! To say father and call me mad! My ntoro within you shivers with the shock of it! (111).²⁸ But Kankam then recuperates the insult: ‘All right, stranger, I am mad! And madness is uncanny. Have you not noticed how many a time the mad seem to know things hidden from men in their right minds?’ (111). This notion that the mad might be more sane than the sane is then legible in other parts of the play. In one quite puzzling scene, the servant Sam has been sent by Edufa to consult a diviner, and brings back what is

 See e. g. Wetmore , .  This is the case with Foriwa, on which see especially Wilentz a and b, and Ankumah . In The Marriage of Anansewa the hero, or rather antihero, is a westernised man driven by greed.  Nyame is the Supreme God; ntoro is the psychical inheritance from the father which (along with the inheritance from the mother) helps to make up the child.

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meant to be the definitive way of coping with the charm. Sam is clearly intellectually impaired, and the scene offers some humour at his expense, but he also remarks repeatedly on how ‘An idiot’s life isn’t so bad. There are always people to stop children throwing stones at us. They only do that for idiots, I find’ (127, 128). He suggests that Edufa might want to come back as an ‘idiot’ when he is born again, and the play’s ending does go some way towards that choice. Ampoma is also described as wandering in her mind during the course of the play. Ampoma is, I would argue, far more central to the play’s action than is Alcestis in her play, particularly since Ampoma is alive for most of the drama.²⁹ When she appears at the party – during which she will die – the stage directions prescribe that she is in ‘a strange mood’, and ‘frequently talks like one whose mind is straying’ (143). It is during this party that she makes an unconventional gesture which may be counted as a kind of ‘folly’; she puts a string of her waist beads around Edufa’s neck (146 – 47). Waist beads in Ghanaian culture are a crucial part of female identity; marking the stages of female life, and at puberty taking responsibility for the shape of the woman’s body, they stay unseen, under the clothes, reserved for the gaze of the husband.³⁰ While Ampoma’s gesture lays claim to Edufa so that he does not marry another woman, it also expresses physical and sexual affection in an unusually public fashion, which causes confusion, amazement and astonishment among her audience (146– 7). Edufa seems embarrassed, but his friend Senchi seems to think it is an impressive and wonderful gesture; critics have sometimes interpreted it in very negative ways.³¹ Aware of the outrageous nature of her act, mentioning her accustomed modesty and shame (146), Ampoma seems to play with cultural expectations even while she is acting out the role of the loyal and self-sacrificing wife.³² The gesture may also invite us to imagine the entrance of another woman in Edufa, as in Alcestis, but in fact Edufa will never be faced with any such dilemma. A different kind of folly, or madness, can be read in the scenes which feature Senchi, the friend of Edufa who occupies the Heracles-position. Senchi is not in the least like Heracles in his strength or ability to defeat death; at the moment when Ampoma dies Senchi is left outside the house helpless, not unlike many a Greek chorus in similar trying circumstances, and he can effect no rescue. But he reproduces elements of the Heracles from Alcestis in his love of partying

 Wetmore ,  and Jeyifo ,  argue that she is less important than Alcestis.  Peek and Yankah , .  Owusu ,  suggests that Ampoma’s gift implicitly curses her husband with impotence; Reiss ,  claims that Ampoma enacts an elaborate and ‘embarrassingly’ public ceremony to shame Edufa into keeping his vow not to remarry.  See Jeyifo ,  on Sutherland’s ‘subtle and deliberately understated critique of the patriarchal domination of women’ in this play.

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and of women, which dominate several of the scenes; and he also provides the most comic moments in the play, as does Heracles in Alcestis. Senchi is a ‘fool’ in a conventional sense too in that he does not have a regular job but makes a living by hawking songs; he is very poor, so that he has to borrow from Edufa clothes that are far too big for him, and ends up looking an ‘ass’ (133); he represents himself as rootless and insubstantial compared to the ‘solidity’ of Edufa (132). His life is the antithesis of Edufa’s; instead of being grounded in business ventures and recognised respectability, he is on the road, in a shabby suit and with a battered suitcase (122, 132). Yet Senchi’s ‘folly’ is not straightforward. It is he who brings Edufa to utter a version of ἄρτι μανθάνω, ‘I’m being compelled to learn’, when he presses his host to name and explain his ‘solid’ and ‘substantial’ identity, and Edufa confesses that it is ‘illusory’ (132). Senchi never gets as drunk as Heracles, and although he is enjoying himself, he displays a developed social sense. The women of the Chorus have been invited to the house to dine, in order to celebrate what appears to be Ampoma’s improved health; he entertains them, and sweeps everybody up into an impromptu dance (142). He writes a song for Ampoma, perhaps thus fulfilling the Greek chorus’ prophecy that Alcestis would be praised in song. Senchi has been dismissed in the criticism as variously shallow, hedonistic, and disillusioned,³³ but we should arguably say more about this figure. For a start, he is a writer of songs, a creative artist, as he describes himself (141), and thus the nearest figure in the play to the playwright herself. If we pursue the theme of wisdom and folly, we find too that his speeches are often quite significant. From the moment he enters, he uses various discourses in a playful manner, satirising both the colonial occupiers and the architects of independence with their ‘five-year plans’. When he enters, on seeing Edufa surrounded by all the women of the Chorus, his reaction is: ‘What are you doing here? Practising polygamy? Or big-mammy: or what …. All good stock, by their looks. Local breed?’ (122). The Chorus’s other activities are also grist to his comic mill. When he hears that the women have been practising a condolence rite, he objects ‘Why do you people prolong your sorrows so? Though, I must observe, you have a funny way of going about it, drinking and sniggering’ (123). While he thus maintains a distance from traditional ritual activities, he also teases Edufa for his more westernised allegiances (122– 23): What are you practising now? Catholicism, spiritualism, neo-theosophy or what? Last time I passed through here, you were an intellectual atheist…I wouldn’t be surprised to see you turned Buddhist monk next time.

 See e. g. Talbert , , Wetmore , , Reiss ,  – .

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At the party he declines to play the western game of Musical Chairs, because ‘That being a little colonial is somewhat inappropriate here…’ (140), and he mocks colonial anthropological discourse when he greets a Chorus member with the words ‘May I hold your hand? Or is that considered adultery in these parts? I always try to get the local customs straight before I begin negotiations’ (139). In other contexts, however, Senchi also riffs on the discourse of postcolonial reconstruction with its emphasis on five-year plans: ‘Don’t call it a party, woman. Call it something like Senchi’s Temporary Plan For The Prevention Of Senchi From Thinking Too Hard’ (125); ‘You make me feel so unmarried; confusing Senchi’s Plan for the Ruination of Women’ (134). Senchi’s foolishness thus takes a quizzical view of discourses both of colonialism and of postcolonial reconstruction, and as I shall go on to suggest, there is a possible political wisdom in his foolery. When Senchi goes on to invoke the figure of the madman itself, it is arguably an even more significant moment. Senchi recites a story, partly in verse, which he claims to have heard from a man who was mad, ‘or simply stark raving poor’ (141). Since Kankam has already said that the mad ‘seem to know things hidden from men in their right minds’ (111), the madman’s words have a claim to authority. Senchi does not make that claim explicitly, and keeps a distance from the story himself, which may be tactical, because the words of the madman criticise several elements of society: (141) [the madman] feels that men must heed his creed; or at the least applaud the wit with which he calls them sons of a bitch. … ‘Gentlemen, show me a thought you’ve thought through, and I’ll bow to you right low and grant you a master’s due. ‘Feather-fine ladies with hips that rhyme, who the blazes minds your children’s manners at this time? ‘Left, right, left, does not feed a nation. I’d rather have you roaring drunk at a harvest celebration…

If we grant any importance to the last line, the play’s only explicit reference to the nation, it could be understood as a critique of the play’s wider political context. As I noted earlier, the play was produced in 1962, but by the time of its publication in 1967 many Ghanaians were dissatisfied with Nkrumah’s post-independence government; the administration had become authoritarian and the economic policies brought few tangible rewards.³⁴ The generalised complaints of the ‘madman’ could be read without any specific political purchase, but the

 See on the state of Ghana in this period Gocking ,  – .

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mention of militarism and the nation – and its inadequacies – perhaps points in the direction of a critique. Since the words are repeated from a madman, there is no simple identification between his utterance and the stance of the play overall, but it may be significant that Senchi eventually gets the whole Chorus to sing and dance to his words, all caught up in what may be an expression of dissent (142). Most readers have not found Edufa to be a critique of Nkrumah’s regime, or indeed to have a political focus at all. Inasmuch as the play explores the problem of reconciling traditional elements of the culture with those derived from the European incursions, it has been understood more as an exhortation to Ghanaians generally. Sutherland has been understood as a supporter of Nkrumah who worked closely with him to build the theatrical and cultural institutions of the new nation; any critique in her drama has been understood as cultural, addressed to the morality of the community, rather than political, and this stance has been thought characteristic of Ghanaian dramatists generally. ³⁵ Sutherland’s play Foriwa, produced a few months after Edufa, has, however, been understood in the secondary literature to look askance at Nkrumah’s Ghana, suggesting that Ghana stagnates like the village of Foriwa’s birth.³⁶ This critical viewpoint opens the possibility of reading Edufa in a more interrogative fashion. Some of Sutherland’s pronouncements on the role of the creative artist indicate that she was fully aware of possible conflicts between the political and the cultural spheres. Although she seems to have described art as an indispensable part of social development, she seems also to have been distrustful of the notion of the artist’s dependence on government.³⁷ Conversely, while sources represent her as fully accepting the role of the artist as a social critic, they suggest that she did not endorse political actions that would endanger the art. Of the view articulated at a 1980 conference, that the writer possessed special qualities of insight that obliged him or her to act as a social critic, Robert July writes that ‘Efua Sutherland concurred, although she…drew sharp distinctions between effective artistic commentary and political acts that might end in the silencing of an important voice’.³⁸ To negotiate the demands of an emergent society experimenting with new political and cultural forms might well require from the creative artist the careful tightrope walking that Sutherland’s quoted words suggest.³⁹ Although

 See Banham, Hill and Woodyard , ; Wetmore , .  Ankumah , .  Duerden and Pieterse ,  – .  July , . See also Busby , .  Sutherland-Addy ,  points to the complex and thoughtful endings of Sutherland’s plays for children, claiming explicitly that they are not simply ‘moralistic’.

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some of Sutherland’s published words seem to support Nkrumah over and against the regimes that followed,⁴⁰ we do not need to posit her personal disaffection with the administration to suggest that her contemporary dramatic work registered political unease; we may further conclude that one advantage of the culturally valued form of Greek tragedy was that it served to distance any political critique, and to deflect any consequences that might have otherwise followed from the detection of a critical voice.⁴¹ If we pursue the notion of the play as critique, we might even suggest that the man Edufa is a version of Nkrumah, in that he is held in wide admiration and affection, but is eventually destructive of what loves him and what indeed he loves. Nkrumah was faced, like many other contemporary African leaders, with the task of rebuilding a nation that had suffered systematic exploitation and depopulation, and of integrating what the west could offer with what the indigenous culture could not afford to lose. In miniature, this is the dilemma that confronts Edufa, and the presence of the Greek tragic form, in its altered state, shows us that this is what confronts the playwright too. Sutherland claimed in 1968 that ‘nobody has the answer to how to do drama in this society yet’,⁴² and the play Edufa can be seen as one response to the problem of how to do drama, deploying Greek tragedy to ask pointed questions about the human capacities of the new nation. But to adapt a Greek play in the years close to independence is an anomalous choice for any African writer, because it involves acknowledging the cultural power of colonialism at the very moment when African leaders and communities are dedicated, necessarily, to the ideals of self-determination and autonomy. The co-existence of the Greek and Ghanaian elements in the new play multiplies the difficult combination of tragic and comic, healing and grotesquerie, that Sutherland might have read in the Alcestis. So should the process of Afro-Greek adaptation be counted here as wisdom or as folly? Sutherland’s writing was usually circumspect about western influences.⁴³ In 1968 she is recorded as emphasising the necessity to develop indigenous literature: ‘I would prefer us looking at it and using it [Ghanaian history] to doing imitative art like performing plays just because they exist in books already… They’re always there to be used by anybody, but we have a duty to create some’.⁴⁴ In an interview not published until 2007 she said that ‘Everybody has been to school with the English

 See e. g. Osofisan , , and Martini , .  Hardwick ,  makes this case for other adaptations.  Duerden and Pieterse , .  Sutherland herself chose Edufa for inclusion in the  anthology Crosswinds: an anthology of Black dramatists in the diaspora (Bloomington), as detailed in Branch , .  Duerden and Pieterse , .

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tradition of theatre. Shakespeare, Molière…all those things’ and concluded that her task as playwright was to offer what was Ghanaian in the sense both of rooted in African tradition and of recognisable to a society marked by colonial culture.⁴⁵ Her example is Odasani, an Everyman play (1961), but Edufa is the product of a similar enterprise, where the contradictory blending of traditions and forms is a selfconscious response to the pressures of postcolonial society. Despite her commitment to Ghanaian culture, Sutherland’s own cultural position was not without complexity in its combination of Ghanaian and western. Educated at a mission school, St Monica’s, and at Homerton College, Cambridge, she had a serious acquaintance with classical drama. In the interview previously cited she says of her education: They [the nuns] were actually very good about introducing us to literature…I performed a lot when I was at school and college…Also in Cape Coast where I grew up there was a secondary school, and they used to put on in Cape Coast an annual Greek tragedy, as a school performance…the staff and students.⁴⁶ My uncle went to that school, which was probably why I got to attend those plays where he performed. And I remember seeing Robert Gardner…yes, as Creon in Antigone, when I was a child, as a young girl. Antigone, Agamemnon…I loved it…I understood what was going on… I read a lot of the Greek tragedies. And when I was teaching at training college, Asante-Mampong, I produced some of these plays myself. I produced the Medea. I produced Antigone, I produced the Alcestis… ⁴⁷

Such a background was not untypical for a Ghanaian of her class and period, but would not have been shared with the mass of Ghanaians. In a 1968 interview Sutherland is seemingly conscious of her ambivalent cultural locale:⁴⁸ I’m on a journey of discovery. I’m discovering my own people. I didn’t grow up in rural Ghana – I grew up in Cape Coast with a Christian family. It’s a fine family, but there are certain hidden areas of Ghanaian life – important areas of Ghanaian life, which I just wasn’t in touch with. In the past four or five years I’ve just made a very concentrated effort to make it untrue that I do not know my people and I know them now.

Sutherland’s acculturation into her own culture is represented as a deliberate, one might say a political act. It is of a piece with the work of nation-building consequent on Ghana’s independence, which can also be seen to drive her theatrical activity and associated institutional initiatives. Within this context Greek drama

 July , .  This school is Adisadel College, which maintained a strong classical focus until the s. See Amissah , Goff .  July , .  Duerden and Pieterse , .

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becomes potentially very relevant. A persistent western model relates a society’s health to the dynamism of its drama, and counts fifth-century Athens as the zenith of both.⁴⁹ To invoke Greek as well as Ghanaian models, then, involves a possible contradiction, because of the ways in which the colonial inheritance undermined the health of the indigenous culture; yet in the project of constructing a new nation via its drama, this contradiction may be soluble. The tragic form itself might reconcile the opposites of traditional and western, deadly charm and pernicious materialism. The finale of Edufa, however, resists any such encouragement. Instead, it chooses to close with the figure of the madman, and this time he is not gifted with any special insight. Ampoma dies in the play’s final moments, indoors and offstage, with the housekeeper Seguwa denouncing Edufa to the Chorus and Senchi calling at the door of her room to know what is going on. The stage directions then have Edufa come onstage from her room, ‘a man clearly going out of his mind’ (152). He speaks violently, ‘his voice unnatural’ (152) and fails to recognise his friend; when Senchi lays hands on him, he looks at him ‘dangerously’, resists ‘with more than natural strength’ and then he delivers his final speech (153). An attempt is made to conquer Death and retrieve Ampoma, but not by the Heracles-figure. Where is my leopard skin? I’ll teach Death to steal my wives. [So strong that Senchi can no longer restrain him] Death, I will lie closely at the grave again, and when you come gloating with your spoil, I’ll grab you, unlock her from your grip and bring her safely home to my bed…[Wrenching himself free] The last laugh will be mine when I bring her home again. I will bring Ampoma back. Forward, to the grave. [He moves in strength towards the back courtyard, roaring.] I will do it. I am conqueror! [His last word, however, comes as a great questioning lament.] Conqueror…?

Recognisably referring to the Greek Heracles who wore a lion-skin to perform his feats, and wrestled Death to free Alcestis, the leopard-skin of Edufa also cites the rulers of pre-colonial Africa, who wore the skin as part of official regalia.⁵⁰ Edufa can thus be seen to reach for his African roots, but since he is also channelling the Greek Heracles, he is combining the two traditions in the same way as does the play. But inasmuch as this play ends without a rescue, he can make neither

 Shelley, Hegel and Nietzsche all contribute to this view; see Shelley’s ‘A Defence of Poetry’ in Reiman ,  – ; Chapter  of Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy.  See Owusu , . Nelson Mandela wore a leopard-skin at his trial (Lodge , ), but in other contexts, such signs of traditional African authority may be considered corrupted by their adoption on the part of neo-colonial autocrats such as Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire. See Mbembe ,  – .

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symbol work for him, and indeed he only reaches for the leopard-skin when he is already beyond reason. Whereas the Greek Alcestis allowed a salvation that moved the play, with the return of the inscrutably silent wife, towards the comic or at least satyric end of the dramatic spectrum, the African Alcestis ‘corrects’ this tendency by being a ‘proper’ tragedy and ending before the rescue. Yet to do so it must give up the dramatic power to overcome death, and its silence is no longer ambivalent. The convergence of the Greek and Ghanaian dramas marks a failure rather than a productive encounter, the comedy is subsumed in tragedy, and madness prevails over any possibility of sane adjustment to the constraints of mortal existence. Alcestis binds together wisdom and folly in the same way as it features both tragic and comic elements, and offers its characters for negative as well as positive judgement. Edufa also extends multiple possibilities of cultural, moral and generic identity. But it chooses in the end to identify with tragic madness and despair, refusing the Greek play’s offer of escape from that necessity. In this, I have suggested that the play registers the difficulty of Ghanaian politics during the last few years of Nkrumah’s rule. It also undoubtedly responds to the postcolonial situation of mixed and potentially antagonistic cultures, in which the Greek tragedy acts as an artistic resource but also exerts pressure on African creativity.⁵¹ In this context it struggles to discern where wisdom might lie between tradition and westernisation, and its version of folly turns to a bleak madness.

 Although several of his suggestions are different from mine, Reiss’s summing up (, ) is cogent: ‘Edufa was written when early hopes of cultural recovery and political sovereignty in Ghana were fading, when hopes of mutual enriching of cultures were being devoured by realities that look more like a ruin of values…’.

Michalis Tiverios

New Evidence for Euripides’ (?) Alkmene: Another Look at a South Italian Vase-Painting* Danny Iakov was one of those colleagues whose work and character were an adornment to the School of Philology, the Faculty of Philosophy, and the entire Aristotle University generally. I had the fortune to be honoured by his friendship for over forty years, during which I profited in innumerable ways. With his death, I lost a wise and charming colleague, a dear friend, a paragon of character. For the volume that will be his memorial, I have chosen a subject related to the ancient Greek theatre, which he knew and loved so well, and to wisdom, which he showed in all aspects of his life. The calyx krater in Boston (Museum of Fine Arts, inv. no. 1989.100) (Fig. 1), a work of the Darius Painter, the most important vase painter in the Apulian workshops of the second half of the 4th century B.C., has been known for nearly twenty-five years.¹ On the obverse are depicted Alkmene, who has taken refuge at an altar, and Amphitryon preparing her death by fire. Related inscriptions confirm the identity of these two persons. On the upper part and from right to left are portrayed Aphrodite with Eros, Hermes and Tiresias (he, too, is named) together with his child guide, while in the lower section of the scene, apart from the two protagonists, we have the figures of two boys and a man, on the right edge, who is named CHRĒON (ΧΡΗΩΝ). The vase has occupied the attention of researchers on a fair number of occasions and has rightly been linked with the theatre. Not only the great tragedians of the 5th century B.C., but also other poets, including comic ones, wrote works for the theatre with Alkmene (or Amphitryon) as their subject.² The scene on the Boston krater has been associated with the Alkmene of Euripides, but without this association being based on any definitive argument. The most important reason making scholars think of Euripides may be that this

* For assisting me in various ways I would like to thank Dimitra Terzopoulou and Stephanie Kennell. I especially thank the latter for translating my Greek text into English.  Padgett et al. ,  – , no. , with n.  and bibliography (M. Padgett); Todisco ,  no. Ap  (with bibliography), pl. XCIII (no. Ap ); Schmidt , esp.  – ; Taplin ,  – ,  n.  (bibliography); Vahtikari ,  no. , pl. XI.. LIMC Suppl, s.v. Alkmene,  add.  (P. Linant de Bellefonds).  ΤrGF ,  –  (Kannicht). See also Vahtikari , .

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Fig. 1: a) The calyx krater in Boston (Museum of Fine Arts, inv. no. 1989.100), a work of the Darius Painter b) detail with the inscription “ΧΡΗΩΝ”. (Photograph © 2015 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).

poet had a greater influence on South Italian vase painters than any other.³ We should remember that other South Italian vase paintings which depict the myth of Alkmene have been linked to the theatre and especially to this poet.⁴ Some of the observations in the following pages aim at improving the understanding of this scene by the Darius Painter, and the rest aim at reinforcing the likelihood that this vase painter, in his decoration of the krater, was influenced by the work of a 5th-century B.C. tragic poet. The two figures in the lower right corner of the scene have not been correctly interpreted. The nearly naked bearded figure, with only a small cloak (himatidion) draped over his back, who holds a spear and a pilos-shaped Boeotian helmet in his upraised left hand and has the strap of his scabbard over his right shoulder, has been identified as Kreon by all scholars who have dealt with this vase painting. The kionedon (columnar, with letters vertical instead of horizontal) inscription CHRĒON (ΧΡΗΩΝ) written

 Cf. Taplin , . For relevant literature, see Schmidt ,  n.  and .  See Schmidt ,  –  (with bibliography). Cf. Taplin , ; Trendall/Webster ,  – .

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right behind the figure has contributed to this interpretation.⁵ As has already been noted, however, it is difficult to read the characters ΧΡΗΩΝ as ΚΡΕΩΝ (KREON), and the Darius Painter was furthermore not in the habit of making lexical mistakes.⁶ Indeed, the case at hand presents absolutely no reason that obliges us to look for some sort of writing error here. The word ΧΡΗΩΝ is correct and signifies that the figure named is giving an oracle (chresmos; chrēon = the person giving an oracle). We should recall that the verb chreo (χρήω = I give an oracle) appears on a lead tablet which was found in the old excavations of Carapanos at Dodona in 1876 – 1877 and is now kept at the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. The oracle was written in the 4th century B.C.⁷ This interpretation is also corroborated by the figure of a boy standing in front of Chrēon and turning toward the left, a figure that has been said to be depicted carrying firewood. The similarity this boy presents to the other figure of a boy who is in the lower left corner of the scene and is in fact collecting firewood, necessary for the burning of Alkmene prepared by Amphitryon, has contributed to this interpretation as well. Nonetheless, the youthful figure that is found in front of Chrēon is not carrying firewood, but reading the text of a scroll which he is unrolling and gathering up with both hands.⁸ The text of the scroll is undoubtedly to be understood as a text of an oracle. The involvement of figures of children in oracle-giving procedures and in prophecies generally is known throughout antiq-

 Trendall (,  n. ) appears to have been the first to make this identification.  Τaplin ,  n. .  Carapanos , , no. , pl. .. See also Lhôte ,  – , no. a (with bibliography),  – , §. The plaques that for the most part were found in the course of the excavations of D. Evangelidis at Dodona from  to  and in  have recently been published: see Dakaris et al. .  That this interpretation has prevailed is curious. Still, it does seem to have caused certain scholars concern. Thus, Padgett, in an exhibition catalogue (Padgett et al. , ) and specifically in regard to the vase’s dimensions and condition, refers to a “scroll held by the boy beside the altar,” but goes on to say “two young attendants bring wood to the altar; the one at the right has a cloak over one arm…” The depiction of scrolls in South Italian vase painting is infrequent; see, e. g., Βeck , , no. , and Beck , pl. , no. , and pl. , no. . We may have another possible boy with a scroll in another vase painting which depicts the “punishment” of Alkmene, on a fragment of an Apulian amphora, assigned to the circle of the Darius Painter, which has become known in the literature relatively recently: see Schmidt ; LIMC Suppl., s.v. Alkmene,  add.  (P. Linant de Bellefonds). In this piece, to the right of the altar with Alkmene, the lower part of an ‘inactive’ figure is preserved, as hinted at by its two legs being exceptionally close to each other. This figure could easily have been young and held a scroll. According to Schmidt (, , , and  n. ), the rendering of the two legs of this figure (one beside the other) is also a feature typical of the work of the Darius Painter.

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uity.⁹ The interpretation of the man as giving an oracle is hence also supported by the interpretation of the boy as speaking or uttering an oracle (χρησμολόγος / χρησμαγόρος) and vice versa. All these points support the rightness of the proposed new identifications and, without further ado, help us to understand the entire scene better. With these new interpretations, we acquire certain hitherto unknown episodes in the lost theatrical work which the Darius Painter had in mind. The surviving fragments of the pertinent tragedies are non-existent or desperately scanty.¹⁰ Thus, the ancient writers who mention this story¹¹ provide some help in the reconstitution of these lost works, as do vase paintings, which happen to depict the story relating to the punishment of the unwittingly ‘faithless’ Alkmene, all of them created in South Italian potters’ workshops.¹² Amphitryon seems not to have been convinced by all that the prophet Tiresias had told him about the

 Johnston , esp. – ,  – .  For the Alkmene of Aeschylus, see TrGF ,  (Radt). For the Amphitryon of Sophocles, see TrGF ,  –  (Radt). The Alkmene of Euripides: n.  above. For the Alkmene by Ion of Chios, see TrGF ,  F a-F  (Snell). For Astydamas II’s Alkmene, see TrGF ,  F  d (Snell). For Dionysios I’s, see TrGF ,  F  (Snell). See also Vahtikari , .  For the ancient sources referring to this myth, see Robert ,  – , esp.  – . LIMC I, , s.v. Alkmene (A.D. Trendall), and , s.v. Amphitryon (A.D. Trendall). See also Roscher ML, I., s.v. Alkmene,  –  (Stoll), and s.v. Amphitryon,  –  (Stoll); RE I., s.v. Alkmene,  –  (Wernicke), and s.v. Amphitryon,  –  (Escher). Frazer , : – , esp.  –  n. . Cf. Schmidt ,  n. .  As has already been observed, we have no preserved textual evidence that mentions the punishment of Alkmene; see Schmidt , . The vase paintings that make reference to it, in chronological order, are the following: ) an Apulian calyx krater in Taranto (Museo Archeologico Nazionale, no. I.G. ) by the Painter of the Birth of Dionysos,  –  B.C. (Taplin , ); ) a Sicilian calyx krater in Lipari (Museo Archeologico Eoliano, no. , ca.  –  B.C. (LIMC I, s.v. Alkmene, , no.  [Α. D. Trendall]); ) the krater in Boston by the Darius Painter, ca.  –  B.C. (Fig. ); ) a bell krater from Poseidonia now in London (British Museum, no. F ) by Python, ca.  –  B.C. (Tiverios , ,  – , no. ); ) a fragment of an Apulian amphora in Freiburg im Breisgau (University, no. S ) assigned to the circle of the Darius Painter, ca.  –  B.C. (Schmidt , pl. ; see also n.  above); ) a Campanian amphora in London (British Museum, no. F ) by the Painter of Louvre K, ca.  –  Β.C. (LIMC I, s.v. Alkmene, , no.  [A.D.Trendall]); ) a Campanian amphora (once in the New York art market) by the Parrish Painter, ca.  –  B.C. (LIMC I, s.v. Amphitryon, , no.  [Α.D.Trendall]). For depictions of Euripides’ Alkmene (with omissions), see Mimidou ,  – . It is very likely that the scene on a fragment of a Sicilian skyphos in Contessa Entellina (Antiquarium, no. F ) closely akin to the Lentini-Manfria Group, ca.  B.C. (De Cesare , pl. LV ; LIMC Suppl., s.v. Alkmene,  add.  [P. Linant de Bellefonds]) did not depict Alkmene and was moreover influenced by a work of comedy, not of tragedy; see Csapo ,  no. ; Green  and Green ,  n..

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identity of the man who had had sexual intercourse with Alkmene shortly before his own arrival in Thebes. Perhaps consonant with this as well is the position of Tiresias in the scene on our krater, as inert as it is distant.¹³ Refusing to accept that the nocturnal visitor to his house had been Zeus himself, he decided to punish his wife for this act of infidelity; she took refuge on an altar to escape his wrath.¹⁴ In his unwillingness to drag Alkmene violently away from the altar, so as not to be thought sacrilegious, Amphitryon planned to do away with her on the spot by incinerating her. He boxed her in with firewood that he gathered with the help of his servants in order to incinerate her then. At that point, however, Zeus himself intervened, an intervention which was clearly caused by Alkmene’s entreaty to him to save her.¹⁵ Zeus sent a torrential rain that put out the fire (or made it impossible to light one),¹⁶ while at the same time thunderbolts indicated his will and/or marked his presence. As regards the end of the play, the scene on the krater by the Darius Painter indisputably adds new information. Here, the preparations for doing away with Alkmene seem to have been interrupted by the presence of Chrēon, who with the help of a child proclaims an oracle. It is an episode which confirms beyond all doubt that this vase painting is influenced by a theatrical work. Worth noting is that the very few surviving lines of Euripides’ Alkmene, which are situated at the beginning of the play, do mention a “clear-voiced oracle.”¹⁷ As regards the identity of Chrēon, various names could be proposed. We could, for example, recognize here one of the seers worshipped at the great oracular shrines nearby, such as Trophonios or Amphiaraos.¹⁸ Nonetheless, the close resemblance which the figure of Chrēon presents in this vase painting to that of Amphitryon makes me think it practically certain that behind the figure of the former we should

 Also telling is that on the fragment of an Apulian amphora (see n.  above, no. ) Tiresias and his child guide are distanced from the scene. Scholars have already noted that the Tiresias on the Boston krater is located in the upper register of the representation, where we would normally have gods; see Taplin , . The Darius Painter is likely to have known that this longlived seer was also worshipped as a god (D.S. ..).  It was probably the altar of their house, but the possibility that it belonged to a neighbouring sanctuary should not be completely excluded. On a fragment of an Apulian amphora (n.  above, no. ), the space is indicated by the depiction of a column.  A telling detail is the gaze and gesture of Alkmene on three of the pertinent vase paintings: see n.  above, esp. nos. , , and .  It may not be a coincidence that in none of the surviving vase paintings which depict Alkmene on a pyre is the pyre lit.  λιγὺς δὲ χρησ[μός: ΤrGF ,  – , b line  (Kannicht).  On these oracles, see, e. g., Parke a,  – , , ,  – .

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see Zeus himself, Alkmene’s divine lover¹⁹ and at the same time the infallible giver of oracles.²⁰ According to the traditional account, the father of the gods had taken the form of Amphitryon (Apollod. 2.4.8: ὅμοιος ᾿Aμφιτρύωνι γενόμενος) during his uninvited visit to Alkmene’s bed, and the dramatic work that influenced the Darius Painter should have followed the same tradition without further ado. Consequently, the Amphitryon in this vase painting should not be startled only at hearing the oracle, but also at seeing before him a figure that resembles him to an extraordinary degree–another self. Thus can we more fully comprehend his entire stance and gestures. Startled and at a loss, he takes a step backward, while the spear that he was holding in his left hand escapes and shoots upward.²¹ At the same time, a good-sized eagle flies above Alkmene, corroborating Zeus’ appearance here.²² The presence of Tiresias in the representation confirms that this seer was involved in the plot of the play, which would moreover be expected.²³ Here we should recall Pindar’s words as well, which call

 For another likely depiction of Zeus in the form of Amphitryon in front of Alkmene, see n.  below.  The only oracular shrine that is mentioned explicitly in the Iliad is that of Zeus at Dodona: see Parke a,  –  and Parke b,  – . Prophecies of the oracle at Dodona are known from tragic plays, for example the Erechtheus of Euripides: Lesky , . On the role of the oracle of Dodona in Greek tragedy, see most recently Castrucci . That the verb χρήω which appears on the vase painting by the Darius Painter is otherwise known only from an oracular tablet from this shrine may not be mere coincidence.  Cf. the uplifted knobby staff of Thyestes on another calyx krater by the Darius Painter: Taplin , . For Amphitryon’s stance and gestures, see also Schmidt , .  If this vase concerns an episode dealt with in the play, which I consider very likely, the eagle’s flight would then have been announced by a personage on stage to the audience. For vase paintings in which Zeus and an eagle are both present, see, e. g., LIMC IV ,  (Gigantes ). The eagle is Zeus’ favourite bird, the “most perfect of winged creatures” (Hom. Il. ., .), for mortals the most trustworthy omen associated with Zeus.  This seer is known to have played a significant role in plays whose action is set in Thebes, as well as in other places. On the Boston krater, he holds a staff in his left hand crowned by a striking temple-shaped finial. This reminds us of the ancient textual sources which talk about a famous sceptre belonging to the seer, “who walked like those who see when he carried it” (Apollod. ..: ὃ φέρων ὁμοίως τοῖς βλέπουσιν ἐβάδιζεν). Tiresias was holding a similar staff in another work of the Darius Painter, now lost: Schmidt , , fig. ; LIMC Ι, s.v. Agamemnon, , no.  (Ο. Τοuchefeu). Staffs of this sort were likely held by seers and prophets, since we also encounter a similar one in another vase painting associated with Cassandra: Schmidt ,  n. . In the Odyssey, Tiresias has a golden staff (Od. .: χρύσεον σκῆπτρον). In view of the aforementioned passage in Apollodorus, I regard it as very likely that the Darius Painter borrowed the motif of Tiresias accompanied by a child guide from the theatre, indeed from the tragedy that he was depicting. That ‘the punishment of Alkmene’ (see n.  above, no. ) was also depicted in another theatre-related vase painting associated with his workshop,

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Tiresias “the…prophet of highest Zeus, straight-speaking Teiresias” (N. 1.60 – 61: Διὸς ὑψίστου προφάταν…ὀρθόμαντιν Τειρεσίαν). We know of cases where the opinion of a seer is sought in the course of a tragedy’s plot; in the same play, we also have an oracle being obtained from some oracular shrine.²⁴ The appearance of oracle-giving Zeus puts an end to Alkmene’s suffering, as the whole attitude of her body shows. She turns her head toward Amphitryon and urges him, with a telling gesture of her open left hand, to turn his attention to the oracle-delivering and -bearing child and certainly to Chrēon, her divine lover, as well. Her innocence is further demonstrated by the presence here of ‘the other Amphitryon’–Zeus himself. The latter would defend his beloved completely by means of the oracle, rebutting Amphitryon’s accusations, exhort Amphitryon to make up with her, and foretell the future regarding Herakles’s birth, subsequent glorious path, and everlasting fame. If these thoughts are indeed correct, then the play which inspired the Darius Painter would have to have made use of the deus ex machina. For the end of Euripides’ Alkmene, certain scholars have already proposed an appearance by Zeus.²⁵ The observation that in none of the surviving tragedies do we happen to have Zeus himself as a deus ex machina²⁶ does not constitute a reason peremptorily to deny the playing of such a role by the supreme god. Moreover, in this case Zeus seems to have appeared as Chrēon and as ‘another Amphitryon.’²⁷ We should recall that we in which we have Tiresias accompanied by his child guide, supports this interpretation: Schmidt , . I note that Tiresias led by a child is known in surviving plays by Sophocles (e. g., OT  and Ant. , , ), while these two figures are likely to have appeared in works by Euripides as well, for instance in the Bacchae (see Harbsmeier , ) even if objections exist in this case: Lesky ,  – . We should remember that Tiresias, accompanied by a child guide, is also known from two other works of the Darius Painter, of which one, already mentioned above and now lost, is in addition associated with the theatre. See Schmidt ,  – , pls. ,  –  and , fig. .  E. g. S. OT  –  and  – ; cf. Castrucci ,  – . In any case, doubts about the utterances of seers and of oracles generally appear frequently in the works of the great tragic poets, especially Euripides; see, e. g., Goward ,  –  and n. . In Plautus’ Amphitruo, Zeus himself exhorts Amphitryon to do without soothsayers and seers ( – ), so that Amphitryon immediately replies () that he will have old Tiresias sent away.  See Webster , ; Lesky , ; Τaplin , . Cf. Vahtikari ,  and n. .  Taplin ,  – ; Taplin , .  Cf. Schmidt (, ), who when referring to the eagle flying above Alkmene on the Boston krater says, “At once, however, Zeus’ eagle announces…the rescue of the heroine, as if he were playing the role of the deus ex machina.” We should remember that in both plays and vase paintings, many of which are influenced by the theatre, certain characters are not called by their names, but by their function. For example, two characters in a depiction of a scene from a

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also have an appearance by Zeus at the end of a play in the Amphitruo of Plautus, which happens to have survived almost complete. Here, in the midst of banging noises suggestive of thunder and lightning, Zeus appears; he reveals exactly what happened, announces future events, and encourages Amphitryon to show Alkmene the love he originally had for her.²⁸ As has already been said, the representation by the Darius Painter on the Boston krater provides us with confirmation of an appearance at the end of the play under discussion by an oracle-giving Zeus at Thebes who in the presence of Amphitryon has taken the latter’s form. The rest of the vase paintings that seem to refer to the end of the play as well depict another episode in which Zeus again is implied to have a principal role. This time, however, he appears not at Thebes but in his celestial domain, from which he also calls forth a storm to save his beloved. To be precise, three South Italian vase paintings have survived in which two personified clouds (or two Hyades) ‘send down’ rain by the use of vessels.²⁹ Certainly, the eventuality that these vase paintings simply depict the pertinent myth and do not refer to a play cannot be entirely excluded, since the theatrical allusions in them are not so very strong.³⁰ More likely, noneplay are called “Herdsman” (ΒΟΤΗΡ) and “Nurse” (ΤΡΟΦΟΣ), and another character depicted on another theatrical vase painting bears the name “Foster-Father” (ΤΡΟΦΕΥΣ): see Taplin ,  and  respectively. On the François Vase, the famous krater by Ergotimos and Kleitias in Florence, Korkyne (Ariadne’s nurse) is called “Nurse” (ΘΡΟΦΟΣ: Beazley , ), while the Eurykleia on a so-called Megarian skyphos is accompanied by the name “Nurse” (ΤΡΟΦΟΣ: LIMC IV, s.v. Eurykleia, , no.  [O.Touchefeu]).  Plaut. Amph.  – .  Bibliography pertinent to the identification of these figures: Schmidt ,  n. . For the vases, see n.  above, nos. , , and ; on two of them (nos.  and ), Zeus himself is also depicted, while no.  in addition shows two thunderbolts, a rainbow, and probably the morning dew. We also have a rainbow on no.  and probably on the Boston krater; for the rainbow on these vases, see Schmidt ,  n.  and  n. . On the vase designated as n.  in n.  above, the figure of a naked child with both hands uplifted standing in front of Zeus must be the personified figure of a star, probably the morning star/Venus (Augerinos), which is corroborated by the confirmed presence of Eos (Dawn) on the krater by Python. For comparable figures of children as personified stars, see Τiverios ,  – , fig.  ; LIMC II, s.v. Astra, , no.  (S. Karusu).  The rich garments of the principal personages in these vase paintings offer some indications of a connection with the theatre. In addition, concerning the krater of Python (n.  above, no. ), Dyfri Williams (, ) notes that “the remarkable rainbow effect around Alkmene is probably to be understood as part of the ekkyklema, a stage device which allowed a prepared tableau, in this case Alkmene on the pyre, to be wheeled out onto the stage.” On the London amphora (n.  above, no.) it is likely that Amphitryon is not depicted, but an assistant of his. The similarity which this figure presents to Antenor, Amphitryon’s assistant, is evident on the krater by Python. Trendall (LIMC I, s.v. Alkmene, , no. ) calls him Antenor. In Plautus’

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theless, is that they do make reference to a play; in that case, the source of inspiration for these vase painters was likely not the same as that of the Darius Painter.³¹ Relatively recently indeed, Evamaria Schmidt has maintained that the artists who painted the eight South Italian vase paintings that refer to the ‘punishment’ of Alkmene were inspired by two different literary sources, one a tragedy, the other a burlesque version of the myth. She believes that the three Apulian vase paintings were influenced by the first source, while the two vase paintings from Sicily, two from Campania, and one from Poseidonia (Paestum), in which a comic tone can be discerned, were inspired by the second.³² Nonetheless, the existing evidence does not entirely exclude the possibility that the vase paintings under discussion, practically all of which, it must be noted, are dated to the third quarter of the 4th century B.C.,³³ may ultimately refer to the same play. In such an eventuality, Alkmene’s heaven-sent rescue would take precedence–which would certainly be difficult to reproduce on the stage, hence some character in the play would likely have to relate it–and then we would have the ex machina appearance of oracle-giving Zeus. This scenario would indeed be supported by the vase painting by the Darius Painter, if the multicoloured ovals (in effect a nimbus) which surround Alkmene here do in fact depict a rainbow, as believed by Padgett and Taplin among others. In such an eventuality, we would clearly have an indirect intimation of the storm.³⁴

Amphitruo, the helper of Amphitryon is named Sosia. Of the other vase paintings which make reference to the ‘punishment’ of Alkmene, a connection with the theatre can be traced to the ones that decorate a fragment of a Sicilian skyphos, because here the altar with Alkmene is placed on a scene construction (n.  above, no.), and a fragment of an Apulian amphora on which Tiresias is present with his child guide (n,  above, no. ; n.  above).  The vase painter of the circle of the Darius Painter who decorated a fragmentary amphora (see n.  above, no. ) was probably also following the same tradition as that of the Darius Painter.  Schmidt , esp.  – . Schmidt recognizes Alkmene in eight vase paintings. However, a fragment of a Sicilian skyphos in Contessa Entellina (Antiquarium, no. F ) does not depict Alkmene (see n.  above). Cf. Schauenburg , .  Of the seven relevant vase paintings, only two are dated to the first half of the th century (n.  above, nos.  and ); indeed, they are the only ones which bear no indication of their connection with the theatre.  Padgett et al. ,  (M. Padgett); Taplin , . In any case, it seems more likely at first glance that we are dealing with a halo (ἅλως); see also Schmidt ,  n. . Still, interpreting it in connection with Alkmene is difficult. Haloes frequently surround the heads of celestial divinities such as Helios and Phaethon, while it sometimes also indicates the sky; see Tiverios ,  and n. . But it appears around the heads of other mythological figures as well, e. g., Poseidon and the Furies: see CVA The J. Paul Getty Museum ,  (M. R. Jentoft-Nilsen/ A. D.Trendall) and Schmidt  (with further bibliography).

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The representation by the Darius Painter without a doubt provides firm indications that it was influenced by a work for the theatre.³⁵ In regard to which poet was responsible for the work that influenced this representation, and likely certain other vase paintings, there can only be hypotheses. I have already pointed out that scholars have up to now associated ‘theatrical’ vase paintings related to the ‘punishment’ of Alkmene mostly with Euripides.³⁶ At the beginning, we recall that the use of the deus ex machina seems to have been a particular favourite with Euripides,³⁷ as the same poet was also particularly fond of the motif of taking refuge at an altar.³⁸ On the one hand, however, the use of an oracle, which in this play appears to have played a significant role, is particularly noticeable in the works of Sophocles.³⁹ Certainly, the preceding considerations do not mean that we do not have a deus ex machina or refuge at an altar in the plays of Sophocles as well,⁴⁰ or that oracles are unknown in the work of Euripides.⁴¹ Another motif from the depiction by the Darius Painter that has already been discussed likely takes us to Sophocles–the presence of Tiresias accompanied by a child guide.⁴² On the other hand, certain hypothetical episodes in the plot of the Alkmene present noteworthy similarities to surviving plays by Euripides. One of them is the Alcestis, the poet’s earliest surviving work, with which the honorand of this volume happens also to have been especially engaged.⁴³ Already in antiquity, and by Aristophanes of Byzantium in particular, this tragedy was said “to take a rather comic turn” and to be “more satiric, in that it turns toward joy and pleasure rather than the tragic. The Orestes and the Alcestis are cast aside as alien to tragic poetry, as works which begin in calamity and

 Indications that this vase painting was influenced by a play are provided by ) the presence of Zeus as a deus ex machina, indeed with the name Chrēon (“Oracle-giving”; see n.  above and Taplin , ,  –  n. ); ) Tiresias being accompanied by a child guide (see n.  above); and ) the opulent clothing worn by Tiresias (cf. Taplin , ). For other relevant vase paintings that offer indications of their relationship with the theatre, see n.  above.  See nn. , , and  above, and Schmidt ,  –  (with additional discussion and bibliography). Engelmann (,  – ) was the first to make this connection.  See, e. g., Lesky ,  –  and  n. .  Schmid ,  and n.  (bibliography).  See, e. g., Diller et al. ; Schwinge ,  – ; Goward , esp. .  For example, we have a deus ex machina in the Philoctetes and a ‘refuge at an altar’ scene in the Oedipus Coloneus. Cf. also Taplin ,  (fig.).  See, e. g., Goward , .  See n.  above. Cf. Schmidt ,  – ,  –  and Schmidt , .  His last major work: Iakov . I note that certain scholars think that Euripides’ Alkmene is also an early work by the poet, which others however do not accept: see Lesky , .

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end up in happiness and joy, which is the content rather of comedy.”⁴⁴ We should recall that this work occupied the fourth place in the tetralogy in which it was first performed–after the Cretan Women, the Alkmeon in Psophis, and the Telephos–a place which is known to have been reserved for a satyr play.⁴⁵ We are not exaggerating if we maintain that the aforementioned utterance of Aristophanes of Byzantium regarding Euripides’ Alcestis also holds true for the Alkmene. The hypothesis of the latter play is more suited to a comedy than to a tragedy.⁴⁶ Having taken the form of Amphitryon, Zeus is the first to enter Alkmene’s bedroom, telling the stories and offering the gifts⁴⁷ that Amphitryon

 Iakov (,:), quoting the hypothesis to the Alcestis (ἐστι σατυρικώτερον, ὅτι εἰς χαρὰν καὶ ἡδονὴν καταστρέφει παρὰ τὸ τραγικόν. Ἐκβάλλεται ὡς ἀνοίκεια τῆς τραγικῆς ποιήσεως ὅ τε Ὀρέστης καὶ ἡ Ἄλκηστις, ὡς ἐκ συμφορᾶς μὲν ἀρχόμενα, εἰς εὐδαιμονίαν δὲ καὶ χαρὰν λήξαντα, ἅ ἐστι μᾶλλον κωμῳδίας ἐχόμενα).  Iakov , : – , esp.  – , with a discussion about the literary genre to which it belongs, i. e. whether it is indeed a tragedy, tragicomedy, or has a satyrical nature.  Cf. Taplin ,  and Vahtikari ,  – .  A detail preserved on a Sicilian calyx krater (n.  above, no. ) is characteristic: it depicts Hermes, obviously as Zeus’ helper, holding a necklace, the gift of Zeus to Alkmene. That a long tradition existed according to which, aside from the famous karchesion (a narrow-waisted cup), a necklace was among the gifts that Alkmene received from her divine lover is confirmed by the relevant scene on the chest of Kypselus, which Pausanias describes (..): “A man clothed in a tunic holds a cup in his right hand, and a neck-chain in his left; Alkmene is taking them; this scene represents the Greeks’ story of how Zeus in the likeness of Amphitryon had intercourse with Alkmene” (χιτῶνα δὲ ἐνδεδυκὼς ἀνὴρ τῇ μὲν δεξιᾷ κύλικα, τῇ δὲ ἔχων ἐστὶν ὅρμον, λαμβάνεται δὲ αὐτῶν ᾿Aλκμήνη· πεποίηται δὲ ἐς τὸν λόγον τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὡς συγγένοιτο ᾿Aλκμήνῃ Ζεὺς ᾿Aμφιτρύωνι εἰκασθείς). See Splitter , . The presence of Hermes makes the staff-holding figure to the left of Alkmene, who is seated on the altar, likely to be Zeus himself–see also Trendall / Webster ,  (..), and LIMC I, s.v. Alkmene, , no.  (Α. D. Trendall)–evidently in the form of Amphitryon. The fact that Alkmene and Hermes here are looking emphatically upward is remarkable: does it perhaps mean that rain has begun to fall? In this vase painting, which bears no explicit sign of having been influenced by a theatrical production, we must have the depiction of a mythological episode that transcends space and time. We should probably approach the Apulian calyx krater by the Painter of the Birth of Dionysos (n.  above, no. ), where a good-sized Eros is flying above Alkmene, who has already been boxed in on the altar, with comparable considerations as well. In the right upper corner of the scene we have Hermes, while the half-naked male figure approaching from the right with circumspection and care is named Amphitryon. A good-sized thunderbolt hovers in front of him, while in the staff-holding figure who sits in the upper left of the scene we should probably see Zeus himself, admittedly without excluding the possibility that it might be another divinity such as Aphrodite, for example. For various proposals for identifying this figure, see Schmidt ,  n. . The gifts which Alkmene received from Zeus may also be indicated in this scene, if the object which is depicted on the upper left part of the altar is a round pyxis. A knob-shaped end discernible on Alkmene’s lower left, which caused Schauenburg (, )

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himself was going to tell and to offer the next day. Without a doubt, this plot twist offers many more possibilities than the one in the Alcestis for comic dialogues and witty episodes. Consequently there is no reason for us to look for the source that inspired certain of these vase paintings which depict the ‘punishment’ of Alkmene and in which ‘comic’ elements lurk beyond the work of Euripides and indeed in tragicomic works, as Schmidt has done.⁴⁸ The ‘comic’ elements exist within the core of the story about Zeus, Alkmene, and Amphitryon, and are certainly what motivated a fair number of comic poets to write works on the subject,⁴⁹ one of which, as already said, has survived. That work is Plautus’ Amphitruo, a play that has been characterized as “a tragi-comedy,” of which it has been said that it “indeed has a mingling of seriousness with its burlesque which is more like Elizabethan drama than what we know of ancient plays.”⁵⁰ Not to be excluded, of course, is that a phlyax vase from Paestum (Poseidonia), painted by Assteas in the third quarter of the 4th century, may have been influenced by some comedy on the same theme.⁵¹ We do not know the tetralogy in which Euripides’ Alkmene was included. That it must have occupied the fourth place, the position of the satyr play (as happened with the Alcestis), has rightly been conjectured.⁵² In the present case, to be sure, this substitution would have been much less obvious to the spectators than in the case of the Alcestis. After the three depressing tragedies that had gone before, the audience would have enjoyed the happy ending of the play, which included comic episodes and amusing dialogues. But between Euripides’ Alcestis and the Alkmene which the Darius Painter had in mind there seem to have existed certain other similarities beyond the

to speak of a pillow (Kissen) being depicted here, is likely the rendering of a weight hanging from one edge of her himation, concealed behind the pyxis. Taplin (, ) includes this vase among the pots which were influenced by the theatre, but without discerning anything ‘theatrical” in it.  Schmidt , esp.  – .  Before the mid-th century B.C., the comic poets Plato and Archippos had written comedies entitled Long Night (Νὺξ Μακρά) and Amphitryon (᾿Aμφιτρύων) respectively: see Kassel/Austin ,  –  ; Pirrotta ,  – ; Konstantakos ,  – . Rhinthon of Syracuse, author of phlyax plays (fl. ca.  B.C.), also wrote an Amphitryon: ΤrGF  (), . Cf. Schmidt ,  with nn.  and  (bibliography) and Vahtikari , .  Rose ,   Τrendall/Webster ,  –  (IV.); LIMC I, s.v. Alkmene, , no.  (A. D. Trendall). Cf. Simon ,  – . For a second similar phlyax vase-painting from Paestum, s. Trendall , pl.  a. For a third vase by Assteas, which should not be ruled out as having a connection with a comedy influenced by the same subject, see Green ,  – , especially  – .  For other such plays by Euripides, see Sutton ,  – .

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fact that both involved exemplary women. At the end of the Alkmene, we saw that oracle-giving Zeus appeared, having assumed the form of another character–Amphitryon. Towards the end of the Alcestis, we have the figure of a woman on stage with a striking resemblance to Alcestis, but she, as everyone knows, has already died. It does not matter that in reality we are dealing with the same character here. For Admetus, it is a matter of two different yet exceptionally similar figures, so that he exclaims that this woman is very like his wife.⁵³ The Alcestis does not appear to be the only play by Euripides which was likely to have presented similarities to the Alkmene. Other plays very likely existed which have nonetheless not survived and are known from scattered fragments, in certain instances desperately few, exactly as occurs with the Alkmene as well. Among these prospective plays are the Auge and the Danae.⁵⁴ In this little essay on the identification of ‘oracle-giving Zeus’ in the scene on the calyx krater in Boston (Museum of Fine Arts, no. 1989.100), we gain a crucial episode from what is clearly the end of the Alkmene, which the Darius Painter, the creator of this vase painting, had in his mind. Since the Darius Painter included a wise seer, an oracle-reading boy and the supreme oracle-giving god in his depiction of a crucial scene from the end of a play one might call a precursor of the comedy of errors, it is a fair assumption that folly and wisdom were important themes in Euripides’ play. The confirmed involvement of Chreon (“the oracle-giver”), as well as the appearance in this play of Tiresias accompanied by a child guide, also puts Sophocles⁵⁵ among the poets likely to have inspired the Darius Painter. Most of the evidence, however, still continues to point to Euripides. The surviving theatre-related South Italian vase paintings connected with the ‘infidelity’ of Alkmene appear to have a closer relationship to the Alkmene of Euripides. But this finding by no means equates to a final solution of the problem at hand. We continue to be ignorant of many details of the plot of Euripides’ Alkmene. At any rate, based on the evidence available thus far, the view of Webster–which has it that the play by Euripides was concerned mainly with later episodes in the story of Alkmene’s ‘infidelity’ such as the

 E. Alc.  – : σὺ δ᾽, ὦ γύναι, / ἥτις ποτ᾽ εἶ σύ, ταὔτ᾽ ἔχουσ᾽ ᾿Aλκήστιδι / μορφῆς μέτρ᾽ ἴσθι, καὶ προσήϊξαι δέμας. Cf. also the scene in which Admetus announces that he will have a likeness of his wife made and place it in their bed: σοφῇ δὲ χειρὶ τεκτόνων δέμας τὸ σὸν / εἰκασθὲν ἐν λέκτροισιν ἐκταθήσεται, / ᾧ προσπεσοῦμαι καὶ περιπτύσσων χέρας / ὄνομα καλῶν σὸν τὴν φίλην ἐν ἀγκάλαις / δόξω γυναῖκα καίπερ οὐκ ἔχων ἔχειν. / ψυχρὰν μέν, οἶμαι, τέρψιν, ἀλλ᾽ ὅμως βάρος / ψυχῆς ἀπαντλοίην ἄν (Alc.  – ).  For summaries of these plays see, e. g., Lesky , .  Here, we should also recall the view of Webster (, ), according to which the ‘punishment’ of Alkmene by fire first appeared in Sophocles’ Amphitryon.

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birth of Herakles and the tales immediately following it, whereas Sophocles’ Amphitryon featured episodes from earlier in the narrative–appears to be without foundation.⁵⁶

 Webster ,  – .

List of Contributors Luigi Battezzato is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the Università del Piemonte Orientale, Vercelli and Adjunct Professor at the Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa. His main field of research is Greek tragedy (Il monologo nel teatro di Euripide, Pisa, 1995; Linguistica e retorica della tragedia greca, Rome 2008; Euripide: Ecuba, Milan 2010). He has published widely on Greek poetry, Greek metre and language, textual criticism, and the history of classical scholarship. P. J. Finglass is Professor of Greek at the University of Nottingham, and a Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford. He has published editions of Stesichorus (2014), Sophocles’ Ajax (2011) and Electra (2007), and Pindar’s Pythian Eleven (2007), with Cambridge University Press. John Gibert is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Colorado Boulder. He is the author of Change of Mind in Greek Tragedy, co-author (with C. Collard and M. J. Cropp) of Euripides: Selected Fragmentary Plays II, and has written articles, chapters, and reviews on Greek drama, religion, and philosophy. His current project is an edition of Euripides’ Ion with commentary for the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Barbara Goff is Professor of Classics at the University of Reading. She has published extensively in the field of Greek tragedy and its reception, particularly in postcolonial contexts. Her latest book is Your Secret Language: Classics in the British Colonies of West Africa (Bloomsbury 2013). She is currently working with Michael Simpson, of Goldsmiths, University of London, on a study of Classics and the British Left, provisionally titled Working Classics. Justina Gregory is Sophia Smith Professor of Classical Languages and Literatures at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. Her publications include a translation of Aesop’s Fables (1975, with Patrick Gregory), Euripides and the Instruction of the Athenians (1991), and a commentary on Euripides’ Hecuba (1999). She has also edited the Blackwell Companion to Greek Tragedy (2005). Her current project concerns representations of education in Homer and tragedy. Martin Hose is Professor of Greek Literature at Ludwig-Maximilians-University, Munich, director of “Distant Worlds. Munich Graduate School for Ancient Studies” (GSC 1039) and fellow of the Bavarian Academy. He is editor of Gnomon and

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has published books on Euripides, Greek historiography, Aristotle’s fragments and Synesius. G. O. Hutchinson is Regius Professor of Greek at the University of Oxford. He has written the following books: Aeschylus, Septem contra Thebas, Edited with Introduction and Commentary (Oxford, 1985); Hellenistic Poetry (Oxford, 1988); Latin Literature from Seneca to Juvenal: A Critical Study (Oxford, 1993); Cicero’s Correspondence: A Literary Study (Oxford, 1998); Greek Lyric Poetry: A Commentary on Selected Larger Pieces (Oxford, 2001); Propertius: Elegies Book IV (Cambridge, 2006); Talking Books: Readings in Hellenistic and Roman Books of Poetry (Oxford, 2008); Greek to Latin: Frameworks and Contexts for Intertextuality (Oxford, 2013). David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University. Among his recent books are The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks (2006); “A Life Worthy of the Gods”: The Materialist Psychology of Epicurus (2008); Before Forgiveness (2010), and Beauty: The Fortunes of an Ancient Greek Idea (2014). He is a past president of the American Philological Association, and a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Poulheria Kyriakou is Professor of Greek Literature at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Her research interests include archaic epic and lyric, Athenian drama and Hellenistic poetry. She is the author of the books Homeric hapax legomena in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius (Stuttgart 1995), A Commentary on Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris (Berlin/New York 2006), and The Past in Aeschylus and Sophocles (Berlin/Boston 2011). She has also written articles on archaic, classical and Hellenistic poetry. Anna Lamari is Lecturer in Ancient Greek Literature at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Her publications include Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (Walter de Gruyter, Berlin / New York 2010), and several articles on Greek tragedy. She is currently working on a monograph and an edited volume, both on reperformances of Greek drama in the fifth and fourth centuries. Andreas Markantonatos teaches Greek at the Department of Philology in the University of the Peloponnese. His books include Tragic Narrative: A Narratological Study of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (Berlin/New York, 2002), Oedipus at Colonus: Sophocles, Athens, and the World (Berlin/New York, 2007), and Euripides’ Alcestis: Narrative, Myth, and Religion (Berlin/Boston, 2013). He has (co‐)edited numerous multi-authored volumes on Attic drama and related subjects, and has published widely on Greek literature and modern literary theory.

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Laura McClure is Professor of Classics at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Her research interests focus on Athenian drama, the study of women and gender in the ancient world, and classical reception. Her books include: Spoken Like a Woman: Speech and Gender in Athenian Drama (Princeton, 1999) and Courtesans at Table: Gender and Greek Literary Culture in Athenaeus (Routledge 2003). She is currently completing a textbook about women in ancient Greece and Rome (under contract with Blackwell). Maria Serena Mirto is Associate Professor of Classical Philology at the University of Pisa (Italy). She is author of books and articles in the following fields of research: Greek archaic epics; ancient Greek tragedy and its reception; Greek death rituals and funerary ideology; Greek literary onomastics. Among her recent books is Death in the Greek World. From Homer to the Classical Age (University of Oklahoma Press 2012). Thalia Papadopoulou (MPhil, PhD Cantab.) is Associate Professor of Greek at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Her research interests include Greek and Roman drama, historiography, literary criticism in antiquity and the reception of Greek literature. She is the author of the books Heracles and Euripidean Tragedy (CUP 2005), Euripides: Phoenician Women (Duckworth 2008) and Aeschylus: Suppliants (Duckworth 2011). She has also published a number of articles in the field of classics. Andrea Rodighiero is Associate Professor of Greek at the University of Verona. He is the author of several articles relating to Greek literature, the Attic drama, and its tradition. His books include commentaries on Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (1998) and on Women of Trachis (2004), Una serata a Colono: Fortuna del secondo Edipo (2007), Generi lirico-corali nella produzione drammatica di Sofocle (2012), and La tragedia greca (2013). David Sansone is Professor emeritus at the University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign. His publications include books concerned with Greek drama, Aeschylus, Euripides, Plutarch, ancient Greek civilization and the theory of the origin of sport, and he has served as editor of Illinois Classical Studies. Seth L. Schein is Emeritus Professor of Comparative Literature, University of California, Davis. He works mainly on Homeric epic, Attic tragedy, and classical receptions. His books include The Iambic Trimeter in Aeschylus and Sophocles: a Study in Metrical Form (1979), The Mortal Hero: an Introduction to Homer’s Iliad (1984; Greek translation, 2006), Reading the Odyssey: Selected Interpretive

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Essays (1996, Edited), Sophocles, Philoctetes (2013), and Homeric Epic and its Reception: Interpretive Essays (2015). Ruth Scodel, educated at Berkeley and Harvard, is D. R. Shackleton Bailey Collegiate Professor of Greek and Latin at the University of Michigan. Shehaspublished widely on Greek literature. Her books include Credible Impossibllities: Conventions and Strategies of Verisimilitude in Homer and Greek Tragedy; Epic Facework; (with Anja Bettenworth) Whither Quo Vadis; and An Introduction to Greek Tragedy. She is a former president of the APA/SCS. Bernd Seidensticker is Professor of Classics emeritus, Freie Universität Berlin, and member of the Berlin-Brandenburg Akademie der Wissenschaften. His main research interests are Greek and Roman drama and theatre and the reception of antiquity. Davide Susanetti is Associate Professor of Greek Literature (University of Padova – Italy). His main research fields are Ancient Greek Drama, Ancient Philosophy and Classical Tradition. Recent publications include: Il teatro dei Greci, Roma, Carocci, 2003; Favole antiche. Mito greco e tradizione letteraria europea, Roma, Carocci 2005; Euripide tra tragedia, mito e filosofia, Roma, Carocci 2007; Catastrofi Politiche. Sofocle e la tragedia di vivere insieme, Roma, Carocci 2011; Atene postoccidentale. Spettri antichi per la democrazia contemporanea, Roma, Carocci 2014. Katerina Synodinou is Professor Emerita of Ancient Greek Literature at the University of Ioannina, Greece. She is the author of On the Concept of Slavery in Euripides ( 1977); Eoika – Eikos kai Synkenika apo ton Omiro os ton Aristofani (1981); Euripidis: Ekavi, vol. 1: Eisagogi- Keimeno- Metafrasi; vol. 2: Scholia (2005). She is also the author of a number of scholarly articles on Homeric poetry and Greek tragedy, and contributor to The Encyclopedia of Greek Tragedy (“Oxymoron”, “Slavery”, “Time”, 2014). Michalis Tiverios is Professor Emeritus of Classical Archaeology at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He is a member of the German Archaeological Institute of Berlin (since 1989), of the Academia Scientiarum et Artium Europea (since 1993) and of other organizations and foundations. In 1999 the University of Bern bestowed an honorary doctorate on him, while in 2011 he was elected a regular member of the Academy of Athens.

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Matthew Wright is Associate Professor in Classics at the University of Exeter. He has published widely on Greek drama, including two books about Euripides; his most recent book is The Comedian as Critic (2012).

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Witte, M. (2012), “‘Weisheit’ in der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft. Ausgewählte literaturund theologiegeschichtliche Fragestellungen und Entwicklungen,” in: Theologische Literaturzeitung 137, 1159 – 76. Wohl, V. (1998). Intimate Commerce: Exchange, Gender and Subjectivity in Greek Tragedy, Austin, TX. — (2002). Love among the Ruins. The Erotics of Democracy in Classical Athens, Princeton. Wohlfart, G. (1991), “Das Weise. Bemerkungen zur anfänglichen Bedeutung des Begriffs der Philosophie im Anschluß an Heraklits Fragment B 108,” in: Philosophisches Jahrbuch 98, 18 – 33. Wolff, C. (1965). ‘The Design and Myth in Euripides’ Ion”, in: HSCPh 69, 169 – 194. Wright, M. E. (2005). Euripides’ Escape-Tragedies: A Study of “Helen”, “Andromeda”, and “Iphigenia among the Taurians”, Oxford. — (2006). “Cyclops and the Euripidean Tetralogy,” in: PCPS 51, 23 – 48. — (forthcoming). “Seventeen Types of Ambiguity in Euripides’ Helen,” in L. Hau and I. Ruffell (eds.), Pluralizing the Past, London. Yoon, F. (2012). The Use of Anonymous Characters in Greek Tragedy: the Shaping of Heroes, Mnemosyne Supplements 344, Leiden. Young, D. (1958). The Puddocks: A Verse Play in Scots from the Greek of Aristophanes, 2nd ed., Tayport (Fyfe). Yunis, H. (1988). A New Creed: Fundamental Religious Beliefs in the Athenian Polis and Euripidean Drama, Göttingen. Zacharia, K. (1995). ‘The Marriage of Tragedy and Comedy in Euripides’ Ion,” in: S. Jäkel and A. Timonen (eds.), Laughter down the Centuries, vol. II, Turku, 45 – 63. — (2003), Converging Truths: Euripides’ Ion and the Athenian Quest for Self-Definition, Leiden and Boston. Zeitlin, F.I. (1970). “The Argive festival of Hera and Euripides’ Electra,” in: TAPhA 101, 645 – 69. — (1984). ‘Mysteries of Identity and Designs of the Self in Euripides’ Ion,” in: PCPS 35, 144 – 197 [now in: F.I. Zeitlin (1996). Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago and London, 285 – 338]. — (1985). “The Power of Aphrodite: Eros and the Boundaries of the Self in Hippolytus,” in: P. Burian (ed.), Directions in Euripidean Criticism: A Collection of Essays, Durham, N. C., 52 – 111. — (1994). ‘The Artful Eye: Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theatre,” in: S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 138 – 196. — (2008). ‘Intimate Relations: Children, Childbearing, and Parentage on the Euripidean Stage,” in: M. Reverman and P. Wilson (eds.), Performance, Iconography, Reception, Oxford, 318 – 32. Zieliński, T. (1929). “Flebilis Ino,” in: Eos 32, 121 – 41. Zucker, Fr. (1928). Syneidesis-Conscientia: Ein Versuch zur Geschichte des sittlichen Bewusstseins im griechischen und im griechisch-römischen Altertum, Jenaer akademische Reden 6. Zuntz, G. (1955). The Political Plays of Euripides, Manchester.

Publications by Daniel Iakov Books 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Η ενότητα του χρόνου στην αρχαία ελληνική τραγωδία. Συμβολή στη διερεύνηση της δραματικής τεχνικής, Diss. Thessaloniki 1982. Πινδάρου Πυθιόνικοι (ed. and commentary, Herakleion Crete 1994). Η ποιητική της αρχαίας ελληνικής τραγωδίας (Athens 1998). Η αρχαιογνωσία του Οδυσσέα Ελύτη και άλλες νεοελληνικές δοκιμές (Thessaloniki 2000) Ζητήματα λογοτεχνικής θεωρίας στην Ποιητική του Αριστοτέλη (Athens 2004). Εὐριπίδης, Ἄλκηστη. Ἑρμηνευτική ἔκδοση (2 vols., Athens 2012).

Articles 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

“Ευριπίδη Ίων 255”, ΕΕΦΣΠΘ 14 (1975) 375 – 384. “Zu Euripides Hippolytos I. fr. 443 N.”, Hermes 104 (1976) 379 – 382. “Δύο αποσπάσματα του Αλεξάνδρου του Ευριπίδη και η χρήση του ρήματος ἥκω”, Ελληνικά 29 (1976) 340 – 343. “Στο περιθώριο των ελληνικών κειμένων”, Ελληνικά 30 (1977– 1978) 383 – 391. “Πλάτωνος κωμικού απ. 173 Κ.”, Ελληνικά 30 (1977– 1978) 392– 394. “Σχολαστικές σημειώσεις για την αρχαιογνωσία του Σεφέρη”, ΕΕΦΣΠΘ 17 (1978) 115 – 121. “Λιποπάτωρ Ἑλένη: Ευριπίδη Ορέστης 1305”, Ελληνικά 32 (1980) 130 – 132. “Ο ποιητής Ο. Ελύτης και τα αρχαία ελληνικά κείμενα. Καταγραφή πηγών”, ΕΕΦΣΠΘ 19 (1980) 43 – 85. “Tycho von Wilamowitz και Goethe”, Ελληνικά 33 (1981) 163 – 166. “Ελύτης και Hölderlin: Μια σημείωση”, Ελληνικά 33 (1981) 167– 169. “Eine Ilias-Handschrift der Berliner Papyrus-Sammlung”, APF 28 (1982) 27– 30. “Euripides’ Hippolytos Kalyptomenos fr. 443 N. A Reconsideration”, Wiener Studien 17 (1983) 23 – 26. “Προκαταρκτικές προτάσεις για την έκδοση της Εξήγησης του Τζέτζη”, ΕΕΦΣΠΘ 22 (1984) 143 – 189. “Στο περιθώριο των ελληνικών κειμένων, Β′”, Ελληνικά 35 (1984) 133 – 142.

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15. “Συμπληρωματικά για την Εξήγηση του Τζέτζη”, Ελληνικά 35 (1984) 169 – 170. 16. “Προκαταρκτικές προτάσεις για την έκδοση της Εξήγησης του Τζέτζη, Β′”, ΕΕΦΣΠΘ 22 (1985) 27– 77. 17. “Herakleides oder Herodian”, Hermes 113 (1985) 495 – 497. 18. “Η Ἄλκηστη του Ευριπίδη. Ερμηνευτική δοκιμή”, Ελληνικά 36 (1985) 221– 267. 19. “Ελύτης και Hölderlin: Μια σημείωση”, Ο Χάρτης 21– 23 (1986) 433 – 436. 20. “Η Ανδρομέδα του Γιώργου Σεφέρη”, Διαβάζω 142 (1986) 130 – 137. 21. “Στο περιθώριο των ελληνικών κειμένων, Γ′”, Ελληνικά 37 (1986) 133 – 141. 22. “Στο περιθώριο των ελληνικών κειμένων, Δ′”, Ελληνικά 38 (1987) 373 – 376. 23. “Ο Κάρολος Κουν και η αρχαία ελληνική τραγωδία. Ένας οδηγός με βάση τα κείμενά του”, Εντευκτήριο 3 (1988) 35 – 40. 24. “Zum Lille-Stesichoros”, ZPE 73 (1988) 13 – 14. 25. “Μικρά σχόλια για την παρουσία του Καβάφη στο έργο του Ν. Εγγονόπουλου”, Εντευκτήριο 5 (1988) 37– 43. 26. “Ἐνας κοινός τόπος στον Ψευδο-Φωκυλίδη”, Ελληνικά 39 (1988) 405 – 412. 27. “Bibliographie sélective concernant Eschyle, Sophocle et Euripide (1500 – 1900)”, Métis 3 (1988) 363 – 407. 28. “Zu Euripides Alkestis 320 – 322”, Mnemosyne 43 (1990) 432– 434. 29. “Πινδαρικά σημειώματα”, Επιστημονική Επετηρίς του Τμήματος Φιλολογίας του Α.Π.Θ. 1 (1991). 30. “Οδυσσέα Ελύτη: Τα ελεγεία της Οξώπετρας. Δοκιμαστική Ανάγνωση δύο ποιημάτων”, Εντευκτήριο (1992). 31. “Die Stellung des Margites in der Entwicklung der Komödie”, Ελληνικά 43 (1993) 275 – 279. 32. “A Byzantine annotation on Aristotle’s Rhetoric”, Ελληνικά 44 (1994) 177– 179. 33. “Apseudeis oïstoi”, Ελληνικά 46.1 (1996) 141– 142. 34. “Aristoteles über die Einheit der Zeit in der Tragödie: zu Poetik 1449b 9 – 16”, in: Beiträge zur antiken Philosophie: Festschrift für Wolfgang Kullmann / hrsg. von Hans-Christian Günther und Antonios Rengakos, mit einer Einl. von Ernst Vogt, Stuttgart, 1997, 245 – 253. 35. “Nature vs. culture in Pindar’s Ninth Pythian”, Métis 9 – 10 (1994 – 1995) 425 – 431. 36. “Euripides, Alkestis 213 – 217 und 226 – 230”, Wiener Studien 111 (1998) 89 – 92. 37. “Der Redenstreit in Euripides’ Alkestis und der Charakter des Stückes”, Hermes 127.3 (1999) 274– 285. 36. “Wer spricht die Verse 585 und 594– 5 der Euripideischen “Bakchen”?”, Philologus 145.2 (2001) 348 – 351.

Publications by Daniel Iakov

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38. “Fictionality and effectiveness: two essential characteristics of literature in Aristotle’s “Poetics””, Ελληνικά 52.1 (2002) 27– 35. 39. “Poised between the universal and the particular: the status of literature according to Aristotle’s “Poetics””, Ελληνικά 54.1 (2004) 39 – 48. 40. “Gebet, Gebärden und Handlung des Gebetes”, ThesCRA III (2005) 105 – 141 (with E. Voutiras). 41. “Αρχαιογνωστικά σημειώματα”, Ελληνικά 58 (2008). 42. “Προς μια δραματική γραμματική των Βακχών του Ευριπίδη”, στο: Στ. Τσιτσιρίδης (επιμ.), Παραχορήγημα. Μελέτες αφιερωμένες στον καθηγητή Γ. Μ. Σηφάκη, Ηράκλειο 2011, 99 – 112. 43. “Die Spiegel der Alkestis”, ᾿Aντιφίλησις. Studies in Honor of Prof. J.-Th. Papademetriou, Στουτγάρδη, 2009. 44. “Milk in the Gold Tablets from Pelinna”, Trends in Classics 2 (2010) 64– 76 45. “Fragmenting the Self: Society and Pyschology in Euripides’ Electra and Ion”, στο: A. Markantonatos and B. Zimmermann (eds.), Crisis on Stage:Tragedy and Comedy in Late Fifth-Century Athens. Berlin, 2011, 121– 137. 46. “Two Notes on Euripides’ Hecuba”, QUCC 101, 2012, 91– 96. 47. “Αρχαιογνωστικά Σημειώματα Β’” Ελληνικά 61 (2012) 287– 293.

Index of Terms* Academic views on gods: 41. Achilles: 31, 32, 66, 70, 123 – 133, 139, 145, 148 – 151, 153, 260 – 263, 266. Admetus: 85, 89, 91 – 101, 347 – 351, 353, 354, 356. Adrastus: 155 – 176, 215. Aeschylus – in Ranae: 319 – 321, 323, 327 – 332. – Oresteia: 195, 205, 229, 248 n. 28. Aethra: 158 – 160. aetiology: 55 n. 18, 136, 244. Agamemnon: 24 – 26, 31, 66, 70, 71, 146, 148, 154, 292, 314. Agathon: 15 n. 43, 42. age – and wisdom: 38, 42. – hierarchy of: 39. agon (tragic contest scene): 59, 66, 145, 161, 196, 278, 331, 356. aidos: 233, 350 n. 13. aiskhyne: 164 n. 43. aition: 4, 217. akoe: 15. Alcestis: 85 – 102, 348 – 351, 357, 358, 363. ambiguity: 21, 22, 46, 49 – 51, 198, 205, 320. Amphiaraus: 156, 167, 173, 369. anakalypteria: 101. Anaxagoras: 41, 58, 60 n. 27. anthropomorphism – problems of: 41. Aphrodite – in Euripides: 52 – 55, 59 – 61, 72, 76, 121, 123, 125, 126, 132, 135, 136. – name of: 56, 57, 59 – 61. – power of: 52, 54 – 56, 59. Apollo – in Aeschylus: 39. – in Pindar: 39.

– in Plutarch: 42, 43. – in Sophocles: 40. Argives: 160, 162, 169, 171 – 173. Argos: 24, 27, 169, 171, 173, 176. Aristophanes – on Euripides: 44. – wise gods in: 40. Aristotle – the divine in: 42. arrogance: 121, 157, 161. Artemis – in Euripides: 44, 54, 73, 76, 121, 124, 125, 132, 135, 136. Athamas: 244, 245, 299, 301 – 303, 305, 308, 310 – 314. Athena: 33, 34, 38, 39, 70, 125, 176, 178, 190, 217, 222, 226, 257, 308. – in Aeschylus: 39. – in the Odyssey: 38, 39. – Nike: 222. – Polias: 222. – Promachos: 217. Athenians – self-image of: 39. Athens: 14 – 16, 18, 32, 134, 156, 158 – 160, 174, 175, 209 – 215, 217, 218, 221 – 225, 227, 297, 298, 322, 329, 330. – Acropolis: 214, 217, 222. – Agora: 222. – iconography: 222. – ideology: 214 n. 12, 215, 220 n. 22. – wisdom at: 39. Atlas: 8, 216. autochthony: 215, 218, 223, 225. autodiegetic narrator: 248, 249, 253. aware, awareness: 118, 119, 161, 169, 170, 175, 176, 180, 230 – 236, 238 – 240, 268, 277, 287, 293, 357, 360.

* Anastasia Lambrinakou compiled the index of terms and Maria Leventi undertook the rest of the onerous task of index compilation and checking. The editors wish to thank both warmly for their cheerful and invaluable help

424

Index of Terms

Bacchus / Dionysus: 27 – 32, 37, 40, 43, 47 – 52, 56, 62, 245, 246, 252 – 254, 260, 266 – 269, 271 – 273, 275 – 278, 280 – 283, 285 – 298, 328 – 332, 338, 340, 341, 346. – in Euripides: 40, 43. baths and bathing: 322, 324. battle: 77 – 79, 155, 161 – 163, 165 – 167. bodies: 155, 157, 158, 160, 162 – 164, 166 – 168, 170, 172 – 175. bravery: 156 n. 10, 160, 165, 166, 174 n. 94. burial: 80, 158 – 160, 164 n. 45, 168, 172, 177, 189. Cadmus: 9, 27 – 32, 48 – 50, 172, 245, 249 – 251, 253, 260, 266, 271 – 273, 275 – 278, 282, 283, 286, 288 – 292, 297, 298, 301, 319, 328, 331. Capaneus: 168, 173, 174. Cassandra: 181 – 183, 185 n. 23, 187 n. 26, 191, 195 – 197, 200, 268 n. 21, 314, 370 n. 23. Cecrops: 217, 223. children: 13, 17, 21, 85 – 88, 90 – 96, 99 – 101, 108 – 114, 116 – 120, 247 – 249, 302, 303, 305 – 309, 311 – 314. Chorus – in Alcestis: 347, 350, 353, 358. citizenship: 109, 210, 211 n. 6. clothing: 88, 89, 100, 307, 308. commonplace: 133, 160, 161 n. 31. conscience: 229 – 240. contradiction(s): 50, 142, 148, 155, 174, 267 n. 19, 363. Corinth: 4, 17 – 19, 25, 108, 109. counsel: 69, 70, 338, 342. courage: 156, 165, 166, 173, 175. Creusa: 32 – 34, 131, 216 – 218, 220, 221, 223 – 227, 286. crisis – of disillusionment: 129 – 133, 136. – of empathy: 129 – 131, 133, 136. criticism: 53, 156, 158, 165, 278, 281, 294, 321, 329, 331, 351, 356, 358. cross-dressing: 296 n. 23, 338. cults: 4, 6, 11, 12, 16, 18.

cultural memory: 177, 178, 180, 187, 193, 288. deconstruction: 286 n. 5, 345. deliberation: 113, 114, 156 n. 10, 165 n. 48, 212, 221, 225. delirium narrative: 243, 245, 248, 250, 254. Delphi: 11, 12, 32, 33, 209 – 217, 221 – 223, 225, 227. democracy: 209 n. 4, 210, 215, 227, 263, 289, 298. Dionysus: see Bacchus discrimination(s): 162, 164, 169, 176. disputes: 40, 41, 44. distinctions: 41, 52, 158, 161, 162, 170, 175, 233. divination: 47, 212. dramatic action: 76, 155, 159 n. 21, 169, 171, 192 n. 40, 257, 261, 266, 275. ecphrasis: 222, 223. education: 121 – 129, 132, 134, 136, 354 – 356, 362. Electra (mother of Dardanus): 8. emotion: 114, 152, 166, 195, 198, 233, 234, 242. Empedocles: 41, 259 n. 5. Endeis: 152, 153. entries and exits: 343. epaulia: 89, 102. ephebeia: 121 n. 7, 122. epicureanism of gods: 42. epinetron: 102. Erechtheum: 222. Erechtheus: 216, 217. Eretria painter: 102. Erichthonius: 217. Eteocles: 171, 172. etymology – wordplay based on: 47, 56. Eumolpus: 342, 345, 346. Euripides, – Alcestis: 21, 28, 34, 85 – 103, 347 – 364. – Alexandros: 177, 202, 206, 303. – Bacchae: 10, 27 – 29, 31, 32, 35, 43, 47, 49 – 51, 58, 59, 62, 109, 241 – 255, 257 –

Index of Terms

273, 275 – 283, 285 – 297, 302, 303, 338, 340, 346, 347 n. 4, 352. – Cresphontes: 15, 16, 304, 315 n. 51. – Hippolytus: 52 – 56, 72 – 76, 121 – 130, 132 – 136, 260, 273, 343, 344, 346. – in Ranae: 319 – 321, 323, 324, 328 – 333. – Orestes: 23 – 26, 35, 229 – 240. – Palamedes: 177, 195, 202 – 204, 206. – Trojan trilogy: 206. Eurystheus: 78 – 80, 215, 260 n. 7. examples, exemplars: 138, 143, 166, 174, 175. expedition: 140, 156, 158, 159, 162, 167, 169, 170, 176. experience: 128, 132, 155, 161, 162, 164 – 170, 172, 175, 176. experiencing self: 243, 253. face-threat: 65 – 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 80, 81. family: 85 – 88, 91, 92, 95 – 97, 103, 125, 136 – 140, 143, 144, 149, 151, 153, 154, 163, 164, 216, 218, 286 – 289, 292, 297, 298, 301, 303 – 305, 315. filicide: 244, 249 n. 30, 309. folly: 45 – 52, 55, 59 – 61, 67, 68, 169 – 176, 209, 213, 347, 348, 350 – 354, 356 – 358, 361, 364. – in Andromache: 137 – 154. – in Bacchae: 47 – 52, 59. – in Heracles: 61, 62. – in Ion: 209 – 228. – in Suppliant Women: 155 – 176. – in Troades: 59 – 60. foolish, -ness: 34, 37, 38, 42, 59, 60, 62 n. 30, 65, 73, 77, 81, 144, 146 n. 13, 148, 149, 169, 171 – 173, 314, 350, 359. foreigners: 156, 157, 167. fortune: 137, 158 – 162, 164, 170, 172, 177, 181, 184 – 186, 189, 190, 193. fosterage: 126. framed narrative: 247. fratricide: 138, 152. funeral oration: 166, 167, 173, 175. funerary rites: 168. Furies: 195, 196, 229, 239, 248 n. 28. furor: 336, 339, 343, 345.

425

gender crossing: 296. genealogies: 4 – 6, 18, 19. generic intrusion: 339. Giants: 222. gnome: 70, 127 n. 35, 146 n. 13, 181 n. 13, 183, 184, 189. god(s): 21 – 35, 37 – 44, 45 – 63, 69, 72 – 74, 78, 81, 85, 87, 90, 91, 107, 108, 112, 115, 123, 130, 131, 140 – 143, 150, 153, 154, 156 – 161, 164, 167, 170 n. 70, 177 – 179, 183, 184, 188, 190, 192, 193, 197, 215 – 217, 219, 220, 222, 224, 226, 227, 242, 245, 252, 257, 265 – 273, 275, 277 – 283, 285 – 298, 338, 339. Gorgias: 60, 202, 293. government: 209, 223, 292, 359, 360. Greek tragedy – African adaptations of: 351, 352 n. 21. guest relationship: 167. guilt: 229, 231 n. 5, 233 – 235, 238, 240 n. 27. gymnasium and palaestra: 322, 323. Hades: 92, 95, 97. Hagias: 227. hamartia: 121, 123, 135. handshake: 95 n. 47. hearth: 85 – 103. Hecuba: 8, 21, 25, 26, 31, 57 – 61, 178, 179, 181 – 193, 195 – 202. Helen: 24 – 26, 57, 59 – 61, 137, 140, 141, 145 – 152, 185, 196, 197, 200 – 202, 237. Helios: 223, 373 n. 34. hellenisation: 192. Hephaestus – temple of: 222. Heracles – in Alcestis: 95 – 98, 100, 101, 347 – 350, 353, 354, 357, 358, 363. – labors of: 222. Heraclidae: 215. Heraclitus: 38, 39 n. 4, 259 n. 5. Hermes: 32, 215 – 218, 221, 224, 258, 365, 375 n. 47. Herodotus: 4, 6, 7, 11, 15, 67, 184 n. 22, 227, 259.

426

Index of Terms

Hesiod: 6, 29, 43, 56, 67, 70, 128, 257, 258 n. 4, 327. Hestia: 85 – 98, 100, 101, 103. hierarchies – 5th century questioning of: 41. Hippolytus: 51 n. 11, 52, 54, 72 – 76, 121 – 130, 132 – 136, 344. hope: 109, 110, 112, 187, 190. house: 50, 85, 86, 89 – 101, 103, 143 – 146, 153, 268 – 269 n. 21, 308 – 314. humanity: 164 n. 45, 168 n. 65, 169, 176, 218, 273. hunting: 121, 122, 125, 244, 248 – 250, 267 n. 19, 269, 270, 299, 312, 344. imagery: 100, 195, 221 n. 23, 222, 286. infection: 158, 159. initiation: 162, 285, 294, 296. Ino: 17 – 19, 296, 299, 301 – 303, 305 – 315. insight: 128, 129, 135, 164, 167, 168, 170 – 172, 176, 217, 231, 288, 294, 360, 363. insolence: 157, 160, 165, 166, 172, 173. interior: 85, 91, 99, 102, 103. intertextuality: 335. inventions: 203, 204, 288. involvement: 142, 149, 150, 169, 308, 311, 313, 367, 377. Ion: 32 – 34, 130, 131, 133, 212 – 214, 219 – 225. Iphigeneia: 146, 149. irony: 4, 51, 159 n. 21, 165, 175, 190, 201, 279. isolationism: 158, 169, 176. Jason: 21, 25, 35, 65, 105 – 120, 305, 313. jealousy: 62, 153, 305, 306. Jerome, – Commentary on Ezekiel: 231, 232. jokes: 202, 338. katachysmata: 87. kleos: 139, 140, 182. kommos: 142, 147 n. 15, 173.

lament: 92, 96, 99, 140, 141, 168, 173, 178, 179 n. 7, 181, 184, 191, 192, 301, 363. law – divine: 160, 168, 219. – pan-Hellenic: 159, 161. – unwritten: 159 n. 24, 168. leadership: 209, 211 – 214, 220, 225, 227. Learchus: 299, 301 – 303, 308, 309, 311 – 313. learning through suffering: 28, 161 n. 33. lekythos, lekythion: 319 – 322, 324, 327, 328, 330 – 333. linguistic characterization: 335 – 336. literacy: 203, 205. Livy: 340 – 342, 346. madness: 45 – 49, 52, 54 n. 16, 55, 61 – 63, 241 – 245, 249 n. 30, 251, 252, 254, 255, 282, 285 – 287, 293, 296, 299, 301, 302, 315, 338, 344, 345, 347, 356, 357, 364. Maenad: 48, 246 – 248, 267 n. 19, 269, 275, 294, 296, 297. mania – connected with divination: 46, 47. – Dionysian: 48, 242. marriage – Peleus and Thetis: 9, 102, 142, 153 n. 21. matricide: 23, 24, 26, 27, 35, 141, 154, 229, 238, 240 n. 27. Melanippe: 13, 15, 18, 19, 306. Melicertes: 17, 299, 301 – 303, 309, 313. Menander: 230, 236, 340. Menelaus: 23 – 26, 57 – 59, 137 – 139, 143 – 153, 185, 201, 202, 229, 237 – 240, 292, 305, 330. messenger: 24, 25 n. 21, 44, 49, 62, 71 n. 14, 79, 117, 118, 120, 148, 153, 162, 163, 164 n. 45, 166 n. 56, 171 – 173, 246 – 248, 252, 267 n. 19, 272, 295. Messenia: 15, 16. metameleia: 230, 235, 236. metamythology: 180 n. 10. metanoia: 230, 235, 236. Metapontum: 13, 306. moderation: 51, 52, 53 n. 14, 54, 127, 161, 218.

Index of Terms

morality, tragic: 219 n. 20. mother(s): 27, 32 – 34, 85, 87, 88, 90, 91, 93 – 97, 99, 101, 131, 146, 152, 156, 158 – 162, 164 n. 46, 168 – 170, 174, 235, 239, 285, 286, 296, 301, 302, 304, 305. murder, kindred: 225, 269 n. 21. mutability: 159, 160, 169, 170, 176. myth: 15 – 19, 44, 86, 126, 155, 174, 180, 197, 225, 267, 275, 281, 286, 287, 290, 291, 294, 297, 302, 311. myth in tragedy: 43, 44, 303 n. 18. mythographers: 3, 7. mythological examples – “machine” of: 291. narrating self: 253, 254. narrative sequence: 255, 335, 338, 346. nationalism: 156. negotiations: 155, 172, 176. Neleus: 16. Neoptolemus: 11, 12, 130, 131, 133, 137 – 144, 146 n. 13, 148, 149, 153, 154, 260 – 266, 272, 273. nepios: 127, 128, 135, 161 n. 33. Nestor: 38, 66. nobility: 137, 138, 142 – 144. nomos: 124 n. 21, 280, 288, 289. novelty: 43, 179 n. 8, 205 n. 30. numbers: 195, 196, 198 – 207. Odysseus: 70, 131, 195, 198, 203, 204, 260 – 266, 272, 305, 308. Oedipus: 293, 296, 298, 305, 337. Olympus, mount: 31, 215, 216, 291. opsis: 15. outlook: 155, 164, 169, 189, 343. Oxyrhynchus: 206, 315. pacifism: 178, 182. panhellenic: 6, 7, 18, 19, 141, 159 – 161, 213. Paris: 59, 140, 143 n. 8, 145, 151, 202, 303. parody: 203 n. 27, 292, 294, 331, 337, 346. Parthenon: 222. pathography: 241, 254. peace: 13, 14 n. 36, 174 – 176.

427

Pentheus: 27, 29, 30, 32, 40, 41, 47 – 52, 247, 249, 253 – 255, 260, 267 – 269, 271 – 273, 275 – 278, 280 – 283, 285 – 287, 289 – 297, 338, 340, 346. perdere (= “have something stolen”): 325, 326. Periclean citizenship law: 101, 109, 156 n. 7. Pericles: 101, 102, 109, 211, 213, 326. persuasion, failed: 117. Petronius: 335, 342 – 346. Phaedra: 53 – 55, 59, 76, 126 – 128, 132 – 135, 343, 344. Pheidias: 217. Pheres: 88, 89, 93, 349, 350, 354. philia: 85, 90, 91, 93, 95, 98, 99, 101, 111, 115, 116, 273. Phocus: 138, 140 n. 4, 151 – 153. physis: 124 n. 21, 125, 137 n. 1, 280, 288, 289, 349. Pittheus: 125, 126, 135, 136. planning – language of: 113. Plato – the divine in: 42. Plautus: 338 n. 11, 340, 342, 346, 371 n. 24, 372, 376. Plutarch, – Peri euthumias: 230, 231 n. 4. pollution: 132, 164 n. 44. Polyneices: 167, 170, 238. postcolonial – reconstruction: 359. precariousness: 161, 164, 169. Priam: 9, 130, 177, 190, 200. Prodicus: 44, 61 n. 28, 280, 281, 291. profit – language of: 111, 112, 116. progress: 157, 185, 248, 285. prophecy/prophets: 39, 40, 42, 46, 47, 156, 157, 159, 183, 211, 221, 222, 227, 265, 277, 280 – 282, 288, 292, 297, 358, 368, 371. Protagoras: 30, 42 n. 7, 61 n. 28, 264 n. 14, 278 n. 23, 279 n. 23, 280, 291.

428

Index of Terms

prudence: 137, 138, 145, 154, 160, 169, 288. purity: 210, 214, 215, 220. queer: 294, 295, 297. rationalist: 54, 155, 157 n. 12. reflector, reflectorization: 251, 255. rehabilitation: 172 n. 82. remorse: 170, 176, 229, 230, 234 – 237, 240 n. 27. reversal: 93, 99, 137 – 139, 143, 151, 160, 168, 170, 172, 173, 179, 193, 223, 269. rite: 47 – 49, 96, 122, 168, 245, 294, 296, 340 – 342, 352 n. 21, 358. rivalry – between genders: 106, 120 n. 48. Roman – comedy: 335, 341, 343, 346. – novel: 335, 342, 346. sacred: 177, 213, 214, 220, 221, 223, 224, 277 n. 16, 285, 287, 291, 297. Salamis – battle of: 3, 223. scriptotherapy: 241, 254. selfishness: 119. Seneca: 110, 236, 342 – 346. separation: 99, 103, 156, 160, 164, 170, 305. servus callidus: 338, 346. Seven against Thebes: 155, 157 – 159, 162, 164 – 168, 171, 172 n. 82, 173 – 175. shame: 34, 163, 164, 220, 230, 231 n. 5, 233, 234, 235 n. 14, 236 n. 17, 286, 357. silence: 132, 133 n. 55, 134, 171, 176, 189, 292. slaves: 26, 32, 41, 65 – 67, 70 – 73, 75, 78, 81, 86, 87, 101, 123, 162 – 164, 181, 198, 307, 308 n. 29, 325, 329, 338, 340, 342. Socratic thought: 55. song: 105, 106, 136, 138 – 144, 178 – 180, 182, 301 – 303, 309, 311, 312, 358. sophia: 39, 49 – 53, 61, 62, 105 – 107, 110, 111 n. 15, 117 n. 40, 119, 120, 137, 203,

239 n. 23, 257 – 266, 268 – 273, 347, 349, 350. sophists: 35, 53, 124, 126, 136, 259, 280, 281 n. 41, 349. Sophocles – Oedipus Tyrannus: 40, 73, 275, 293. – wise gods in: 39, 40. sophrosyne: 46, 53 n. 14, 54, 76, 123 – 128, 134, 136, 137. sparagmos: 294. Spartans: 16, 147 n. 14, 227. speech: 54, 55, 66, 72, 75, 76, 78, 79, 88, 91, 96, 98, 99, 111, 115 – 118, 133, 134, 151, 153, 157, 159, 160, 166 n. 56, 171, 172, 174, 176, 187, 189, 190, 197, 200, 230, 246 – 248, 262 – 264, 267, 278 – 280, 282, 283, 288, 290, 291, 311, 336, 349, 350, 358, 363. statues: 90 n. 25, 94 n. 43, 98, 100, 217, 236, 293. Strabo: 9 n. 21, 13 – 15, 227. sunesis: 229 – 231, 234 – 236, 238, 239, 240 n. 27. sunteresis: 232. suppliant(s): 86 n. 10, 87 n. 12, 91 n. 34, 140 n. 5, 144 n. 9, 155, 156, 160, 170, 220, 221. Sutherland, Efua, – career: 352, 355. – Foriwa: 356 n. 27, 360. – Odasani: 361. – The Marriage of Anansewa: 352, 356 n. 27. – views: 359, 360. Sutherland, Efua, Edufa – Ampoma: 353 – 358, 363. – Chorus: 353, 354, 358, 359, 360, 363. – didactism: 348, 352, 356. – Edufa: 353 – 358, 361, 363. – generic identity: 348, 364. – Kankam: 354 – 356, 359. – madman: 359, 360, 363. – politics: 364. – Sam: 353, 355 – 357. – Senchi: 353, 356 – 360, 363. – traditional ritual: 353, 355, 358.

Index of Terms

teachability of virtue: 124 – 127. Teiresias: 260, 266, 267, 269, 272, 275 – 283, 371. Teisamenus: 227. Terence: 335, 337, 340 – 342, 346. tetralogies: 195, 205, 206. Thebes: 17, 27, 28, 47, 50, 155, 156, 159, 167, 169, 173 n. 86, 175, 176, 250, 253, 267, 272, 275, 276, 283, 285 – 289, 291 – 293, 297, 298, 369, 370 n. 23, 372. theft: 322 – 327, 331, 332. Themisto: 299, 303, 305 – 309, 311 – 314. Themistocles: 211, 213, 227. theoria: 247. Theseus: 123, 125 – 127, 132 – 136, 155 – 176, 244, 273, 298, 303, 307, 344, 345. Thetideion: 9, 10, 142. Thetis: 9 – 11, 31, 102, 140 n. 5, 142, 143 n. 8, 153 n. 21, 154. Thucydides: 4, 7, 14 n. 38, 15, 39, 211, 227, 233 n. 9, 295. tradition: 14, 16, 19, 35, 43, 54, 58, 62, 105, 106, 142, 145, 146 n. 12, 148, 152, 164, 174, 180, 203, 217, 221, 225, 267, 269, 279, 288 – 291, 348, 352 – 354, 356, 362 – 364. transformative – effect: 162, 168 n. 66. – experience: 169. – force: 169. transvestism: 340. trilogies: 195, 205. Trojan horse: 140 n. 4, 195, 198. Trojan war: 24, 137, 139 – 141, 147, 151, 180 n. 10, 205. Troy: 7 – 9, 25, 26, 138 – 142, 143 n. 8, 145 – 148, 151, 152, 177 – 180, 183, 184, 191 n. 34, 192, 193, 195, 196, 199 – 202, 204, 205, 260 – 263, 265, 266. Trozen: 136. tyche: see fortune veil: 88, 100, 101.

429

waist beads: 357. war: 24, 57, 59, 137, 139 – 143, 145, 147 – 151, 155, 156, 162, 164 – 166, 168 – 176, 177, 178, 180, 190 – 192, 199 – 201, 205, 211, 213, 217, 227, 295, 298. wedding: 86, 87, 88 n. 19, 89, 90, 93 – 95, 99 – 102, 182, 187. Westernization: 352, 354, 356, 364. widow from Ephesus: 342 – 345. wisdom – and justice: 262, 265, 270 – 292. – and wrestling terminology: 264. – as concept: 39. – as devotion to the gods: 59, 272. – as poetic skill or craft: 38, 39, 105 – 107, 257, 258. – as sophrosyne: 38. – dramatic exploitation – in archaic period: 258. – in Attic tragedy: 257. – in classical period: 181 n. 39. – in Bacchae: 46, 47, 49 – 51, 58, 59, 62, 257, 259 – 261, 266, 271 – 273. – Chorus: 260, 267, 269 – 273. – Dionysus: 260, 266 – 269, 271 – 273. – Pentheus: 260, 267 – 269, 271 – 273. – Teiresias: 260, 266, 267, 269, 272. – in Heracles: 61, 62. – in Hippolytus: 51 n. 11, 52, 55. – in Philoctetes – Neoptolemus: 260 – 266, 272, 273. – Odysseus: 260-266, 272. – Philoktetes: 260, 261, 263-266, 272. – in Christianity: 37, 38 n. 2. – in Jewish religion: 37, 38 n. 2. – of women: 47, 48, 50, 52. – See also sophia xenia: 85, 97, 98, 168. Xuthus: 14, 32 – 34, 220, 223, 224. young men: 156, 158, 165, 166 n. 53, 167 n. 59, 170, 171. youthful protagonists of tragedy: 122. Zeus – in Aeschylus: 39.

430

Index of Terms

– in Iliad: 38. – in Sophocles:

κόσμος: 89. 40.

ἀμαθής: 49 n. 8, 62, 259. ἀπολέσαι (= “have something stolen”): 323 – 328. γλώσση:

263, 264.

̽δάω: 257. δίκαιος: 62, 158 n. 15. δόκησις: 34, 147. δόξα: 147. ἐμποδίζομαι: 264.

σοφ– in Euripides: 39 – 41. – in Sophocles: 40. – of gods: 37 – 44. σοφία (‐η), σοφίζομαι, σόφισμα, σοφιστής, σοφός, τὸ σοφόν: see sophia, wisdom σπαραγμός: 294. τεχνάομαι, τέχνη: 107, 112, 113, 126, 257, 258, 261 – 263.

Index of Passages Aeschines 3.205: 264 n. 14.

Anacreon fr. 417.2: 258.

Aeschylus

Antiochus 555 F 7: 14 n. 38. 555 F 12: 14 n. 38.

Agamemnon 160 – 181: 47. 177: 127 n. 35, 128 n. 38, 161 n. 33. 687 – 690: 61 n. 28. 928 – 929: 184 n. 22. 1087 – 1089: 268 – 269 n. 21. 1090 – 1092: 269 n. 21. 1425: 128 n. 40. Edoni fr. 57 – 67 Radt: 249 n. 30. Eumenides 848 – 850: 39. Palamedes fr. 181a Radt: 203. Persae 497: 126 n. 27. 599 – 600: 188 n. 29. Prometheus Vinctus 459: 259. Supplices 86 – 87: 39. 93 – 95: 39. 254: 126 n. 27. Xantriae fr. 68 – 172b Radt: 249 n. 30. Fragments 466.2 – 3 Radt: 186. Aesop Fabulae 49 Perry: 327. Alcman fr. 2: 38, 258.

Antiphon fr. 10a Pendrick: 41. fr. 44(b) Pendrick cols. ii-iii: 41. Apuleius Metamorphoses 9.21: 325. Archilochus fr. 211: 258. Aristophanes Acharnenses 1022 – 1023: 327. Aves 493 – 498: 326. Equites 262 – 263: 264 n. 15. Nubes 179: 326 n. 31. 497: 326 n. 31. 518 – 527: 39. 719: 326. 840 – 843: 40 n. 5. 856 – 859: 326 – 328. 1229: 264 n. 14. 1454 – 1461: 40. 1498: 328. Plutus 8 – 12: 40. Ranae 17: 203 n. 26, 261 n. 8. 80: 330. 101 – 102: 330.

432

Index of Passages

772 – 781: 330. 826 – 827: 264 n. 12. 837 – 839: 330. 877 – 878: 264 n. 14. 892: 264 n. 12. 909 – 910: 329. 957 – 962: 329, 332. 971 – 988: 329 – 330, 332. 1198 – 1247: 319 – 333, 320 n. 8. 1201 – 1204: 320. 1206 – 1208: 330. 1211 – 1213: 330. 1214: 330. 1227: 331. 1235: 331 n. 43. 1236: 322 n. 21. 1238 – 1241: 331. 1242: 328 n. 37. 1343: 331. 1356 – 1363: 332. 1477 – 1478: 135 n. 58.

Callisthenes 124 F 10a: 8. Cicero De natura deorum 1.1: 42 n. 7. 1.51: 42. 1.60: 42 n. 7. 2.36 – 38: 42. Tusculanae disputationes 1.26.65: 60 n. 27. Cypria fr. 1 West: 38. Damastes 5 F 7: 8. Demosthenes 24.114: 322, 324, 328 n. 37.

Vespae 274 – 275: 328 n. 35.

Derveni papyrus col. XIX 1 – 7: 58 n. 23.

Aristotle

Diodorus Siculus 4.72.6: 152 n. 18.

De generatione animalium 736a18 – 21: 57 n. 20. Ethica Nicomachea 1124b: 76. 1141a9-b8: 42. Metaphysica 1072b14 – 31: 42. 1074b15 – 35: 42. Poetica 1451b21: 15 n. 43. Problemata 29.14: 322 – 323. Babrius 23.2: 327. Beowulf 1841 – 1845: 38 n. 2.

Donatus ad Eun. 590: 339 – 340. Empedocles B 15.1 Diels-Kranz: 259 n. 5. Ennius 249 – 250 R3=246 Jocelyn: 340. 372 R3=161 Jocelyn: 339. Ephorus 70 F 226: 8. Epicurus ad Menoeceum 124: 187 n. 26.

Index of Passages

Euripides Alcestis 57: 348. 58: 348. 141: 351. 158 – 166: 89 – 90. 313 – 319: 93 – 94. 328 – 331: 94. 348 – 349: 348 – 349. 374 – 377: 95. 416 – 419: 353. 519: 351. 521: 351. 552: 350. 602: 350. 629 – 672: 354. 699: 349. 727 – 728: 350. 760: 351. 779: 349. 780 – 802: 349. 837 – 860: 350. 840 – 842: 98. 940: 172 n. 83, 347. Andromache 17 – 20: 9. 100 – 102: 184 n. 22. 103 – 116: 140. 141 – 146: 66. 142 – 146: 142. 147 – 153: 143. 209 – 212: 143. 245: 268 n. 20. 274 – 292: 140. 293 – 308: 140. 309 – 313: 147. 319: 147. 341 – 343: 148. 352 – 354: 145 n. 11. 362: 145 n. 11. 364 – 365: 142. 366 – 367: 147. 423 – 424: 142. 427 – 429: 147. 445 – 453: 147 n. 14. 515 – 522: 146 n. 13.

529 – 530: 146 n. 13. 540 – 542: 147. 583: 147. 592 – 615: 145. 592 – 593: 149. 594 – 595: 149. 595 – 601: 149. 602 – 604: 149. 614 – 615: 148, 149. 616 – 631: 145. 624 – 625: 149. 632 – 641: 146. 642 – 644: 142. 645: 145. 645 – 650: 150. 646: 145. 652 – 653: 150. 654 – 659: 149. 657 – 667: 151. 680: 150. 681 – 684: 150. 685 – 687: 151. 691 – 692: 142. 693 – 698: 146. 703 – 705: 145 n. 11, 146. 724 – 726: 141, 147 n. 14. 748 – 749: 144 n. 9. 752 – 756: 144 n. 9. 755: 128 n. 39. 757 – 765: 144 n. 9. 766 – 769: 144. 766 – 801: 138. 869 – 873: 149 n. 16. 891 – 892: 144 n. 9. 892: 336. 954 – 956: 142. 966 – 970: 142 n. 7. 972 – 975: 149. 985 – 986: 154. 989 – 992: 144 n. 9. 993 – 1008: 144 n. 9. 1005 – 1008: 141. 1009 – 1027: 141. 1064: 141. 1121 – 1146: 148. 1161 – 1165: 62 n. 30. 1164 – 1165: 37 n. 1, 153.

433

434

Index of Passages

1182 – 1183: 147 n. 15. 1184 – 1185: 147 n. 15. 1189 – 1196: 154. 1212: 141. 1218: 142. 1219: 332. 1231: 154. 1232 – 1236: 154. 1239 – 1242: 11. 1252: 143 n. 8. 1281 – 1282: 149 n. 16. Archelaus fr. 228a.9 – 22 Kannicht: 5. Bacchae 26 f.: 286. 32 – 38: 245. 39 – 40: 267 n. 19. 47 – 48: 267 n. 19. 71: 267 n. 19, 288 n. 7. 73 – 79: 287. 86 f.: 287. 135 – 169: 48. 137 – 138: 267 n. 19. 178 – 179: 49, 266. 185 – 186: 266. 186: 49. 193 f.: 291. 196: 49. 200 ff.: 62. 200 – 203: 266 – 267, 269. 201: 288 n. 7. 201 – 203: 264 n. 14, 266 n. 17. 219: 288. 219 f.: 294. 234: 268. 266 – 301: 62. 266 – 327: 157 n. 12, 267. 272: 288. 274 – 283: 267 n. 19. 275 – 279: 290. 285: 286. 285 f.: 290. 298 – 301: 47. 314: 272. 316: 272. 326: 47 – 48.

326 – 327: 338. 330 – 335: 290. 331: 288 n. 7. 343 f.: 292. 343 – 346: 48 n. 5. 359: 49. 369: 49. 387: 288 n. 7. 395 – 396: 203 n. 26, 269, 270, 287 – 288. 395 – 401: 50. 396: 40, 41. 399 – 400: 49. 402 – 432: 270. 417 – 423: 267 n. 19. 425 – 432: 269. 427 – 429: 50. 429 f.: 288 n. 7. 430 – 431: 288. 431: 288 n. 7. 435 – 439: 294 – 295. 472 – 480: 259 n. 6. 480: 49 n. 8, 259 n. 6, 268. 484: 288 n. 7. 489: 261 n. 8. 489 – 490: 49. 490: 259 n. 6, 268. 504: 272. 505: 268. 506: 268, 293. 507: 293. 510 f.: 292. 616 f.: 292. 638 – 641: 267. 640 – 641: 267 – 268. 641: 50. 654 – 655: 37 n. 1, 40. 655: 268. 655 – 656: 49. 656: 268. 677 – 768: 267 n. 19. 677 – 774: 246, 252. 726 – 727: 246. 748 – 764: 246 – 247. 769 – 774: 267 n. 19. 811: 296. 814 f.: 294. 821 – 823: 338.

Index of Passages

822: 296. 824: 269, 338. 832: 338. 845 – 846: 338. 846: 338. 849 – 853: 338. 850 – 853: 48. 861: 285. 877 – 881: 50, 271 n. 26. 877 – 881 = 897 – 901: 269 n. 22, 271. 881 = 901: 271. 890 – 892: 288. 894 – 896: 289. 895: 288 n. 7. 897 – 901: 50. 916: 296 n. 20. 918 – 922: 253. 926: 296. 927: 296. 934 f.: 293. 947 – 948: 51. 992 – 997 = 1011 – 1016: 270 – 271. 995: 288 n. 7. 1002 – 1007: 270 n. 25. 1002 – 1010: 270. 1005: 50. 1009: 288 n. 7. 1043 – 1052: 247. 1063 – 1074: 247. 1095 – 1114: 247. 1106 – 1109: 248. 1150 – 1152: 49 – 50, 272. 1185 – 1187: 249. 1189 – 1191: 269. 1190: 40 – 41. 1202 – 1210: 249 – 250. 1233 – 1243: 250. 1259 – 1262: 253. 1269 – 1270: 251. 1301: 48. 1330 f.: 297. 1330 – 1336: 10. 1341: 272. 1346 f.: 297. 1348: 41, 50. 1349: 50. 1352 – 1380: 273.

Electra 737 – 744: 43. 971 – 972: 62 n. 30. 1245 – 1246: 62 n. 30. 1246: 37 n. 1. 1302: 37 n. 1, 62 n. 30. Hecuba 734 – 735: 12. 1100: 332. 1259 – 1273: 189 n. 31. Helen 1137 – 1143: 41. 1627 – 1638: 71 – 72. Heracles 69: 332. 347: 37 n. 1, 62. 655 – 656: 40, 61 – 62. 857: 62. 922 – 1015: 244. 1094 – 1097: 244. 1111 – 1152: 244. 1233 – 1234: 164 n. 44. 1341 – 1346: 41, 43. Heraclidae 638 – 640: 77. 956: 128 n. 39. 993: 260 n. 7. Hippolytus 6: 121. 11: 125, 135. 18: 125 n. 25. 21: 121. 72 – 86: 134. 79: 124. 79 – 113: 73 – 74, 76. 80: 123. 87: 124. 102: 126. 118 – 119: 123. 120: 37 n. 1, 41, 51 n. 11. 135 – 140: 344. 215 – 222: 125 n. 25. 232: 344. 240 – 241: 55.

435

436

Index of Passages

241: 344. 247 – 249: 55. 248 – 249: 135. 252: 128. 358 – 361: 53. 392: 54 n. 16. 398 – 399: 54 n. 16. 400 – 401: 54 n. 16. 401: 135. 433 – 476: 54. 435 – 436: 132. 443 – 450: 54 n. 16. 451 – 458: 55. 555 – 564: 55. 561: 55. 599 – 600: 135. 600: 133 n. 53. 602: 132. 606: 132. 612: 132, 133. 613: 135 n. 59. 640 – 644: 52 – 53. 656 – 660: 132, 133 n. 55. 661 – 662: 132. 662: 133. 665 – 668: 124 n. 23. 667 – 668: 124 n. 23, 127. 679: 133 n. 53. 722: 136. 723: 135 – 136. 725 – 727: 54 n. 16. 728 – 729: 127. 728 – 731: 136. 730 – 731: 127. 731: 123. 808 – 810: 345. 891 – 892: 132. 917: 126. 919 – 920: 126. 921: 260 n. 7. 921 – 922: 127. 949: 54 n. 17, 123. 952 – 955: 126. 994 – 995: 54 n. 17. 994 – 1006: 134. 995: 123. 1004 – 1005: 123.

1007: 123. 1009 – 1010: 134. 1013: 54 n. 17. 1016 – 1020: 134. 1022 – 1024: 132. 1034 – 1035: 134. 1051 – 1052: 132. 1074 – 1075: 134. 1078 – 1079: 134. 1080 – 1081: 134. 1100: 54 n. 17, 123. 1320 – 1324: 132 – 133. 1323: 329 n. 40. 1365: 54 n. 17, 123. 1403 – 1404: 135. 1405: 135. 1407: 135. 1409: 135. 1423 – 1430: 136. 1435: 135. 1446 – 1458: 273. 1448: 135. 1449: 135. Hypsipyle fr. 752 Kannicht: 330. Ino: 244, 300 – 301. Ion 1 – 13: 216. 1 – 183: 214. 9: 217. 10 – 13: 216. 14 – 27: 217. 41 – 51: 218 – 219. 43: 128 n. 39. 47: 221. 47 – 48: 220. 69 – 79: 224. 82 – 88: 222. 112 – 183: 222. 158: 219. 164 – 165: 220. 173: 220. 179: 220. 184 – 236: 222. 190 – 204: 222.

Index of Passages

215 – 218: 222. 235 – 236: 222. 281 – 282: 222. 339: 131. 341: 131. 355: 131. 367: 131. 368: 131. 370 – 372: 131. 384 – 385: 131. 433 – 434: 131. 436 – 451: 62 n. 30. 452 – 460: 222. 510 – 675: 214. 524 – 527: 220. 569 – 581: 224. 585 – 606: 224 – 225. 585 – 647: 223. 633 – 647: 226. 735 – 1047: 223. 796: 332. 916: 62 n. 30. 1147 – 1166: 222. 1148 – 1149: 223. 1159 – 1160: 223. 1163 – 1165: 223. 1250 – 1319: 220. 1250 – 1622: 214. 1312 – 1313: 37 n. 1, 62 n. 30. 1312 – 1319: 220. 1320 – 1335: 221. 1320 – 1368: 226. 1327: 221. 1333: 221. 1399: 128 n. 39. 1549 – 1622: 226. Iphigenia Aulidensis 466: 128 n. 39. 622: 128 n. 39. 744: 261 n. 8. 1244: 128 n. 39. Iphigenia Taurica 380 – 386: 62 n. 30. 385 – 391: 41. 570 – 571: 37 n. 1. 570 – 573: 62 n. 30.

437

844: 332. Medea passim: 105 – 120. 362 – 363: 188 n. 29. 440: 332. 610 – 615: 65. 684: 126 n. 27. 824 – 845: 39. 1282 – 1284: 16 – 17. 1282 – 1289: 302 n. 6, 309 n. 34, 313 n. 47. Melanippa Sapiens fr. 480 Kannicht: 15. fr. 481.1 – 11 Kannicht: 14. Meleager fr. 516 Kannicht: 331. Oedipus fr. 554b Kannicht: 337 n. 7. Orestes 416 – 418: 62 n. 30. 717 – 718: 145 n. 11. 736 – 737: 145 n. 11. 742: 145 n. 11. 753 – 754: 145 n. 11. 769: 145 n. 11. 1201 – 1202: 145 n. 11. 1377: 332. Palamedes fr. 578 Kannicht: 203. fr. 581 Kannicht: 204. Phoenissae 85 – 87: 62 n. 30. 528 – 585: 157 n. 12. 529 – 530: 167 n. 59. 662: 9. 746 – 747: 156 n. 10. 1062: 9. Polyidus fr. 645 Kannicht: 62 n. 30. Rhesus 38 – 39: 336. Supplices 1 – 597: 155.

438

Index of Passages

19: 159. 22 – 23: 169. 111: 169. 116: 169. 118: 169, 170 n. 71. 124: 169 n. 68. 128: 169. 131 – 154: 156. 135: 167. 144 – 146: 167. 151: 155 n. 3. 151 – 248: 155. 152 – 154: 170. 155: 170 n. 70. 155 – 159: 170. 155 – 160: 156. 155 – 161: 173 n. 86. 156: 170 n. 72. 160: 156 n. 8, 170. 161: 155 n. 3, 156, 165. 163 – 192: 157 n. 12. 163 – 249: 157 n. 12. 166: 170. 168 – 169: 170. 168 – 175: 170. 176: 169 n. 68. 176 – 183: 170 n. 73. 178: 170 n. 73. 179: 170 n. 73. 195 – 249: 157. 201 – 210: 157. 201 – 213: 157 n. 13. 203: 155 n. 3, 157. 211: 155 n. 3. 211 – 213: 157. 214 – 215: 157. 216: 157 n. 14. 216 – 218: 157. 216 – 219: 155 n. 3. 218: 41. 219: 157, 167. 219 – 249: 171. 220 – 221: 167. 220 – 223: 157. 223 – 228: 164. 224: 155 n. 3. 226 – 228: 158.

229 – 237: 158. 232 – 237: 156 n. 8, 161. 248: 155 n. 3, 158. 248 – 249: 159. 263 – 285: 159. 263 – 734: 171. 269 – 270: 160, 161 n. 31. 288: 156 n. 6. 291: 158, 169. 294: 155 n. 3, 159 n. 23. 301 – 331: 159. 306: 158 n. 17. 311: 159. 314 – 319: 162. 331: 160. 334 – 336: 158. 336: 155 n. 3. 445: 155 n. 3. 463 – 464: 160. 471 – 472: 160. 496 – 505: 173 n. 86. 500 – 501: 167. 504: 157 n. 14. 504 – 505: 160. 506 – 507: 160. 509 – 510: 160. 513: 171, 172 n. 80. 526: 160. 549: 155 n. 3, 161. 550 – 551: 161 n. 31. 552 – 555: 161. 555: 155 n. 3. 555 – 557: 161. 563: 159 n. 24, 160. 566 – 580: 161. 578: 161. 579: 161. 580: 161. 589 – 592: 158. 591 – 592: 164. 592 – 593: 158. 593: 162. 653 – 667: 162. 668 – 674: 161, 162. 674 – 683: 162. 674 – 718: 161. 683: 162.

Index of Passages

689 – 693: 162. 694 – 706: 162. 704: 162. 707 – 718: 162. 734: 169 n. 68. 734 – 735: 171. 734 – 749: 171, 172 n. 82, 174. 735: 157 n. 14. 737 – 738: 171. 738 – 739: 173 n. 86. 739 – 741: 171, 172 n. 78. 741 – 744: 172. 744: 169 n. 68, 172. 744 – 749: 172. 754: 162. 759: 162. 762: 163. 762 – 763: 163. 763: 163 n. 37. 764: 163. 764 – 767: 168 n. 65. 765: 163 n. 39. 765 – 766: 163. 766: 163 n. 39. 767: 163. 768: 163, 164. 775 – 777: 173. 794 – 836: 173. 798 – 801: 173. 808: 173. 811 – 813: 173. 813: 173 n. 86. 828 – 831: 173. 841: 165 n. 49. 841 – 842: 165, 166, 167 n. 57, 173. 842: 155 n. 3. 842 – 843: 166, 167. 844: 166 n. 51, 166 n. 52. 844 – 845: 165, 166 n. 51. 846 – 856: 166. 852: 166 n. 56. 857 – 917: 173, 174 n. 91. 859: 166 n. 51, 175. 860: 174 n. 93. 862: 169 n. 68. 903: 260 n. 7. 907: 169 n. 68.

915: 169 n. 68. 916: 169 n. 68. 925: 167. 925 – 931: 167. 930: 168 n. 62. 930 – 931: 167. 935: 168. 936: 168. 940: 168. 941 – 942: 168. 941 – 947: 168 n. 65. 942: 168 n. 65. 944: 168. 945 – 948: 168. 949 – 954: 174, 175. 951: 175 n. 97. 955 – 979: 168, 169 n. 67. 1165 – 1168: 168 n. 64. 1167: 168. 1176 – 1179: 175. 1181: 175 n. 97, 175 – 176. 1183 – 1226: 176. 1188: 176. 1188 – 1190: 176 n. 98. 1189: 176. 1227: 176. 1229: 176. Troades 25: 177. 67 – 68: 190. 77 – 94: 183. 95: 190. 101: 193. 101 – 105: 181, 182, 184. 135: 200. 140: 181. 176 – 229: 190. 240 – 297: 201. 244: 185. 244 – 245: 191 n. 34. 273: 185 n. 23. 275 – 276: 195. 290 – 291: 185 n. 23. 292 – 293: 185 n. 23. 302: 182. 302 – 303: 182.

439

440

Index of Passages

349: 185 n. 23. 351 – 352: 182. 368 – 369: 199 n. 11, 200, 204. 386 – 387: 182. 387: 182. 391: 182. 395: 182. 397: 182. 400 – 402: 182. 402: 183. 406: 183. 458 – 461: 183 n. 18. 459 – 461: 187 n. 26. 460: 183 n. 18. 461: 183 n. 18. 468: 336. 469: 59, 183. 470 – 471: 183. 474 – 484: 191. 475 – 476: 201. 497 – 498: 200, 204. 498 – 499: 185 n. 23. 509 – 510: 184. 510: 185. 511: 180. 511 – 521: 179 – 180. 562 – 567: 177. 563 – 565: 180 n. 10. 585: 185 n. 23. 606 – 607: 186. 608 – 609: 192. 612 – 613: 183 n. 21. 614 – 615: 193 n. 42. 615: 193 n. 42. 616: 192. 619 – 621: 199. 623: 187 n. 26. 626 – 627: 177. 631: 185. 632 – 633: 186, 187. 636: 186. 636 – 644: 185 – 186. 639 – 640: 186. 641: 186. 643: 186. 644: 186. 665: 186, 195.

665 – 668: 186. 669 – 670: 187. 671: 187, 189. 671 – 672: 187. 681 – 683: 187. 682: 187. 686 – 698: 187 – 188. 688: 196. 692: 188. 694: 188, 189, 199 n. 11. 695: 187, 188. 696: 189. 697 – 698: 192. 726: 189. 735 – 739: 185 n. 23. 737 – 738: 189. 745: 185 n. 23. 799 – 859: 180. 817: 196, 197 n. 5. 858 – 859: 193 n. 44. 872: 201. 884 – 886: 183. 884 – 888: 57 – 58. 885 – 886: 193 n. 43. 886: 41, 60. 889: 58, 205 n. 30. 891 – 893: 61 n. 28. 919 – 965: 196. 924: 197. 924 – 934: 151. 948 – 950: 59. 964 – 965: 59. 965: 59. 969: 59. 972: 59. 981 – 982: 59. 987 – 992: 59 – 60. 988: 60 n. 27, 61 n. 28. 990: 61 n. 28. 992: 61 n. 29. 1007: 185. 1007 – 1008: 185. 1033 – 1035: 145 n. 11. 1050: 201, 202. 1051: 202. 1060 – 1063: 193 n. 44. 1097: 197.

Index of Passages

1100 – 1106: 192 n. 41. 1118 – 1119: 193, 205 n. 30. 1147 – 1148: 177. 1162: 185. 1163: 199 n. 11. 1167 – 1169: 185 n. 23. 1182 – 1186: 187. 1201 – 1206: 189. 1203: 189 – 190. 1206: 185. 1214: 60 n. 28. 1224 – 1225: 203 n. 26. 1240 – 1245: 178, 183 n. 21. 1248 – 1249: 187 n. 26. 1265: 197. 1269: 185 n. 23. 1280 – 1281: 183 n. 21. 1306 – 1307: 196. 1319: 178 n. 3. 1322 – 1324: 178 n. 3. Fragments 820b.4 – 5 Kannicht: 190 n. 33. 846 Kannicht: 330. 901.2 Kannicht: 190 n. 33. 908.1 Kannicht: 186. 1018 Kannicht: 60 n. 27. Gorgias Helen 15 – 19: 60. 82 B 23 Diels-Kranz: 293. Hellanicus 4 F 96=96 Fowler: 9 n. 20. 4 F 136=136 Fowler: 9 n. 21. 4 F 152a=152 Fowler: 8 n. 17. Heraclitus B 41 Diels-Kranz: B 112 Diels-Kranz: fr. 84 Marcovich: fr. 92 Marcovich: Herodotus 1.14: 15.

259 n. 5. 259 n. 5. 38, 39 n. 4. 38 – 39.

1.30 – 32: 184 n. 22. 1.207: 161 n. 33. 2.3.2: 43, 44 n. 11. 5.51: 67. 7.11.1: 68. 9.33: 227. Hesiod Opera et dies 218: 127 n. 35, 161 n. 33. 293 – 297: 67. 348: 327. 648 – 649: 38. 649: 258. Theogonia 188 – 200: 57 n. 20. fr. 306: 258. Hippocrates De morbo sacro 18.2 Grensemann: 43. Homer Iliad 1.259 – 274: 66. 2.216: 264. 6.357 – 358: 178 n. 3. 6.441 – 443: 69. 11.784: 126, 129. 11.832: 125. 12.210 – 214: 69. 12.230 – 250: 67. 13.727 – 734: 69. 15.410 – 412: 257 – 258. 15.411 – 412: 38. 16.688: 38. 17.32: 127 n. 35, 161 n. 33. 17.176: 38. 18.285 – 309: 68. 20.198: 127 n. 35. 23.712: 258 n. 3. 24.525 – 526: 130. 24.582 – 583: 130. Odyssey 8.579 – 580: 178 n. 3. 13.93 – 94: 12.

441

442

Index of Passages

13.296 – 302: 38. [Homer] Margites fr. 2: 258. Hyginus Fabula 4: 299. Fabula 186: 306 n. 19. Hymni Homerici 4.482 – 484: 258. 4.509 – 511: 258. 29.5 – 7: 96. Ilias Parva fr. 14 West (2003): 7. fr. 14a West (2013): 8. Iliou Persis fr. 6 West (2003): 8.

Naevius 12 R3:

339.

Nicolaus Myrensis Progymnasmata 21.10 – 13 Felten: 324. Palladas Anthologia Palatina 10.65: 181 n. 15. Pausanias 1.44.7 – 1.44.–8: 17. 2.1.3 – 2.1.4: 17. 2.2.1: 17. Petronius 71.1: 345. 111 – 13: 342 – 345.

Ion 392 F 7: 3 n. 1. Isocrates Demonicus 20: 75. 30 – 31: 75. Livy 39.8.3 – 39.9.1: 340 – 341. 39.15.9 – 39.15.10: 341. Lucian Philopseudes 27: 328 n. 35. Lysias 2.17 – 19: 220 n. 22. Menander Samia 325 – 326: 336 – 337.

Pherecydes 3 F 1a: 9 n. 21. 3 F 1c: 10 n. 22. 3 F 22: 9 n. 20. 3 F 66: 5 – 6. 3 F 88: 9 n. 20. 3 F 135a: 11. Phylarchus 81 F 81: 9 n. 21. Pindar I. 8.26 – 48: 142. N. 1.25 – 28: 125 n. 26. N. 3.40 – 52: 125. N. 5.14 – 18: 153 n. 19. O. 1.25 – 53: 43. O. 2.86 – 88: 125 n. 26. O. 8.31 – 46: 140 n. 4. O. 9.27 – 41: 43. O. 9.38: 258. O. 13.17: 259. P. 3.28 – 29: 39. P. 4.217 – 219: 106 – 107. P. 4.270: 106 – 107 n. 5. P. 6.49: 258.

Index of Passages

P. 10.28 – 30: 181 n. 15. fr. 5: 17. Plato Charmides 161e: 322 n. 18. Cratylus 400e-401a: 56 n. 19. 401a: 61. 406c3 – 6: 57 n. 20. 406c7-d1: 56. Gorgias 482c: 288. Hippias maior 285d: 5. Leges 644e: 297. 803b: 181 n. 15. 897b6-c1: 42. 899b3 – 8: 42. Phaedo 85d: 181 n. 15. Phaedrus 244c1 – 5: 47 n. 4. 244d2 – 5: 46. Philebus 12b7-c4: 57. Respublica 571a: 295. Symposium 204b1 – 7: 42. Plautus Casina 817 – 818: 340. Plutarch De defectu oraculorum 431a: 43 n. 10.

443

De E apud Delphos 386c: 42. De sera numinis vindicta 556e: 42 – 43. 557c: 43. 561c: 43. 562a-b: 43. Moralia 311E7: 152 n. 18. Prodicus B 1 – 2 Diels-Kranz: 44. Protagoras B 4 Diels-Kranz: 41, 42 n. 7. RIB 306: 326. Sappho fr. 56.2: 258. Scholia Aeschylus, Persae 429: 3 n. 1. Euripides, Andromache 17: 10 n. 22. 1240: 12. Sophocles, Philoctetes 96 – 99: 264 n. 12. SEG 27 (1977) 261B.99 – 100: 323 n. 22. SIG 3 58: 16. Simonides fr. 260.12 Poltera: 38. Solon fr. 13.52: 258. Sophocles Ajax 284 – 330: 244. 1259 – 1263: 70. 1370 – 1373: 70. Antigone 280 – 281: 70.

444

710 – 711: 712 – 718: 718: 188 726 – 727:

Index of Passages

70. 188 n. 29. n. 29. 70.

Electra 82 – 85: 71. Nauplius fr. 432 Radt: 203. Oedipus Coloneus 1765: 298. Oedipus Tyrannus 413 – 415: 293. 483 – 511: 40. 518: 40. 1527: 188 n. 29. 1528 – 1530: 184 n. 22. Palamedes fr. 479 Radt: 203. Philoctetes 6: 265. 8 – 11: 265. 13 – 14: 261. 14: 260, 262. 15: 261, 265. 53: 261, 265. 64 – 65: 263. 77: 260, 262, 265. 77 – 85: 261 – 262, 264 – 265. 80: 262. 81: 265. 86 – 87: 263. 86 – 95: 131 n. 47. 88: 262, 263. 90 – 91: 131 n. 47. 96 – 99: 265. 98 – 99: 263. 100 – 122: 265. 113: 265. 115: 265. 116: 262. 118: 262. 119: 262. 120: 263. 131: 262.

219 – 675: 263. 407 – 409: 263. 409: 260. 431 – 432: 264. 440: 264. 754: 131 n. 49. 895: 131 n. 49. 895 – 913: 263. 1050 – 1052: 262. 1143 – 1155: 265. 1222 – 1249: 263. 1222 – 1260: 265. 1224: 265. 1243: 265. 1244: 265. 1244 – 1246: 265. 1245: 265. 1246: 265. 1246 – 1247: 260. 1250: 265. 1251: 265. 1257: 265. 1300: 266. 1301: 266. 1302: 266. 1436: 266. 1440 – 1444: 266. Trachiniae 1 – 3: 184 n. 22. 52 – 53: 70. 61 – 63: 70. Fragments 906 Radt: 260 n. 7. Strabo Geographia 6.1.15: 13. 8.5.6: 15. 9.3.3: 227 – 228. 9.5.6: 9 n. 21. Sutherland, Efua Edufa 98: 356. 107: 354.

Index of Passages

109: 355. 110 – 112: 354. 111: 356, 359. 112: 355. 114 – 115: 356. 119: 354. 120: 354. 121: 354. 122: 358. 122 – 123: 358. 125: 359. 127: 357. 128: 357. 128 – 129: 355. 132: 355, 358. 133: 358. 134: 359. 139: 359. 140: 359. 141: 358, 359. 142: 358, 360. 143: 357. 146 – 147: 357. 152: 363. 153: 363. Tabellae Sulis (Tomlin) nos. 5, 8, 62, 99: 325 – 326. Terentius Adelphoe 789 – 790: 336. Andria 538: 336. Eunuchus 337: 338. 370: 338. 376: 338. 583 – 591: 339.

445

Hecyra 722: 336. Phormio 659 – 660: 336. Theognis 15 – 16: 271. 17: 271. 19: 258. 770: 258. Theophrastus Characteres 8.11: 322 n. 19. 10.6: 328 n. 35. Thucydides 1.20.3: 15. 1.21.1: 15. 1.138.3: 211, 227. 2.65: 211. 3.37.4: 39, 41, 203 n. 26. 3.38.5 – 7: 39. 5.105: 39 – 40. Vita Euripidis T 1 A §5 lines 16 – 17 Kannicht (2004): 3 n. 1. Vita Sophoclis T 1 lines 17 – 19 Radt (1999): 3 n. 1. Xenophanes A 32 Lesher: 41. fr. 15 Lesher: 41. Xenophon Cynegeticus 1.2: 127 n. 32.